FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 
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im^/AJ^u^ 7 L 
 
POEMS 
 
 WILLIAM H. BTJBLEIGH. 
 
 A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 CELIA BUELEIGH. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 
 
 Cambridge : BtbersfDe $ress. 
 1871. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
 
 Celia Burleigh, 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 PRINTED BY H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
THE MEMORY 
 
 LYDIA BRADFORD BURLEIGH, 
 
 WHOSE FITTEST MONUMENT IS THE PURE AND NOBLE LIVES OF 
 
 HER CHILDREN, THIS RECORD OF A LIFE WHICH 
 
 SHE HELPED TO FORM 
 
 IS REVERENTLY DEDICATED. 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH. 
 
 As the soul is greater than all its experiences, 
 and a life is more than any of its incidents, we 
 can never hope to find a whole character in any- 
 thing less than a whole life-experience. Even that 
 does not quite tell the story ; for back of the fail- 
 ures and the successes, the aspirations and achieve- 
 ments, the joys and the sorrows that befell the man, 
 is the greater fact of the man himself. 
 
 Should the reader of the fugitive pieces collected 
 in this volume expect to find in them a full-length 
 portrait of their author, he will be disappointed. 
 They are only ripples on the surface of a strong, 
 deep life : such a record as the laborer, strolling 
 homeward through summer woods after his day's 
 toil, might take to those who waited his coming — 
 a wreath of evergreens hastily twisted, a handful 
 of wild flowers, a bunch of leaves : the record of 
 his leisure hours rather than of his work. But, in 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 estimating a character, the testimony of the leisure 
 hours may be as important as that of the laborious 
 ones; the ripple of unguarded talk, the rhyme that 
 sung itself in an idle half hour, the spontaneous 
 utterances welling up from the heart, speak as 
 clearly of the man's disposition as does the round 
 of daily duties lived in the face of the world. 
 
 Those who knew William H. Burleigh need not 
 be told that from boyhood till stricken by the dis- 
 ease of which he died he was an earnest, conscien- 
 tious, and faithful worker. Those who knew him 
 most intimately, best know his devotion to principle, 
 his unswerving fidelity, his inexhaustible patience, 
 his true heroism. I do not purpose writing the 
 history of his life ; its most pathetic pages are not 
 for the public eye, but are treasured reverently in 
 loving hearts. Its best record is in the triumph of 
 the principles which were the inspiration of both 
 his public and private life. His proudest boast was 
 to have been associated with the noble men and 
 women who constituted the vanguard of progress. 
 The advancement of humanity was more to him 
 than any mere personal success, and in all times of 
 trial and discouragement he sustained himself with 
 the conviction, that a life devoted to unselfish ends 
 is in harmony with God's order, and cannot fail. 
 His history is the history of abolitionism, of temper- 
 ance, of human progress. Written in characters that 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 cannot die, it will exert an influence for good long 
 after he and his co-workers have passed away. We 
 may leave his work to speak for itself, while we 
 linger lovingly with the worker, striving to catch 
 such an outline of the genial face, such touches of 
 character as shall keep his memory green in the 
 hearts of his friends, and, possibly, commend to 
 some who never knew him a life so pure and un- 
 selfish. 
 
 On the mother's side he was a lineal descendant 
 of William Bradford, the pilgrim father so distin- 
 guished among the heroes of the Mayflower, and 
 so long Governor of Plymouth Colony. His father, 
 Rinaldo Burleigh, was a graduate of Yale College, 
 having studied under Dr. Dwight, and was one of 
 the most successful of classical teachers, till partial 
 blindness drove him from his books back to his 
 farm in Plainfield, Conn. It was while teaching in 
 Woodstock, in that State, that his fourth son, Wil- 
 liam Henry, was born on the 2d of February, 
 1812, in the same year and month as Charles 
 Dickens, with whom he enjoyed a short but pleas- 
 ant intimacy during the stay of the distinguished 
 novelist in this country. 
 
 He is described as having been in boyhood truth- 
 loving, conscientious, and affectionate : slow to resent 
 affronts put upon himself, but firing up with an 
 indignation that swept all before it, if helplessness, 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 or misfortune, or old age were made the subject of 
 a heartless jest. Shy, sensitive, tender, keenly alive 
 to the beauty of Nature, with a quick sense of the 
 ludicrous, and a great loving heart that yearned for 
 a more demonstrative affection than flourished in 
 the New England homes of half a century ago, 
 the imperfectly understood boy worked on the farm, 
 went to the district school, and, almost as soon as 
 he knew how to write, beguiled his leisure with 
 verse-making. Brimming over with fun, living the 
 jolliest boy-life with his five brothers on the old 
 farm at Plainfield, notwithstanding the hard work 
 that came to them all, he was still a good deal 
 of a dreamer and poet. 
 
 Lying half dressed one day on the bank of the 
 stream where he had been bathing, the wonderful 
 beauty of the summer clouds riveted his gaze, and, 
 unmindful of the flight of time, he suddenly found 
 the shades of evening shutting him in. Hurrying 
 home, he was greeted by his mother with the ex- 
 clamation, " Why, William ! where have you been so 
 long, and what has become of your jacket ? " To 
 be sure, he did have on a jacket when he went to 
 bathe, but he was thinking about the clouds, and 
 forgot it. The picture of the " Barefoot Boy," taken 
 from Whittier's poem of that name, pleasantly re- 
 called this incident to his mind, and was a favorite 
 with him on account of it. 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 His love of fun was inexhaustible, and finding 
 expression in a pair of the merriest eyes that ever 
 twinkled in the face of boyhood, not unfrequently 
 involved him in trouble. The memory of one 
 school-master to whom a merry eye meant total 
 depravity, went with him through life. " William 
 Burleigh, come out here ! " was the imperious com- 
 mand of this autocrat, as he caught sight of the 
 boy's beaming face. " I see a rogue in your eye ; 
 hold out your hand ! " The brown palm was ex- 
 tended, and received three or four smart blows 
 from the ferule. " Now make your manners and 
 take your seat," said the petty tyrant ; and the boy, 
 whose only offense was a fun-loving spirit, went 
 back to his seat, not to plan revenge, but to think, 
 " I should hate to be as cross as you are. What 
 a mean time you must have." 
 
 To a boyhood familiar with hard work, that 
 knew little recreation and much self-sacrifice, suc- 
 ceeded in early manhood the care of a family, and 
 the advocacy of unpopular reforms. To a nature 
 like his there was no po-sibility of compromising, of 
 choosing a discreet middle course between popularity 
 and principle. Born with clear moral perceptions, 
 he could not help seeing what truth and right re- 
 quired, an 1 seeing, it was a necessity of his nature 
 to adjust his life to those requirements. And yet 
 to few men would it have been so distasteful to 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 oppose the strong current of public opinion as to 
 him. He had little of what phrenologists call self- 
 esteem, placed a modest estimate upon his own 
 powers, loved quiet and the privacy of home, and 
 shrank instinctively from notoriety and the arena 
 of public discussion. Those who knew him as a 
 worker in the anti-slavery cause, or heard his elo- 
 quent utterances in behalf of temperance, had little 
 idea of the cost at which those utterances were 
 made. " When public speaking," said he, " first 
 came to me as a part of the work I had to do, it 
 seemed to me that I would rather die than under- 
 take it ; " and long after he had learned to sway 
 vast crowds by his eloquence, he never rose to 
 speak without feeling that the audience must hear 
 his heart beat. 
 
 Who shall tell the story of those early abolition- 
 ists, and enable us to understand what it cost them 
 to be true to their convictions ? Who will portray 
 the lives so heroic under persecution, the hardships 
 so uncomplainingly borne, the mobs and violence 
 and social ostracism, the heartsickness and almost 
 despair that must have come to them again and 
 again ? 
 
 It is not a pleasant thing for a man to be scorned, 
 railed at, denounced as a fanatic and disturber of 
 the peace, even when he stands alone ; but how 
 much harder when wife and children are involved, 
 
PREFACE. Xt 
 
 and adherence to principle means poverty and pri- 
 vation for them. To a man like Mr. Burleigh this 
 was the trial hardest to bear. For himself it did 
 not matter, but that those dearer than himself should 
 suffer with him, pained him to the heart ; and to shel- 
 ter them from the storms to which he unshrinkingly 
 exposed himself was the thought ever present to 
 him, the one care whose pressure made him pre- 
 maturely old. To a man with a rapidly increasing, 
 family, whose means were limited, and whose life- 
 long habit it was to assume all burdens and think 
 of himself last, life could not fail to be a serious 
 business, even had it lacked the odium that attached 
 to unpopular reforms. But with this added, the 
 pressure was well-nigh insupportable. To those 
 who knew him well it was no matter of surprise 
 that his brown locks began to show threads of 
 silver at thirty, that his shoulders were prematurely 
 bowed, and that his step early lost something of its 
 elasticity. 
 
 In 1837 he removed to Pittsburgh, where he pub- 
 lished the " Christian Witness," and afterwards the 
 " Temperance Banner." In this city and Alleghany 
 several of the most useful years of his life were 
 spent, alternately sending forth his brave utterances 
 in the editorial columns of his paper, and lecturing 
 before anti-slavery, temperance, and literary associa- 
 tions. Here were formed some of the most valued 
 
Xll PREFA CE. 
 
 friendships of his life, among them that with Dr. 
 Lemoyne and his family of Washington, Pa., which 
 continued uninterrupted up to the time of his death, 
 a period of more than thirty years. The last visit 
 that he ever made was to these old and dear friends. 
 
 In 1843 he was invited to Hartford by the ex- 
 ecutive committee of the Connecticut Anti-Slavery 
 Society to take charge of its organ, then known 
 as the " Christian Freeman," but soon after as the 
 " Charter Oak." 
 
 In a tribute to Mr. Burleigh, published since his 
 death, in the Hartford "Evening Post," the Hon. 
 Francis Gillette thus speaks of his first appearance 
 in Hartford : " He had at this time just attained 
 the fullness and strength of mature manhood, and 
 in all the physical accomplishments of our nature, 
 compactness and dignity of form, beauty and express- 
 iveness of face, ease and simplicity of manners, he 
 had but few equals aud no superiors. And when 
 to these remarkable personal attractions was super- 
 added the opulence of his rare intellectual gifts, his 
 solid understanding, logical acumen, and extensive 
 knowledge, irradiated as they w r ere by the splendors 
 of a rich poetic fancy and a sparkling wit, the im- 
 pression first made by the remarkable stranger was 
 one which time can never efface. Aud it is not 
 too much to say that after several years of intimate 
 association with him, in the severe toils and trials 
 
PREFACE. xill 
 
 of the anti-slavery conflict, that impression of his 
 glorious manliness, intellectual ability, and generous 
 aspirations, was deeper than ever before. In all 
 those princely qualities of our nature which culmi- 
 nate in human greatness and goodness, — strength and 
 versatility of mind, generosity and beauty of soul, 
 all enshrined in a grand and befitting material tem- 
 ple, and speaking through an eloquent tongue and 
 a glowing pen, he was preeminent. As a writer, 
 speaker, editor, poet, reformer, friend, and associate, 
 it was the universal testimony of those who knew 
 him best and esteemed him most truly, that he 
 stood in the forefront of his generation. And for 
 many years this anointed prophet dwelt among us, 
 uttering brave and truthful words for freedom, tem- 
 perance, education, and peace, from lips aglow with 
 hallowed fire, and heart aleap with great pulsations 
 for all humanity, trying with all his herculean 
 strength to lift society into the sunlight of a pure 
 Christian civilization ; and yet, strange to say, with 
 all his grand and beautiful qualities, his moral, liter- 
 ary, philanthropic, and social excellences, he hardly 
 gained a recognition here ; and so far from having 
 been permitted to enjoy the sweet and grateful cup 
 of friendly intercourse, he was made the victim of 
 calumny, insult, and popular outrage. Posterity will 
 find it difficult to believe the story of the cruel 
 sufferings and indignities that were heaped upon him 
 and his co-laborers in the cause of freedom." 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 In 1849 Mr. Burleigh went to Syracuse, in the 
 employ of the New York State Temperance Soci- 
 ety ; and as lecturer, editor, and corresponding secre- 
 tary, devoted some five years to its interests. It 
 was in the summer of 1850, during a brief stay in 
 Syracuse, that I first met him, and had the pleasure 
 of spending an evening in his society. All that 
 Mr. Gillette describes him to have been, he was at 
 that time. I have met few men who at once im- 
 pressed me so profoundly, and no picture of the 
 past is more vivid in my remembrance, than his 
 face and figure as I saw him then. His abundant 
 dark hair, undulating in wavy masses, and empha- 
 sized by a silver lock on either temple, was worn 
 quite long, and, carelessly thrown back, set off" to 
 advantage the square brow and strong, earnest face. 
 
 Evidently the arrangement of those locks was no 
 heavy tax upon either the time or the thought of 
 their owner, any more than was the dress, between 
 which and the wearer the relationship was clearly one 
 of mere convenience. " What a pity that he has no 
 sense of clothes ! " was my mental ejaculation, as I took 
 in the tout ensemble of what I felt to be an uncommon 
 man. Glancing from the serviceable but not very 
 carefully brushed shoes to the even less carefully 
 brushed locks, my eyes encountered his, those won- 
 derful eyes, which once seen could never be for- 
 gotten, — eyes in which the innocence and fun of 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 boyhood, the fire and intensity of manhood, and the 
 tenderness of the poet were blended with a pa- 
 thetic patience difficult to describe, but which touched 
 me almost to tears. It seemed to me that he must 
 have read my thought, and I blushed at its un- 
 worthiuess. Years after, when our friendship justi- 
 fied me, as I thought, in expostulating with him on 
 his carelessness in dress, he said, " I should like to 
 dress well, but cannot afford it ; " and when I was 
 beginning to explain that it was not mouey that 
 was needed, at least not much, he replied, " I was 
 not thinking of the money, though that too is to 
 be taken into account, but of all the rest that it 
 costs." " I do not understand you," I said. " Per- 
 haps you have never thought how much besides 
 money it costs to be well dressed. It would cost 
 me an amount of thought that I cannot afford ; 
 partly because I have much more important things 
 to think about, and partly because it is a subject of 
 which I know very little, and in addition a wear 
 and strain of temper that I can afford still less. 
 So long as I ignore the whole subject, I am not 
 disturbed by it, but if I once began to think about 
 it there would be no end to my annoyances. The 
 man who is nothing unless he is well -dressed is at 
 the mercy of his laundress ; loses his temper with 
 his shirt buttons, and feels the waning of his re- 
 spectability in whitened seams and a lank purse." 
 
XVI PREFA CE. 
 
 I mention this because it was so characteristic of 
 the nian. With him " mint, and anise, and cum- 
 min " never took the place of the weightier matters 
 of truth, integrity, and justice. In his scale, the 
 essential values always stood first. 
 
 While employed by the State Temperance Society 
 he resided a part of the time in Albany, where he 
 conducted the " Prohibitionist," the organ of the Soci- 
 ety. His duties often brought him to New York, 
 where I resided at that time, .and the acquaintance 
 begun in Syracuse ripened year by year into a 
 deep and abiding friendship. 
 
 I think every one who enjoyed Mr. Burleigh's 
 friendship will agree with me, that in this, as in 
 all the other relations of life, he was singularly true, 
 loyal, and steadfast. Meeting him after years of 
 separation, one felt that his friendly interest was no 
 • whit abated. Notoriously a bad correspondent, he 
 gives in one of his letters the following good reason 
 for being so : — 
 
 "I need something more than time to enable me 
 to write to a friend. The Quaker prays when the 
 spirit moves him ; so would I write only when in- 
 spired by my best thoughts, and when I feel that 
 my spirit is in harmony with all that is best in 
 the soul to which I address myself. So it often 
 happens that I can command the time, when I can- 
 
PREFA CE. XV11 
 
 not command the mood, and often, too, I feel the 
 inspiration when I cannot command the time. This 
 is the true reason of my apparent remissness as a 
 correspondent, and I can only throw myself on the 
 indulgence of my friends, and trust that they will 
 understand my silence as implicitly as my speech." 
 
 While residing in Albany, Mr. Burleigh became 
 the warm personal friend of Governor Clark, from 
 whom he received, in 1855, an unsolicited appoint- 
 ment as Harbor Master of New York, and removed 
 with his family to that city. At the expiration of 
 his term of service he was appointed one of the 
 Board of Port Wardens, an office which "he contin- 
 ued to hold by successive appointments till within 
 about a year of his death. His family at the time 
 of his removal to New York consisted of himself, 
 wife, and six children, — three sons and three daugh- 
 ters ; his first child, a daughter, having died in early 
 childhood. The constantly increasing expenses of his 
 family pressed heavily upon him, and made the in- 
 come derived from his office a most timely aid. 
 Economical to the verge of austerity in his own 
 habits, he spent money freely for those he loved, 
 and nothing less than the best educational advan- 
 tages for his children would have satisfied him. 
 
 Few men of the present age are so little fitted 
 for the hard struggle of daily life, — to encounter the 
 competitions and rivalries with which it abounds. 
 
 b 
 
XV111 PREFACE. 
 
 Simple in his tastes, a lover of Nature, trustful as 
 a child, he would have been at home in some Ar- 
 cadia among flocks and herds, sitting in his vine- 
 wreathed porch to watch the fading glories of sun- 
 set, or entertaining with large hospitality the stranger 
 and the wayfarer. The business of money-getting 
 was not to his taste ; the present style of living he 
 considered cumbersome and unsatisfactory, social in- 
 tercourse formal and insincere ; but feeling this he 
 did not array himself against the usages of society ; 
 they gave him little pleasure, but that others en- 
 joyed them was a sufficient reason for taxing all 
 his energies to supply the means for that enjoy- 
 ment. He neither required nor expected every one 
 to be happy in his way. 
 
 In a letter bearing date September, 1863, he 
 writes : — 
 
 " I hope you are in a condition to enjoy these 
 delicious autumn days : so rich in subdued light, 
 so full of beauty and repose, such a glorious proph- 
 ecy of heaven. They come to me like a revelation 
 of the love of God, all-pervading but unobstrusive, 
 subduing but not oppressive, filling the soul with 
 a great calm, and exalting it with sweet monitions 
 of the better life. 
 
 "There is something of sadness in them too, but 
 it is a sadness that has compensations in sweet 
 
PREFA CE. XIX 
 
 thoughts, gentle moods, and pure and holy aspira- 
 tions. How I long to spend them in the country, 
 far away from the reek and roar of the tumultuous 
 city. Ah, to sit in the solemn woods to-day, be- 
 side some clear brook, and listen to the murmur of 
 the winds among the boughs — to escape from all 
 this conventional life, the feverish existence of the 
 town, and find freedom with dear mother Nature, 
 repose in drawing near to God ! And yet God is 
 as near to us in the thronged thoroughfare as in 
 the solitude of His woods; and wherever His sun- 
 light falls, or His stars shine, He gives us revelations 
 of His love." 
 
 In another letter he says : — 
 
 " You commend my industry, and I am something 
 of a worker, though naturally indolent. I am con- 
 scious of an indisposition to do any work, or take 
 any steps, that I can without a violation of duty 
 avoid. But in my official business I am a worker ; 
 I never procrastinate there, nor omit the duty de- 
 volved upon me." 
 
 If Mr. Burleigh's estimate of himself was correct, 
 if he was naturally indolent, he certainly deserved 
 great credit, not only for the faithfulness with which 
 he discharged every duty, but for the alacrity with 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 which he served his friends, and the labor which 
 he voluntarily assumed in aiding the poor and un- 
 fortunate, and promoting the reforms he had so 
 much at heart. 
 
 In February, 1863, hi*3 father died, and in the 
 course of the two years following, his wife, his eldest 
 daughter, who was married and living in Albany, 
 and bis eldest son, a young man of rare purity and 
 beauty of character, were all taken from him by 
 death. 
 
 These repeated shocks, acting upon a frame weak- 
 ened by long- continued overwork, told upon his 
 health. His appetite failed, he lost flesh, his hair 
 whitened, and those who saw him going the round 
 of his daily duties, remarked, " How rapidly Mr. 
 Burleigh is growing old." His physician at length 
 ordered him into the country, but could induce him 
 to remain only a short time, the demands of his 
 business seeming imperative. 
 
 Looking over his letters written at this period, I 
 find so much of himself in them, that it seems to 
 me I can in no way so clearly bring him before 
 the reader as by some extracts from them. Speak- 
 ing of the afflictions that had fallen to his lot he 
 says : — 
 
 " This mystery of suffering must have some kindly 
 meaning, and though 1 cannot feel it, and my 
 
PREFACE. xxi 
 
 soul rebels, I stay my faith on the certainty that 
 God is good, and does not willingly afflict the chil- 
 dren of men. It is not without strong wrestlings 
 that doubt and murmuring? are put under my feet, 
 and I am enabled to struggle up into the purer 
 atmosphere of faith." 
 
 A little later he writes : — 
 
 " It is a difficult matter for me to drag myself 
 from the solitude of my chamber. And yet, I 
 doubt if any human heart was ever more hungry 
 for sympathy, and companionship than is mine. 
 When in the society of my friends, I am conscious 
 of deriving a real benefit from the contact of mind 
 with mind, but again at home I settle into the old 
 grooves, and seem to lack the ability to lift myself 
 from them. 
 
 " I carry about with me the memory of so many 
 sorrows, that it seems almost a wrong for me to 
 enter any social circle. My presence seems anom- 
 alous and discordant." 
 
 And again : — 
 
 " You ask about my religion. I was reared a 
 Presbyterian, a Puritan of the Puritans ; but though 
 I know that that faith has cradled many earnest aud 
 
XX11 PREFACE. 
 
 saintly souls, I am glad that my maturity brought 
 me emancipation from its dogmas. I would speak 
 tenderly of its devotees, nor undervalue their worth, 
 but the time has long gone by when I could accept 
 their faith, which seems to me a libel alike upon 
 God's wisdom and beneficence. 
 
 " I think the aspect of my life has changed some- 
 what since you first knew me. It could hardly be 
 otherwise. The world does not seem quite the same 
 at fifty that it did at thirty-five. Seen through my 
 spectacles it is sad enough truly, and yet full of 
 beauty and promise. I see, in spite of ignorance 
 and undevelopment, manifold prophecies of the 
 world's regeneration. I have faith in God, and 
 therefore I have faith iu man — faith in God's 
 purposes, and man's possibilities. For the rest, I 
 am probably more thoughtful, a little sadder, but 
 whether more religious I can hardly say. I am 
 not sure that I am religious at all, as you would 
 define the term, though I am conscious of some as- 
 pirations for the divine life, some reaching of the 
 soul after God. Religious conversation, manly and 
 cheerful in its tone, wiihout any solemn whine or 
 holy snuffle, is very agreeable and refreshing to me. 
 I think that the legitimate themes of religious talk 
 are full of sweetness, of tenderness, of gladness, and 
 of inspiration. My own faith is to me very beauti- 
 ful and full of help ; but speculative opinions have 
 
PREFACE. xxiil 
 
 less to do I fancy with the religious life than many 
 suppose. / To believe in God as the all loving 
 Father, /to fill our lives with the divine life as it 
 was revealed in Jesus, this is more than any creed 
 or ritual, and men of the most diverse opinions 
 may unite in this living faith. To my mind the 
 true church embraces all forms of faith into which 
 enters the love of humanity." I 
 
 " In a world that holds so/ many noble natures, 
 with angels circling us, and the perpetual ministry 
 of beauty in nature and art, it should be very hard 
 for us to live basely or to think meanly. The 
 mountains with their revelations of sublimity rebuke 
 us, the ocean peals its everlasting condemnation in 
 our ears, while stars and flowers remonstrate with 
 us, if we entertain thoughts unworthy of our sur- 
 roundings, or debase, by low desires, the natures 
 which God has so royally endowed." 
 
 " I love to breathe the air with noble spirits that 
 dwell in the light of God's love, and are calm with 
 His great peace ; to be surrounded by princely na- 
 tures, not because I am good, but because I would 
 become so ; not that I am noble, but because I 
 desire to purge my nature of all meanness. I thank 
 God that He has kept alive in my heart this desire 
 for the companionship of pure and noble natures ; 
 and that my own grows braver and stronger through 
 their ministry. I cannot afford the companionship 
 
XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 of mean and groveling natures. Let me, rather, 
 even though I feel rebuked by their purity, be 
 companioned by the good, whose lives are fragrant 
 with moral courage, hope, and aspiration. They im- 
 part to me, at least, the grace of shame for my 
 own shortcomings and imperfections, and so sting 
 me into efforts for a better life." 
 
 The following describes him most truly : — 
 
 " I hope my dear friend that you will not fulfill 
 your threat of trying the effect of ' a spicy little 
 quarrel ' with me ; for I do not think I am what 
 you would call ' a nice person to quarrel with.' Not 
 that I am particularly malevolent, or enduring in 
 my resentments, or at all revengeful, but I am ex- 
 tremely sensitive, and though I may seem to take an 
 affront very quietly, I remember, because I cannot 
 forget it. The hurt that may seem to others so 
 slight as to be no hurt at all, may leave a deep 
 wound which half a life-time cannot heal. To-day 
 I feel sore when I remember an unkind word 
 spoken to me more than forty years ago. It stung 
 me then, and the memory stings me yet.'' 
 
 And this : — ■ 
 
 w Human love is still the ladder by which we 
 
PREFACE. XXV 
 
 mount to an apprehension of God's love. How can 
 we know anything of love except through our 
 human relationships? Only when we comprehend 
 love, and our relation to God, do we begin to 
 comprehend His love to us. Happiness may not be 
 essential to our spiritual growth, nor yet sorrow, but 
 love is. A heart famished for love grows lean in 
 all its best attributes through that great want. A 
 human soul, to live nobly, needs a love that will 
 bless it, not simply with repose (for that may be 
 found in apathy), but with high thoughts and noble 
 aspirations. Love is a religion. If it is less, it is 
 less than love. It is a Saviour that comes always 
 with the great gift of redemption. When we are 
 conscious that our souls are struggling heavenward 
 as plants and trees grow towards the light, then be 
 sure the Christ has come to us once again with 
 His redeeming love. I must believe with you, that 
 by all means, by sorrow and loss, by joy and the 
 fruition of cherished hopes, the process of education 
 goes on, and that not even sin is omitted from that 
 great corps of teachers." 
 
 Speaking of his political work in the fall of 1864 
 he says : — 
 
 " Public speaking, added to the duties of my 
 office, tax me somewhat heavily ; but as a friend 
 
XXVI PREFA CE. 
 
 of liberty and all which it involves, I cannot do 
 less than my utmost to secure the reelection of Mr. 
 Lincoln : as a friend of my country and all for which 
 it has stood in the past, and the broader good for 
 which I trust it is destined to stand in the future, 
 I cannot shirk the responsibility of the hour. But I 
 did work a little too hard last week. On Wednes- 
 day evening I addressed an audience of three thou- 
 sand persons in Patterson, speaking an hour and 
 forty minutes, and the next evening I spoke at 
 Passaic for two hours and a quarter, and on Friday 
 evening addressed an out-door meeting in Brook- 
 lyn. That was the hardest of all, and hurt me most. 
 Hereafter I shall endeavor to limit myself more 
 rigidly; but the occasiou is so august, the crisis of 
 the country so solemn, and the themes demanding 
 discussion so inspiring, that standing before a large 
 and eager audience I am very apt to forget every- 
 thing relating to myself." 
 
 It was just this forgetfulness of self, this doing 
 with all his might the work that came to hand, 
 without ever stopping to think whether he was 
 able to do it, that at length wore out the strong 
 frame, exhausted the vital energies, and stilled the 
 pulsations of the brave heart so true to all high 
 impulses, so devoted to humanity. During the 
 spring and summer of 1865 his health was poor, 
 
PREFACE. XXV11 
 
 though he continued to discharge his official duties 
 with little interruption. In September of that year 
 I became his wife ; and looking back, aided by my 
 later experience, I can see that during the year 
 preceding our marriage he suffered repeated attacks 
 of the malady which caused his death, though he 
 was entirely ignorant of their nature, and fancied 
 that he only needed a few weeks' rest to restore 
 him to perfect health. 
 
 A brief respite from the duties of his office and 
 the new interests that came into his life seemed to 
 have a beneficial effect; his health improved rapidly, 
 and at length seemed almost perfectly reestablished ; 
 but the habit of overwork was fixed upon him, and 
 at a time when rest and proper care might have 
 ensured to him many years of valuable life, he took 
 neither, neglected the warnings which he had re- 
 ceived, and made recovery impossible. He became 
 the New York correspondent of several newspapers, 
 and after spending the day in hard work, went home 
 to a six o'clock dinner and a long evening of liter- 
 ary work. Looking over the record of the four 
 years succeeding our marriage, as it exists in news- 
 paper correspondence, poems, lectures, and notes for 
 political speeches, I wonder how it was possible for 
 him in addition to the duties of his office, — which 
 was no sinecure, — to accomplish so much. Not one 
 who dashed off a poem or letter at a sitting and 
 
XXVI11 PREFACE. 
 
 without effort, but a conscientious worker, never 
 satisfied with less than his best, his literary efforts 
 were in no sense pastime, but real, downright work. 
 He was so constituted that he had no choice but 
 to put his best and his utmost into whatever he 
 did. 
 
 Associated with all the evenings at home is the 
 memory of the sturdy figure and silvered head 
 bending over the accustomed portfolio, and sur- 
 rounded by books and papers. At his work before 
 breakfast in the morning, he continued it till it was 
 time to go to his office, and returning in the after- 
 noon, was at once absorbed in it again as if he had 
 never left it. And yet he was no recluse : he had 
 a genial welcome for every comer ; he was the soul 
 of hospitality, and for wit and repartee I have never 
 known his equal. To believe in the good time 
 coming and to hasten it by all means at his com- 
 mand, to say pleasant things to and about people 
 and to help those who needed help, were necessities 
 of his nature. His excessive modesty prevented his 
 deriving that satisfaction from his literary work that 
 it ought to have afforded him and which it con- 
 stantly did afford to others. In a letter to a friend 
 who had spoken, warmly of one of his poems, he 
 says : — 
 
 " So you liked the verses, but you must re- 
 
preface: xxix 
 
 member that I do not claim to be a poet. Were 
 it not for a few who love me, and who, because 
 they love me, take pleasure in my verse, I should 
 never attempt another line. I am often amazed 
 at my own assurance in writing, it looks so like 
 presumption ; as if I would thrust myself into the 
 company of inspired souls, with no power to speak 
 the ' Open Sesame ' which can alone admit one to 
 their august companionship. But indeed I do not 
 claim to be of their guild." 
 
 This modesty would seem like affectation in one 
 less sincere than Mr. Burleigh, but with him no 
 expression was more honest. His ideal was so high 
 that his performance constantly fell below it, and it 
 was always his habit to hold himself to his own 
 ideal, rather than to the standard of other men's 
 performance. 
 
 Occupied with the other great reforms of the 
 day, he had given little attention to the subject of 
 woman's rights till within two years of his death. 
 " Why do you never attempt to convert me ? " he 
 once said good-humoredly, when I was discussing 
 the question with a Western editor who was our 
 guest. " O ! there is no need," I replied, " for the 
 subject is becoming so prominent that you will soon 
 be compelled to think about it, and when you do, 
 as you are a just man, I know where you must 
 stand." 
 
XXX PREFACE. 
 
 In July of 1869 he wrote me : — 
 
 " The ' Tribune ' pronounces your Saratoga conven- 
 tion a success. I hope it will prove so in its results. 
 The papers talk absurdly as usual about women not 
 wanting to vote ; but what has that to do with the 
 duty of removing the restriction on the ballot ? 
 That some women want to vote is evident, and if 
 but one wished to exercise this right, and her sex 
 was the only legal obstacle, it would be tyranny to 
 withhold it from her. If men cannot command bet- 
 ter arguments against the enfranchisement of women 
 than they have yet used, they had better let the case 
 go against them by default. I am a little ashamed 
 of their puerility, begging pardon of the children. 
 I am not an advocate of woman's suffrage from 
 reading the arguments in its favor, but from reading 
 those opposed to it. They have so utterly failed, 
 logically and morally, that I was compelled to accept 
 the position which I now hold, that of a believer 
 in woman* suffrage." 
 
 It was entirely through Mr. Burleigh's influence 
 that I entered upon my own public work in behalf 
 of woman, and it was his dying admonition that I 
 should continue it. No man had a more tender 
 and reverent appreciation of woman's nature than 
 he, and as her cause was the latest which he 
 
PREFACE. XXXI 
 
 espoused, he brought to its advocacy all that was 
 noblest in him, the best results of a ripe manhood. 
 I cannot refrain from giving a few extracts from 
 some of the last letters tliat he ever wrote, showing 
 how beautiful and tender was his thought on this 
 subject : — 
 
 " Our praise of woman is more just than our 
 censure ; I am inclined to think we should praise 
 her more and censure her less if we understood her 
 better." 
 
 "I grieve at the injustice of men to women, but 
 I must think it is owing in a great measure to 
 their not understanding them. I long for such an 
 education of the sexes as will make them really 
 acquainted with each other." 
 
 u There is no tenderness so rich and sweet and 
 healing as the tenderness of woman. When I think 
 of her mini>tration I long to unsay every harsh or 
 impatient word that I ever uttered to or of a 
 woman." " The noble women whom I have known 
 have been to me at once a prophecy of the future 
 of humanity, and the highest revelation of God." 
 
 He took a lively interest in Sorosis and the 
 Brooklyn Woman's Club, and was the honored friend 
 of both. During the last weeks of his life there 
 was rarely a day that both organizations were not 
 
XXX11 PREFACE. 
 
 represented by flowers in his room, and at his 
 funeral the whole church was made fragrant and 
 beautiful by their abundance. For the sake of Mr. 
 Burleigh's personal friends I would gladly tell the 
 story of the last eighteen months of his life. But 
 they will pardon me, and understand why I do not. 
 A mere sketch must suffice. 
 
 In August of 1869 there was a recurrence of the 
 epileptic attacks from which for more than three 
 years he had been entirely free. Neither he nor any 
 member of the family had any idea of their nature, 
 nor did his physician enlighten them till the following 
 January, when a very severe one, followed by great 
 and continued prostration, made further concealment 
 impossible. To the hour of his death Mr. Bur- 
 leigh had no suspicion of the real nature of his 
 disease, but fancied that he was suffering from over- 
 work and that a short period of rest would restore 
 him. 
 
 In January, 1870, he was removed from the office 
 whose duties he had so faithfully discharged, to make 
 room for one of Governor Hoffman's appointees, and 
 early in the spring following we went into the 
 country, where we remained till November. Shortly 
 before leaving town Mr. Burleigh was made happy 
 by receiving a visit from his old friend and co- 
 worker, John G. Whittier. Referring to this visit 
 in a letter received since his death, Mr. Whittier 
 
PREFACE. xxxiii 
 
 says : " How glad I am that I saw him last spring. 
 I had heard that his health was feeble, but he 
 seemed so bright, genial, and happy, that I never 
 dreamed of his passing on before me." 
 
 In the course of the summer we spent some days 
 at Gerrit Smith's, and it was delightful to hear the 
 two veteran reformers discuss the people and inci- 
 dents of the early anti slavery times. At a picnic one 
 afternoon we met the Rev. Samuel J. May, between 
 whom and Mr. Burleigh a strong attachment existed. 
 They strolled away together for a long talk, and 
 Mr. Burleigh recurred to it many times as one of 
 the delightful episodes of the summer. Able to do 
 very little reading or literary work, he gave him- 
 self up to the enjoyment of the beautiful world 
 about him. He took long walks over the hills, ex- 
 plored the woods and ravines, or sat by the hour 
 together under the maples in front of the house, 
 sometimes playing with the year-old baby, and at 
 others drinking in the song of the birds, or the 
 rustle of the wind among the boughs. " It is all 
 so beautiful," he used to say, his eyes sometimes 
 filling with tears as he drank in the scene and felt 
 its peaceful influence 
 
 Never did his cheerful sunny nature find fuller 
 
 expression than during this last summer of his life, 
 
 when day by day he was descending into the valley 
 
 whose shadows were soon to hide him from our 
 
 e 
 
XXXIV PREFACE. 
 
 eyes. Eejoicing in his long holiday, as he called 
 his emancipation from official and literary work, — 
 the first, he said, that he had ever known, — per- 
 fectly unconscious of his condition, and making plans 
 for the future when a few months' rest should have 
 restored him to health, there was something very 
 pathetic in his condition, to those who loved him, 
 and knew that his disease was incurable. With 
 w T hat zest he entered into the life of those about 
 him ! How he rejoiced in every touch of beauty — 
 in the glory of sunset, the soft splendors of moon- 
 light, the purple mist on the distant hills ; while 
 his inexhaustible stores of wit and anecdote were 
 the delight of the household. 
 
 In November we returned to our home in Brook- 
 lyn, but it was only too evident that the summer's 
 rest had brought no accession of health or strength. 
 Early in December Mr. Burleigh went to Washing- 
 ton, Pa., to fill a lecture engagement, and to visit 
 his old friends, Dr. Le Moyne and his family. Here 
 he spent several weeks, thoroughly enjoying his visit, 
 and impressing all he met with the sweetness and 
 beauty of his spirit. Referring to this visit, one of 
 the family has thus written me since his death : 
 " How glad we all are to have had him with us 
 once more ; our dear old friend, so thoughtful, gentle, 
 and wise. We all loved him years ago, and are 
 thankful to have had the privilege of seeing him 
 
PREFACE. xxxv 
 
 again in his maturity, his character enlarged, up- 
 lifted, hallowed by his large and varied experience. 
 He was certainly one of the most child-like persons 
 I ever knew. He enjoyed like a child, — his faith, 
 simplicity, and trust were child-like, but united with 
 rare wisdom, culture, and experience." 
 
 Tins was the last time he left home. Returning, 
 his strength failed rapidly, and he was more and 
 more confined to his room. In February, being in- 
 vited to attend the silver weddiug of some old 
 friends in Syracuse, the same at whose house I first 
 met him, he responded in the following playful 
 manner : — 
 
 On this auspicious day, could all my wishes 
 
 That peace be yours, and happiness and health, 
 
 Assume the varied forms of silver dishes, 
 
 How would your tables glitter with their wealth. 
 
 But since no sprite can work this transformation, 
 I send my simple blessing in this rhyme, 
 
 With hearty love and honest admiration 
 
 That still grows stronger with the passing time. 
 
 May the good angels evermore attend you, 
 And make your days all beautiful and fair ; 
 
 And since no other silver can I send you, 
 I send a lock of my own silver hair. 
 
 He suffered little at any time during his illness 
 except the lassitude of extreme weakness, and was 
 
XXXVI PREFACE. 
 
 so bright and cheerful that the friends who called 
 to see him could hardly persuade themselves that 
 he was seriously ill. It was not till within a week 
 of his death that he himself became aware of his 
 condition. He was the first to speak of it; for 
 though his brothers were with him, and his pastor, 
 John W. Chadwick, — for whom he had almost a 
 fatherly affection, — called often to see him, we all 
 felt that his whole life had been a preparation for 
 his death, and that it was not important that the 
 subject should be thrust upon his attention even 
 though he should pass away with no recognition of 
 the fact that he was going. Had he gone withouf 
 a word of farewell, we who were left should have 
 felt the loss, but we should have had no fears for 
 him. One who had lived his life could not be 
 otherwise than ready for the Master's call. Wak- 
 ing from a gentle sleep the Monday morning before 
 he died, he said, "I shall not be with you much 
 longer. I want to tell you about my affairs, and 
 make such arrangements as I can to help you in 
 the future." 
 
 For as much as two hours he talked with per- 
 fect coherence, giving directions and leaving mes- 
 sages for absent friends. When asked if he was sorry 
 to go, he said : " I had hoped for a few more years 
 of work. Life has been very beautiful to me in 
 spite of many sorrows, but I know that it does not 
 
PREFACE. XX.wii 
 
 end here." All his directions were full of that 
 thoughtful care for others which was always oue of 
 his most marked characteristics. Nothing was for- 
 gotten or overlooked that could help the dear ones 
 whom he was leaving, and even in making some 
 suggestions about his burial his own preference was 
 made subordinate to the wishes and convenience of 
 others. Having finished his arrangements he said : 
 " I have made a great many mistakes, but I have 
 tried to live a manly and true life, and to serve 
 God by helping humanity. In leaving the world 
 it is with no bitter self-condemnation ; my purpose 
 has been honest and upright." 
 
 And so passed away on the afternoon of March 
 18th, 1871, this brave, manly soul, ending a life 
 patient and self-sacrificing, tender and heroic. So 
 quietly had he gone about his business, so uncom- 
 plainingly had he borne whatever burdens duty im- 
 posed, so modest had been his estimate of himself, 
 that it was only when his place was left vacant, 
 that those who knew him realized how good an in- 
 fluence was withdrawn, how earnest and helpful a 
 nature had gone out of their lives. 
 
 I should like to include in this sketch a few at 
 least of the many touching tributes to his memory 
 that have reached me in letters of condolence, or in 
 notices of the press. But for the most part the 
 former are of too personal a character to be made 
 
XXXV111 PREFACE. 
 
 public, and the latter have already had a wide cir- 
 culation. With a sonnet from Theodore Tilton, and 
 an extract from a sermon by Mr. Chadwick, preached 
 the Sunday after Mr. Burleigh's funeral, I close this 
 sketch. Of its incompleteness and inadequacy I am 
 more sensible than any one else can be, for I better 
 that any one else know the worth and beauty of 
 the character which it attempts to portray. For 
 the rest, its preparation has been a labor of love, 
 bringing with it a sense of companionship that has 
 made me linger over my task, and dread its com- 
 pletion. For the sake of the reader, I wish I might 
 have done it much better ; for the more life-like the 
 portrait, the more I am sure would it attract and 
 interest. 
 
 " Is this the only tribute we should pay — 
 
 These funeral flowers that on his bier belong ? 
 Himself a singer, he deserves a song ; 
 
 But who has any heart to sing to-day ? 
 
 Should any stranger chance to come this way, 
 And view, with tearles3 eyes, this lump of earth, 
 And call for witness to its living worth, 
 
 O, loving are the words we then could say ! 
 
 But since to make a memory for our dead, 
 
 His virtues — Truth, Faith, Honor, and the rest — 
 
 With one loud-chanted requiem all have said, 
 ' Behold, our chosen dwelling was his breast ! ' 
 
 Since tongues like these have spoken, dumb be ours I 
 
 So let us sweetly leave him with his flowers." 
 
PREFACE. xxx ix 
 
 Mr. Chad wick's sermon was from the text, " Now 
 are we happier than when we believed," and con- 
 cluded as follows : — 
 
 "I cannot let you go this morning without once 
 more awakening in your grateful remembrance the 
 thought of one who always loved to be in our as- 
 sembly, but whose kindly face we shall not see again 
 I might draw many lessons for you from his life, 
 so brave and beautiful, so patient, still, and strong. 
 But I will only say that he was such a man as 
 this morning I have been saying that we all ought 
 to be. He was no bigot, he was no dogmatist ; he 
 kept his mind open and hospitable, and so enter- 
 tained many angelic thoughts which the shut doors 
 of other minds exclude. From faith to faith, such 
 was his progress from the beginning to the end. 
 He never thought he had enough of God, he was 
 a seeker to the last, holding his views subject to 
 constant revision. The convictions of his early man- 
 hood, as he grew older, failed to satisfy his growing 
 mind. He did not try to make them, but waited 
 the coming inspiration. He went forth like Abra- 
 ham, not knowing whither he went ; he only knew 
 that the truth was leading him. He got farther 
 and farther away from the conventional methods of 
 religion, but now was his salvation nearer than when 
 he believed. It came to him in a new faith in 
 
xl PREFACE. 
 
 God and man ; in a new charity for the most differ- 
 ent opinions from his own ; in a new love for every 
 living thing, — aye, and for things not living, — for 
 he loved everything, from rocks, woods, and waters, 
 up to truth and God." 
 
CONTEXTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Called Home 
 
 1 
 
 The True Faith 
 
 3 
 
 Magdalena 
 
 5 
 
 The Sfhyju 
 
 12 
 
 Shelley 
 
 16 
 
 Expostulation 
 
 . 18 
 
 The Weaver 
 
 . . . 12 
 
 Forgiveness 
 
 . 21 
 
 At Niagara 
 
 22 
 
 Life . 
 
 . 24 
 
 Weep not for the Dead .... 
 
 25 
 
 Beauty 
 
 . 26 
 
 To Mary Dawson 
 
 27 
 
 The Lesson 
 
 . 28 
 
 <"hannixg 
 
 31 
 
 Gifted for Giving .... 
 
 . 34 
 
 The I'oet 
 
 36 
 
 The Visionary 
 
 . 38 
 
 A Rhyme of Peterboro .... 
 
 40 
 
 The Angel of the Home 
 
 . 43 
 
 To Emma Willakd 
 
 45 
 
xlii CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Benedicite. (S. C. W.) 47 
 
 The Rhyme of the Cable 48 
 
 A Reminiscence 51 
 
 Annie Bell, 52 
 
 Answered 58 
 
 Pierpont 59 
 
 A Portrait 62 
 
 We are Scattered 67 
 
 VOICES OF THE YEARS. 
 
 The Old and the New 69 
 
 What the Old Year Said 73 
 
 Good-by, Old Year 78 
 
 Dirge of the Old Year 80 
 
 A Rhyme for the New Year 82 
 
 SONGS OF LOVE AND HOME. 
 
 FORTISSIMA 85 
 
 The Avowal . ., 88 
 
 Her Name 90 
 
 Response 95 
 
 Dora 97 
 
 Revisited 103 
 
 Benediction 106 
 
 Beatrice 108 
 
 The Lost Star Ill 
 
 No Home 114 
 
 Song 118 
 
 Not Mine 120 
 
 Destiny 122 
 
 Agatha 124 
 
COS TEXTS. xlii 
 
 111 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Forsaken 127 
 
 A Birth-Day Tribute 129 
 
 At the Goal 131 
 
 Within the Veil 136 
 
 The Early Dead 138 
 
 The Child Angel 141 
 
 Mary 144 
 
 The Flower-Bringer 147 
 
 The Old 150 
 
 Lilian 152 
 
 The Little Girl's Song 155 
 
 Married 157 
 
 Possession 160 
 
 You and I 162 
 
 Bessie 165 
 
 Threnody 168 
 
 Birthday Song 171 
 
 WITH NATURE. 
 
 Nature's Worship 173 
 
 Sonnet 177 
 
 Spring 178 
 
 Sugar Brook 180 
 
 May 182 
 
 June 184 
 
 The Song of the Mowers 187 
 
 Summer Morning 189 
 
 Noon in Mid.-lmmer 191 
 
 The Bain 192 
 
 Summer 193 
 
 Winter 194 
 
 December 196 
 
xliv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONGS OF FREEDOM AND FATHERLAND. 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers 198 
 
 To-Day 199 
 
 Emancipation in the West Indie* 202 
 
 Song of the Emancipated 204 
 
 Freedom's Apocalypse 206 
 
 Revolution 211 
 
 The Times 212 
 
 The Martyr 21-1 
 
 William Lloyd Garrison 216 
 
 The Old Banner 217 
 
 Ellsworth 221 
 
 The Pkayer of a Nation ....... 226 
 
 The Banner of Freedom 229 
 
 Enfranchised 232 
 
 Abraham Lincoln 234 
 
 Sonnet 235 
 
 FAITH AND ASPIRATION. 
 
 "Show us the Father" 236 
 
 Still will we Trust 239 
 
 " Non Omnis Moriar " 241 
 
 " Let there be Light " 247 
 
 Good in III 249 
 
 "In the Night Season" 251 
 
 Admonition 253 
 
 "Rejoice in the Lord Always" 256 
 
 "Blessed are they that Mourn" .... 258 
 
 Our Refuge 260 
 
 Needed Blessings 26 L 
 
 Domine, ne in Furore . 263 
 
CONTENTS. xlv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MlSEKERE DOMINE 266 
 
 Thanksgiving 269 
 
 A Prayer for Guidance 270 
 
 Faith's Repose 271 
 
 " Te Deum Laudamus " 272 
 
 "Blessed are the Pure in Heart" .... 273 
 
 A Psalm of Xight 275 
 
 Supplication 277 
 
 The Beautiful Land 279 
 
 A Morning Hymn 282 
 
 Farmer's Noonday Hymn 284 
 
 Evening Thank-Offering 287 
 
 "Upon the Watch-Tower" 289 
 
 Optimus 291 
 
 Loss and Gain 294 
 
 Matins 295 
 
 The Harvest-Call 296 
 
 Aspiration 298 
 
 Our Offering 301 
 
 Ordination* Hymn 303 
 
 Gifts 305 
 
POEMS. 
 
Unfinished work, let fall from dying hands, 
 Has deeper meanings than are voiced in tears : 
 
 Fair blooms, whose fruitage is in brighter lands, 
 They breathe the fragrance of immortal years, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 CALLED HOME. 
 
 A noble Soul, that nobly did aspire, 
 
 Still struggling upward like imprisoned fire, 
 
 Has heard the Master's mandate, " Come up higher ! 
 
 And from its shattered tenement of clay 
 It sprang, and soared exultingly away, 
 Soaring and singing in Eternal Day, — 
 
 Glad, thus to leave the fetters it had worn ; 
 Glad, thus to rise ou angel-pinions borne, 
 Dp to the Golden Palaces of Morn ! 
 
 It is best so ! — the shadows of the Night 
 
 Furl from our sky — for faith is more than sight, 
 
 And this great Soul was kindred with the Light, 
 
 And walked in light, made lustrous by its sheen, 
 
 And kept, unsullied by the false and mean, 
 
 The pure, white vesture of its manhood clean. 
 
 1 
 
2 CALLED HOME. 
 
 Life's battle's fought : and now, the victor's palm, 
 The welcome home, the everlasting calm, 
 The crown of triumph, and the choral psalm ! 
 
 What would we more ? In faith we lift our eyes, 
 While a Voice whispers from the opening skies, 
 " He lives, embosomed in God's sanctities ! " 
 
THE TRUE FAITH. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO OXE WHO SHOWS IT BY HIS WORKS. 
 
 I deem his faith the best 
 Who daily puts it into loving deeds 
 Done for the poor, the sorrowing, the oppressed — 
 
 For these are more than creeds ; 
 And, though our blinded reason oft may err, 
 The heart that loves is faith's interpreter. 
 
 The schoolman's subtle skill 
 Wearies itself with vain philosophies 
 That leave the world to grope in darkness still, 
 
 Haply, from lies to lies ; 
 But whoso doeth good with heart and might 
 Dwells in and is made joyful by the light. 
 
 One hand outreached to man 
 In helpfulness, the other clings to God; 
 And thus upheld he walks, through time's brief ppan, 
 
 In ways that Je-us trod ; 
 Taught by His Spirit, and sustained and led, 
 That life, like His, by love is perfected. 
 
4 THE TRUE FAITH. 
 
 Such faith, such love are thine ! 
 Creeds may be false — at best, misunderstood ; 
 But whoso reads the autograph divine 
 
 Of Goodness doing good, 
 Need never err therein : come life, come death, 
 It copies His — the Christ of Nazareth ! 
 
MAGDALENA. 
 
 Too perilously beautiful ! The world 
 
 For her had snares and pitfalls numberless, 
 
 And if she fell — 
 
 Nay, hide not with an if 
 The hard, black fact, the sum of her distress, 
 Toppling her headlong from love's dizzying cliff, 
 Down — down — despairing — to shame's lowest hell, 
 "Where every memory is a pang ! She fell! 
 
 Ask not what radiant hopes with her were hurled 
 To that abyss, never to bloom again ; 
 What hearts, made atheist, in extremest woe 
 Asked, " Is there a just God ? " and answered, u No ! " 
 What eyes, tear-blinded, looked for Heaven in vain, 
 Seeing that lurid horror everywhere, — 
 Above, around, — that smote them with its glare, 
 Till death shut down their lids and gave them rest. 
 
 She fell, poor Magdalena ! God, not I — 
 God, who knows all things, knows the how and 
 why ; 
 
6 MAGDALEN A. 
 
 Knows, too, how long she strove, while sore beset ; 
 How strong, temptation ; how sincere, regret ; 
 What tears of penitence, from day to day. 
 Have washed the sin-stains from her soul away ; 
 What pardoning mercy, haply, hath been given, 
 In whose sweet peace she catches gleams of Heaven 
 And feels how He can bless, while erring man 
 With scorn would blast her, and with curses ban. 
 
 Whate'er she is, O scoffing Pharisee ! 
 
 Whate'er, world-damned and lost, she yet may be — 
 
 Whether, grown reckless in her great despair, 
 
 She flouts all scorn, all paths of sin shall dare ; 
 
 Or, blotting out the past with bitter tears, 
 
 Give to contrition all her future years — 
 
 Remember this (and if thine arms caress 
 
 A child so dowered with dangerous loveliness, 
 
 Ask thou that God will keep and shelter her, 
 
 And O, be pitiful to all who err !) — 
 
 Once, she was innocent ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 
 How dirge-like sounds that once, — a funeral wail 
 
 Voiced in one word, since prayers nor tears avail 
 
 To build anew life's Eden swept away 
 
 By the strong floods of passion ! Once, nor guile, 
 
 Nor sinful wish, nor perilous desire, 
 
 Nor love consuming with erotic lire, 
 
 Dwelt in her heart, the home of joy erewhile, 
 
 Of joy and chastity and sweet content. 
 
MAG D ALEX A. ( 
 
 And so her sixteenth summer came and went. 
 Songs rippled from her lips, and listening birds. 
 Her glad companions, sung to mock her words ; 
 And the wildwood flowers caught a lovelier dye 
 From the warm sunshine of her laughing eye ; 
 And gleeful children plucked her garment's hem 
 To ask for stories or a romp with them ; 
 And very Nature, one would almost guess, 
 Thrilled, as if sentient, to her loveliness. 
 
 Seventeen bright years, whose every passing hour 
 Some gift of beauty, or of bliss some dower 
 Brought for her sweet acceptance — and she stood, 
 Eager, upon the edge of womanhood, 
 Filled with vague yearnings and prophetic fears, 
 That flushed her cheek and touched the fount of 
 
 tears ; 
 A troubled joy whose meaning scarce she knew, 
 Like fire electric thrilled her through and through ; 
 And soon the truth that lurked in that surprise, 
 Shone with its tender meanings from her eyes ; 
 And the white billows of her heaving breast, 
 Made the new power that swayed her manifest. 
 
 One rich in manly grace, and richly dowered 
 With gifts of genius, on whom fate had showered 
 Gold, fame, and all that gold and fame can bring, 
 With vague philosophies, bewildering 
 
8 MAGDALEN A. 
 
 Her untaught reason ; with delicious lies, 
 Named in our courtly language flatteries ; 
 With vows that seemed a worship, sought to thrall 
 Her heart, till then a stranger to love's glow. 
 His words were warm with life, aud sweet and low 
 Dropped on her ear — dropped, silver-musical, 
 On her unguarded soul, and waked at once 
 Within its depths such passionate response 
 As told him she was his — her law his will ; 
 His, living, dying — his, for good or ill. 
 
 Needs not to tell with what a subtle power 
 
 He led her on, involved in dazzling mist, 
 
 To do, to be whatever he might list — 
 
 A pretty toy for passion's idle hour, 
 
 A splendid trophy of his dev'lish art ; 
 
 Two words, condensing all she deemed of hell, 
 
 Sums the sad story of her life — she fell! 
 
 Awaked at length from the bewildering dream 
 That had enthralled her senses, shuddering, 
 She sees the serpent's coil, and feels the sting 
 Of dire remorse, that pours a fiery stream 
 Of shame and horror, anguish and despair, 
 Through every nerve and brain and heart and soul ; 
 Till heaven grows black above her, and the air 
 Quivers with one vast curse, whose billowy roll 
 Swells louder, nearer, as if all that hell 
 
MAGDALEN A. 9 
 
 Can hold of monstrous or of terrible, 
 
 With fiendish impulse, upward and afar, 
 
 Howled their fierce hate in one anathema. 
 
 In woman's gentle nice she read the curse ; 
 
 On manhood's lip 'twas charactered in scorn ; 
 
 And the young children looked with wondering eyes, 
 
 As 'twere a marvel in God's universe 
 
 That one so lovely should be so forlorn. 
 
 Nay. all the outer world seemed changed to her, 
 
 Even as the world within ; and birds and flowers 
 
 And voiceful streams, and the vine festooned bowers 
 
 In the old woods beneath the summer skies, 
 
 And clouds and stars, once prompt to minister 
 
 To her delight, could charm no more her sense, 
 
 Nor soothe her soul with their sweet influence ; 
 
 But all of Nature, heard or felt or seen, 
 
 Echoed the fearful words, " Unclean ! unclean ! " 
 
 Before mine eyes a vision of the past 
 Comes with a beauty perfect and divine, 
 Whose soothing spell is o'er my spirit cast. 
 I seem to tread the land whose every sod 
 Glows with the footsteps of the Son of God ; 
 To breathe the odorous air of Palestine, 
 Where, 'mid her circling hills, Bet like a gem, 
 Shines the fair city of Jerusalem. 
 
10 MAGDALEN A. 
 
 Not for the warlike pomp of Jesse's son, 
 
 Nor for the kinglier state of Solomon, 
 
 Nor for its temple rising silently, 
 
 A miracle of beauty, to the sky, 
 
 With cedar pillars and its roof of gold, 
 
 And splendors marvelous and manifold, 
 
 Remembered now : but rather that His tread — 
 
 The Man of Sorrows — left an impress there 
 
 Which made it holy, though He had not where 
 
 Amidst its thousand homes to lay his head. 
 
 I see the dark-browed throng around Him stand, 
 Cunning and hate and treachery in their eyes ; 
 While, like a victim bound for sacrifice, 
 With cheeks that bum with shame, and drooping 
 
 mien, 
 Waits with hushed breath the trembling Magdalene. 
 And the meek Teacher writes upon the sand. 
 
 See ! as He lifts his sad rebuking face, 
 
 What scorn for them, for her what pitying grace 
 
 Is in his glance, which pierces through and through 
 
 The thin disguises of hypocrisy — 
 
 The tattered truth that wraps the specious lie — 
 
 And all their hearts are open to his view. 
 
 Not harsh, nor loud, but cold and passionless, 
 The words He speaks their malice to confound : 
 
MAGDALEN A. H 
 
 " Let him among you who is free from sin 
 
 Cast the first stone!" and. stooping, on the ground 
 
 He writes again. 
 
 Convicted by the stress 
 Of the stern monitor that speaks within, 
 Silently, one by one, they slink away 
 Like evil spirits from the light of day. 
 But O, with what divinest tenderness 
 His accents fall upon her soul and sense, 
 Who wept hot tears of shame and penitence, 
 The poor, wronged, sinning, sorrowing Magdalene, 
 And sweet assurance to her spirit bore 
 Of pardon, and of hope, and peace serene, — 
 " Nor I condemn thee ; go, and sin no more" 
 
THE SPHYNX. 
 
 Hey diddle diddle ! the cat and the fiddle ! 
 Find me a Seer to read life's riddle ! 
 The sable crows fly over the river — 
 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 And their glossy wings in the sunlight quiver, 
 
 Evermore to their Caw ! caw ! 
 As they wheel and sink, or soar and turn ; 
 But the wisest man cannot discern 
 Of their life and motion the hidden laws, 
 The why they fly, or the cause of their caws. 
 
 Hey diddle diddle I the cat and the fiddle ! 
 
 Nature herself is an unguessed riddle ! 
 
 On the warm hill-side the grass grows greenly 
 While the showers of the May-time fall 
 
 And the yellow dandelions throw 
 
 O'er the meadows broad .a golden glow ; 
 
 But you cannot tell, for you do not know, 
 
 How the buds are born, or the grasses grow, 
 Or why by the stilly brook the lily, 
 Stately and tall, looks over them all, 
 
 With a regal pride, serenely, queenly, 
 
THE SPHYNX. 13 
 
 That says as plainly as words can say, 
 " I am queen of all the flowers of May, 
 And by right of queenship, willy nilly, 
 Over them all assert my sway ! " 
 
 Hey diddle diddle ! the cat and the fiddle ! 
 Man and his motives are all a riddle! 
 In the human heart, that wondrous thing, 
 Moved by many a hidden spring 
 
 To the noblest good or the meanest ill, 
 What passions fierce or dark are born, — 
 Love and hate, and fear and scorn, — 
 
 To lord it over the mighty will, 
 And make their parent the veriest slave 
 That ever crawled to a vassal grave ! 
 You may trace their track by the gloom or glow 
 That over the path of life they throw ; 
 But whence they come, or whither they go, 
 You cannot tell, for you do not know ! 
 
 Hey diddle diddle ! the cat and the fiddle ! 
 The heart is a wonder and life is a riddle ! 
 Alas ! how little we know about 
 The world within or the world without ! 
 From the sentient soul to the lifeless clod 
 We can only see they are very odd. 
 Marvel and question and search may we, 
 Hut the credo ever ends in doubt ; 
 
14 THE SPIIYNX. 
 
 And we turn from the Now to the dread To Be, 
 Baffled ever by all we see — 
 Mystery within mystery. 
 
 Hey diddle diddle! the cat and the fiddle ! 
 The soul is a riddle involved in a riddle ! 
 Then, mortal, rest your weary brain, 
 Since all your cudgelings are in vain, 
 And know that the best philosophy yet 
 Begins with "Don't" and ends with "Fret!" 
 Beginning, middle, and end — "Don't fret!" 
 Death will make the mystery plain, 
 
 And all that is dark in a clear light set ; 
 
 And death is certain : so, don't fret ! 
 
 Fussing and fuming disturb the brain, 
 And dash with acid the lacteal flow 
 Of human kindness, till ere you know, 
 A pond'rous cheese usurps the breast, 
 Nightmare-y and heavy and Dutch at best. 
 
 Let the sable crows fly over the river, 
 
 Caw! 
 
 caw ! caw ! 
 
 Let the grasses grow and the flowers bloom ever 
 
 Obedient to an unknown law ; 
 And love and hate, and wrath and fear, 
 Fulfill their mission a few days here, 
 Till their force is spent, or their work is done, 
 Till we are cold in the dark, damp mould, 
 
THE SPHYNX. 15 
 
 Till the song, is sung and the tale is told, 
 And the secret of life in death is won ! 
 Hey diddle diddle ! the cat and the fiddle ! 
 Death only — the Seer — can read life's riddle. 
 
SHELLEY. 
 
 Thy skylark emblems thee — her gushing song 
 Flooding the heavens with music, as away 
 She soars with glad heart in the dawning day, 
 
 Fanning the odorous air with pinion strong, 
 (Which to the chanting of the morning star 
 Keeps rhythmic beat, up-glancing and afar ;) 
 
 Nor, to her wondrous melody belong 
 
 Wilder or sweeter notes, than from thy lyre 
 Were flung like jets of incandescent fire, 
 
 To scathe, with its quick lightning, every wrong. 
 
 Prophet and poet thou ! divinely gifted 
 
 W 7 ith hate of hollow forms and hoary lies, 
 And creeds that wall about old tyrannies ; 
 
 And, like the lark's, thy wondrous song was lifted 
 To greet the new day which thy prescient eye 
 Saw, ere it edged with light the orient sky, 
 
 Or sent its challenge to the Heavenly Hills, — 
 The day when Peace shall all the nations span, 
 And Love and Truth — twin angels — dwell with 
 man. 
 
 What though, when battling with unnumbered ills, 
 
SHELLEY. 17 
 
 Some blows, struck blindly, missed their purposed 
 
 aim, 
 Wounding sweet Truth ? Not thine alone the 
 blame, 
 
 But theirs who made her courts the citadel 
 Of robber-lusts that preyed on human-kind, — 
 Corrupt, false priests, blind leaders of the blind, 
 
 Who paid to Heaven the sacrifice of Hell. 
 
 So shall men bless thee for that righteous daring 
 Which, trampling ancient Falsehood in the dust, 
 Asked not "How old?" but only, "Is it just?" 
 
 And spake good words of cheer for the despairing 
 Who crouched beneath the crosier or the rod, 
 And proved, by love of man, thy faith in God : 
 
 For though thy Reason, held in Doubt's constraint, 
 Stumbled and groped 'mid shadows of the Night, 
 Thy Love stood regnant on the hills of Light, 
 
 And made thee peer of Prophet and of Saint! 
 2 
 
EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 " Like thee, O stream ! to glide in solitude 
 Noiselessly on, reflecting sun or star, 
 Unseen by man, and from the great world's jar 
 
 Kept evermore aloof — methinks 'twere good 
 
 To live thus lonely through the silent lapse 
 Of my appointed time." Not wisely said, 
 Unthinking Quietist ! The brook hath sped 
 
 Its course for ages through the narrow gaps 
 Of rifted hills and o'er the reedy plain, 
 Or 'mid the eternal forests, not in vain : 
 
 The grass more greenly groweth on its brink, 
 And lovelier flowers and richer fruits are there, 
 
 And of its crystal waters myriads drink, 
 
 That else would faint beneath the torrid air. 
 
THE WEAVER. 
 
 Ceaselessly the weaver, Time, 
 
 Sitting at his mystic loom, 
 Keeps his arrowy shuttle flying — 
 Every thread anears our dying : 
 And with melancholy chime, 
 Very low and sad withal, 
 Sings his solemn madrigal 
 
 As he weaves our thread of doom. 
 
 " Mortals ! " thus he weaving sings, 
 " Bright or dark the web shall be 
 As ye will it; all the tissues 
 Blending in harmonious issues, 
 Or discordant colorings. 
 Time the shuttle drives, but you 
 Give to every thread its hue, 
 And elect your destiny. 
 
 " God bestowed the shining warp ; 
 Fill it with as bright a woofj 
 And the whole shall glow divinely, 
 As if wrought by angels finely 
 
20 THE WEAVER. 
 
 To the music of the harp ; 
 And the blended colors be 
 Like perfected harmony, 
 Keeping evil things aloof. 
 
 " Envy, Malice, Pride, and Hate, 
 Foulest progeny of Sin, 
 Let not these the weft entangle 
 With their blind and furious wrangle, 
 Marring your diviner fate; 
 But with love and deeds of good 
 Be the web throughout enhued, 
 And the Perfect shall ye win.*' 
 
 Thus he singeth very low, 
 
 Sitting at his mystic loom, 
 And his shuttle still is flying — 
 Thread by thread anears our dying, 
 Grows our shroud with every throw ; 
 And the hues of Hell or Heaven 
 To each thread by us are given, 
 As he weaves our web of doom. 
 
 
FORGIVENESS. 
 
 Better in meekness and humility 
 
 To bear the hate and spite of evil men, 
 When Obloquy unleashes from their den 
 His hungry hounds to vex and worry thee, 
 Than chafe thy soul with anger, or to be 
 
 Vengeful of wrongs inflicted. Gird around 
 Thy soul Religion's meek philosophy, 
 
 And with forgiveness heal the slanderer's wound ! 
 So shalt thou heap upon thine adversary 
 
 Live coals of fire — the kindlings of strong 
 
 Love — 
 Causing contrition in his breast to move ; 
 While thine own heart shall be a sanctuary 
 For holy thoughts and aspirations high, 
 And pure affections which can never die ! 
 
AT NIAGARA. 
 
 Here, where great thoughts the spirit must oppress, 
 
 And man should feel his utter nothingness, 
 
 Awed by the voice that thunders from thy flood, 
 
 Sublimest cataract ! to tell of God, 
 
 Hushing our passions to repose, until 
 
 Adoring silence all the soul doth fill, — 
 
 Even here, sad marvel ! man can still be mean, 
 
 And with the ribald oath, the jest obscene, 
 
 Hate's scowl, and Envy's leer, and Pride's grimace, 
 
 Profane thy sanctities, O awful Place ! 
 
 Yet wherefore wonder ? If, where Ocean pours 
 His solemn anthem to the listening shores ; 
 Where mountains, cloud-crowned, climb to heaven 
 
 and throw 
 An earthly twilight over vales below ; 
 When the strong sun floods all the day with light ; 
 Or, in her queenly pomp, the holy Night 
 Looks down serene, with myriad starry eyes, 
 Or, clothed with storms shakes terror from the 
 
 skies, — 
 If, in such presence, and at such an hour 
 
AT NIAGARA. 23 
 
 Filled with revealings of Almighty power, 
 Man can be vile, the slave of low desires, 
 Consuming life in Passion's hell-lit fires, 
 And, all-forgetful of the soul's high birth, 
 Starve, and debase, and chain it to the earth, 
 Hope not that here, where from the precipice 
 Niagara plunges to the dread abyss, 
 With thunder-anthem upward and afar 
 Sent, till the firm hills tremble to the jar, 
 While o'er the wild turmoil the vapory air 
 Gleams glorious with the rainbow quivering there, 
 Hope not that here, his heart will reverent see, 
 In the dread scene, God's might and majesty : 
 Still mean and groveling, Passion's willing thrall. 
 His sottish sense dims and belittles all. 
 
 Not thus, O God ! not thus would I behold 
 
 This vision of Thy glories manifold! 
 
 I would be better, nobler, having stood 
 
 Thus face to face with thy majestic flood. 
 
 I would be purer, holier from to-day, 
 
 That I have known the baptism of its spray ! 
 
 And bear away, transfusing soul and sense, 
 
 Its awful beauty and magnificence ; 
 
 And hear, at morn and night, on land and sea, 
 
 Its everlasting voice proclaiming Thee, 
 
 Till all my being shall become divine, 
 
 Aud all my thoughts shall brightly mirror Thine. 
 
LIFE. 
 
 Life, says the cynic, is a dusty road, 
 
 Thorn-paven, verdureless, and deatli the goal, 
 Where, tired of its companionship, the soul 
 Throws off its worthless clay, a weary load, 
 And — more we know not ; though of its abode 
 Conjecture frames a thousand idle dreams. 
 All vague alike, and vain : so Reason deems. 
 Life, says the Christian, is a gift bestowed 
 
 By the All-Good, who bids us use its hours 
 Wisely, as still they pass on rapid wing, 
 And each shall its peculiar blessing bring 
 
 In peace of mind and renovated powers. 
 Thus live, and Death shall vanquish Life in vain, 
 Since his brief triumph is thine endless gain ! 
 
WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 O weep not for the dead, whose life is hid 
 
 With the dear Lord of life ; but let your tears 
 
 Flow for the living, — for the girt with fears 
 
 And cares and sorrows, wanderers amid 
 
 Earth's snares and pitfalls, whom the Fates forbid 
 To rest from toil for long laborious years ; 
 For whom no guiding star of hope appears 
 
 To light the gloomy pathways which they thrid. 
 But for the holy dead, their rest is sure ! 
 
 Trials, temptations, pains with them are o'er. 
 
 Heart-ache, despair, they know, thank God ! no 
 more, 
 But taste a bliss all perfect and secure. 
 
 Weep for the living ! for between their souls 
 
 And heaven, how many a turbid torrent rolls. 
 
BEAUTY. 
 
 Beauty can never die. The tinted cheek 
 May lose its delicate color, and the brow 
 Be lined with records of the waning years ; 
 The eye forget its lustre, and the voice 
 Flow forth no more in music; Age may bow 
 The lithe elastic form, weigh down the step, 
 And sprinkle thick the sunny locks with gray ; 
 Heart-ache, Disease, and Death may each in turn 
 Rack the poor frame and thrill the quivering 
 
 nerves, 
 Till not a line of outward grace remains, — 
 Yet not one ray of that internal fire 
 Which is the life of beauty, and its soul, 
 Shall e'er be quenched or dimmed ! It liveth on, 
 The same ethereal essence ; chance nor change 
 Can pale its light, nor mar its perfectness. 
 The gift of God, eternal as Himself, 
 It grows in glory as its years increase. 
 
TO MARY DAWSON. 
 
 Years have gone by since last I saw thy face, 
 Since last I heard thy low, sweet, solemn voice, 
 Whose very tones said " Hope, but not rejoice ! " 
 Yet still my heart has treasured the meek grace 
 That companied thy life, and made the air 
 Around thee fragrant with the breath of prayer. 
 And though I know not now tby dwelling-place, 
 Nor even may hope that henceforth thought of 
 
 thine 
 Will lean towards me, or encircle mine, 
 I cannot if I would (nor would) erase 
 
 Thine image from my soul ; but rather pray 
 That its still beauty ever more and more 
 May fill my being, till this life is o'er, 
 
 And we shall meet in heaven's unclouded day ! 
 
THE LESSON. 
 
 When Charles the Heartless (not the headless) 
 
 reigned, 
 And many a wit his gift of verse profaned, 
 Making of song the minister of crime, 
 And veiling beauty with corruption's slime ; 
 All, who from king or court would favor win, 
 Plunged in the whirl of fashionable sin ; 
 For License ruled with undisputed sway, 
 And Truth and Righteousness became a prey. 
 
 Yet one, aloof from all the Court's wild glare, 
 The shadow resting on his thin white hair, 
 Blind, old, and poor, the butt of ridicule 
 For pampered witlings, deemed half mad, half fool, 
 As ruffled rake and wanton flaunted by, 
 Lived, with his own grand thoughts for company, 
 Asking no favor from the Vicious Great, 
 Scorning alike their friendship and their hate. 
 A proud, brave, true, and downright-honest man, 
 A friend of Cromwell, and a Puritan. 
 Blind, old, and poor ! But lo ! those sightless 
 eyes 
 
THE LESSON. 29 
 
 Kindled with gleams from Upper Paradise, 
 Ami on his ear fell fragments of the hymn 
 Sung by archangels and by seraphim, 
 What time they bent above their golden lyres, 
 "With radiant fingers flashing through the wires, 
 And star-crowned hosts responded in accord, 
 
 " 0. HOLY, HOLY, HOLY IS THE LORD ! " 
 
 With patient toil, translating Heaven's sublime 
 To the dull languages of Earth and Time, 
 He still pursued his theme, and, day by day 
 Built the strong verse no years shall sweep away : 
 Nor, anxious, asked the verdict of the schools, 
 Nor feared the frowns of parasites and fools ; 
 Content to wait till Fame, remorseful grown, 
 For past injustice richly should atone, 
 And, stern avenger of an age's wrong, 
 Crown him the peerless of the Sons of song ! 
 
 The king's buffoons have laughed themselves away ; 
 The gay court-wits and versers — where are they ? 
 Who now remembers their salacious rhymes, 
 Their amorous songs, indecent as their times, 
 Play, ode, anacreontic, bagatelle — 
 All sparkling with the phosphorus of Hell ? 
 Haply, some fragments, found in dusty nooks, 
 Where Bibliomania hides his cobwebbed books, 
 Arrest, at times, the antiquarian's eye, 
 
30 THE LESSON. 
 
 And win a laugh, soon stifled by a sigh ; 
 Then back once more to dust and darkness fall, 
 To feed the mice or moths ; and this is all ! 
 The rest forgot (alike the gold and dross), 
 And the world richer, doubtless, for the loss ! 
 
 But the blind Poet, who, 'mid scoffs and jeers, 
 
 Toiled on, appealing to the Unborn Years, 
 
 And turned, in childlike faith, his sightless eyes 
 
 To catch the gleam of far Eternities, 
 
 And heard, like murmurs of some mighty sea, 
 
 The plausive voice of peoples yet to be, 
 
 Swelling adown the corridors of Time 
 
 With crescent power and meanings more sublime, 
 
 Still lives ! for centuries brighten his renown, 
 
 And add new lustre to his aureate crown ; 
 
 Nor can Oblivion, from the ward of Fame, 
 
 Steal the least ray that gilds our Milton's name! 
 
CHANNING. 
 
 i. 
 
 Not always do the good die earliest ; 
 
 Though when their light is taken from our sky 
 Too oft with rebel thought we question why, 
 
 Feeling that earth was all too brightly blest 
 
 With their serenest radiance ! To thy rest 
 Thou wert not bidden in the golden prime 
 Of thy young years, ere on the scroll of Time 
 
 Thy name was placed, O champion of the oppressed ! 
 But ampler space was given thee to fill 
 With holy deeds wrought with a loving will, 
 
 And solemn utterance of great truths, which make 
 The hearts that heed them, better. If regret 
 Dwells in our souls, and tears our eyelids wet, 
 
 They wrong not thee ! nor fall for thy dear sake. 
 
 ii. 
 The living claim our grief, since thou, whose life 
 Chimed ever with the beautiful and true, 
 And shed o'er earth a Paradisean hue, 
 Bast vanished suddenly, while yet the strife 
 Of Rifdit with Wrong through all the land is rife, 
 
32 CHAN N IN G. 
 
 And strong hearts thrill responsive to the call 
 Of Freedom to her children ! Thou didst fall, 
 
 Not where the clamorous drum and shrieking fife 
 Called to the dreadful carnival of war, 
 But in a moral conflict nobler far, 
 
 Wielding no weapon but the truth in love. 
 
 Woe ! that the fainting soul no more may bear, 
 When struggling with its doubts, thy words of 
 cheer, 
 
 Born of a faith whose eye is fixed above! 
 
 in. 
 But wherefore mourn? Those words are living 
 yet, 
 For Truth survives its champion ! — and, gone 
 
 forth, 
 Not in vain mission, still shall bless the earth, 
 Though men and devils leagued, themselves should 
 
 set 
 To stay its onward course ; o'er every let 
 Resistless shall it win its glorious way, 
 Till Earth, new-taught its mandates to obey, 
 Shakes off her ancient lies without regret! 
 
 Then shall thy name be known as one whose 
 
 creed 
 Was " God is love ! " proclaimed in word and 
 deed — 
 
C BANNING. 33 
 
 Whose sect — a noble few — " the pure in 
 
 HEART ! " 
 
 Who lived, while yet Earth's lowly way thou 
 
 trod, 
 A life that rendered manifest the God 
 Whom thou didst serve, and whose thou wast and 
 
 art! 
 
 1843. 
 
GIFTED FOR GIVING. 
 
 " Freely ye have received, freely give." 
 
 Be true, O poet, to your gift divine ! 
 
 And let your heart go throbbing through your line. 
 
 Till it grows vital with the life that bums 
 
 In joy and grief, in faith and doubt, by turns, 
 
 And full, complete expression gives to these 
 
 In the clear ringing of its cadences ! 
 
 Pour your soul's passion through the tide of song, 
 
 Nor ask the plaudits of the changeful throng. 
 
 Sing as the bird sing^, when the morning beam 
 
 With gentlest touch awakes it from its dream, 
 
 And life and light, their motion and their glow, 
 
 Gush through the song, with flow and overflow ; 
 
 Sing as the stream sings, winding through the maze 
 
 Of woods and meadows with no thought of praise, 
 
 Its murmurous music, or in storm or calm, 
 
 Blending its low, sweet notes with Nature's psalm 
 
 Sing as the wind sings, when the forest trees 
 
 Are vocal with its mystic melodies, 
 
 And every leaf lifts up its tiny harp 
 
 To answer back in tones distinct and sharp. 
 
 i 
 
GIFTED FOR GIVING. 35 
 
 Though purblind men, the devotees of greed, 
 To song or singer give but little heed, 
 And the deaf multitudes refuse to turn 
 From Mammon's shrines diviner lore to learn. 
 The angels, in their starry homes, shall know 
 How true a spirit walks the earth below. 
 And, pausing in their song, to list your lyre, 
 Shall whisper through the spaces, ' ; Come up higher I" 
 
THE POET. 
 
 No low ambition should profane his themes 
 
 Who talks with angels in his nightly dreams, 
 
 And breathes the air which gods have made divine. 
 
 And treads the courts of radiant crystalline ; 
 
 No grovelling passion, no debasing thought, 
 
 In the rich texture of his verse be wrought ; 
 
 No word to laud the villain's mean success, 
 
 Or celebrate triumphant wickedness, 
 
 Though paeans ring, and peoples, near and far, 
 
 Pay their ovations with the loud huzza ; 
 
 No meed of praise to Power divorced from Good, 
 
 Trampling the law of human brotherhood ; 
 
 Nor smooth apologies in daintiest rhyme 
 
 For titled scoundrels and for gilded crime, 
 
 Since all the gold and honors of the earth 
 
 From his clear eye can hide not Honor's dearth. 
 
 Of Nature's royal priesthood, he should be 
 Pure as her fountains, as her rivers free, 
 Genial as light, beneficent as air, 
 Loyal to Truth and Duty everywhere ; 
 Scorning all baseness, and in virtue strong, 
 
THE POET. 37 
 
 "Waging unceasing warfare with the wrong; 
 Thus keeping still, amid the false and mean, 
 The pure, white vesture of his manhood clean, 
 And more than fame, and more than heaped- up 
 
 gold, 
 Prizing the honor he hath never sold. 
 
 When Power, grown insolent, with iron heel 
 Treads down the weak, unheeding their appeal, 
 Though voiced in anguish, and with suppliant cries, 
 Whose mournful cadence shivers to the skies, 
 Then should his voice, untremulous and clear, 
 Speak the bold words that Freedom loves to hear, — 
 Speak with a tone as passionless as Fate 
 The prophet-curse that Time shall vindicate, 
 And give the tyrant's deeds, the tyrant's name, 
 To the damnation of remorseless Fame. 
 
THE VISIONARY. 
 
 Not his the right to waste life's golden hours 
 In idle dreaming on his couch of flowers, 
 Whose faint, sweet odors all his senses lull. 
 Till they seem drunken with the beautiful ; 
 And in voluptuous languor day on day, 
 Unsanclified by duty, melts away. 
 
 What time he listens to the song of June 
 
 Rippling the greenery with its breezy tune, 
 
 Or, thridding the dim woods, delighted sees 
 
 The golden sunshine shimmering through the trees, 
 
 Making, as swing the lithe boughs to and fro, 
 
 Weird, shifting pictures on the ground below, 
 
 And half believes he hears the musical beat 
 
 On the soft grass of myriad tiny feet, 
 
 As through the dance the fairy people whirl, — 
 
 Each tiny waltzer with his dizzy girl — 
 
 While a strange rapture permeates and thrills 
 
 His every sense, and all his spirit fills, — 
 
 From such communion let him carry home 
 
 Strength for the battles that are yet to come, 
 
 And not forget that life's full meanings, sweep 
 
THE VISIONARY. 39 
 
 A wider circle and profounder deep ; 
 
 That hopes may ripen into nobler acts, 
 
 And glorious dreams become more glorious facts; 
 
 That the world's beauty is divinely used 
 
 When with our central being interfused, 
 
 And breathed abroad in love and faith and zeal, 
 
 Whose triple forces blend for human weal ; 
 
 That, as the landscape, when the pall of Night 
 
 Furls from the hills, so, broader and more bright 
 
 Our life must grow, when kindled by the sun 
 
 That beams in blessings upon duty done. 
 
A RHYME OF PETER BORO. 
 
 In Peterboro lived a man, 
 
 Not very long ago, 
 Whose name, if I remember right, 
 
 Was Smith, — not John, nor Joe, 
 But Gerrit ; 'tis quite possible 
 
 You've heard of him also. 
 
 This Gerrit Smith had strange ideas 
 
 He never learnt at school : 
 For instance, that a man, though black, 
 
 Was better than a mule ; 
 And treating folks like cattle, was 
 
 Against the golden rule ; 
 
 That selling babies from the arms 
 
 Of mothers, was a sin, 
 Which soon or late, as sure as fate, 
 
 Its punishment would win ; 
 Or else the Bible told a lie, 
 
 And wasn't worth a pin. 
 
A RHYME OF PETERBORO. 41 
 
 But stranger things this Gerrit Smith 
 Went preaching day and night : 
 
 That love was more than sacraments, 
 That right was more than might, 
 
 And evil in the darkness wrought 
 Would be revealed in light. 
 
 That not the fashionable garb, 
 
 And not the bit of earth, 
 Or small or large, he claimed as his, 
 
 Not learning, nor its dearth, 
 Was the true measure of a man, 
 
 But inward, moral worth. 
 
 And that, in spite of varying creeds 
 Since first the world began, 
 
 Religion meant that every one 
 Should love his fellow man, 
 
 And keep unspotted from the world, 
 Yet bless it all he can. 
 
 And so he pleaded for the slave, 
 And strove to set him free ; 
 
 And battled with the wrong that makes 
 The drunkard's misery ; 
 
 And good to all, and true to all 
 He strove to do and be. 
 
42 A RHYME OF PETERBORO. 
 
 Small reverence had he for forms, 
 And less he thought of creeds 
 
 Than that religion undefiled 
 That lives in loving deeds, 
 
 And preaches to a sinful world 
 By helping all its needs. 
 
 So folks they called him heretic, 
 
 Fanatic, infidel, 
 And various other pretty names, 
 
 Including " child of hell ; " 
 But what they meant by compliments 
 
 Like these, I cannot tell. 
 
 I only know, that in his home 
 
 The very atmosphere 
 Was fragrant with the soul of love 
 
 That casteth out all fear, 
 As if the heaven had stooped to earth, 
 
 Or earth to heaven was near. 
 
 I only know, that from his hand 
 He scattered more than gold 
 
 Among the wretched and the poor 
 In blessings manifold ; 
 
 Nor half his helpful ministry 
 In words can e'er be told. 
 
THE ANGEL OF THE HOME. 
 
 I can believe that spirit-forms divine, 
 
 Stand ever close to thine : 
 That, not infrequent to thine eye is given 
 
 Glimpses and gleams of heaven ; 
 And falls seraphic music from the spheres 
 
 Upon thy listening ears, 
 While God's own peace, with its serene repose, 
 
 Through all thy being flows. 
 
 That angels walked the earth in days of yore 
 
 A fable seems no more : 
 I can believe that to the Patriarch's tent 
 
 In shining garb they went. 
 Bearing a blessing to his bed and board 
 
 From the dear, loving Lord, 
 And left, returning to their native sky, 
 
 A light that cannot die. 
 
 For all that in such myths seems loveliest 
 U in thy life expressed ! 
 
44 THE ANGEL OF THE HOME. 
 
 The starry souls that walk the Hills of Li^lit. 
 
 Than thine are not more white ; 
 Nor is their angel-ministry than thine 
 
 More love-fraught and divine, 
 As he can tell who names in one word, " Wife ! " 
 
 The Angel of his life ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 To thee I can give nothing : my poor verse 
 Falters to silence when it would rehearse 
 
 Thy praises, and my reverence for thee. 
 I can compel no words that may express 
 My loving sense of all thy loveliness, 
 
 And the large tender soul I therein see. 
 If angels love thee, 'tis but sisterly — 
 They know their kin ; and even our half-sealed 
 
 eyes 
 Can see that effluence of the upper skies 
 That robes thy spirit with its purity. 
 
 Enough for me, that I have breathed the air 
 Of the sweet home that is thy fitting shrine, 
 And caught new glimpses of the life divine 
 
 In thy dear life, that makes that home so fair. 
 
TO EMMA WILLARD, 
 
 ON HER EIGHTIETH BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 Through fourscore years thy stream of life hath 
 run, 
 
 Not with vain flow ; for in its course are seen 
 
 Fields filled with harvests, sand-wastes clothed 
 with green, 
 The strength and beauty of thy benison ! 
 For noble was thy work, and nobly done ; 
 
 Not for mean praise, nor yet for meaner pelf. 
 
 But with full consecration of thyself 
 To the great task in love and faith begun. 
 
 Now thou art blessed ; for lo ! on every side 
 Thy life's rich fruits in other lives appear, 
 Its bounteous largess growing year by year, 
 
 And year by year its blessings multiplied. 
 So shalt thou live, while ages onward roll, 
 In grand impulses from thy own great soul. 
 
46 TO EMMA WILLARD. 
 
 II. 
 
 As the shades lengthen, may the sunset sky 
 
 Assume for thee its purest, tenderest light," 
 
 A prelude of that glory infinite 
 In which thy spirit shall bathe immortally 
 When earthly scenes have faded from thine eye. 
 
 God's arms enfold thee ! and in tranquil rest, 
 
 After long toil, sink sweetly on His breast, 
 And know that His dear children cannot die ; 
 
 But, gently lapsing to an ampler life 
 Through the brief sleep we misname death, awake 
 In His most glorious likeness, for whose sake 
 
 They come, crowned victors from their mortal 
 strife, 
 And know thenceforth the joys that never cease. 
 The endless triumph, and the perfect peace. 
 
 1867. 
 
BENEDICITE. (S. C. W.) 
 
 A foxd wife, nested in a happy home 
 
 Which Nature, Art, and Love make fair and 
 
 bright, 
 Herself of its delights the chief delight, 
 To whose weird bidding cunning spirits come 
 To do her will, — my heart beholds in her 
 Beauty's sweet priestess and interpreter ; 
 Yet not the less a woman warm and true, 
 And faithful in all household works and way- : 
 So to my verse I give her name and praise, 
 And link that name with blessings ever new. 
 What though between her paradise and me 
 May stretch the spaces of a continent ! 
 Still, over all, by love inspired and sent, 
 Shall spring to her my Benedicite. 
 
the; rhyme of the cable. 
 
 Down in the dark, where the sluggish sea 
 Is still as death, save when the beats 
 Of the great tide-pulse through its far retreats 
 
 Are felt, like thrills from eternity — 
 
 Over the floor which the waves have pressed 
 To hardest rock ; where never a breeze 
 
 From the storms above disturbs the rest 
 
 Of the sleepers there, whose bones lie hid 
 
 In depths where the sun ne'er peered, amid 
 The wrecks of a thousand argosies — 
 
 Stretches, for leagues and leagues, the Wire, 
 
 A hidden path for a Child of Fire 
 
 Over its silent spaces sent, 
 
 Swifter than Ariel ever went, 
 
 From continent to continent ! 
 
 In and out, among heaps of gold, 
 
 And pearls as fair as the morning-rise 
 
 When the dawn's soft flush steals over the skies. 
 
 'Mid rubies and diamonds and all rare gems 
 
 That have blazed in kingly diadems — 
 
THE RHYME OF THE CABLE. 49 
 
 In and out, and among the stems 
 
 Of the beautiful sea-anemones, 
 And where the groves of the Algoe stand, . 
 
 And through the coral palaces, 
 It winds its way, like a huge snake, rolled 
 Slowly along from each volumed fold — 
 Slowly along, till the sea is spanned 
 From shore to shore, and the rites are said 
 By which the lands are forever wed ! 
 
 Deep in the bed of the sea it lies — 
 
 That wondrous way — and the fire leaps through 
 With the sijm of the marriage sanctities 
 
 That bind the Old World to the New! 
 A curse on his heart and a curse on his brain 
 Who dares those sanctities profane, 
 And the married worlds again make twain ! 
 
 Let the waves peal out their solemn chime, 
 And the free wild winds the strain prolong ; 
 While the nations greet with shout and song 
 
 This grandest miracle of Time ! 
 
 O, crowning wonder of the earth ! 
 O. voice that calls an era forth ! 
 
 O, angel of the Apocalypse ! 
 Whose awful form is seen to stand, 
 One foot on sea and one on land. 
 4 
 
50 THE RHYME OF THE CABLE. 
 
 Proclaiming with thy fire-touched lips 
 This glorious truth, from shore to shore 
 Heard in one pulse-beat, " Time shall be no 
 moee ! " 
 
A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 We stood beneath a night of June, — 
 
 My cousin Kate and I, — 
 And over us the full-orbed moon 
 
 Stood regnant in the sky ; 
 The whippoorwill his cheery tune 
 
 Sang from the brake hard by. 
 
 From folded flowers a breath of balm 
 
 Stole out upon the air ; 
 She said, u So day's exulting psalm 
 
 Is followed by a prayer ! " 
 I thought — " The night is wondrous calm, 
 
 And Kate is wondrous fair ! " 
 
 The moonbeams kissed her lifted brow, 
 The zephyrs kissed her cheek, 
 
 And I — but Kate may tell you how 
 The thing I must not speak 
 
 Sent blushes to her face, as now, 
 To play at hide-and-seek ! 
 
ANNIE BELL. 
 
 Once, upon a summer morning 
 
 (Memory keeps the records well), 
 Sat a lovely girl beside me — 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 Sixteen Junes of song and sunshine, 
 
 Flower and breeze, her life could tell ; 
 All, that morning, seemed to meet in 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 O, her heart was large for loving ! 
 Yet no evil thought might dwell 
 In that temple pure and holy, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 Kin she seemed to all that's fairest, 
 
 And to all that's best as well, 
 In the glory of her girlhood, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
ANNIE BELL. 53 
 
 Then, as thus I sat beside her, 
 
 Unaware, a blessing fell 
 From my heart upon the maiden, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 Soft as Ocean's murmured echoes 
 
 In the convoluted shell, 
 Spake I, blessing thus the gentle 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 ii. 
 
 " Maiden ! may the loving Father, 
 Who in mercy doth excel, 
 Guide thee ever, guard thee ever, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 " Free from guile and free from sorrow, 
 Free from every passion fell, 
 Keep thy soul's unsullied whiteness, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 " Hating wrong and scorning folly, 
 Every evil thing repel : 
 So with thee shall walk the angels, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 " O, companioned so divinely, 
 
 Shall thy life, with rhythmic swell 
 
54 ANNIE BELL. 
 
 Flow to chimes of angel-music, 
 Annie Bell : 
 
 " Love, with sweetest ministrations, 
 In thy home forever dwell, 
 Filling it with airs of heaven, 
 Annie Bell : 
 
 " Till, thy earthly mission ended, 
 
 Bliss, beyond what verse can tell, 
 Be thy heritage forever, 
 
 Annie Bell." 
 
 III. 
 
 Since that lovely summer morning 
 
 Years have passed ; and who can tell 
 All the changes they have brought thee, 
 Annie Bell ? 
 
 Thou to me didst seem a vision 
 
 Which a moment might dispel ; 
 But its glory lingers with me, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 Ever, since that summer morning, 
 In my memory thou dost dwell, 
 Sanctified by sweet affections, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
ANNIE BELL. 55 
 
 Never, since that summer morning, 
 
 Which thy presence, like a spell, 
 Seemed to hallow, have I seen thee, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 Nor hath heard mine ear the music 
 
 Of the name I love so well, 
 Save when to myself I murmur, 
 "Annie Bell!" 
 
 But in dreams I oft behold thee, 
 
 Lovelier than my rhyme can tell, 
 Ripened to a perfect woman, 
 
 Annie Bell : 
 
 "With the eyes which brimmed with laughter 
 
 As their lashes rose and fell, 
 Filled with deeper, holier meanings. 
 Annie Bell : 
 
 And thy voice to richer music 
 
 Wedded, such as thoughts compel 
 When they seem like spirit-echoes, 
 Annie Bell : 
 
 Sadder — for the gift of wisdom 
 Since, as ere our parents fell, 
 Still is found in sorrow's umbra. 
 Annie Bell : 
 
56 ANNIE BELL. 
 
 But with light serene and saintly 
 
 (In such light do angels dwell), 
 Like an aureole around thee, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sometimes, with a sudden anguish, 
 Hear I, in my dreams, a knell 
 Tolling through the dreary chamber, 
 "Annie Bell!" 
 
 " She is dead ! " — the iron clangor, 
 Echoed by my thought too well, 
 Still sounds on, with dreadful import ■ 
 "Annie Bell!" 
 
 Icy fingers seem to clutch me ; 
 
 Mocking fiends, with purpose fell, 
 Shriek, responsive to that knolling, 
 "Annie Bell!" 
 
 What can mean these sad monitions ? 
 
 Neither hope nor fear can tell : 
 But the loving Father keeps thee, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 If on earth thy footsteps linger, 
 Faith, rejoicing, says " 'Tis well ! " 
 
ASNIE BELL. Oi 
 
 For the loving Father keeps thee, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 If thou walkest with the angels 
 
 Through the groves of asphodel, 
 Still the loving Father keeps thee, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
 So, in heaven, some summer morning 
 
 (If I fight the good fight well), 
 I shall meet thee, I shall greet thee, 
 Annie Bell. 
 
ANSWERED. 
 
 " And day by day we ask of God, dear child, 
 That He who gave may keep thee undefined ! " 
 
 So hath He kept thee ! And, lest earth should 
 dim 
 Or mar the virgin brightness of thy soul, 
 Turning it backward from its heavenly goal, 
 
 He early summoned thee to dwell with Him, 
 
 Where thou canst hear, from harps of seraphim, 
 The hallelujahs that thou lovedst when sung 
 In earth's dull dialect by human tongue, 
 
 And angel anthems, whose divine notes swim 
 On heaven's serener air ! Our full hearts swell 
 With grief too bitter for our words to tell ; 
 
 And yet, amid our sobs, we would not dare 
 Arraign His goodness who recalled to heaven 
 The treasure lent — alas ! we deemed it given ! 
 
 In love He hears, in wisdom answers prayer. 
 
PIERPONT. 
 
 Erect in form, as one whose spirit free 
 
 Ne'er bent to any, less than God, the knee — 
 
 Crowned with the glory of his silver hair, 
 
 A nobler diadem than monarchs wear — 
 
 Behold the Bard, whose smoothly flowing line 
 
 Rings with the cadenced " Airs of Palestine ! " 
 
 Whether in psalms he chants Jehovah's praise, 
 
 Or to old Freedom consecrates his lays, 
 
 Or mourns the child, whose " bright sunshiny head " 
 
 Too soon was pillowed with the silent dead, 
 
 Or strives, of self forgetful, to unbind 
 
 The chains that shackle the inebriate's mind, 
 
 Or, with bold words whose scath is like a ban, 
 
 Condemns the tramplers of his fellow-man, 
 
 Or laughs to shame the idiot Pretense, 
 
 That from the public walks crowds common sense — 
 
 In every phase his varied verse may wear, 
 
 In every change of custom, here or there, 
 
 To Truth, to Right, to Duty ever leal 
 
 He keeps, like Abdiel, his love, his zeal ; 
 
 Himself that wonder, since the world began, 
 
 A self-reliant, downright honest man. 
 
60 PIERPONT. 
 
 Hail, true philanthropist ! Hail, honored bard ! 
 No soul like thine shall miss the great reward. 
 True to thy lofty aim, nor hopes nor fears 
 Turned thee aside through all the weary years, 
 Nor damped the ardor of that holy zeal 
 Which through all trials sought thy neighbor's weal, 
 Nor dimmed the faith that ever from above 
 Drew strength and patience for thy work of love. 
 
 Poet and prophet ! o'er whose classic head 
 
 Their frosts and honors threescore years have shed, 
 
 Long may we welcome, from that harp of thine, 
 
 Airs not less sweet than those of Palestine ! 
 
 Long may our souls, with kindred ardor thrill 
 
 As Warren speaks, through thee, from Bunker's 
 
 Hill ! 
 Long, at the antics of thy " Golden Calf " 
 Laugh may we, and grow wiser as we laugh : 
 And though, at length, from circles such as this, 
 Thy manly form and full rich voice we miss, 
 And tremulous lips, in broken accents say, 
 " Woe ! for the strength and glory passed away ! " 
 Still shall thy memory, like a sunbeam, dart 
 Its frequent brightness o'er the sorrowing heart ; 
 Still from thy kindling words shall courage flow 
 To those who strike for periled Right a blow ; 
 Still to the sad inebriate whisper hope, 
 As his weak hands for life's lost treasures grope ; 
 
P1ERP0NT. 61 
 
 Still on the billowy anthem lift the soul 
 While waves of music from the organ roll ; 
 And still, where'er thy honest verse is read, 
 Thy praise shall be — " We cannot make him 
 dead ! " 
 
A PORTRAIT. 
 
 " Once on a time " — 'twas ten years since, or 
 
 more — 
 I met a man who measured six feet four : 
 Broad were his shoulders, ample was his chest, 
 Compact his frame, his muscles of the best. 
 No sallow hue invaded brow or cheek ; 
 No morbid fancies through his eyes did speak, — 
 Those clear gray eyes, in which good sense and 
 
 mirth 
 Mingled their rays and shone benignly forth, — 
 That rounded cheek, which looked so rosy fair, 
 And said dyspepsia found no quarters there. 
 Genial he was, and many a funny quip 
 Dropped, though he scarcely knew it, from his lip : 
 A scholar too, in erudition skilled, 
 But not with learning's useless lumber filled ; 
 Withal a poet — not a jack-at-pinch, 
 But a true son of Thalia every inch, 
 And his rhymed lessons, draped in comic guise, 
 Proved that a genuine joker may be wise. 
 Ten years have passed since I beheld his face, 
 But still, from week to week, I see the trace 
 
A PORTRAIT. 63 
 
 Of that shrewd old-time humor from his pen, 
 Dropped as a proof that still he walks with men ; 
 And still, I trust, with good thoughts manifold 
 Keeps his big heart from ever growing old, 
 And still with fancies quaint beguiles our pain, 
 Makes a clean sweep of cobwebs from our brain. 
 And lets the sunlight into nooks as dark 
 As the sub-cellar of old Noah's ark, 
 Till gloom itself is tinged witli golden light, 
 And duns and dolors are forgotten quite. 
 
 Bard, wit, philosopher is he, in one — 
 
 A pyrotechnic magazine of fun, 
 
 "Whence jokes go whizzing, like those splendid 
 
 lights 
 That set ablaze our Fourth-o'-July nights ; 
 Yet, as the stars shine through that luminous haze. 
 So through his jests a keen-rayed wisdom plays, 
 Whose beams are blent with wit's auroral glow 
 To chasten mirth and check its overflow, 
 But not too much ; if wisdom grow au3tere> 
 Wit tempers all with flashes bright and clear ; 
 And so we laugh — reflect — then laugh — and then 
 Resolve that henceforth we'll be wiser men. 
 
 Not by didactic dullness, dread to hear, 
 Nor ghostly counsels droning on our ear — 
 
64 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Not by the manes of a mummied " Joe " 
 
 Long since discarded by the fools below, 
 
 Does he beguile us to forget the aches 
 
 That follow peccadilloes and mistakes, 
 
 But gently lures us, in a quiet way, 
 
 From crooked paths that lead our feet astray ; 
 
 And with a clever song or sprightly jest 
 
 Shows us that virtue's courses are the best. 
 
 Through fact and fable, epigram and pun, 
 
 His mirthful spirit overflows in fun, 
 
 And many a hoary humbug gets a hit 
 
 From the swift arrows of his trenchant wit — 
 
 A wit as keen as are the winds that blow 
 
 From old Katahdin, helmeted with snow, 
 
 Yet bright and sparkling as the living rills 
 
 That Spring sends sparkling from his native hills, 
 
 And genial as the light that morning throws 
 
 Across the earth to wake it from repose ! 
 
 For atrabiliary fancies that afflict 
 
 At times both bachelor and Benedict, 
 
 And make the world look cheerless as a pew 
 
 In a cold church with not a lass in view — 
 
 For minor fiends that give an azure tint 
 
 To life, its prospects, earth, and all that's in't, 
 
 Till Job himself with honest faith might swear 
 
 Nature a cheat and all her works unfair — 
 
A PORTRAIT. 65 
 
 In short, for every hypochondriac ill 
 That tortures more than sicknesses which kill, 
 Draws down the mouth still lower and more low, 
 As, at each corner, tugged some imp of woe, 
 And o'er the added longitude of phiz 
 Throws the despair of fifty tragedies, — 
 For these, and more, that multitudes endure, 
 Our " Godfrey's Cordial " is a sovereign cure ! 
 
 O, poet-teacher ! whose mellifluous rhymes 
 
 Make smooth our onward " Progress " through •' The 
 
 Times," 
 Cheering our way with mirth-provoking tale 
 In life's swift journey, " Riding on the Rail " — 
 O, genial leader ! on whose banneret 
 u Bide si sapis " is the motto set, 
 Waging exterminating war with shams 
 Of every name, from flunkeys up to flams — 
 O, mirthful moralist ! whose " Miss McBride," 
 By thee commissioned, shames our foolish pride, 
 While, were it even the marrow of our bones, 
 Our vanity would go with '* Captain Jones," 
 The " luckless, wigless, loveless lover," who 
 Lost his dear scalp, \mr-sue-d by su-'mg " Sue " — 
 Long may thy mingled wit and wisdom flow 
 Through the smooth verse that sets us all aglow ; 
 Long may the fates that rule this lower sphere 
 Preserve thy spirits and defer thy bier. 
 
66 a Portrait. 
 
 And, should thy humor ever seem to halt, 
 Bring new supplies — whole sacks — of Attic salt ; 
 And, gentle Parcag ! while your hands are in, 
 Forget your scissors, and keep on to spin. 
 
WE ARE SCATTERED. 
 
 We are scattered — we are scattered, 
 
 Though a jolly band were we ! 
 Some sleep beneath the grave-sod, 
 
 And some are o'er the sea ; 
 And Time hath wrought his changes 
 
 On the few who yet remain ; 
 The joyous band that once we were 
 
 We cannot be again ! 
 
 We are scattered — we are scattered ! 
 
 Upon the village green, 
 Where we played in boyish recklessness, 
 
 How few of us are seen ! 
 And the hearts that beat so lightly 
 
 In the joyousness of youth — 
 Some are crumbled in the sepulchre, 
 
 And some have lost their truth. 
 
 The beautiful — the beautiful 
 
 Are faded from our track ! 
 We miss them and we mourn them, 
 
 But we cannot lure them back ; 
 
08 WE ARE SCATTERED. 
 
 For an iron sleep hath bound them 
 In its passionless embrace ; 
 
 We may weep, but cannot win them 
 From their dreary resting-place. 
 
 And mournfully — how mournfully 
 
 The memory doth gaze 
 Upon the rainbow loveliness 
 
 Of childhood's happy days ! 
 The sparkling eye, the rosy cheek, 
 
 The smile of dewy lips, 
 Have passed away, yet left a light 
 
 Which time cannot eclipse. 
 
 We are scattered, — we are scattered ! 
 
 But we all shall meet again, 
 In a brighter and a purer land 
 
 Beyond the reach of pain ; 
 Where the sorrows of this lower world 
 
 Can never dim the eye, 
 And the joys of immortality 
 
 Will neither fade nor die. 
 
VOICES OF THE VEAES. 
 
 THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 I waited for the midnight, when the knell 
 
 Of the Old Year should sound — or seem to 
 
 sound — 
 Followed by mellow peals that greet the New ; 
 For the sweet singers of the world have made 
 This myth familiar as the melodies 
 That, by our mothers sung, soothed oft to sleep 
 The busy brain of childhood. In my palm 
 Rested my cheek, as drowsily I read 
 The wondrous story of " Aurora Leigh," 
 Its subtle fancies mingling with the thoughts 
 That were half dreams and half realities, 
 Till all were lost in vague unconsciousness. 
 
 A moment passed ; when, suddenly, the stroke 
 
 Of midnight pulsed upon the listening air. 
 
 And a weird voir*-, -ad a- tin; moaning 
 
 With echoes numberless a- lapsing waves, 
 
 Filled ;dl the dark with '-The Old Year is dead!" 
 
70 THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 Then, in an instant, I became aware 
 Of a soft light, such as a full-orbed moon 
 Shining through pictured oriels might make, 
 And it grew near and broadened, till the room 
 Was filled with rosy lustre — I not of dawn, 
 For midnight still maintained its sovereignty ; 
 And gleeful sounds, half laughter and half song, 
 Came floating to me on that wave of light. 
 They seemed the voices of all happy things 
 Exulting in young life, clear-toned with joy, 
 And rounded to sweet rhythm by faith and love, 
 And still their burden was, " Rejoice ! rejoice ! " 
 
 And then the hills took up the glad refrain, 
 And tossed it, each to each, and to the vales 
 That clasp their feet and fatten from their spoils, 
 And to the rivers hurrying to the sea, 
 And to the broad savannas, till it seemed 
 The air was full of voices jubilant 
 Shouting, " Rejoice ! rejoice ! " 
 
 So I looked up, 
 And lo ! that wondrous light that filled my room, 
 Seemed less a light than a translucent mist, 
 That stirred, and waved, and rolled upon itself, 
 And in, and in, as if a sentient soul 
 Fashioned its convolutions, till at length, 
 With gradual change, they took a human shape, 
 
THE OLD AND THE NEW. 71 
 
 Which stood before me like a blooming youth, 
 Perfect in limb and regal in his look, 
 And radiant in beauty. From his face 
 Shone benedictions, and his hands were filled 
 With gifts unnumbered for his worshippers. 
 Hopes, loves, and joys, on gossamery wings, 
 Hovered around him, making all the air 
 Rose-hued and odorous and most musical ; 
 While from their lips, in rippling undertone, 
 Flowed snatches of sweet song, and rhythmic 
 
 chants, 
 And gratulations. Then said I, " They best 
 Can greet the New Year's coming (for my soul 
 Knew that bright visitant) who best have kept 
 Faith with the Old, and freighted its swift hours 
 With their great thoughts and godlike purposes 
 Translated nobly into noble deeds ! 
 The good man stands advanced one golden step 
 On the bright ladder that conducts to heaven ! 
 The wronged stands nearer to his sure redress ! 
 The bondman to the boon for which he pines ! 
 The o'erwearied toiler to his wished-for rest ! 
 The Christian hero to his victory ! 
 Therefore, let these rejoice ! " 
 
 " Let all rejoice," 
 Said the bright Presence, " that another year 
 Dawns, for the evil to redeem their past, 
 
72 THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 And for the righteous to perfect their work, 
 And for the sorrowing to forget their grief, 
 And for the happy to diffuse their joy ; 
 And, most of all, that wrong anears its doom, 
 And Earth — through all her sorrow dear to God 
 Hastes to her glorious millennium ! " 
 
 The voice sank into silence, and the form 
 Lustrous with beauty, faded from my gaze 
 As sunset tints fade from the twilight heavens : 
 And, questioning my soul, I sat alone. 
 
WHAT THE OLD YEAR SAID. 
 
 Twelve .months ago, with anthems gratulant, 
 Men hailed my coming ; and the chime of bells, 
 The billowy roll of organs, and the songs 
 Of happy children, rained on me and mine 
 Delicious benedictions. Now, they wait 
 Impatient for the hour that strikes my knell, 
 And heralds my successor. Well-a-day ! 
 So waited they for me, and so in turn 
 For each New Year shall wait, till Earth, grown 
 
 old, 
 Reels to her grave, and Time shall be no more! 
 Yet, not regretful that my work is done, 
 From my last foothold on the crumbling hours 
 I look, calm-eyed, over the vastitude 
 Of that great deep ye name Eternity, 
 And wait the moment that shall call me hence, 
 To years that told the earliest age of Time, 
 When earth stood close • to heaven, and angels 
 
 walked 
 Over its shining hills, and talked with men ; 
 To years that saw the fratricidal blow 
 That gave the ground, .^ince soaked through all its 
 
 pores 
 
74 WHAT THE OLD YEAR SAID. 
 
 With that red wine, its primal stain of blood ; 
 To years made holy by the breath of Christ, 
 What time He taught and fed the multitudes 
 Among the hills that gird Jerusalem ; 
 To the vast congregation of the years 
 Which rule the misty empire of the past : 
 I go to join their grand fraternity. 
 
 I have seen enough of human misery, 
 
 Of want, oppression, shame, remorse, and woe ; 
 
 Of toil, and waste, and iron-throated war ; 
 
 Of weakness trampled by unholy power ; 
 
 Of right downtrodden 'neath the heel of wrong; 
 
 Of tears, and laughter sadder far than tears ; 
 
 Of hopes too surely dark'ning to despair, 
 
 And all that veils from man the sunlit heavens, 
 
 And makes of earth one red Aceldama ! 
 
 Yet Truth still lives — and so shall dawn for man 
 
 A better day ! Yet Freedom battles still 
 
 With tyrannous Wrong — and so shall dawn for 
 
 man 
 A better day ! Yet God is over all, 
 From discords shaping harmonies divine, 
 Making all things subservient to His will — 
 And so shall dawn for man a better day ! 
 A day when Love and Peace shall reign supreme, 
 And Knowledge clasp the hand of Liberty ; 
 
WHAT THE OLD YEAR SAID. 75 
 
 A day when Virtue shall in every heart 
 
 Find a pure home, and fill it with the light 
 
 And warmth of heaven. Then War shall stride no 
 
 more, 
 With clanging arms and garments rolled in blood, 
 O'er lands that groan beneath his murderous sway ; 
 But the far continents be joined in ODe 
 By solemn sacrament, whose ritual, 
 Flashed thr.ough the sunless depths, is " Glory to 
 
 God 
 In the highest ! Peace ox earth ! Good will 
 
 TO MEN : '* 
 
 Thrice blessed is he whose prescient soul can 
 
 grasp, 
 Ere yet it dawns, the splendors of that day, 
 And 'mid the present dark still walk in light, 
 The visiting of the dayspring from on high ! 
 
 Such have I seen — the Abdiels of the race, 
 u Faithful among the faithless " — hopeful still 
 Because believing, and believing still 
 Haply because they stand so near to God ! 
 Though wrong prevail, they fearless plead for right ; 
 Though lies buy favor, dare speak only truth ; 
 Though tyrants rule, are leal to liberty ! 
 When weak souls faint, they toil serenely on ; 
 When traitors turn, they know no compromi 
 When coward- fail, they press to victory ! 
 
76 WHAT THE OLD TEAR SAID. 
 
 He strikes not vainly who, howe'er beset, 
 
 Strikes for sheer justice ! Patience, then, ye few 
 
 Who wage unwearied war with sceptered wrong, 
 
 Nor truce nor parley hold with tyranny ; 
 
 For, though the hour that brings you full success 
 
 Wait, and disaster gloom above your way, 
 
 Yet, as the truth is greater than all lies, 
 
 And right immortal and akin to God, 
 
 And God more potent than the hosts of hell, 
 
 That hour, so long delayed, shall come, and p>lace 
 
 On your scarred brows the crown of victory ! 
 
 In cold, bare attics, and in cellars damp, 
 
 Where the frost pinches and the hunger gnaws, 
 
 And sickness saps the strength from day to day, 
 
 And hope is not, I have seen heroisms 
 
 Grand as were ever traced on history's page, 
 
 Or flushed with life the canvas : famished men, 
 
 Women, and children battling with the fiend 
 
 That whispers, " Wherefore suffer, when the hire 
 
 Of sin swells goldenly before your eyes ? 
 
 Seize the rich prize ! Be rich, be strong, and 
 
 live — 
 For virtue brings you sorrow, famine, death ! " 
 And they, unhelped in their extremity, 
 Kept their souls white, and bade the fiend begone, 
 And said, " To die is better than to drive 
 God's angels from our souls, so evermore 
 Left dark and cold ; 'tis better far to die ! " 
 
WHAT THE OLD YEAR SAID. 77 
 
 And I have seen the good Samaritans — 
 
 Women and men — who do kind deeds by stealth, 
 
 And ask no eye but God's to scan their work, 
 
 Seeking the famished with supplies of food ; 
 
 Seeking the sick with broths and medicines ; 
 
 Seeking the hopeless with sweet prophecies 
 
 Of the new dawn that waits behind the cloud ; 
 
 Seeking the broken-hearted with such words 
 
 Of tender sympathy as balm their wounds, 
 
 And open vistas to the calm of heaven ; 
 
 Seeking the sinful with divinest love, 
 
 That through guilt's grime still sees a deathless 
 
 soul, 
 And, with large pity, and as large a hope, 
 Strives to redeem and bring it back to God ! 
 
 0. this old earth — so scarred by violence ; 
 
 So drenched by the purple vintage of the sword ; 
 
 So full of sorrows, and despairs, and deaths ; 
 
 So foul with wrong, and dark with unbelief — 
 
 Not yet is alien from her paradise 
 
 While blest with ministering spirits such as these ; 
 
 Not yet hath all forgot the heavenly light 
 
 That gleamed above her hills when " Very good J '" 
 
 Surveying His finished work, the Master said. 
 
GOOD-BY, OLD YEAR. 
 
 No pause, no rest, no visual line 
 
 Between the years that come and go ! 
 
 For some too fast, for some too slow ; 
 Time never stops to sleep or dine, 
 But on and on with steady flight 
 He keeps untired, by day, by night ; 
 And boys and girls, ere yet aware, 
 Find threads of silver in their hair, 
 
 Their love of quiet growing stronger ; 
 And, haply, by these tokens know — 
 "What kind friends told them long ago — 
 
 That they are boys and girls no longer. 
 
 Still on, as silent as a ghost ! 
 
 Seems but a score of days, all told, 
 Or but a month or two at most, 
 
 Since our last New Year's song we trolled, 
 
 And lo ! that New Year now is Old, 
 And here we stand to say " Good-by ! " 
 Brief words, and yet, we scarce know why, 
 They bring a moisture to the eye, 
 
 And to the heart some quakes and aches ; 
 
GOOD-BY, OLD YEAR. 79 
 
 We speak them very tenderly, 
 
 With half a sob and half a sigh — 
 u Old Year, good-by ! Old Year, good-by ! " 
 For what it brought, for what it bikes, 
 We love it, and for loved ones' sakes : 
 
 Prized for its hours of happiness, 
 
 Nor for its sacred sorrows less : 
 
 For all it gave through toil and strife 
 
 Of new significance to life — 
 
 New breadths, new depths, new heights sublime, 
 
 And, haply, kingship over time, 
 
 Accept our thanks, Old Year ! for these, 
 
 And for all precious memories 
 
 Of love, of grief, of joy, of pain, 
 
 Whose ministry was not in vain. 
 
 And so, we sadly lay, Old Year ! 
 Our love-wreath on thy snowy bier, 
 Our love-wreath, moistened by a tear ; 
 And. turning from our brief adieu, 
 With kindly welcome hail the New ; 
 True to the Ruling Power, we sing, 
 u The king is dead ! " " Long live the king ! " 
 
DIRGE OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 The good Old Year ! the brave Old Year ! 
 
 He loved you long, and he loved you well ! 
 Scatter ye snow-flakes on his bier, 
 
 And plant his grave with the asphodel ! 
 The good Old Year that brought you cheer, 
 In the days now gone ; the brave Old Year, 
 Dead in the midnight ! — words of fear ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Winds of the midnight ! wildly swell, 
 
 And pour your dirge o'er the dead Old Year ! 
 
 For the good Old Year so wan and pale, 
 The dead Old Year on his icy bier, 
 
 For the brave Old Year let the wild winds wail ! 
 
 For the dead Old Year, toll, toll the bell, 
 
 And let the winds of the midnight tell 
 
 To the sobbing streams that moan and plain, 
 To the streams that moan like souls in pain, 
 That the good Old Year comes not again ! 
 
DIRGE OF THE OLD YEAR. 81 
 
 III. 
 
 Dead in the midnight — words of fear ! 
 Dead in the midnight — brave Old Year ! 
 Dead in the midnight, on his bier ! 
 Winds of the midnight, toll the bell ! 
 Old Year, farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! 
 And the solemn midnight hears his knell ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The rivers sob like souls in pain, 
 For the year that never comes again ; 
 And the wailing winds to the woods complain 
 That the good Old Year ne'er comes again — 
 
 That the soul of the brave Old Year has fled ; 
 And the woods respond to the wild wind's wail 
 "With many a moan, 
 With many a groan, 
 For the brave Old Year, so stark and pale — 
 Ah, woe ! for the good Old Year that's dead ! 
 6 
 
A RHYME FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 " Ho ! watchman, standing on thy tower, 
 As years sweep onward in their flight 
 "What signs in heaven attract thy sight, 
 
 Predictive of the coming hour 
 
 When earth shall see the reign of right ? 
 What of the night? What of the night?" 
 And, pointing to the dim gray light 
 
 Just struggling up the eastern sky, 
 
 A promise and a prophecy 
 
 That day shall chase the dark that glooraeth 
 
 O'er heaven to hide it from our eye, 
 
 The watchman saith, " The morning cometh ! '" 
 And angels sing, " The morning cometh ! " 
 And earth repeats, "The morning cometh!" 
 
 And " God be thanked ! " our hearts reply. 
 
 Aye, God be thanked ! That glimmering ray 
 Shall kindle to the perfect day, 
 Before whose beams shall slink away 
 
 The horrid shapes of darkness born — 
 All foulest rites and cruel creeds, 
 Fierce hates, and coward fears, and deeds 
 
A RHYME FOR THE NEW YEAR. 83 
 
 Of shame that shun the light of morn : 
 
 Then from the tyrant's nerveless hands 
 
 Shall drop the scourge that smote the lands ; 
 
 From its red carnival of death 
 
 The sword return into its sheath, 
 
 To reap its bloody sheaves no more : 
 
 Peace, with her oriflamme unfurled, 
 
 Summon the nations of the world 
 Its better era to restore ; 
 
 And hungry greed shall loose its hold 
 
 Upon the toiler's scanty gold ; 
 
 The fetters from the slave shall fall ; 
 The dungeon-gates that shut from hope 
 The true, brave souls that dared to cope 
 With the throned wrong, again shall ope, 
 
 And Freedom give her boon to all ! 
 
 Exult, O Earth ! — despoiled so long, 
 
 Groping in blindness and in sin, 
 Cursed by thy children's cruel wrong, 
 And scourged by hates, a fiendish throng, 
 
 That stand thy temple-gates within — 
 Lift up thy regal brow ! for lo ! 
 The eastern heavens are all aglow 
 With the new dawn, predicting so 
 
 Thy new life, which shall soon begin ; 
 A large, rich, noble life, full-brimmed 
 
 With pure impulses, grand desires, 
 
84 A RHYME FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 And deeds as grand — unsmutched, undimmed 
 
 By aDy lie — its altar-fires 
 Fed with the love of love, and bright 
 
 With offerings of the true and right; 
 Not commonplace, nor mean, nor dull ; 
 
 A life whose circling clasp shall hold 
 God's life, with all its manifold 
 
 Expressions of the beautiful ; 
 And, reaching on and upward still, 
 
 Shape all its issues to His will, 
 And so life's holiest aims fulfill. 
 
SONGS OF LOVE AXD HOME. 
 
 FORTISSIMA. 
 
 A few brief hours made happy by thy presence, 
 Days filled with pleasant memories of those 
 hours, 
 Hopes from those memories born, and thoughts of 
 pleasance 
 That cheer my pathway like the light of flow- 
 ers — 
 Some brief forgetfulness of earth's afflictions, 
 
 Some glimpses through the clouds of love di- 
 vine — 
 For these I owe thee thanks and benedictions, 
 And freight my verse with prayers for thee and 
 thine. 
 
 But, ah ! how swiftly fled those hours elysian ! 
 
 Like a bright star-beam through a rifted storm, 
 Glancing a moment, thou didst bless my vision, 
 
 An angel-presence, beautiful and warm. 
 Then, by the greedy dark devoured, the glory 
 
86 FOETISSIMA. 
 
 Whose radiant baptism thrilled my heart and 
 brain 
 Passed from mine eye. 'Tis but the old, sad story 
 Of kindred souls dissevered, told again. 
 
 Yet thou hast blest me with new hope, new daring ; 
 
 Thy brave, true spirit, permeating mine, 
 With its strong faith rebuked my weak despairing, 
 
 And my faint heart drank energy from thine. 
 In thy prophetic eyes I saw the earnest 
 
 Of " the good time " whose advent thou canst 
 scan, 
 The reign of brotherhood for which thou yearnest, 
 
 When man no more shall trample upon man. 
 
 And now, afar from thee, yet not from sorrow, 
 
 Sweet memories come my saddened soul to cheer ; 
 Thy voice, clear-cadenced, from whose tones I bor- 
 row 
 Hope for the future, greets again my ear. 
 Once more thy soul looks forth from eyes that thrill 
 me 
 With a most pure delight ; I see the glow 
 That flushes thy pale cheek, while thoughts that fill 
 me 
 With grand, vague yearnings from thy lips o'er- 
 flow. 
 
F0RTJS8IMA. 87 
 
 Ah ! couklst thou to my spiritual sense be present 
 
 Ever as now, I should forget my fears, 
 Knowing that evil must be evanescent, 
 
 And good triumphant through the eternal years ! 
 Thine eyes should teach me this sublime evangel, 
 
 For in their light all skeptic thoughts are dumb. 
 And faith should hail thee as the herald-angel 
 
 Of earth's true srolden a°;e that soon shall come. 
 
 Thy sunlike soul my weary way hath lighted 
 
 Through doubts and fears that veil the heavens 
 in gloom ; 
 So fails not wholly, 'mid despair benighted, 
 
 The faith, that evil hastens to its doom. 
 For this, new strengthened by the prophet-voices 
 
 Speaking in silence through thy life to mine — 
 Nor less for patience that from rudest noises 
 
 Can deftly fashion harmonies divine ; 
 
 For courage that can overleap disaster, 
 
 And strive, and wait, and suffer, and endure, 
 While victory tarries, and the wrong is master 
 
 Over the millions of earth's struggling poor; 
 For the true love that binds thee fast to duty ; 
 
 For the great hope3 that brighten from afar, 
 And fill the soul with their divinest beauty, 
 
 Thou shall henceforth be called — Foutissi.ua. 
 
THE AVOWAL. 
 
 I love you — 'tis the simplest way 
 
 The thing I feel to tell; 
 Yet if I told it all the day, 
 
 You'd never guess how well. 
 You are my comfort and my light — 
 
 My very life you seem ; 
 I think of you all day ; all night 
 
 'Tis but of you I dream. 
 
 There's pleasure in the lightest word 
 
 That you can speak to me ; 
 My soul is like the .ZEolian's chord, 
 
 Ancl vibrates still to thee. 
 I never read the love-song yet, 
 
 So thrilling, fond, or true. 
 But in my own heart I have met 
 
 Some kinder thought for you. 
 
 I bless the shadows of your face, 
 The light upon your hair — 
 
 I like for hours to sit and trace 
 The passing changes there ; 
 
THE AVOWAL. 89 
 
 I love to hear your voice's tone, 
 Although you should not say . 
 
 A single word to dream upon 
 When that has died away. 
 
 O ! you are kindly as the beam 
 
 That warms where'er it plays, 
 And you are gentle as a dream 
 
 Of happy future days ; 
 And you are strong to do the right, 
 
 And swift the wrong to flee ; 
 And if you were not half so bright, 
 
 You're all the world to me. 
 
HEE NAME. 
 
 'Tis a name I love to trace, 
 Simple, brief, and full of grace ; 
 Two short syllables, they lie 
 Like a flower beneath my eye. 
 Sweetly beautiful and bright, 
 Giving a serene delight : 
 Linked with thoughts of summer hours, 
 When the winds caress the flowers ; 
 Linked with memories sadly sweet, 
 Such as time can ne'er repeat, 
 When my life was like a tune 
 Played by winds and waves in June, 
 Or an angel-chanted psalm 
 Heard amid the eternal calm ! 
 
 Simple name ! — yet known to me 
 Is its potent witchery ! 
 Never note of lute or bird, 
 Charmed me like that little word ; 
 Never did my pulses beat 
 To a music half as sweet 
 As is that, to me, that dwells 
 In those silver syllables ! 
 
HER NAME. 91 
 
 With a necromantic power 
 
 Bring they back a happier hour, 
 
 When a ki mired soul witli mine 
 
 Held companionship divine, 
 
 And with deepest wisdom fraught 
 
 Were the lessons which she taught. 
 
 How to bear with evil long ; 
 
 How to suffer and be strong ; 
 
 How to wrest from adverse powers 
 
 Blessings we may claim as ours ; 
 
 How to triumph over ill 
 
 By a never faltering will ; 
 
 And, appalled not by the strife, 
 
 Tread the solemn march of life, 
 
 With a faith serene and high, 
 
 Upward to our destiny ! 
 
 This her lore — and sweet to me 
 
 Was her holy ministry, 
 
 For her life as rhyme to rhyme 
 
 Fitly with her lore kept cliime. 
 
 Now. as here her name I trace, 
 Memory brings us face to face, 
 And her eyes, serene and clear, 
 Fill with love the atmosphere — 
 Dove-like eyes of softest brown. 
 Lifted often to my own, 
 
92 HER NAME. 
 
 Now with sweetest meaning fraught, 
 Bright, anon, with happy thought ; 
 Humid with their pitying tears, 
 Brimmed with splendor from the spheres ; 
 Changing, as her fancies range — 
 Beautiful in every change ! 
 Never from our western skies 
 Gleamed the light in lovelier eyes ! 
 
 Parted o'er a thoughtful brow, 
 Sweeps her hair with graceful flow, 
 Falling downward o'er her neck, 
 Half to hide, and half to deck, 
 While a lustre, warm and fresh, 
 Lingers in its silken mesh 
 Lovingly, as loath to roam 
 From so beautiful a home. 
 Pale but fashioned not the less 
 To the law of loveliness, 
 Is the cheek whose roses fled 
 When her early hopes lay dead, 
 And her heart in sorrow's strife 
 Learned how sad a thing is life. 
 
 Ah, my friend ! what potent spell 
 In thy child-like name doth dwell, 
 Thus to sweep o'er memory's track 
 ^ And the past to summon back ! 
 
HER NAME. 93 
 
 Lightly traced, with careless pen, 
 Thou art with me once again, 
 Sad, and beautiful, and wise, 
 Purified by agonies : 
 Quiet, gentle, gracious, good, 
 All thy soul with love imbued, 
 Trusting truth with faith serene, 
 Scorning all that's false and mean, 
 Yet, with sorrow, pain, and wrong 
 Wrestling wearily and long ! 
 
 Long and wearily, but still, 
 
 With unconquerable will, 
 
 Wresting from each trial sent 
 
 All the latent good it meant, 
 
 And though clouds thy sky deform, 
 
 Seeking light beyond the storm ; 
 
 So, through pain and toil and sorrow, 
 
 Looking for a brighter morrow ! 
 
 And, if God be what we deem, 
 
 And, if heaven be not a dream, 
 
 Hope, and faith, and love in vain, 
 
 And our life a blank inane — 
 
 It shall come, thy triumph-hour 
 
 In its glory and its power ! 
 
 Not in vain hath been thy strife 
 With the evil things of life ! 
 
94 HER NAME. 
 
 Not in vain the patient hope 
 That hath borne thy spirit up, 
 When contumely, scorn, and wrath 
 Howled along thine onward path ! 
 Not in vain thy holy trust 
 In the triumph of the just ! 
 Life hath yet a bliss for thee, 
 Love its thrill of ecstasy ! 
 Peace shall brood with wing benign 
 Over heart and home of thine, 
 And the rainbow gleam at last, 
 On the darkness overpast ! 
 
RESPONSE. 
 
 I come ! I come ! 
 Thy voice is in my ears — a spirit tone 
 
 With its mysterious power my heart to thrill, 
 And waken, with a music all its own, 
 
 Sweet memories of the past my soul to fill. 
 It hath been wkh me when the starry night 
 
 Looked on me with kind eyes ; and in my hair, 
 And on my fevered cheek, like drops of light, 
 
 Glittered soft dew : it whispers in the air 
 That fans my brow, as listlessly I lean 
 From the low casement, where the woodbine green 
 And fragrant jasmine cling ; its cadences 
 
 Distinct and clear, with gradual fall and swell 
 Like the weird murmuring of the forest trees 
 
 Heard in the twilight hour, are as a spell 
 Of witchery to my soul — too deeply fraught 
 With one intense, o'ermastering, burning thought, 
 To heed aught else. So let my spirit drink 
 That wondrous music, u poured from heaven's brink 
 0, best beloved ! I come ! 
 
96 BESPONSF. 
 
 I come ! I come ! 
 The world is dark since it hath lost the light 
 
 Of thy clear eyes ; and midnight's starless gloom 
 Hath brooded o'er my soul, and from its sight 
 
 Shut the sweet face of day. When closed the 
 tomb 
 Over thy peerless form, my lone heart died 
 
 Alike to hope and fear, to love and hate ; 
 Since that dark hour, sustained alone by pride, 
 
 I've trod the paths of men disconsolate. 
 Now, I am weary, weary ; I would come 
 To thee, sweet spirit ! — to thy radiant home 
 Where love and sorrow mingle not as here, 
 
 Nor throb with burning anguish heart and brain. 
 Nor once bright eyes grow dim with many a tear 
 
 Nor strives the soul with life's consuming pain. 
 O, not to mock us hath this boou of heaven, 
 All-conquering, all-sustaining love, been given ; 
 So shall the ties that death hath torn apart 
 Again be knit, uniting heart with heart ! 
 I hear thy voice — I come ! 
 
DORA. 
 
 She was a child, and little knew 
 
 Of the world-wisdom lived in books : 
 Sweet, quiet thoughts, and wishes few, 
 
 A still soul smiling in her looks : 
 Fancies that seldom soared too high 
 
 To chase the bee or butterfly, 
 And from their unambitious flights 
 Brought new and innocent delights ; 
 Joys deep and pure as summer skies 
 And gentle as my Dora's eyes, 
 
 These were her dower ; nor these alone, 
 But a calm, pure, and saintly grace, 
 Which gave a glory to her face, 
 
 A charm peculiarly its own, 
 That made you, as you gazed on her, 
 Half lover and half worshipper. 
 
 She loved me — yet I scarce know why ; 
 
 My speech had naught of courtly grace, 
 And care and grief had dimmed my eye 
 
 And left their record on my face, — 
 
 7 
 
98 DORA. 
 
 That face, so pale and passionless, 
 
 I little deemed could ever win 
 From beauty's lip the soft caress, 
 Which if it be unrighteousness, 
 
 Would make a saint in love with sin ! 
 If heaven hath more of thrilling bliss 
 Than I have drank from Dora's kiss, 
 'Tis well that heaven is placed so high 
 And veiled from our mortality ; 
 
 Else, with its rapture's rich excess, 
 
 Thrilled through and through with blessedness, 
 We should grow early mad, and die. 
 
 She loved me — and as Winter's snows 
 
 Melt to the breezy touch of Spring ; 
 As the gray east with rose-light glows 
 
 Before Aurora's wakening ; 
 As, with a passionate surprise 
 That floods with happy tears her eyes, 
 The young wife feels the first faint stir 
 
 Of the new life that soon shall be 
 Of a new joy the minister, — 
 
 A baby, crowing on her knee. — 
 And, dreaming of her unborn boy, . 
 Is saddened by too deep a joy, — 
 So from my soul the icy thrall 
 
 Was melted by her love away ; 
 So hope, revived, threw over all 
 
DORA. 99 
 
 Of life a brightness as of day ; • 
 So, trembling with its joy's excess, 
 
 My spirit to its centre shook, 
 And from its wild tumnltuonsness 
 
 A shade of conscious sadness took. 
 
 ii. 
 
 I know not how, but o'er me seemed 
 
 To come a horror deep and dread, 
 And in that pulseless gloom, I deemed — 
 
 Or did I see? — my Dora, dead! 
 A burning weight was on my brain, 
 And all my nerves were fiery pain, 
 And wild, weird fancies through and through 
 My swooning soul, like demons flew ! 
 Methought I stood by Dora's side, — 
 Dear Dora, but a three weeks' bride : 
 
 The deathly white was on her lips — 
 Sweet lips, by mine so often kissed — 
 
 And o'er her eyes the death-eclipse 
 Slow-gathered with its veiling mist. 
 Yet still on me her glance was turned 
 
 "With such unutterable love, 
 It seemed her saintly spirit yearned, 
 
 While angels beckoned from above, 
 To pour its gift of peace divine, 
 Its rapture and repose, through mine ! 
 
102 DOB A. 
 
 God! 
 
 TJwu didst not need her — though more fair 
 
 Than any of thine angels are — 
 For heaven's high courts by throngs are trod, 
 Whose white wings in the golden fires 
 
 Flashing, their rosy splendors throw 
 Down through the blue, while starry lyres 
 Swept by a thousand hands of flame, 
 
 And vital with sweet sounds, o'erflow 
 With hallelujahs to thy name ! 
 
 O might not these for heaven suffice, 
 When one could make my paradise ? 
 And she was mine — my angel! Why, 
 God ! didst thou let my Dora die ? 
 
REVISITED. 
 
 Once on my heart there fell a crushing weight 
 
 Heavy and cold ; and earth, and sea, and sky 
 
 Their brightness lost for me, as if one life 
 
 Held in itself all visible delight, 
 
 All possible joy, that with its lapse were gone. 
 
 For when that life which had companioned mine 
 
 Left the sweet form that gave me hints of heaven, 
 
 The very sun seemed darkened, as it, too, 
 
 Felt sorrow's sad eclipse. Nor odorous air, 
 
 Nor flowers fresh-blooming, nor the songs of birds, 
 
 Nor Nature's wondrous harmonies from the wood. 
 
 And runniug stream, and dashing waterfall, 
 
 Flung out continuously, nor the sweet voices 
 
 Of children at their play, nor the soft gleam 
 
 Of eyes that spoke of love, nor words of hope 
 
 Breathed from affection's lips, nor kind appeals 
 
 To look to Him whose chastening hand is laid 
 
 In tenderest pity on His little ones, 
 
 Could bring me peace, or from my crushed heart 
 
 lift 
 That icy weight of sorrow. To myself 
 I seemed forlornest of earth's multitudes, 
 
104 REVISITED. 
 
 And hugged my selfish grief by day and night. 
 And fed my hungry soul with bitter thoughts, 
 And in the darkness communed with despair. 
 O, impious ! Thus God's goodness to impeach, 
 And war insanely with the Love Divine ! 
 
 Years have gone by : and I — who long have been 
 
 Over the earth a wanderer, seeing oft 
 
 The woe I could not heal, and hearing oft 
 
 The unconscious sigh that seemed to mock my own 
 
 (Thus taught that sorrow is our common lot, 
 
 And all the holy power of sympathy), 
 
 Still not forgetting, but with tenderer grief 
 
 Remembering my dead — stand yet again 
 
 Beside the grave that holds the dearest dust 
 
 That God e'er fashioned to a human form! 
 
 How through a thousand changes that have passed 
 
 Over my life — through trials manifold, 
 
 Temptations, conflicts, triumphs, griefs, and joys ; 
 
 Through toils that nerved and pains that racked my 
 
 frame ; 
 Or on the waste of ocean, or amid 
 The surging billows of a human sea 
 In million-peopled cities — how through all 
 Has memory turned to this thrice-hallowed spot, 
 My sad soul's Mecca ! Sorrow's holiest shrine ! 
 Where thoughts all tender, and affections pure, 
 Cluster and dwell ; for when the pitying years 
 
REVISITED. 105 
 
 Had mellowed my despair to fond regret, 
 New feelings sprung to life within my soul, 
 And love for her whose love had been my heaven, 
 Widened to love for wide humanity ! 
 
 Hallowed by dust that once enshrined a soul 
 
 Whose presence made its human all divine, 
 
 Than this green grave my wandering feet have 
 
 found 
 No holier spot beneath the cope of heaven. 
 And, kneeling here, I feel the circling wings 
 Of angels fanning, with their rhythmic beat, 
 The air made odorous with celestial flowers 
 And vibrant with celestial melodies ; 
 While tender memories of the past throng back, 
 And gleams of joy supernal visit me, 
 And all my conscious spirit seems aflame 
 With light from love's divine Apocalypse ! 
 
BENEDICTION. 
 
 When the sweet syllables that form thy name 
 Are on my lips, ere yet the conscious air 
 Receives their music, in my heart a prayer 
 
 (The offspring of a reverent love) doth claim 
 
 Of heaven a boon for thee. Thou canst not guess 
 
 Its nature : 'tis not wealth — nor happiness — 
 
 Nor poet-fame, by many coveted 
 
 As the best good of all — nor idle ea>e, 
 
 On velvet couched, and skied by silk overhead, 
 And lulled to sleep by silvery cadences ; 
 
 For luxury palls, and fame is but a breath ; 
 
 Wealth bloats with pride, or, even worse, con- 
 tracts 
 The soul to petty thoughts and paltry acts, 
 
 And happiness is tested but by death ! 
 
 No, no ! for thee my loving heart hath wrought 
 A nobler wish, with better reason fraught, 
 
 Worthier thyself, beloved ! therefore, best. 
 Thine be a life not free from pain and care, 
 But nobly good and sanctified by prayer ; 
 
 Finding in duty, peace made manifest, 
 
BENEDICTION. 107 
 
 Equal to all that fortune may bestow 
 • Of good or ill, of happiness or woe ; 
 Taught by them all thy trust in God to place, 
 From all deriving needed strength and grace 
 
 To tread the flinty path or flowery way, 
 The while thy soul shall evermore expand, 
 And all thy hopes grow beautiful and grand, 
 
 Tinged with the dawn-light of the heavenly day ! 
 Such life, or long, or short, breathes holy breath, 
 And, bright'ning still, is perfected by death ! 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
 My prophet-heart for thee foretells 
 
 The bliss that shall be born of pain, 
 
 And on my ear exultant swells 
 
 O'er conquered fate the victor-strain. 
 
 Though darkly now around thee throng 
 Ills that might make the boldest quail, 
 
 Still hope ! — not always shall the wrong 
 O'er trampled truth and right prevail. 
 
 Doubt not the issue of the strife, 
 Be strong to wrestle with thy pain ; 
 
 For thou shalt yet prevail, and life 
 Wear its old glory once again. 
 
 Confront the clouds with steadfast eye, 
 And lo ! their gloom is flecked with light 
 
 While yonder, in the eastern sky, 
 
 The young dawn battles with the night. 
 
 Slowly the baffled dark retires — 
 
 Slowly the dawn, with widening sway, 
 
BEATRICE. 109 
 
 Prevails, and soon his kindling fires 
 Shall culminate to perfect day. 
 
 Think what a wealth of love is thine ! 
 
 The largess of the pure and good, 
 The trust, the sympathy divine 
 
 Of manhood and of womanhood ! 
 
 Thy pathway shall be circled still 
 By starry souls whose faith serene 
 
 Can pierce the shades of present ill, 
 And grasp the guerdon yet unseen. 
 
 For linked to thine by holiest ties, 
 
 Nor time nor trial e'er can part, 
 By hopes and prayers and sympathies, 
 
 Is many a true and noble heart. 
 
 Nor hate's device nor falsehood's guile 
 Can shake their perfect trust in thee, 
 
 Nor cloud their faith that all the while 
 Good angels keep thee company. 
 
 Thou canst, through parting clouds, behold 
 The flash of many a radiant wing, 
 
 While silvery voices manifold 
 
 To thee of hope and courage sing. 
 
110 BE ATM IE. 
 
 Of hope — to lead i)\ee still along 
 
 Through doubt's cold gloom to faith's repo>e ; 
 Of courage — to endure, be strong, 
 
 And calmly triumph o'er thy foes. 
 
 Light, born of darkness, shall be thine ; 
 
 Strength, from long struggling with the ill ; 
 From discord, peace; and love divine, 
 
 Thy soul's profoundest depths shall fill ! 
 
 And in thy culminating bliss, 
 
 Made brighter by remembered wo, 
 
 Shalt thou at length, dear Beatrice, 
 The mission of all sorrow know. 
 
THE LOST STAR. 
 
 God set a star within our sky. 
 
 And o'er our home its light was thrown, 
 And as we looked with loving eye 
 
 It seemed peculiarly our own. 
 
 And evermore its growing ray 
 
 Drove out whate'er was dark and cold, 
 
 Till life seemed luminous as day, 
 
 And all its glooms were tinged with gold. 
 
 Resolves and hopes which long had lain 
 
 Palsied by custom and distrust, 
 Touched by its warmth, revived again, 
 
 And brightly blossomed from the dust 
 
 Thenceforth, with clearer eyes we saw 
 
 "What seemed before but blurred and dim ; 
 
 And read anew God's perfect law 
 Which binds the universe to Him. 
 
 With wider ecope IIi> works we viewed, 
 The slow unfolding of II is plan, 
 
112 THE LOST STAR. 
 
 And, taught by loving hearts, renewed 
 Our faith in God, our faith in man. 
 
 And earth and sky, and day and night, 
 No" longer dark, and drear, and dull, 
 
 Basked in that permeating light, 
 And glowed divinely beautiful. 
 
 But suddenly, while yet our lips 
 
 Trembled with songs of grateful praise, 
 
 Our star, involved in drear eclipse, 
 No longer cheered us with its rays. 
 
 Then darkness deep and full of dread 
 Threw o'er our sky its veil of gloom ; 
 
 We seemed to walk amid the dead, 
 And earth itself was but a tomb. 
 
 Perchance some questioning or doubt 
 Of God Himself came o'er our mind, 
 
 When that sweet star was blotted out, 
 And hope expired, and faith was blind. 
 
 Perchance our wayward wills rebelled 
 Against the loving Father's will, 
 
 Till sorrow's first wild gust was quelled 
 By His all tender " Peace ! be still ! " 
 
TEE LOST STAR. 
 
 For weak, at best, is human faith. 
 
 And love is passionate and strong, 
 And wildly deems the loss or death 
 
 Of what we love, a cruel wron^f. 
 
 But God is good, and folds in calms 
 Of His own rest our restless souls, 
 
 Till with hushed hearts and clasped palms 
 We bless the Wisdom that controls. 
 
 And when for us the heavy hour 
 Of doubt went by, and holy trust 
 
 Resumed its tranquilizing power, 
 
 And hope looked upward from the dust, - 
 
 Our hearts interpreted the law 
 
 Of earthly loss and heavenly gain ; 
 
 And through the lens of faith we saw 
 The covering darkness rent in twain; 
 
 And lo ! the star we called our own, 
 
 Whose loss we mourned with bitter tears. 
 
 Full orbed and clear serenely shone, 
 A light to gladden all our years. 
 
NO HOME. 
 
 We have no Lome. The world is wide — 
 
 The world is beautiful to see. 
 With sunny slopes and valleys fair, 
 And luscious fruits and blossoms rare, 
 And solemn woods, and murmurous streams 
 Whose music, blending with my dream*, 
 
 Is Nature's choral melody — 
 
 Ah ! beautiful are all to me, 
 Dear May, when thou art by my side ! 
 
 Yet neither slope, nor vale, nor tree, 
 Nor pleasant nook, where 'neath the shadows 
 
 Of stately elms a cot peeps out, 
 Nor flowers that glorify the meadows, 
 
 Nor mountain-rill with music-shout, 
 Is mine or thine ; beneath the dome 
 Of God's blue sky, we have no home. 
 
 Tired, when the day is done, I go 
 
 With melancholy steps and slow 
 
 Through the long streets, where, row on row, 
 
 Stretching away for weary miles, 
 
 Are stone and brick and marble piles — 
 
NO HOME. 115 
 
 The stately palaces where Trade 
 Sits regnaDt on his throne of bales, 
 A king whose sovereignty prevails 
 
 Without the cannon's noisy aid ; 
 Or. still beyond, in lengthening lines, 
 Mansions where pale Dyspepsia dines, 
 And Gout grows frantic o'er his wines ; 
 But not a latch springs back for me 
 As if it felt an owner's key, 
 Or heard his " Open Sesame ! " 
 Through street and " Place " I idly roam, 
 And murmur to myself, " Xo home ! " 
 
 O, for some spot to call our own ! 
 
 Some humble roof however lowly, 
 
 AVhere we can say " This place is holy, 
 Because 'tis home, — ours, ours alone 
 From roof-tree to foundation stone." 
 Some garden-close, where grass can grow 
 
 Untrodden by the stranger's foot, 
 And roses shall have leave to blow, 
 
 And strawberry beds to blush with fruit ; 
 And lilacs with their purple blooms, 
 
 The daisy and the violet, 
 
 And heliotrope and mignonnette 
 Sow all the winds with rich perfume ; 
 
 And add to these some two or three 
 
116 NO HOME. 
 
 Exotics, with their crimson flames 
 And unpronounceable sweet names, 
 All " beautiful, exceedingly " — 
 With here and there an apple-tree, 
 Beneath whose shade my gentle May 
 Can watch our children at their play, 
 As happy and as pure as they, 
 And lovelier than the rarest flowers 
 That beautify this home of ours. 
 
 But ah ! I dream — and dreams are vain, 
 
 So wiser men than I aver, 
 And yet these motions of the brain, 
 
 The pulses of my heart can stir, 
 And many a weary hour beguile 
 With visions fair, that reconcile 
 My life to fortune's evil stress, 
 That else would on my spirit press 
 With double weight of loneliness. 
 What matters, though my sole domain, 
 
 Iinparadised 'mid flowers and trees, 
 Is classed with those " Estates " in Spain, 
 
 We call " Intangibilities " ? 
 
 Though May. my beautiful, my own, 
 Whose love interprets to my sense 
 
 All that to mortals can be known 
 Of joy, and peace, and innocence, 
 
NO HOME. 117 
 
 Is only fancy's fond ideal 
 
 With wifehood in the future tense, 
 
 Yet must I deem that dreams like these 
 Come to my soul with ministries 
 Alike beneficent and real, 
 Whose subtle and refining power 
 Endues with strength for trial's hour, 
 And, even 'mid darkness manifold, 
 Sublimes my vision to behold 
 Life's glorious possibilities I 
 
SONG. 
 
 I am lonely, clearest, 
 
 Very sad and lone ! 
 Life is dark without thee, 
 
 And its glory gone ! 
 O'er the shining azure 
 
 Shadows brood and swim, 
 Sits my soul in shadows 
 
 Desolate and dim. 
 
 Though the opening blossoms 
 
 Rain from myriad trees, 
 And divinest odors 
 
 Float upon the breeze — 
 Though the air is vocal 
 
 With the song of birds, 
 Vainly am I pining 
 
 For thy sweeter words. 
 
 Sadly in the gloaming 
 
 Do I sit alone, 
 And my heart converses 
 
 With the dear one gone ! 
 
SONG. 119 
 
 Words of sweetest meanings 
 Linger still with me, 
 
 As my soul, in silence, 
 Goeth forth to thee ! 
 
 Through the holy starlight, 
 
 Through the odorous air, 
 From my heart ascendeth 
 
 Still for thee its prayer ! 
 But that heart is lonely, — 
 
 Thou art far away. 
 And my soul in shadow 
 
 Sitteth night and day ! 
 
NOT MINE. 
 
 Thou art not mine, though to my spirit dearer 
 
 Than all of earth besides : sole cynosure 
 Shining through clouds that nearer gloom and nearer, 
 
 With a most steady brightness, calm and pure ; 
 Piercing the darkness with serenest splendor, 
 
 And o'er my being shedding light divine ; 
 For this the homage of my heart I render, 
 
 While still that heart mourns on — Not mine — 
 not mine ! 
 
 Not mine — not mine ! though never name hath 
 parted 
 My lips so oft as that which thou dost bear ! 
 Thridding the lonely wood-paths, weary-hearted, 
 
 I breathe its music to the listening air. 
 'Tis the pure spirit of my aspirations, 
 
 The one clear note whose sweetness seeing 
 vine, 
 Still sounding on with infinite vibrations, 
 
 And through sad minors of — Not mine — not 
 mine ! 
 
NOT MINE. 121 
 
 Not mine — not mine ! though I have dared to love 
 thee 
 
 With the mad love whose passionate excess 
 Confesses no ideal throned above thee, 
 
 But sees in thee the crown of loveliness ! 
 Ah ! wilder worship ne'er was paid the human, 
 
 N<>r costlier offering laid on beauty's shrine, 
 Than I have given thee, O peerless woman ! 
 
 Fairest and dearest, but — Not mine — not mine ! 
 
 Not mine — not mine ! though all I dream of 
 beauty 
 
 Dwells in the lustrous depth of thy dark eyes, 
 And my wild passion is sublimed to duty, 
 
 That sees in thee all templed sanctities! 
 Vainly, in word?, my full heart seeks expression, 
 
 And pants to mingle its best life with thine ! 
 Vainly it supplicates thy heart's possession, 
 
 And, baffled, murmurs still — Not mine — not mine ! 
 
 Not mine — not mine! O, words of bitter anguish! 
 
 O, pulse of fire to throb through heart and brain ! 
 O, prophet-voice that tells me I must languish 
 
 Still for thy love, and love thee still in vain ! 
 Another heart shall know the priceless blessing 
 
 Which my sad heart forever must resign ; 
 Another lip .-hall taaffi thy lip's caressing. 
 
 And still my moan sound on — Not mine — not 
 mine ! 
 
DESTINY. 
 
 Bid me not cease to love thee ! though all vainly : 
 
 My heart's best gifts are lavished on thy shrine ; 
 Though happiness and hope seem wrecked insanely, 
 
 Since well I know thou never canst be mine ! 
 Yet, dearest, by the heaven that bends above thee, 
 
 By the good angels with their pitying eyes, 
 And by thy soul, bid me not cease to love thee, 
 
 For life must pass ere this wild passion dies. 
 
 My memory yields no word that thou hast spoken, 
 
 No smile of thine hath distance power to dim ; 
 In love's bright chain no single link is broken, 
 
 And still thy name is beauty's synonym : 
 I sleep, and lo ! my dreams are all elysian, 
 
 Filled with thy presence like informing flame ; 
 I wake, and still one beatific vision 
 
 Smiles through the spaces, evermore the same. 
 
 Bid me not cease to love thee ! though I never 
 May hope to win an answering love from thee ; 
 
 Thine, beyond ransom — thine .to-day, forever, 
 Dearer than freedom such sweet bonds to me ; 
 
DESTINY. 123 
 
 The radiant morning and the dewy evening, 
 The solemn night with myriad stars above, 
 
 The infinite sea, the all-embracing heaven, 
 
 With their weird voices bid me still to love ! 
 
 No more I ask thee to return my passion, 
 
 Nor of thy pity aught do I implore ; 
 For hopeless love, sublimed to adoration, 
 
 Lifts the sad soul to heights unknown before, 
 And braids its gloom with sunbeams ! Gloom and 
 glory — 
 
 A troubled joy — a passionate unrest, 
 Why. this is life! — the old pathetic story, 
 
 Through love and joy and sorrow manifest. 
 
AGATHA. 
 
 Were her face as dusk as twilight, 
 
 When the soft September eves 
 Darken slowly in the shadow 
 
 Till the daybeam is no more, 
 I would make her blaze with jewels, 
 
 As the night, when it receives 
 One by one the starry splendors, 
 
 Sprinkling all the heavens o'er : 
 Diamonds from her ebon tresses 
 
 Should outflash their living light ; 
 On her fingers, rubies, sapphires, 
 
 Gems of loveliest hue should gleam ; 
 O, but I would make her glorious 
 
 As the star-encinctured night ! 
 O, but I would make her lovelier 
 
 Than the poet's fondest dream ! 
 
 But her brow is fair as morning 
 When no mists its beauty shroud ; 
 
 And her shining auburn ringlets 
 Like a sun-lit torrent fall 
 
 Down the dainty neck whose whiteness 
 
AGATHA. 125 
 
 Gleaming through a golden cloud, 
 Seems a snow-wreath in the splendor 
 
 That the day flings over all ! 
 O, her eyes were made to worship, 
 
 With their depths of heavenly blue ! 
 O. her mouth was made for kisses, 
 
 With its dewy-luscious lips! 
 And the heaven of her caresses, 
 
 Warm and passionate and true, 
 Fills me with delirious rapture, 
 
 Thrilling to my finger-tips. 
 
 Were her name a mark for slander, 
 
 Hissing out its venomed lies, 
 Till the world, with face averted, 
 
 Smote her with its cruel scorn, 
 J. against a mad world's clamor, 
 
 Would believe those holy eyes, — 
 Mirror of a soul where only 
 
 White and starry thoughts are born ! 
 I would build my faith around her 
 
 Like a fortress of defense, 
 From the malice of the evil. 
 
 From the meanness of the proud ; 
 I would lavish love upon her, 
 
 Self-forgetting and intense, 
 Till the light of joy should BCatter 
 
 From her pathway, every cloud I 
 
126 AGATHA. 
 
 But the evil tongue is palsied 
 
 That would dare to wrong her name ; 
 And for her the lip of cursing 
 
 Can speak nothing but a prayer ; 
 Even envy casts no shadow 
 
 O'er the whiteness of her fame, 
 For the angels guard their sister 
 
 With a proud and loving care! 
 O, I love her for her beauty, 
 
 Brighter than the poet's dreams 
 When elysian splendors haunt him 
 
 And his life is most divine ! 
 O, I love her for her goodness, 
 
 For the gentle soul that seems 
 Kindred with the star-crowned spirits, 
 
 For the pledge that makes her mine! 
 
FORSAKEN. 
 
 I curse thee not, — though thou hast breathed a 
 blight 
 
 Over my life and quenched its joy forever. 
 Henceforth I walk 'rnid shadows of a night 
 
 Whose veil of darkness shall be lifted never. 
 I blame thee not, — though sweet repose was mine 
 
 Till at thy bidding passionate emotion 
 Surged through my heart, which madly leaped to 
 thine 
 
 As to the moon the billows of the ocean. 
 
 There was a witchery in thy very speech, 
 
 That while I listened filled my soul with glad- 
 ness, 
 And its sweet subtleties were skilled to teach 
 
 The bliss of love — I wake to know its madness. 
 Thy words were poison, but I drank them in 
 
 With a delicious joy, so fair their seeming, 
 As, through temptation, step by step, to sin 
 
 They led me on, bewildered in my dreaming. 
 
128 FORSAKEN. 
 
 O wily tempter ! had I guessed that wrong 
 
 Lurked beneath words breathed forth so musically, 
 Then hud the silvery accents of thy tongue 
 
 Been trumpet voices all my fears to rally. 
 So thou the guilt, and I the woe and shame 
 
 Haply had reaped alike : thrice fatal folly ! 
 How with dishonor has it linked my name, 
 
 And made my heart the home of melancholy ! 
 
 Yet I reproach thee not, though thou hast brought 
 
 Despair unto a heart that loved thee oirly ! 
 Go — and forget the ruin thou Jhast wrought, 
 
 The spirit crushed and desolate and lonely ; 
 Smile to thy young wife's smile, and breathe to her 
 
 Love's thrilling words to me so often spoken, 
 And 'mid thy gladness let no thought recur 
 
 To the fond heart thou hast betrayed and broken. 
 
A BIRTH-DAY TRIBUTE. 
 
 (to c. b.) 
 
 Among these heart-gifts is there room for mine ? 
 
 Or may I dare, with stammering utterance, 
 
 Give to weak words the thoughts by thee inspired ? 
 
 If all of best in what I wish for thee, 
 
 If all of grandest in my hope for thee, 
 
 If all of tenderest in my love for thee 
 
 Could be translated into verse of mine, 
 
 Then verse of mine should thus be worthy thee, 
 
 And tell how good the good I ask for thee, 
 
 How grand the hope I dare to hope for thee. 
 
 How reverent the love I keep for thee, 
 
 How childly credent my true faith in thee ; 
 
 And the sweet thought that is its rhythmic soul, 
 
 Wedded to rhythmic words as subtle sweet, 
 
 Should make its music as the chime of stars 
 
 When they all sing together, keeping time 
 
 To the glad shoutings of the sons of God ! 
 
 Vain the desire, the aspiration vain, 
 
 To link the passion of my inmost life, 
 
 The subtlest thoughts that breathe within my soul 
 
 To outward speech ; the faltering syllables 
 
130 A BIRTH-DAY TRIBUTE 
 
 Sink into silence, when they fain would give 
 Expression to the faith so full of thee. 
 No verse can reach the level of thy worth, 
 Nor voice the homage my heart pays to thee, 
 Nor sum the trust that finds response in thee. 
 And growing thus to tenderest reverence, 
 Gives to my soul the seal of sanctity. 
 Let it content me, therefore, that thy heart 
 Can read the wordless mystery of mine ; 
 And, made through love interpreter of love, 
 Know all the sweetness of my thought, 
 And how that thought is vital with my faith, 
 And how that faith says " I believe in thee." 
 
AT THE GOAL. 
 
 I journeyed many a weary mile, 
 
 And when the day was almost past, 
 Beside a cottage-gate I stood 
 And said, " The goal at last ! " 
 
 Bright eyes will flash with brighter beam, 
 
 A voice of music sweeter be" 
 (So my thought shaped itself in words) 
 "To-night, because of -me." 
 
 Up the smooth walk I passed, and heard 
 The faint breeze in the maples stir, 
 
 And the birds singing ; then I stooped 
 To pluck a rose for her. 
 
 The door swung open, and a face 
 
 Beamed welcome ; not the face I sought, 
 
 But sweet and kind withal, yet grave 
 With BOITOW or with thought; 
 
 A face beloved — yet, in its lines, 
 As it came nearer and more near 
 
132 AT TEE GOAL. 
 
 A sad, pathetic, tender look 
 That filled my soul with fear. 
 
 With sudden impulse — u Evelyn — 
 
 Some ill to her ? — speak quick ! " I said 
 
 One word, sobbed out from quivering lips, 
 Came like a death-shot .... "Dead/" 
 
 Sad monosyllable ! .... a breath 
 
 But half-articulate, and heard 
 By the heart rather than the ear — 
 
 What power was in that word ! 
 
 A power to curdle the warm blood 
 
 And press like ice the throbbing brain, 
 
 And send through every fluttering pulse 
 The fiery darts of pain ! 
 
 Mute, motionless, with parted lips, 
 And eyes that stared on vacancy, 
 
 I stood — and felt the ebbing tide 
 That bore all life from me. 
 
 But soon a hand was laid on mine 
 With O, such pity in its press, 
 
 It seemed to win my spirit back 
 From utter desertness : 
 
 
AT THE GOAL. 133 
 
 So, yielding half unconsciously 
 
 To its soft guidance, I was led 
 To the dim chamber where she lay — 
 My beautiful .... my dead! 
 
 Pale flowers grew paler in the hands 
 So meekly folded o'er her breast. 
 
 And all sweet thoughts that stirred her heart 
 Were, with that heart, at rest. 
 
 The soft light of her loving eyes 
 
 Had faded in a drear eclipse, 
 And silence hushed for evermore 
 
 The music of her lips. 
 
 O, very fair beneath her hair, 
 
 Seen through its cloud of clustering goM, 
 Her forehead, like a marble saint's, 
 
 Gleamed beautiful and cold ! 
 
 Yet over all there lingered still 
 
 Some traces of a heavenly light — 
 The gleam, perchance, of angel-wing 
 
 Flung backward from their flight. 
 
 As with the sinless soul they cleft 
 Their luminous pathway to the b1 
 
 While angel-voices filled the air 
 With soir's of Paradise ! 
 
134 AT THE GOAL. 
 
 But our dull ears are slow to hear 
 Aught save the rustle of the pall, 
 
 As through our tears we see decay 
 Steal darkly over all ; 
 
 And visions of the sunless grave, 
 
 With the sad change that there is wrought, 
 
 Taunt us with our mortality, 
 And wed to dust our thought. 
 
 We think not how that dust shall rise 
 To star the sodden grave with flowers. 
 
 Whose grace shall gladden other eyes, 
 As hers hath gladdened ours. 
 
 We think not with what loving care 
 Nature preserves her mystic clews, 
 
 And in a thousand glorious forms 
 Her perished life renews. 
 
 We think not in our selfish woe, 
 
 How, freed from every mortal taint, 
 
 She lives, whom we bewail as dead, 
 Still ours — though crowned a saint ! 
 
 Not lost to us, nor lost to love — 
 A living, conscious, sentient soul, 
 
 Before us passed within the veil, 
 And earlier at the goal. 
 
AT THEZGOAL. 135 
 
 Dear God ! if our wild sobs prevail 
 To drown thy loving voice awhile, 
 
 If through their tears, our eyes catch not 
 The sunlight of thy smile — 
 
 Forgive our atheist grief! and "Peace!' 
 Say, softly, to our passions' strife ; 
 
 Say, gently, " Wrong not death ! 'tis but 
 The vestibule of Life!" 
 
WITHIN THE VEIL. 
 
 I said once: "Dark and cold — 
 Ah ! cold and dark the grave to which we tend, 
 Where lover parts from lover, friend from friend, 
 
 And life's brief tale is told 
 With its pathetic ending — ' Dust to dust ! ' " 
 Now, with a new-born faith and loveful trust — 
 
 I say : " The grave is blest ! 
 O, call it dark no more, since she is laid 
 In its still depths, whose life a sunshine made 
 
 In good deeds manifest, 
 To cheer the gloom of sorrow and despair, 
 And pour its bright beams round her everywhere.' 
 
 She taught us how to live ! 
 Her blameless life, from mean ambitions free, 
 That loved the right it dared to do and be, 
 
 Lessons sublime did give 
 Of a true nobleness — for all that shone 
 Sunlike in saintly souls she made her own! 
 
WlTHINi THE VEIL. 137 
 
 She taught us how to die ! 
 With what a holy joy aside she flung 
 The body's bondage, and exulting sprung 
 
 To immortality ! 
 Who then should fear to tread, as she hath trod, 
 The path through death, that leadeth unto God ! 
 
 O, grave ! a sacred trust 
 To thee is given ! No common ashes sleep 
 Within thy guardian arms ! Sacredly keep 
 
 This consecrated dust, 
 Till, quickened with new life, it shall arise, 
 A glorious body, fitted for the skies ! 
 
THE EARLY DEAD. 
 
 Passed from our sight, within the veil, 
 Still compassed by the Father's care, 
 
 Why should our hearts their loss bewail, 
 And sorrow darken to despair ? 
 
 In the fresh morning of their life, 
 
 While faith and love glowed pure and warm, 
 Called to the guerdon from the strife, 
 
 To the safe haven from the storm — 
 
 They breathe the fragrance of the flowers 
 From the fair groves of Eden shed — 
 
 Still ours, though gone before, still ours 
 Are they we call the Early Dead. 
 
 Beyond the reach of earthly ill, 
 
 They see our grief, yet not condemn ; 
 
 And loving us are conscious still 
 Of all the love we feel for them. 
 
 Not theirs the haunting fear that throws 
 Its shadow o'er our spirits here, 
 
THE EARLY DEAD. 139 
 
 But perfect trust and sweet repose 
 In heaven's unclouded atmosphere. 
 
 Not theirs the bitter sob that speaks, 
 
 The heart that bleeds o'er severed ties, — 
 
 No tear-drops glisten on the cheeks 
 Fanned by the airs of Paradise ! 
 
 Not theirs the weary war with sin. 
 The conflict with temptation's lures ; 
 
 The perfect rest they enter in, 
 
 Like the dear love of God, endures. 
 
 O, better thus than still to know 
 
 The doubts that darken day by day, 
 
 And all the care and grief which throw 
 Their shadows o'er our pilgrim way. 
 
 For they are safe. Our feet may rove, 
 Wide straying from the narrow path — 
 
 They walk in light, upheld by love, 
 Nor power to harm the tempter hath. 
 
 Our hopes may fail, but theirs have found 
 
 Fruition in their home on high ; 
 We still must strive, but they are crowned 
 
 With life and immortality ! 
 
140 THE EARLY DEAD. 
 
 Weep not for them, though few the years 
 Their faltering feet life's pathway trod ; 
 
 Faith whispers, as we dry our tears, 
 
 " The .pure m heart shall dwell with 
 God ! " 
 
THE CHILD ANGEL. 
 
 Lilt-white her skin, 
 
 Violets are her eye9, 
 And their depths within, 
 
 Love, unconscious, lies ; 
 Every ray that beams 
 
 From those orbs of blue, 
 Lights a world of dreams, 
 
 Tender, warm, and true. 
 
 Sweeter than the blooms 
 
 Of the spicy South, 
 Is the breath that comes 
 
 From her rosy mouth ; 
 Never song of birds 
 
 Could delight me so, 
 As her baby word-, 
 
 Murmured soft and low. 
 
 How the love-light plays 
 O'er her forehead fair ! 
 
 I Lav the golden i 
 Glorify her hair ! 
 
142 THE CniLD ANGEL. 
 
 How the dimples small 
 Twinkle round her face ! 
 
 How are fashioned all 
 To the law of grace ! 
 
 When my darling's voice 
 
 With its glad refrain 
 Makes the air rejoice, 
 
 I forget my pain ; 
 When its tender trills 
 
 Speak her love aright, 
 All my spirit thrills 
 
 With a keen delight. 
 
 Life is more divine, 
 
 With a fuller bliss, 
 When her lips to mine 
 
 Press their loving kiss. 
 I can better meet 
 
 Sorrow, pain, and care, 
 When her little feet 
 
 Patter round my chair. 
 
 More can I discern 
 In her guileless looks, 
 
 Better wisdom learn, 
 
 Than from wisest books. 
 
THE CHILD ANGEL. 143 
 
 God! accept my thanks 
 
 For this angel given, 
 Though the shining ranks 
 
 Miss her, up in heaven ! 
 
 
MARY. 
 
 (M. E. £. — SEPTEMBER 28, 1863.) 
 
 Sweetest name that ever crowned a woman, 
 Mingling with it the divine and human — 
 Name with light enhaloed since it won a 
 Sanctifjdng grace from the Madonna ! 
 
 All we know of love's ecstatic sweetness, 
 All we deem of womanhood's completeness, 
 Pities, hopes, and helpful tendernesses, 
 To my heart that simple name expresses. 
 
 And to me 'tis linked with inward beauty, 
 Faith in right and loyalty to duty, 
 Gracious household ways and faithful loving, 
 That rebuke our waywardness and roving. 
 
 So, for these, I shrine the name of Mary 
 In my heart as in a sanctuary — 
 Shrine it there with every pure emotion 
 Born of love, of sorrow, or devotion. 
 
mar r. 145 
 
 Dear for these ; but infinitely dearer 
 For a memory sweeter, sacUler, nearer — 
 All my days with tender twilight shading, 
 Yet with brightness all my soul pervading. 
 
 One to whom that holy name was given 
 Smiles upon me from her home in heaven ; 
 In my hours of quiet and of dreaming, 
 Smiles upon me with an angel seeming. 
 
 O, the treasures of which death bereft us ! 
 
 O, the precious memories God has left us ! 
 
 O, the sorrow in our hearts that dwelleth ! 
 
 O, the joyful faith that there upwelleth ! 
 
 Through our sobs shall break our glad thanksgiv- 
 ing 
 That all life seems holier for her living, 
 And the grave itself the shining portal 
 Through which she passed into the life immortal. 
 
 Home seems hallowed, since her evanescence, 
 By the sacred memory of her presence, 
 Shedding evermore the light of beauty 
 O'er the dark and rugged paths of duty. 
 
 For her life was like a glad evangel 
 With its bright revealings of the angel ; 
 10 
 
146 MARY. 
 
 And her death, with solemnizing sweetness, 
 Gave that life its beautiful completeness. 
 
 Thanks to God ! His tender benediction 
 Calms the tumult of our great affliction, 
 And our eyes, albeit in tearful blindness, 
 Read the record of His loving kindness — 
 
 Pierce, at length, through all the tangled tissues 
 Of our doubts, to life's sublimer issues, 
 Till we learn how all things blend benignly 
 In His plan whose work is wrought divinely. 
 
THE FLOWER-BRINGER. 
 
 A gentle child, within whose sunny eyes 
 
 Twelve summers have bestowed their light, and 
 
 wrought 
 Haply upon her brow some shades of thought — 
 The faint adumbra of that life which lies 
 In the far future with its mysteries ; 
 
 A happy child, amid whose pleasant fancies 
 Rose-hues are braided and the hope-light dances, 
 And o'er them gleams the light of Paradise : 
 Such is the little friend I love so well, 
 My pretty, precious, laughing, loving Belle, 
 Who brings me roses — but herself is fairer, 
 Nor blooms in Nature's bowers a lovelier, rarer. 
 
 I call her Rose, for her surpassing sweetness ; 
 
 ] call her Lily, too, for she is fair, 
 Fragile, and all-unconscious of her meetness 
 
 To be described by loveliest things that are ; 
 I call her Bird, for words drop musically 
 
 From her red lips in sweetest modulations ; 
 
 I call her Angel, for her ministrations 
 Are pure, unselfish, loveful : every sally 
 
148 THE FL0WER-BR1NGER. 
 
 Of her bright spirit make us feel its nearness 
 
 To all we know of Heaven — its love, its clearness 
 
 From taint of sin or sorrow. 
 
 Yet my fancy 
 No single grace of girlhood's necromancy 
 Takes for the names it gives ; but, best of all, 
 
 I love my Flower, my Angel, that the Human 
 Looks tenderly from out her large brown eyes, 
 With hopes and fears and half-dreamed prophecies 
 
 Of cares and sorrows that await the woman, — 
 Her heritage, priests tell us, since the Fall. 
 
 O, dearest child ! so nestled to my heart, 
 
 Whose strongest tendrils have around thee grown ! 
 Not mine, yet loved as fathers love their own ! 
 My sweet Flower- Angel ! thy unconscious art 
 Hath lured my soul, for many an hour, from sad- 
 ness — 
 Hath filled my soul, for many an hour, with glad- 
 ness ! 
 Therefore I bless thee I and, that thou art good, 
 And that thy heart with kind thoughts overflow 
 eth, 
 And that for love I owe thee gratitude, 
 
 And that I love thee, child, as my verse show- 
 eth, 
 I weave my blessing in this rhyme for thee ! 
 And so — farewell ! 
 
THE FLOWER-BRINGER. 149 
 
 Whate'er my future be, 
 Or dark, or bright, I shall not soon forget 
 
 The innocent love that cheered me in the hours 
 That else had been too sad — the gifts of flow- 
 ers 
 Brought by thy bonnie hand, my dove-eyed pet ! 
 For, though the roses fade, not thus shall part 
 The fragrance of thy kindness from my heart. 
 
THE OLD. 
 
 Give me old songs — though rude and bold, 
 
 Yet sparkling with the purest gold ; 
 
 Such as were syllabled in fire 
 
 When " rare Ben Jonson " swept the lyre ; 
 
 And touches of his master-hand 
 
 Went vibrating through all the land, 
 
 © © 7 
 
 And found in every heart a tone 
 That seemed an echo of its own. 
 
 Give me old books — the tomes where mind 
 Its choicest treasures hath enshrined, 
 Rich with the thoughts of buried seers 
 Whose genius glorified their years ; 
 Old books, well-thumbed and vellum-bound, 
 The wise, the witty, the profound, 
 Whose stained and ample pages hold 
 A rarer wealth than gems or gold. 
 
 Give me old paths — though few the blooms 
 That drug the senses with perfumes, 
 And few the siren-notes that keep 
 A chime to steps that climb the steep ; 
 
TIIE OLD. 151 
 
 Old paths, though rugged, brightening still 
 "With golden gleams from Ziou's Hill — 
 By patriarchs and prophets trod, 
 And leading to the mount of God ! 
 
 Give me old friends — the tried of years, 
 Whose soul is in their smiles and tears ; 
 Though rough of speech, and void of art, 
 Yet frank and bold and leal of heart ; 
 With steady faith and soul serene, 
 Scorning the hollow, false, and mean ; 
 With open brow and honest eye, — 
 Their patent of uobility. 
 
 Then, in some mansion old and grim, 
 Embowered by woods whose twilight dim 
 Hallows the noonday, let me bide, 
 The ebb of life's tumultuous tide ; 
 My passions hushed in deep repose, 
 P^orget ambition and its woes ; 
 In calmness wait, till Death enfold 
 A heart that's weary, worn, and old. 
 
LILIAN. 
 
 My little maiden Lilian, 
 
 Her blue eyes filled with tender light, 
 Just now, adown the garden path, 
 
 Went flashing like a sprite ; 
 
 And something in the words she said, 
 And something in her pleasant smile, 
 
 Flooded my soul with happy thoughts 
 That linger yet awhile. 
 
 A winsome lass is Lilian, 
 
 And beautiful of form and face, 
 
 And all the motions of her limbs 
 Obey the law of grace. 
 
 Her eyes, that change from blue to gray, 
 As tides of feeling sink or swell, 
 
 Are full of gentle loves and joys, 
 Such as with childhood dwell ; 
 
 And yet, at times, within their depths, 
 A shadow, half-defined, appears, 
 
LILIAN. 153 
 
 As if the prescient soul had caught 
 A glimpse of darker years. 
 
 The sunlight, like a prisoner, lies 
 
 Tangled amid her golden hair, 
 And, rippling from sweet lips, her voice 
 
 Makes musical the air. 
 
 She sings beside the singing streams 
 With sweeter cadences than they ; 
 
 And gives the blackbird, for his song, 
 A wilder roundelay. 
 
 She knows the violets' secret haunts, 
 
 Where, from cleft rocks, their starry eyes 
 
 Look up, as if to catch from hers 
 The blue of lovelier skies — 
 
 And where, from man's intrusive gaze, 
 
 Hide the pale wood anemones, 
 And nameless blooms, as fair as they, 
 
 Beneatli the ancient trees. 
 
 " Though God's dear love," she says, " is shown 
 In shining sun and falling showers, 
 I think He puts, for little folks, 
 His sweetest thoughts in flowers.*' 
 
154 LILIAN. 
 
 And she is right ! her teachers they, 
 That tell her evermore of Him ; 
 
 And temple, priest, and choir, for her 
 Are in the wood-paths dim. 
 
 And so, from Nature's soul to hers 
 Flow inspirations undefiled, 
 
 And id a world of happy thoughts 
 She lives, a happy child. 
 
THE LITTLE GIRL'S SOXG. 
 
 I've a darling little Dolly, and her eyes are black 
 as sloes ; 
 She lounges on the sofa night and day, 
 And never cares a baubee for the mending of her 
 clo'es, 
 Nor quarrels with the children at their play. 
 O, my bonnie Dolly May, 
 How I love you all the day ! 
 How I prattle to, and kiss you ! — none the less, 
 That I can but feel the lack 
 When you never kiss me back, 
 Nor caressingly return my caress. 
 
 Though my Dolly is a beauty, she is neither proud 
 nor vain ; 
 Will never like Miss Shallow, put on airs ; 
 But a quiet little lady she will evermore remain, 
 Undisturbed by our troubles and our cares. 
 O, my darling Dolly May 
 Is the sharer of my play, 
 
156 THE LITTLE GIRVS SONG. 
 
 And her eyes seem to watch me as they roll, 
 
 Like a living baby's eyes, 
 
 With a questioning surprise, 
 Till it seems as if Dolly had a soul. 
 
 She's older than her mamma — funny, isn't it ? — 
 and queer? 
 But she never disobeys me, though 'tis so ; 
 Nor pouts while I reprove her, nor squeezes out a 
 tear 
 With her knuckles, like some little girls you 
 know. 
 
 O, my pretty Dolly May ! 
 I shall sorrow for the day 
 When the fancies of my childhood all are o'er, 
 And the older people say, 
 " O, fie ! you mustn't play, 
 Such a lady ! with your Dolly any more ! " 
 
MARRIED. 
 
 Ocr beautiful Maggie was married to-day — 
 Beautiful Maggie, with soft, brown hair, 
 Whose shadows fall o'er a face as fair 
 
 As the suowy blooms of the early May ; 
 
 We have kissed her lips and sent her away, 
 With many a blessing and many a prayer, 
 
 The pet of our house who was married to-day. 
 
 The sunshine is gone from the old south room. 
 
 Where she sat through the long, bright summer 
 hours ; 
 
 And the odor is gone from the window flowers, 
 And something is lost of their delicate bloom ; 
 And a shadow creeps over the house with its gloom 
 
 A shadow that over our Paradise lowers, 
 For we see her no more in the old south room. 
 
 I thought that the song of the robin, this eve, 
 Afl he sang to his mate on the sycamore tree, 
 Hud minors of sadness to temper its glee, 
 As if he for the loss of our darling did grieve, 
 And asked, 4 * Where is Maggie ? " and, u Why did 
 she leave ? 
 
158 MARRIED. 
 
 The maiden who caroled sweet duets with me ? ' 
 For she mocked not the song of the robin this eve. 
 
 The pictures seem dim where they hang on the 
 wall : 
 Though they cost but a trifle, they always looked 
 
 fair, 
 Whether lamplight or sunlight illumined them 
 there ; 
 I think 'twas her presence that brightened them all : 
 Since Maggie no longer can come to our call, 
 
 With her eyes full of laughter, unshadowed by 
 care, 
 The pictures seem dim where they hang on the 
 wall. 
 
 I lounge through the garden — I stand by the 
 gate; 
 She stood there to meet me last eve, at this 
 
 hour, m 
 
 Every eve, through the summer, in sunshine or 
 shower, 
 Just stood by the postern my coming to wait, 
 Dear Maggie, her heart with its welcome elate, 
 
 To give me a smile, and a kiss, and a flower : 
 Ah ! when will she greet me again by the gate ? 
 
MARRIED. 159 
 
 She loved us and left u^ ; she loves, and is gone 
 With the one she loves best, as his beautiful 
 
 bride ! 
 How fondly he called her his joy and his pride, 
 Our joy and our pride, whom he claims as his own ! 
 But can he, like us, prize the heart he has won — 
 The heart that now trustingly throbs by his side ? 
 God knows ! and we know that — she loves, and is 
 gone ! 
 
POSSESSION. 
 
 The sweetest word that ever was heard — 
 
 From the sweetest lips the sweetest word 
 
 Has brimmed my heart to its overflow 
 
 With a bliss as pure as the angels know ; 
 
 And my soul, so long bowed sadly down, 
 
 Assumes the sceptre and the crown, 
 
 And rises up with a regal will ! 
 
 O, fateful word ! my life to fill 
 
 With a larger life and more divine ; 
 
 For it makes me hers and it makes her mine, 
 
 And brings again to our unsealed eyes 
 
 The beauty and glory of Paradise ! 
 
 The earth so fair seems fairer far, 
 
 And a holier light have sun and star ; 
 
 The blue of the sky is more divine, 
 
 And a deeper music is in the pine ; 
 
 The wave that breaks on the pebbly shore 
 
 Hath a murmur of love ne'er heard before, 
 
 And the brooks laugh out with a merrier glee 
 
 As they flash through the valleys away to the 
 
 sea — 
 For Nature feels to the inmost core 
 
POSSESSION. 161 
 
 Of her great warm heart the joy that thrills 
 Through the life that love with its new life fills, 
 Since she, the lass of the golden tress, 
 Wearing the crown of her loveliness, 
 My beautiful Bess, my "good queen Bess," 
 Hath spoken the word that makes her more — 
 That makes her dearer than ever before ; 
 That makes her mine to love and adore 
 For ever and ever and evermore I 
 
 What a glow of light on the grasses lay ; 
 
 What music stirred in the tasseled corn ; 
 What fragrance breathed from the new-mown hay, 
 
 As over the fields I passed at morn ! 
 The birds were as merry as birds could be, 
 As they sung and flew from tree to tree ; 
 I am sure their songs were meant for me, 
 For they must have seen, with a glad surprise, 
 The soft love-light that brimmed mine eyes, 
 And the new-born bliss within my soul : 
 For its depths were stirred by a single word 
 From faltering lips half-guessed, half-heard, 
 And a gush of joy beyond control, 
 A keen, sharp joy that half seemed pain, 
 With its sudden light filled all my brain 
 (I think 'twill never be dark again), 
 As a hand dropt, trembling, into mine, 
 And a sweet, low voice ju-t murmured — " Thine ! " 
 11 
 
YOU AND I. 
 
 You and I — You and 1 1 
 The words go chiming through my brain, 
 I murmur them over and over Rgain ; 
 I murmur them softly, I scarce know why, 
 When only the angels who love me hear, 
 And the dearest angel of all seems near, 
 With her luminous eyes looking love into mine — 
 With her large, dark eyes, whose depths divine 
 Are filled to the brim with tendernesses ; 
 And my brow, where the hot blood throbs and 
 
 Partly with thought and partly with pain, 
 
 To an unseen hand's unseen caresses 
 
 Yields, for an hour, its fever heats. 
 
 And wears the smooth front of its childhood again. 
 
 You and I — You and I ! 
 What if either of us should die ? 
 Could the hearts that have loved so tenderly 
 Be severed by death ? Not so — not so ! 
 My soul leans out from its house of clay 
 When the breeze that has fanned your cheek goes 
 
 by, 
 
 

 YOU AND I. 163 
 
 And says, u She is near ! I feel the touch 
 Of her lip to mine ! of her hand, at play 
 With my hair, as it did when, long ago, 
 We sat in the hush of summer eves, 
 Saying but little, yet loving much. 
 And believing all that love believes." 
 And so I know, whatever may list, 
 Our souls shall keep their holy tryst 
 Through all the years of the life to be ; 
 They shall meet and clasp and intertwine. 
 And quaff of Love's delicious wine, 
 Till, filled and thrilled with a bliss divine, 
 They float, like halcyons, over the sea 
 That laves thy shores, Eternity ! 
 Keeping their tryst whatever may list, 
 Through all the years of the life to be. 
 
 You and I — You and I ! 
 We have drank of the cup which Joy hath blessed, 
 And Youth hath brimmed to its overflow ; 
 And a sterner hand to our lips hath pressed 
 The bitter sacrament of woe ! 
 Yet, whether the sunshine bright and warm, 
 Or the gelid breath of the winter storm. 
 Be over our path and in our sky, 
 One thing, whatever is false beside, 
 My soul accepts as a verity : 
 Though youth, with its lustihood and pride, 
 
164 YOU AND I. 
 
 And the stern ambitions of life's full prime, 
 
 And the greeds which delve and the hopes which 
 
 climb, 
 Shall fail, and the life-tide, ebbing low, 
 Come back no more with its vital flow — 
 Yet Love still shapes our destiny, 
 Love reigns o'er all triumphantly, 
 Love lives through all immortally, 
 Love is its own eternity, 
 And we are Love's, and cannot die ! 
 
J3ESSIE. 
 
 She lay before me in her little shroud, 
 
 Her pale hands softly folded on her breast, 
 As if, o'erwearied, she had sunk to rest 
 
 To dream of heaven, and of the radiant crowd 
 That tread its golden pavements. Not a trace 
 Of dying anguish lingered on her face ; 
 
 But round her lips a sweetly serious smile 
 Still seemed to play, a token from the Lord 
 Of bliss upon her sinless spirit poured. 
 
 Then came a thought of Him who blessed erewhik* 
 Young children — " Suffer them to come to me ! " 
 
 Still thrilled that heavenly voice upon my ear, 
 
 And my heart answered, as I dropt a tear, 
 
 " Thy will be done ! — we leave our child with 
 Thee ! ■ 
 
 ii. 
 
 As fragrant as the summer flowers 
 
 With the June sunshine in their heart, 
 
 Was the young life, entwined with ours, 
 And seeming of our souls a part. 
 
166 BESSIE. 
 
 No tenderer joy could mortals know 
 
 Than that with which we hailed her birth ; 
 
 No sadder sacrament of woe, 
 
 When pale lips faltered " Earth to earth ! " 
 
 The sunlight in her golden hair, 
 
 The love-light in her laughing eye — 
 
 We had no thought that aught so fair 
 Could in its dawning beauty die. 
 
 And as we marked each budding grace 
 
 Unfolding sweetly, day by day, 
 In added charms of form and face, 
 
 We dreamed not of their swift decay. 
 
 But said, " This child, so lovely now, 
 Will be yet lovelier in our sight ! " 
 
 And Hope wove garlands for her brow, 
 And crowned her queen of all delight. 
 
 Ah, mournful change ! the life so full 
 Of promise from our gaze has fled, 
 
 And earth is dark and drear and dull, 
 Since she who made our joy is dead. 
 
 Dead! ere her third brief summer's close: 
 Dead ! while its flowers by thousands bloom ; 
 
 And every gentle wind that blows 
 Scatters their petals o'er her tomb ! 
 
BESS J E, 167 
 
 Vainly we wait to hear once more 
 The bird-like music of her voice ; 
 
 Her light step, dancing o'er the floor, 
 That made our very hearts rejoice ; 
 
 Vainly, to catch Tier joyous smile, 
 
 The bright gleam of her sunny hair ; 
 
 The happy light that shone, erewhile, 
 In eyes that blessed us unaware ; 
 
 Vainly, to feel her white arms twine 
 Around us with their loving stress, 
 
 And kisses from her infantine 
 
 Sweet lips on ours, like roses, press. 
 
 O, heavy grief! whose palsying touch 
 Shatters the hopes that seemed so fair ! 
 
 O, hungry grave ! that claims so much 
 Of love's best treasures, sweet and rare ! 
 
 Alas ! our tears have made us blind, 
 
 And so amid the dark we grope, 
 "While God is infinitely kind, 
 
 And blesses us beyond our hope. 
 
 Look up, sad heart, for lo, the child 
 
 So loved, so mourned, has found her rest ! 
 
 A spirit pure and undefiled, 
 
 Safe sheltered on the Father's breast ] 
 
THRENODY. 
 
 Never more shall mother-breast 
 Be the pillow of thy rest ; 
 Never more thy laughing eye 
 To the mother's glance reply ; 
 Nor the lisping, loving word 
 From thy baby-lips be heard ; 
 Nor thy thousand little wiles 
 Kindle all her face with smiles. 
 
 From the shelter of her breast 
 Thou hast gone to deeper rest ; 
 Sunny eye and laughing lips 
 Darkly sleep in death's eclipse ; 
 And the grave's cold shadow now 
 Veils the whiteness of thy brow, 
 While thy mother, night and morn, 
 Sorrows for her latest born. 
 
 Yet I ween 'tis well with thee, 
 Early from thy thralldom free, 
 Ere thine eye had caught a glance 
 Of our sad inheritance ; 
 
THRENODY. 169 
 
 Or thine ear had learned to know 
 .All the dialect of woe ; 
 Or the light thy soul within 
 Faded in the murk of sin. 
 
 "While the music of the spheres 
 Trembled on thine infant ears, 
 And the angels made thy dreams 
 Luminous with Eden-gleams, 
 Death — himself an angel — came, 
 Tenderly he touched thy frame, 
 And thy spirit from its clay 
 Leapt exultingly away ! 
 
 Now, amid the ransomed throng, 
 Overflow thy lips with song ; 
 Never did so sweet a note 
 Cleave the air from mortal throat ; 
 Never heard the ear of Time 
 Strains so holy and sublime, 
 All whose tender minors tell 
 Of a bliss ineffable. 
 
 Is it losing, to have given 
 One to swell the song$ of heaven, 
 Ere his happy spirit knew 
 Aught to stain its virgin hue? 
 
170 THRENODY. 
 
 Henceforth to our spirit-sight 
 Shall that world be doubly bright, 
 And intenser longings burn 
 In our hearts, till we, in turn, 
 Chastened, sanctified, and blest, 
 Pass serenely to its rest I 
 
BIRTHDAY SONG. 
 
 Katrina ! feel you not with me 
 Our years are hurrying on, 
 
 And that tlie sparkle of life's cup 
 
 For evermore is gone ? 
 Already hath the share of Time 
 
 Harked deeply on my brow 
 The furrow that too plainly tells 
 
 That youth is over now. 
 My locks, which once were darkly brown, 
 
 Grow grisly now and thin ; 
 Old Age comes stealthily along — 
 
 The thievish manikin ! — 
 And in my face he shakes his paw 
 
 As he is gliding by, 
 And snatches with his felon-hand 
 
 The lustre from my eye ! 
 
 The honey-moon of life is past — 
 
 Our days of fun are over — 
 We may not tread the dance again, 
 
 The loved one and the lover .' 
 
172 BIRTHDAY SONG. 
 
 So, soberly and quietly 
 
 We'll spend the autumn hours, 
 
 Nor sigh that we have left behind 
 Life's spring-time and its flowers. 
 
 The blossoms failed us long ago, 
 
 The leaves are waxing sere ; 
 But golden fruits are in their place 
 
 To crown the waning year. 
 And though the flush and glow of life 
 
 With youthful dreams depart, 
 Love, ripened by the waning years, 
 
 Glows deathless in the heart. 
 
WITH NATURE. 
 
 NATURE'S WORSHIP. 
 
 Deem it not an idle thought 
 From the dreaming fancy wrought, 
 That the great Creative Soul 
 Thrills through the created whole, 
 And that conscious Nature gives 
 To the Life in which she lives 
 Tribute meet of praise and prayer, 
 Evermore and everywhere ! 
 
 Day to day doth utter speech, 
 Night to night her lore doth teach ; 
 And their voices manifold 
 Over farthest space are rolled : 
 Mingling in the Upper Calm, 
 Lo ! they form a solemn psalm, 
 And their music sweet and clear 
 Fills, like light, our atmosphere. 
 
174 NATURE'S WORSHIP. 
 
 Earth nor mountain hath, nor glen, 
 Solitude, nor haunt of men, 
 Flowery knoll, nor sterile sod, 
 But is conscious of its God! 
 And in springing blade or brake, 
 Or the sand grain's curious make, 
 Or the dark mould, testifies 
 " He is good as He is wise ! " 
 
 Every flower that from its cup 
 Sendeth sweetest incense up, 
 Every shrub where hum the bees 
 Their day-long monotonies, 
 Every leaf whose tender green 
 Silvers in the shimmering sheen. 
 Every blade of dewy grass 
 Trembling as the breezes pass — 
 
 Every gentle wind that plays 
 With the tassels of the maize, 
 Or along the billowy plaiu 
 Rolls the waves of golden grain ; 
 Every bird that soars and sings, 
 Shaking from its quivering wings 
 Drops of such melodious rain 
 Who has heard would hear again — 
 
NATURE'S WORSHIP. 
 
 Every insect of to-day 
 Buzzing its brief life away, 
 Born with the ascending sun, 
 Dying ere the day is done, 
 Tells of God, and joins its hymn 
 "With the chants of Seraphim, 
 As they cry His throne before, 
 u Holy ! Holy ! evermore ! " 
 
 Other sounds are blent with these 
 In divinest harmonies, 
 Till the air that round us floats 
 Quivers with their rhythmic notes ! 
 Through the spaces, near and far, 
 Sweeping on from star to star 
 Is the glorious anthem sent 
 To the farthest firmament ! 
 
 In the old primeval woods 
 
 With their holy solitudes ; 
 
 On the mount's untrodden crest 
 
 "Where the snows of centuries rest ; 
 
 In the farthermost recess 
 
 Of the tangled wilderness, 
 
 Still from Nature's heart are poured 
 
 Praises to the Sovereign Lord ! 
 
176 NATURE'S WORSHIP. 
 
 Where the silver-footed rills 
 Laugh and babble down the hills ; 
 Where the river's statelier sweep 
 Bears its tribute to the deep ; 
 Where, in tempest or in calm, 
 Ocean intonates his psalm, 
 Ceaseless worship Nature gives 
 To the life in which she lives ! 
 
 Soul of man, awake ! aspire ! 
 Join the myriad- voiced choir; 
 Let thy hymns of praise combine 
 With the anthem all divine ; 
 With ascriptions pure and sweet 
 Make the melody complete, 
 And the glorious strain prolong 
 With the spirit's crowning song! 
 
SONNET. 
 
 A dreamt whisper from the sweet southwest, 
 Borne on the just-awakened zephyr's wing, 
 Comes to the ear with stories of the Spring, 
 
 And hids the heart in her return be blest. 
 
 Joy to the earth ! for Spring with breeze and 
 
 song, 
 Leaflet and bud, comes jocundly along. 
 
 While in her breath the trees are blossoming. 
 And see ! the greenness of the tender grass 
 Where her light footstep airily doth pass ; 
 
 The clear-voiced birds, and streams, and fountains 
 sing 
 A woven melody to greet her coming, 
 And voices low and musical are humming 
 
 A song of welcome ; and the earth rejoices, 
 
 And praises God with manifold glad voices. 
 12 
 
SPRING. 
 
 The sweet south wind, so long 
 Sleeping in other climes, on sunny seas, 
 Or dallying gayly with the orange-trees 
 
 In the bright land of song, 
 Wakes unto us, and laughingly sweeps by, 
 Like a glad spirit of the sunlit sky. 
 
 The laborer at his toil 
 Feels on his cheek its dewy kiss, and lifts 
 His open brow to catch its fragrant gifts — 
 
 The aromatic spoil 
 Borne from the blossoming gardens of the south - 
 While its faint sweetness lingers round his mouth. 
 
 The bursting buds look up 
 To greet the sunlight, while it lingers yet 
 On the warm hill-side ; and the violet 
 
 Opens its azure cup 
 Meekly, and countless wild flowers wake to fling 
 Their earliest incense on the gales of Spring. 
 
SPRING. 179 
 
 The farmer, in his field, 
 Draws the rich mould around the tender maize ; 
 While Hope, bright-pinioned, points to coming days, 
 
 When all his toil shall yield 
 An \ample harvest, and around his hearth 
 There shall be laughing eyes and tones of mirth. 
 
 The reptile that hath lain 
 Torpid so long within his wintry tomb, 
 Pierces the mould, ascending from its gloom 
 
 Up to the light again ; 
 And the lithe snake crawls forth from caverns chill, 
 To bask as erst upon the sunny hill. 
 
 Continual song3 arise 
 From universal Nature ; birds and streams 
 Mingle their voices, and the glad earth seems 
 
 A second Paradise ! 
 Thrice blessed Spring ! thou bearest gifts divine ! 
 Sunshine, and song, and fragrance, all are thine. 
 
 Nor unto earth alone — 
 Thou hast a blessing for the human heart, 
 Balm for its wounds and healing for its smart, 
 
 Telling of Winter flown, 
 And bringing hope upon thy rainbow wing, 
 Type of eternal life, thrice-blessed Spring ! 
 
SUGAR BROOK. 
 
 [a memory of boyhood.] 
 
 It ran through the green old meadows 
 
 Where we as children played, 
 "With a shimmering gleam in the sunlight, 
 
 A gloom in the dappled shade ; 
 And under the rippling waters 
 
 Did the smooth, white pebbles look 
 Like lumps of crystal sugar, 
 
 So we called it " Sugar Brook." 
 
 In the overhanging beeche9 
 
 The robin and bobolink 
 Sang all the summer morning 
 
 To the kine that came to drink; 
 And the brook with a drowsy murmur 
 
 Sent forth its answering tune 
 To the bees in the nodding clover 
 
 Through the still, bright days of June. 
 
 There I went to fill my runlet 
 
 From the spring beneath the birch, 
 
 Or to wile, with a pin-made fish-hook 
 From its depths, the shining perch ; 
 
SUGAR BROOK. 181 
 
 And I thought — 'twas a childish fancv — 
 
 That never was brook so fair, 
 And never such musical song-birds 
 
 As saug from the beeches there. 
 
 There I forded the cryskil shallows 
 
 With trousers rolled up from my legs, 
 Or foraged the clumps of alder 
 
 For the blackbirds' speckled eggs ; 
 And Nature, the dear old mother, 
 
 Stole silently into my heart, 
 And the beautiful lore she taught me 
 
 Is still of my life a part. 
 
•MAY. 
 
 The sweet, voluptuous May 
 Is here at length, through all its sunny hours 
 Over the grateful earth to sprinkle flowers 
 
 In beautiful array, 
 And clothe with deeper verdure hill and plain, 
 And give the woods their glory back again. 
 
 No bird whose swelling throat 
 Quivers with song, or whose extended wing 
 Fans the soft air, but cheerlier doth sing, 
 
 While on the breezes float 
 Odors from blossoms which the sun's caress 
 "Wakes to new life in field and wilderness. 
 
 The shimmering sunlight falls 
 On mount and valley with a softer sheen ; 
 And lo ! the orchards, newly clothed with green 
 
 Lift up their coronals 
 Of flowers bright-hued, or, shaken by the breeze, 
 Rain their sweet largess from a thousand trees. 
 
MAT. 183 
 
 The green and tender maize 
 Pierces the moistened mould, and from the air, 
 And earth, and sunlight gathers strength to dare 
 
 The sultry summer days ; 
 And Spring's sweet promise of autumnal fruit 
 Lives in the blade of every fragile shoot. 
 
 Out underneath the sky, 
 Where the free winds may toss their sunny curls, 
 Frolic glad companies of boys and girls 
 
 In sinless revelry ; 
 While Nature smiles approving on their play, 
 And lambs and birds with them keep holiday. 
 
 All gentle things rejoice 
 In the new life and beauty round them spread, 
 Green earth beneath, the blue sky overhead, 
 
 And with exultant voice 
 Pour their thanksgiving to the Lord of all, 
 Whose loving care notes even the sparrow's fall. 
 
 Then welcome, bonny May ! 
 Thy breezes, fragrant with the breath of flowers, 
 With song and sheen that make thy laughing hours 
 
 The glad year's holiday ! 
 With grateful hearts thy presence do we bless, 
 And in thy gifts rejoice with thankfulness. 
 
JUNE. 
 
 June with its roses ! June ! 
 The gladdest month of our capricious year, 
 With its lush greenery and its sunlight clear, 
 
 And the low murmurous tune 
 Of brook and fountain, as their waters pass 
 With gleam and gurgle through the springing 
 grass. 
 
 June ! at whose joyous birth 
 Her regal robes exultant Earth puts on, 
 While all her voices speak a benison 
 
 And send their welcomes forth, 
 A wondrous music breathed from all around, 
 Till the air pulses with the rhythmic sound. 
 
 The overarching sky 
 Puts on a softer tint, a lovelier blue, 
 As if the inner glory melted through 
 
 The sapphire walls on high ; 
 And with the sunshine folded in their breast, 
 Float the white clouds, like spirits to their rest. 
 
JUNE. 185 
 
 A deeper melody, 
 Poured by the birds as o'er their callow young 
 Watchful they hover, to the breeze is flung, 
 
 Gladsome, yet not of glee ; 
 A heart born music, such as mothers sing 
 Above their cradled infants slumbering. 
 
 On the warm hill-side, where 
 The -sunlight lingers latest, through the grass 
 Blushes the >-trawberry, tempting all who pass ; 
 
 And children linger there, 
 Crushing the luscious fruit in playful mood, 
 And staining their bright faces with its blood. 
 
 A deeper, ruddier hue 
 Comes to the ripening cherry, day by day, 
 As soft airs kiss it, and the sun's warm ray 
 
 Fills it with life anew; 
 While truant school-boys look with longing eyes. 
 And peril limb and neck to win the prize. 
 
 The former in his field 
 Draws the rich mould around the tender maize, 
 While Hope sings softly, " After many days 
 
 Thy toil its fruit shall yield 
 In ample harvests, and around thy hearth 
 Shall Peace and Plenty sit, with Love and Mirth." 
 
186 JUNE. 
 
 Poised on his rainbow wing, 
 The butterfly, whose life is but an hour, 
 Hovers coquettishly from flower to flower, 
 
 A restless, happy thing, 
 Born for the sunshine and the summer's day, 
 And with the sunshine passing soon away. 
 
 These are thy pictures, June! 
 Brightest of summer months ! thou month of flow- 
 ers ! 
 First-born of beauty ! whose swift-footed hours 
 
 Dance to the merry tune 
 Of birds and brooklets, and the joyous shout 
 Of childhood on the sunny hills flung out. 
 
 Surely, it is not wrong 
 To deem thou art the type of heaven's clime — 
 Only that there the clouds and storms of time 
 
 Sweep not its skies along ; 
 The flowers, air, beauty, music, all are thine, 
 But brighter, purer, lovelier, more divine ! 
 
THE SONG OF THE MOWERS. 
 
 We are up and away, ere the sunrise hath kissed, 
 
 In the valley below us, that ocean of mist ; 
 
 Ere the tops of the hills have grown bright in its 
 
 ray, 
 With our scythes on our shoulders, we're up and 
 
 away! 
 
 The freshness and beauty of morning are ours, 
 The music of birds, and the fragrance of flowers ; 
 And our trail is the first that is seen in the dew, 
 As our pathway through orchards and lanes we 
 pursue. 
 
 The helmeted clover, in serried array, 
 Like a host for the battle, awaits us to-day ; 
 Like a host overthrown, rank by rank, shall it lie 
 Ere the heats of the noontide are poured from 
 the sky. 
 
 Hurrah ! here we are ! now together, as one, 
 Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily 
 on; 
 
188 THE SONG OF THE MOWERS. 
 
 All together, as one, o'er "the stubble we pass, 
 With a swing and a ring of the steel tli rough the 
 grass. 
 
 Before us the clover stands thickly and tall, 
 
 At our left it is piled in a verdurous wall ; 
 
 And never breathed monarch more fragrant per- 
 fumes 
 
 Than the sunshine distills from its leaves and its 
 blooms. 
 
 Invisible censers around us are swung, 
 And anthems exultant from tree-tops are flung ; 
 And 'mid fragrance and music and beauty we share 
 The jubilant life of the earth and the air. 
 
 Let the priest and the lawyer grow pale in their 
 
 shades, 
 And the slender young clerk keep his skin like a 
 
 maid's ; 
 We care not, though dear mother Nature may 
 
 bronze 
 Our cheeks with the kiss which she gives to her sons. 
 
 Then cheerly, boys, cheerly ! together, as one, 
 Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily on ; 
 All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass, 
 With a swing and a ring of the steel through the 
 grass. 
 
SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 How brightly on the hill-side sleeps 
 
 The sunlight with its quickening rays! 
 The verdurous trees that crown the steeps, 
 
 Grow greener in its shimmering blaze ; 
 "While nil the air that round us floats, 
 
 With subtile wing, breathes only life, 
 And, ringing with a thousand notes, 
 
 The woods with song are rife. 
 
 "Why, this is Nature's holiday ! 
 She puts her gayest mantle on ; 
 And, sparkling o'er their pebbly way, 
 
 "With gladder shout the brooklets run ; 
 And every bird, exulting, gives 
 
 A sweeter cadence to its song ; 
 A gladder life the insect lives 
 
 That floats in light along. 
 
 M The cattle on a thousand hills," 
 The fleecy flocks that dot the vale, 
 
 Rejoice in all the life that fills 
 
 The air, and breathes in every gale. 
 
190 SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 And who, that has a heart and eye, 
 
 To feel the bliss and drink it in, 
 But pants, for scenes like these to fly 
 
 The city's smoke and din — 
 
 A sweet companionship to hold 
 
 With Nature in her forest-bowers, 
 And learn the gentle lessons told 
 
 By singing birds and opening flowers ? 
 Nor do they err who love her lore ; 
 
 Though books have power to stir my heart, 
 Yet Nature's varied page can more 
 
 And deeper joy impart. 
 
 No selfish joy : if duty calls 
 
 Not sullenly I turn from these, 
 Though dear the dash of waterfalls, 
 
 The wind's low voice among the trees, 
 Birds, flowers, and flocks ; for God hath taught, 
 
 (O, keep, my heart ! the lesson still,) 
 His soul alone with bliss is fraught 
 
 Who heeds the Father's will! 
 
NOON IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 The hot sun, from his noontide altitude, 
 
 Looks on the fainting earth with burning eye, 
 And the still lakes reflect a brazen sky- 
 On which no cloud its shadow dare intrude. 
 Droops the frail herbage in the fiery glare, 
 Asking in vain for moisture ; and the maize 
 Rolls its lithe leaves together, as the blaze 
 Of noon pours down, heating the sluggish air, 
 And hushing the tired birds among the trees. 
 The leaves forget their dances, for the breeze 
 Hath gone to sleep within the caves of ocean, 
 And a most solemn stillness, which no sound 
 Breaks save the voice of waters, broods around, 
 "While Nature's heart hath almost ceased its motion. 
 
THE RAIN. 
 
 Dashing in big drops on the window-pane, 
 And falling thick and fast among the leaves, 
 "While the west wind a rhythmic cadence weaves, 
 
 I hear the ringing of the summer rain ; 
 
 Its dreamy monotone the senses lull, 
 
 And bring a sweet forgetfulness of pain, 
 While memory saunters through the past again, 
 
 And lingers with the loved and beautiful, — 
 
 The friends of childhood ; they whose sunny faces 
 Make of the summer of our lives a part, 
 And shed their gladness on the lonely heart, 
 
 That silent pines for the familiar places, 
 The old companionship of rock and tree, 
 And the full life that only asked to be. 
 
SUMMER. 
 
 "Wreaths on her brow, and blossoms in her hand, 
 Music, and sunshine, and the fragrant breath 
 
 Of the voluptuous wind from the South land 
 Attending, while the spring-time vanisheth, 
 
 Summer conies forth ! How regally she lifts 
 Her stately head, and like a crowned queen 
 Assumes her sceptre ! Yet with gentlest mien 
 
 And prodigal hand she scatters choicest gifts 
 Over the earth, making the valleys smile 
 With verdure, and the hills exult the while. 
 
 The cheerful laborer, toiling all day long 
 Amid the golden harvest, owns her power, 
 And as his heart rejoices in her dower, 
 
 He blesses Summer in his frequent song. 
 13 
 
WINTER. 
 
 How beautiful is Winter! Earth hath put 
 Her snowy vesture on, and the wide fields 
 Glisten beneath the radiance of the sun, 
 A waveless ocean of most dazzling white. 
 In the slant sunbeams flashing, the tall trees 
 Lift up their jeweled crests with regal pride, 
 As conscious of their beauty ; and, at times, 
 By the faint wind caressed, profusely fling 
 Down to the earth the burden of their gems. 
 The frost with his most cunning ministry 
 Hath visited the streams, whose drowsy song 
 Through the long summer time continuously 
 Stirred the soft air, and stream and song are 
 
 still : 
 Yet might the ripple's curl deceive the eye, 
 So much it looks like motion, and the wave 
 Still seems to fret along its rocky bed, 
 And dash adown the cascade with its spray. 
 Where, o'er the deep ravine, the precipice 
 Frowns, and the water from its hidden springs 
 Trickled erewhile along the rocky ledge, 
 And sought with frequent plunge the depth below, 
 
WINTER. 195 
 
 See ! in what varied and fantastic forms 
 Those drops, congealed, are wrought! How differ- 
 ent all, 
 Yet all how beautiful ! Pillars of pearl 
 Propping the cliffs above, stalactites bright 
 From the ice-roof depending ; and beneath, 
 Grottoes and temples with their crystal spires 
 And gleaming columns radiant in the sun ; 
 Thrones carved from purest porphyry, whereon sit 
 Tall warrior-forms in coats of dazzling mail ; 
 And strown profusely over all, rich gems, 
 Shifting with rainbow hues, and flashing back 
 The intrusive sunlight, — these are thine, O Frost ! 
 TJiy marvelous doings, wizard architect ! 
 For thus thou praisest God ! And we will praise 
 His name with hymns, that He has sent us thee 
 With power to make the Winter beautiful. 
 
DECEMBER. 
 
 I sit and listen to the long, low howl 
 
 Of Winter, coming from his northern lair, 
 Girded about with ice — the angry growl 
 
 Of gathering storms upon the frosty air ; 
 
 And the complaining woods that everywhere 
 Sob for the ravishing of their crowns of gold, 
 Crimson, and purple, and the manifold 
 
 Hues of the frost-fires, weird and wondrous fair. 
 By ruffian winds. The brow of heaven, erewhile 
 Bright with the glow of autumn's quivering smile, 
 
 Now veils its beauty with the frequent frown ; 
 
 And from the streams that, laughing, leapt 
 adown 
 The rocky hill-sides, or along the valleys 
 
 Glided with murmurous song, the song has fled, 
 
 And the flowers, listening on the banks, are 
 dead, 
 Killed by the cruel frost. The Snow King rallies 
 His white-plumed hosts, and sends them sweeping 
 
 forth 
 In bannered squadrons from the frozen North, 
 
DECEMBER. 197 
 
 Squadron on squadron, till their legion fills 
 The whole wide landscape, with its circling hills ; 
 And the old trees, that stand like sentinels 
 To guard the passes winding through the dells 
 Down to the levels of the open plain, 
 Toss their nude branches to the hurricane, 
 
 While in their tops a spirit seems to wail 
 For the dead glories of the dying year — 
 Its faded blossoms and its foliage sere, 
 
 Swept like the chaff before the angry gale. 
 
SOXGS OF FEEEDOM AXD 
 FATHEELAND. 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 Bold men were they, and true, that Pilgrim band, 
 
 Who ploughed with venturous prow the stormy 
 sea, 
 
 Seeking a home for hunted Liberty 
 Amid the ancient forests of a land 
 Wild, gloomy, vast, magnificently grand ! 
 
 Friends, country, hallowed homes they left, to be 
 Pilgrims for Christ's sake to a foreign strand, 
 
 Beset by peril, worn with toil, yet free ! 
 Tireless in zeal, devotion, labor, hope ; 
 
 Constant in faith ; in justice how severe ! 
 
 Though fools deride and bigot-skeptics sneer, 
 Praise to their names ! If called like them to cope, 
 
 In evil times, with dark and evil powers, 
 
 O, be their faith, their zeal, their courage ours! 
 
TO-DAY. 
 
 Tm; Past has done its work! How well, 
 How ill, it matters not to say ; 
 
 For lo ! upon our ears cloth swell 
 The summons of To-Day. 
 
 A kinj*, of kings the kindliest ! 
 
 No prouder ever graced a throne ; 
 His realm the earth from east to west. 
 
 From north to southern zone. 
 
 His are the potencies sublime 
 
 That bend the nations to his sway ; 
 
 And every land and every clime 
 Alike his power obey. 
 
 The acres that have gone before, 
 
 The awful Past, now vague and dim, 
 
 Left, lapsing from Time's crumbling shore, 
 Their good and ill to him. 
 
 "With these, for glory or for shamp, 
 As this or that his work shall crown. 
 
200 TO-DA Y. 
 
 He builds the temple of his fame, 
 His record of renown. 
 
 His subjects we ! to aid, if true — 
 If false, to mar — the grand design 
 
 That bids the old earth bloom anew, 
 Filled with a life divine. 
 
 He summons us to nobler tasks 
 
 Thau ever in the Past were wrought. 
 
 And, for his larger purpose, asks 
 A nobler style of thought : 
 
 Brave wills to dare, strong arms to do 
 The work that will not brook delay ; 
 
 Wise heads, warm hearts, to duty true, 
 And loyal to To- Day. 
 
 No dim, vague dreams of faded flowers, 
 Whose fragrance never comes again ; 
 
 No lingering with the buried hours, 
 Infirm of heart and brain, 
 
 Will he accept. Our king demands 
 Unswerving fealty to his throne ; 
 
 The loyalty of hearts and hands, 
 A service all his own. 
 
TO-DAY. 201 
 
 The selfish ease we must resign 
 
 That shrinks from battling old abuse, 
 
 And learn that labor is divine, 
 Divine the life of use. 
 
 His call is heard in every sigh 
 
 That heaves the sorrow-laden breast ; 
 
 In every wild, despairing cry 
 
 Power wrings from the oppressed ; 
 
 In every ancient wrong that claims 
 
 From age authority to be ; 
 In cruel fears, and haunting shames, 
 
 And voiceless misery ; 
 
 In broken hearts, in wasted lives, 
 
 In all the toil, and moil, and din, 
 From which the spirit vainly strives 
 
 Some notes of peace to win. 
 
 Fold not your arms in listless mood, 
 
 O brothers, for he speaks to you ! 
 Need hath he of the wise and good, 
 
 Need of the brave and true. 
 
 There's room for all and work for all, 
 
 The urgent need rebukes delay ; 
 And lo ! the nations hear the call, 
 
 The summons of To-Day ! 
 
EMANCIPATION IN THE WEST INDIES. 
 
 Where laugh the bright Antilles 
 
 Amid the Southern main, 
 Oppression long in pride had ruled 
 
 With bloody scourge and chain ; 
 The negro, crushed beneath his hand, 
 
 Bent at his cheerless toil, 
 And poured his unavailing tears 
 
 Upon the thirsty soil. 
 
 Curses and groans went upward 
 
 Continually to God, 
 And shrieks which vexed the quiet air 
 
 Where'er the tyrant trod: 
 The negro's cup was dregged with tears, 
 
 And, darkest, dreariest fate, 
 His fetters clanked within his soul, 
 
 And made it desolate. 
 
 Year after year of bondage 
 
 The self-same story told 
 Of guilt, and woe, and severed hearts, 
 
 Mothers and children sold — 
 
EMANCIPATION IN THE WEST INDIES. 203 
 
 Hopes crushed, affections blighted, ties 
 
 The holiest rent in twain, 
 And myriad victims flung upon 
 
 Thy bloody altar, Gain ! 
 
 God saw it all ! the record 
 
 Was traced before His eye ; 
 And in His own good time He sent 
 
 Deliverance from on high ! 
 For the oppression of the poor 
 
 He rose, and shook the earth ; 
 His hand unlocked the prison door, 
 
 And led the captives forth. 
 
 Praise to thy name, Jehovah ! 
 
 Who hath deliverance wrought, 
 And from the house of bondage 
 
 Thy sons and daughters brought. 
 We cry to thee in faith, O Lord ! 
 
 Stretch forth again thy hand ; 
 Break the strong fetters of the slave, 
 
 And spare our guilty land. 
 
SONG OF THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 [1843.] 
 
 The days of our bondage are o'er ! 
 
 Our fetters are riven in twain ! 
 The scourge that so oft has been wet in our gore 
 
 Shall never iusult us again ! 
 No longer we bow to the tyrant's control, 
 His chains iiave we broken from body and soul. 
 
 We are free as the breezes that sweep 
 
 O'er the hills and the vales of the North ! 
 
 As the waves of the sea that exultingly leap 
 When the breath of the tempest goes forth ! 
 
 Till the despot can fetter the winds and the main, 
 
 Our necks to his thralldom we bend not again ! 
 
 We are free ! and O sooner by far 
 
 Would we pour out the blood from our veins 
 
 In the strife for the right, 'mid the horrors of war, 
 Than resume the disgrace of our chains. 
 
 For our freedom or death, for our rights or our 
 graves, 
 
 We will suffer and dare ; but we will not be slaves ! 
 
SOyG OF 777 £ ElfAVCfPATED. 205 
 
 They may press with their hounds on our track ; 
 
 They may bribe with their ill-gotten gold 
 Their serviles to thrust us insultingly back, 
 
 Like beasts in the mart to be sold. 
 In vain ! we remember the oath we have sworn, 
 And hurl in their faces defiance and scorn. 
 
 Woe, woe, to the tyrants ! and woe 
 
 To the land that oppression hath cursed ! 
 The burning volcanoes are rumbling below, 
 
 And even in their fury shall burst ! 
 And the vengeance held back through the darkness 
 
 of years 
 Shall be poured forth in torrents of blood and of 
 tears ! 
 
 They shall think in that terrible hour 
 
 Of the wrongs they have heaped on our race, 
 
 "When the trampled of ages shall rise in theiu 
 power 
 The tramplers to hurl from their place ; 
 
 Asserting the manhood their spoilers deny, 
 
 And rending the air with their jubilant cry. 
 
FREEDOM'S APOCALYPSE. 
 
 [1848-49.] 
 
 The air is dark with sulphurous clouds, that roll 
 
 Up from the red mouths of a thousand cannon, 
 Whose deep-reverberated thunders knoll 
 
 For hosts swept down in slaughter ! Plume and 
 
 pennon, 
 Swords hacked and blood-stained, shattered gun 
 
 and spear, 
 Knapsack and pouch, and all the warrior's gear — 
 The dying pillowed on the festering corse — 
 In dire confusion mingled, man and horse, 
 Heaps upon heaps, by the same death-shot slain, 
 Strew with their wrecks, for leagues and leagues, 
 
 the plain, 
 Deaf to the voice of lover and of friend, 
 Cold as the earth with which they soon shall 
 
 blend ; 
 While obscene birds, impatient for their prey, 
 Swoop upon eyes that still behold the day. 
 
FREEDOMS APOCALYPSE. 207 
 
 O War ! thou fiend abhorred from deepest hell ! 
 
 Dread minister of vengeance and of wrath ! 
 
 Chastiser of the nations ! in thy path 
 Are hate* and horrors, and all curses fell ! 
 
 Cities collapse in flame, and plenty flies 
 
 Before the glare of thy demoniac eyes ; 
 Harvests are trampled, homes defiled with blood. 
 
 "Where once, at morning's dawn and evening's 
 close, 
 
 Songs of thank-giving, prayers of trust arose 
 From loving hearts to the all-loving God ! 
 
 Earth trembles at thy treat!, and her broad plains, 
 
 Swept of their verdure by thy hurricanes, 
 And blasted by thy pestilential breath, 
 Become a vast Gehenna, foul with death ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Yet when thou strik'st the tyrant and oppressor. 
 And from his throne hurl'st down the sceptered 
 lie, 
 Startling with blare of trumpets the transgressor 
 
 Of God's great charter of equality, — 
 When peoples long despoiled awake at length 
 To know their rights, and half perceive their 
 strength, 
 And, struggling from oppression's long eclipse, 
 Shiver their fetters, and with bitter scorn, 
 Trampling the yoke their necks so long have worn, 
 
208 FREEDOM'S APOCALYPSE. 
 
 Exult in Freedom's dread Apocalypse, — 
 Then, fiend no more, in thee our eyes behold 
 The awful angel that redeemed of old, 
 
 Strong-winged, responsive to a people's wail, 
 And cry, " O God ! now let the right prevail." 
 
 in. 
 
 What though the refluent tide of tyrant power 
 
 Shall with its gory surges dash them down, 
 And sweep them to quick death ? At least one 
 
 hour 
 Of Freedom hath been theirs, and if they die, 
 
 They die as men ! So winning the renown 
 Of martyrs in thy cause, O Liberty ! 
 
 Their blood is vital ; whether with hot flow 
 Swelling their veins amidst the battle's shock, 
 
 Or sprinkled in the red path of the foe, 
 Or streaming from the headsman's gory block, 
 
 No single drop is lost or shed in vain ! 
 
 Long years may pass, and earth forget the stain, 
 Yet shall its silent power, from soul to soul 
 Transmitted, work redemption for the whole ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Be patient, O be patient ! ye who wait, 
 
 Worn with long toil, for Freedom's coming day ; 
 Though years on years roll sullenly away, 
 And no strong angel open flings the gate 
 Of its red dawn, yet doubt not, soon or late, 
 
FREEDOMS APOCALYPSE. 209 
 
 Old Earth shall bask in its effulgent raj, 
 
 And her glad millions from tyrannic sway 
 Walk forth in light redeemed, regenerate. 
 
 Truth is immortal ; and (though Fate defer 
 Her hour of triumph, and prolong the stress 
 
 Of evil fortune) they who war for her, 
 And only they, are certain of success, 
 
 For she is God's anointed minister. 
 God strikes with those who strike for righteous - 
 ness ! 
 
 v. 
 
 Strike then, ye heroes ! though Oppression's night 
 Gloom dark and cold above the weary fight, — 
 
 The weary fight ye wage with banded wrongs, 
 "While through the gloom shines no prophetic ray, 
 With cheering promise of the dawning day 
 
 When Earth shall greet her jubilee with songs ! 
 Strike ! with your dauntless hearts in every blow, 
 Till Truth exults in Falsehood's overthrow ! 
 
 Strike ! and the fire that leaps from clashing 
 steel 
 Shall light the ages to their destined goal, 
 
 Freedom's august, and sacred common weal, 
 Where Manhood stands erect and free in soul, 
 
 And. trampling on the tyrant's broken rod, 
 
 Kneels to no monarch save the sovereign Go;l. 
 14 
 
210 FREEDOM'S APOCALYPSE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Heroes and martyrs ! waging not in vain 
 
 A holy warfare, though from every sod 
 Your blood steams upward, it shall fall in rain 
 
 To nurse the tree whose planting is of God ! 
 Ye shall yet triumph ! for Oppression's power, 
 Last as it may, is only for an hour, 
 
 While Freedom's life thrills through the vast 
 To Be, 
 
 And claims its heirship to eternity ! 
 Then, from the force and fraud and hate that 
 
 sway 
 The awful issues hidden in To-Day, 
 
 To the great future send your bold appeal, 
 With fire- winged words that cleave their way sub- 
 lime 
 Through the far spaces of the coming time, 
 
 And trust the verdict it shall yet reveal. 
 
REVOLUTION. 
 
 If, maddened by oppression, men have torn 
 Their shackles off, and in an evil time 
 Spurned all restraint, and steeped their souls hi 
 crime, 
 
 Trampling laws, customs, creeds, in utter scorn, 
 Giving the rein to license, and through blood 
 Wading in quest of unsubstantial good. 
 
 Till Earth the frenzy of her sons doth mourn — 
 Reproach not Liberty ! The winds long pent, 
 Volcanic fires repressed, in finding vent 
 
 Sweep on in desolation ! So are born 
 
 All monstrous crimes of tyranny — rapine, lust, 
 .Murder, convulsion : then on her alone 
 Be vengeance heaped ! and Earth and Heaven 
 will own 
 
 The terrible retribution wise and just ! 
 
THE TIMES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Inaction now is crime. The old Earth reels 
 Inebriate with guilt ; and Vice, grown bold, 
 Laughs Iunocence to scorn. The thirst for gold 
 Hath made men demons, till the heart that feels 
 The impulse of impartial love, nor kneels 
 In worship foul to Mammon, is contemned. 
 He who hath kept his purer faith, and stemmed 
 Corruption's tide, and from the ruffian heels 
 Of impious tramplers rescued periled right, 
 Is called fanatic, and with scoffs and jeers 
 Maliciously assailed. The poor man's tears 
 Are unregarded ; the oppressor's might 
 
 Revered as law ; and he whose righteous way 
 Departs from evil, makes himself a prey. 
 
 II. 
 
 "What then ? Shall he who wars for truth suc- 
 cumb 
 
 To popular falsehood, and throw down his 
 shield, 
 
 And drop the sword he hath been taught to 
 wield 
 
THE TIMES. 213 
 
 In virtue's cause ? Shall righteousness be dumb, 
 Awe-struck before injustice? No! a cry, 
 
 " Ho ! to the rescue ! " from the hills hath rung, 
 
 And men have heard and to the combat sprung 
 Strong for the right, to conquer or to die ! 
 
 Up, loiterer ! for on the wind3 are flung 
 The banners of the faithful ! and erect 
 Beneath their folds, the hosts of God's elect 
 
 Stand in their strength. Be thou their ranks 
 among. 
 Fear not. nor falter ; though the strife endure, 
 Thy cause is sacred, and the victory sure. 
 
THE MARTYR. 
 
 i. 
 
 O, nobly hast thou fallen in the fight 
 
 Of holy freedom ! and thy name shall be 
 Henceforth the watchword of the good and free, 
 
 Whose arms are nerved to battle for the right ! 
 
 In the dark days before us, 'mid the night 
 Of a stern tyranny, we'll think of thee, 
 
 Martyr of God ! and strike for liberty 
 
 With faith unwavering, and an arm of might ! 
 
 Not unavenged, O brother, shall thy blood 
 
 Sink in the ground ; its voice shall upward ring 
 A fearful cry to wake the slumbering, 
 
 Reaching the ear of an avenging God ! 
 
 And millions, roused, shall swear upon thy grave 
 
 Death to oppression, freedom to the slave ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 And thou, devoted wife ! who nobly stood 
 
 With martyr-zeal, and in the strength sublime 
 Of a fond heart withstood the men of crime 
 
 Who sought, with fiend-like rage, thy husband's 
 blood — 
 
 Bereft of earthly hope, and in the flood 
 
THE MARTYR. 21") 
 
 Of a dark sorrow overwhelmed, what now 
 
 For thee remains ? Submissively to bow 
 And own the chastening of a Father's rod ! 
 God help thee, broken heart ! Thy sacrifice 
 
 Is mighty, but it shall not be in vain ! 
 
 His blood, thy tears, they shall not sink, like 
 rain, 
 Unnoted to the ground ! From freemen's eyes 
 The scales are falling, and this woe shall be 
 The ransom of a people, — joy, in grief, for thee ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Joy, that through this, thy fearful suffering, 
 Deliverauce for the captive shall be wrought ! 
 The chain is snapped that bound the indignant 
 thought 
 
 In human breasts too long, and men will fling 
 Fear from their spirits as they think of thee, 
 And strike for freedom till the earth be free ! 
 
 For a stern purpose thou art set apart 
 
 By this most bloody baptism ! 'Mid distress 
 
 Then bear thou up, and gird around thy heart 
 Strength for his sake who now is father!* 
 
 o 
 
 Lean upon God and linger yet awhile, 
 And from thy desolation thou shalt see 
 The dawning of the day of jubilee, 
 
 When the freed earth shall bask in Heaven's 
 
 viving smile ! 
 
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. 
 
 If to the heroes of the olden time 
 
 Who fought and suffered, Liberty ! for thee, 
 Daring to die to make a people free, 
 
 Honors belong, and triumph-hymns sublime, 
 
 Making their names the watchword of a clime, 
 What meed of purest glory shall be given 
 To him who stands, sustained alone by Heaven, 
 
 Battling with single arm a nation's crime ? 
 
 Unmoved, unswerving in the thickest fight, 
 
 Though scoffs, and jeers, and curses from the 
 
 vile, 
 And hate, be poured upon his head the while, 
 
 The fearless champion of the true and right ! 
 
 What meed for him ? . Profane not with your lays 
 
 His name, for Earth no language hath to speak 
 his praise ! 
 

 THE OLD BANNER. 
 
 Fling out the old Banner, the red, white, and 
 
 blue, 
 And rally around it with hearts that are true ! 
 For the war-blast of treason is heard in the 
 
 South, 
 Its loud thunders boom from the battery's mouth ; 
 And its hordes, mad for blood, in the spirit of 
 
 Cain, 
 Pour down from the hill-side, swarm up from the 
 
 plain, 
 And swear they will trample the flag of our pride, 
 For which "Washington fought, for which heroes 
 
 have died ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then fling out our Banner again to the gale, 
 Though treason deride and though traitors assail ; 
 The star-studded Banner, the war-tattered Banner, 
 For right with the might in its sheen shall pre- 
 vail ! 
 
218 THE OLD BANNER. 
 
 We were patient — that patience they counted as 
 fear, 
 
 And repaid us with insult, with gibe, and with 
 jeer; 
 
 We forbore — but they read our forbearance amiss, 
 
 And they swept uncontrolled to Rebellion's abyss ; 
 
 And, mad with unreason, unpausing to think, 
 
 Like fools they have plunged from its terrible 
 brink, 
 
 And with brands from that hell they have kin- 
 dled a fire 
 
 That shall burn till the traitors who lit it expire ! 
 
 For the land which our fathers bequeathed us in 
 
 trust, 
 For the tombs where, all-hallowed, still slumbers 
 
 their dust, 
 For the Uuion they loved, and for freedom and 
 
 law, 
 And the old flag — their emblem — our swords 
 
 will we draw, 
 And never, till treason is crushed 'neath our heel, 
 Shall the rust of the scabbard be found on our 
 
 steel, 
 Nor the stillness of peace hush the boom of our 
 
 guns 
 Till the land of our fathers is saved for our 
 
 sons ! 
 
TIIE OLD BANNER. 219 
 
 Our country hath called and her people have 
 
 heard, 
 And their hearts to their innermost centre are 
 
 stirred ; 
 By fifties, by hundreds, by thousands they come, 
 From farm and from work-shop, from ledger and 
 
 loom, 
 From palace and cottage, the rich and the poor — 
 Comes poet, comes artist, comes dreamer, comes 
 
 doer; 
 No hardship can daunt, and no terror appall, 
 When the land of their love on her children doth 
 
 call ! 
 
 Never holier cause summoned heroes to strife 
 Than that to which now they pledge fortune and 
 
 life; 
 Never fealty more true nor a faith more sublime 
 Than they give to that cause, is recorded in 
 
 time ; 
 And they swear by the God of their fathers, that, 
 
 cost 
 What it may to sustain it, it ne'er shall be lost ; 
 And never shall peace hush the boom of their 
 
 guns 
 Till the land of our fathers is saved for our 
 
 sons ! 
 
220 THE OLD BANNER. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then fling out our Banner again to the gale, 
 Though treason deride and though traitors assail ; 
 The star-studded Banner, the war-tattered Banner, 
 For right with the might in its sheen shall pre- 
 vail ! 
 
ELLSWORTH. 
 
 MAT 24, 1861. 
 
 Who keeps his faith in God and man, 
 By sore temptation unsubdued — 
 Who trusts the right and loves the good, 
 
 Lives long, however brief his span. 
 
 True life is measured not by days, 
 
 Nor yet by deeds though bravely wrought ; 
 Its truest gauge is noblest thought, 
 
 And this commands our highest praise. 
 
 So, though men say, " Alas ! how brief 
 
 His course whose death we mourn to-day ! 
 The prescient soul must answer, " Nay, 
 
 Ye wrong him with this bitter grief." 
 
 What seems our loss hath this redress : 
 His life, by generous will and act, 
 No dream, but an eternal fact, 
 
 Is rounded into perfectness. 
 
 He is, not was: the pulse that beat 
 But yesterday within his frame 
 
222 ELLSWOETn. 
 
 To-day is like a living flame 
 In every manly breast we meet. 
 
 Poured through a thousand hearts, the life 
 That ebbed in his asserts its sway, 
 An impulse that forbids delay 
 
 When duty summons to the strife. 
 
 And hosts, by that grand impulse moved, 
 With eager haste their weapons clasp, 
 And swear to save from treason's grasp 
 
 The country and the cause he loved. 
 
 So sanctified by martyr-blood 
 
 To us the cause is doubly dear ; 
 And who, remembering him, will fear 
 
 To staud for right as Ellsworth stood ? 
 
 For faith like his its like begets, 
 And courage, though the hero die, 
 Doth multiply and multiply, 
 
 In large excess of our regrets. 
 
 And thus one soul that never swerved 
 From duty fills a land with light ; 
 And countless arms are nerved for fight 
 
 By one strong arm that death unnerved. 
 
ELLSWORTH. 223 
 
 So, best — siuce so the largest good 
 Results ; nor need we sum the cost, 
 For lives so lost are never lost 
 
 To freedom saved by martyr-blood. 
 
 For him henceforth his country claims 
 The ground as holy where he sleeps, 
 And, like a loving mother, keeps 
 
 His name among her dearest names. 
 
 And when love bids his monument 
 Lift its pure column to the air, 
 No fitter legend can it bear, 
 
 Than his brave words : " I am content ! " 
 
 " Content, whatever fate be mine ; 
 A sacred duty bids me go, 
 And though the issue none can know, 
 I hear and heed the voice divine. 
 
 " Content — since confident that He 
 
 To whom the sparrow's fall is known, 
 AVill have some purpose of his own 
 Even in the fate of one like me." l 
 
 i In the last letter addressed to his parents, penned but a few hours 
 previous to his assassination, Col. Ellsworth mju: "Whatever may 
 happen, cherish the consolation that I was engaged in the perfor m ance 
 of a sacred duty ; and to-night, thinking over the probabilities of the 
 
22-i ELLSWORTH. 
 
 O golden words ! O faith sublime ! 
 
 O spirit breathing holy breath ! 
 
 For such an one there is no death, 
 But crescent potencies through time! 
 
 And still where loyal arms roll back 
 The crimson tide of traitorous war, 
 His memory, like a beacon star 
 
 Shall shine above the battle's rack ; 
 
 A flame the patriot's heart to cheer, 
 And give new temper to liis sword ; 
 A fire to blast the rebel horde, 
 
 And melt their courage into fear. 
 
 And when, Rebellion's power subdued, 
 Shall dawn for us a better day, 
 When Peace again resumes her sway 
 
 And links the bands of brotherhood — 
 
 From North to South, from East to West, 
 His name shall be a household word, 
 Revered and loved wherever heard, 
 
 And treasured with our worthiest. 
 
 morrow and the occurrences of the past, I am perfectly content to ac- 
 cept whatever my fortune may he, confident that He who noteth even 
 the fall of a sparrow will have some purpose even in the fate of one like 
 me." 
 
ELLSWORTH. 225 
 
 So, for his land, the good he meant, 
 Won in the triumph of the right, 
 His spirit, starred with heaven's own light, 
 
 Once more shall say : " I am content ! " 
 15 
 
THE PRAYER OF A NATION. 
 
 God of our fathers, hear our earnest cry ! 
 
 Our hope, our strength, our refuge is with Thee ! 
 Confound our foes and make their legions fly ! 
 Strengthen our hosts and give them victory ! 
 Victory, victory — 
 O, God of armies, give us victory ! 
 
 Not for exemption from the toil and loss, 
 
 The pains, the woes, the horrors of the strife, 
 But that with strong hearts we may bear the cross, 
 And welcome death to save our nation's life : 
 Victory, victory — 
 O, God of battles, give us victory ! 
 
 For this no costliest gift would we withhold;. 
 
 For this we count not dear our loved repose, 
 Our teeming harvests, and our gathered gold, 
 
 Our commerce, fanned by every wind that blows. 
 Victory, victory — 
 God of our fathers, give us victory ! 
 
Son-, brothers, sires, our bravest and our best, 
 
 The dearest treasure love lias sanctified, 
 These have gone forth at Liberty's behest, 
 And on her altars have augustly died ! 
 Victory, victory — 
 God of our martyrs, give us victory ! 
 
 God ! have they ponred their priceless blood in 
 vain ? 
 Shall Treason triumph in our nation's fall ? 
 Shall Slavery weld once more her broken chain 
 And o'er a prostrate land hold carnival ? 
 Victory, victory — 
 O, God of Freedom, give us victory ! 
 
 Nerve with new strength the patriot soldier's arm ! 
 
 Fill with new zeal the hero-souls that stand, 
 Pillars of fire, to save from deadliest harm 
 
 Their children's birthright in this goodly land ! 
 Victory, victory — 
 God of our heroes, give us victory ! 
 
 For the sad millions of the groaning earth, 
 
 Ileli'less and crushed beneath oppression's rod ; 
 For every hope that hallows home and hearth ; 
 For heaven-born Liberty, the child of God, 
 Victory, victory — 
 God of the nations, give us victory ! 
 
228 TEE PRATER OF A NATION. 
 
 From war's red hell, involved in smoke and flame, 
 
 From up-piled altars of our noblest dead 
 We cry to Tiiee ! 0, for thy glorious name, 
 
 Make bare thine arm and smite our foes with 
 dread ! 
 
 Victory, victory — 
 O, God of battles, give us victory ! 
 
 July 4th, 1863. 
 
THE BANNER OF FREEDOM. 
 
 i. 
 
 'Tis the Banner whose folds floated over our sires 
 When the trumpet's shrill blast summoned heroes 
 to war ; 
 When the hills were aglow with their signaling 
 fires, 
 Through the smoke-clouds of battle it shone like 
 a star, 
 
 And our bravest and best 
 
 Came at Freedom's behest 
 
 To strike for the rights of a people oppressed, 
 
 And knelt at her altars, and swore to be true 
 
 To the Banner of Freedom — the red, white, and 
 
 blue. 
 
 II. 
 
 Through conflicts and perils, while over their sky 
 
 The night of disaster gloomed black with despair, 
 Right onward, like heroes, to do or to die, 
 
 They followed that Banner unfurled to the air. 
 Torn by shot and by shell, 
 O ! it beaconed them well 
 
230 THE BANNER OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Through the red storm of battle and up from its 
 
 hell. 
 Till the right and the might clasped their hands 
 
 in the fight, 
 And victory beamed from that Banner of light ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Where Treason, grown drunk on the blood of the 
 slave, 
 Insanely the life of our nation assailed, 
 Upheld by the hands of the loyal and brave, 
 
 That flag was the sign through which Freedom 
 prevailed ! 
 
 From each star-blazoned fold, 
 To the free winds unrolled, 
 Spoke the souls of the fathers who conquered of 
 
 old, 
 And bade us, their children, be faithful and true 
 To that battle-torn Banner — the red, white, and 
 blue! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Unfurl it once more ! — let it beacon us on, 
 
 Not to fields where the cannon-shot ploughs up 
 its path, 
 But to those where the triumphs of peace may be 
 won 
 By the weapons of truth, never wielded in 
 wrath ; 
 
THE BANNER OF FREEDOM. 231 
 
 Hoary Error turns pale 
 As they smite through her mail, 
 And the hour hastens on when the Right shall 
 
 prevail, 
 And the Banner of Freedom triumphantly wave 
 O'er a land in which breathes neither tyrant nor 
 slave. 
 
ENFRANCHISED. 
 
 Lo ! truth and right grow stronger and more 
 
 strong 
 In their fierce battle with the false and wrong ; 
 And the swift years sweep onward to the day 
 Whose dawn shall herald Christ's triumphant sway, 
 As seers have prophesied and bards have sung 
 In the far ages when the world was young; 
 Catching some glimpses of millennial light 
 Behind the murk of all involving night, 
 And reading the sure promise of the Lord 
 That to his Eden man shall be restored ! 
 
 Have we not seen how Slavery's hated yoke 
 Crumbled to dust as Abraham Lincoln spoke, 
 And, like the angel of the Apocalypse, 
 Proclaimed, " Here ends the reign of chains and 
 
 whips ! " 
 How, from the bondage of the centuries, 
 The slave arose and claimed all rights as his ; 
 Broke from his soul the tyrant's gyves away, 
 And proved his manhood in the deadly fray ; 
 And, better still, how learning's temple-door 
 Swings back for millions of the wronged and poor, 
 
ENFRANCHISED. 233 
 
 And pours her light on many a darkened mind, 
 Which easts, so touched, the old slave life behind, 
 And, still aspiring, proves its right to be 
 Known as God's child, whom He created free ! 
 
 And still with cumulative force goes on 
 The glorious work our martyred Chief begun ; 
 And nobler hopes the patriot's heart inspire, 
 As Freedom's ebbless ocean rises higher,. 
 Its cleansing waters making sweet the shore 
 So darkly stained with tears and human gore. 
 
 Wrenched by Rebellion from the place they filled. 
 
 The shattered States doth loyalty rebuild; 
 
 On broad foundations of eternal right 
 
 Base the strong columns that are crowned with 
 
 light ; 
 A deeper wisdom from experience draw, 
 Bind part to part with pure, impartial law, 
 And build securely what henceforth shall be 
 The august shrine and home of Liberty ! 
 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 0, sorely tried, yet true in every trial ! 
 With the sad burden of a nation's fate 
 Laid on thy heart, not crushed beneath the 
 weight, 
 But witn new strength endued and self-denial, 
 And serene patience -— worthiest thou to mate 
 With the dear Pater Patriae ! Henceforth Fame 
 Keeps for thy guerdon a still prouder name, 
 Which a great people, saved from treason's hate 
 And from the curse which gave that treason birth, 
 Shall shout exultant to the populous earth — 
 Salvator Patriae! So thy name shall be 
 The glorious synonym of faith sublime, 
 A power and impulse to the after-time, 
 A household word wherever man is free ! 
 May \9th, 1862. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 [A, L., April 14th, 1865.] 
 
 Never lived man whose heart the people's heart 
 
 Felt as it felt thine, giving throb for throb ; 
 
 Never from nations went so deep a sob 
 Of sorrow as for thee, when thou didst part 
 From the great work whose doing made thee great 
 
 Among the greatest ! Never nobler name 
 
 Hath history given to the ward of Fame 
 Than thine, O saviour of the imperiled state, 
 
 Who spoke the word that snapped a people's 
 chains, 
 And flung wide open Freedom's temple-gate 
 
 To unborn millions, who in choral strains, 
 From age to age through all earth's coming days, 
 Shall link thy name and deed to deathless praise, 
 
 While God's " Well done ! " crowns all, — thy 
 gain of gains ! 
 
 April Uth, 1870. 
 
FAITH AST) ASPIRATION. 
 
 "SHOW US THE FATHER." 
 
 Still, as of old, ascends that earnest prayer 
 
 From souls that yearn for His divine embrace 
 And, rapt in adoration, fain would dare 
 Behold Him face to face. 
 
 " Show us the Father ! " — loved, though all unseen 
 
 Save in the wondrous working of His hand, 
 O let us, with no cloud to intervene, 
 In that dear presence stand. 
 
 Ah ! vain the prayer so passionate and wild 
 
 That breathed from yearning hearts would pierce 
 the skies, 
 Yet by this thought shall they be reconciled, — 
 'Tis love alone denies. 
 
 O for that vision to whose earnest quest 
 
 The Father's face in Nature stands revealed. 
 
"SHOW US THE FATHER." 237 
 
 In ocean's vastitnde, the mountain's ciest, 
 The lilies of the field ; 
 
 In the sky's azure and the sunset glow, 
 
 The winter-tempest and the summer shower, 
 And in all life, whose flow and overflow 
 Tell of His love and power. 
 
 Thus only by His marvelous works made known 
 
 To the dear children of His guardian care, 
 
 And by the love that communes with our own, 
 
 His wisdom answers prayer. 
 
 We would see God ! as they, the pure in heart, 
 
 See Him and in His presence stand unblamed, 
 Divinely helped to choose " the better part " 
 That maketh not ashamed. 
 
 We would see God ! in the sweet consciousness 
 
 That comes through full obedience to His will, 
 And in the love that seeks to save and bless, 
 And all His law fulfill. 
 
 We would see God ! for vain is human strength 
 
 That leans not trustingly on Him alone ; 
 So, brought through darkness into light at length, 
 Still will we pray, •' Lead on ! " 
 
238 "SHOW US THE FATHER." 
 
 Nor more we need, nor dare we ask for less 
 
 But shaping life on Love's divinest plan, 
 Taught by the ministry of Helpfulness, 
 We shall see God — in man. 
 
STILL WILL WE TRUST. 
 
 Still will we trust, though earth seem dark and 
 dreary 
 And the heart faint beneath His chastening rod, 
 Though rough and steep our pathway, worn and 
 weary, 
 
 Still will we trust in God ! 
 
 Our eyes see dimly till by faith anointed, 
 
 And our blind choosing brings us grief and pain ; 
 Through Him alone who hath our way appointed 
 We find our peace again. 
 
 Choose for us, God ! nor let our weak preferring 
 
 Cheat our poor souls of good Thou hast designed ; 
 Choose for us, God ! thy wisdom is unerring, 
 And we are fools and blind. 
 
 from our *ky the night shall furl her shadows. 
 And day pour gladness through his golden gates — 
 Our rough path lead to flower-enameled meadows 
 Where joy our coming waits. 
 
240 STILL WILL WE TRUST. 
 
 Let us press on in patient self-denial, 
 
 Accept the hardship, shrink not from the loss ; 
 Our guerdon lies beyond the hour of trial, 
 Our crown beyond the cross. 
 
«NON OMNIS MORIAR. 
 
 Over the blackness of my hair 
 
 Comes the frost of age and care ; 
 
 Streaks of silver intertwine 
 
 With dark locks, through which they shine 
 
 With premonitory gleam ; 
 
 Prophets of the time are they, 
 Of the swiftly coming day 
 
 When shall end this fever dream, 
 
 And no more the busy brain 
 
 With its subtle thoughts and fancies, 
 The soul's wondrous necromancies, 
 
 Thrill to pleasure or to pain. 
 
 In the sluggish pulse, the slow 
 
 Life-tide, with its ebb and flow, 
 
 I can hear a murmurous sound, 
 
 As if from my soul's profound, 
 
 Whispering very sweet and low, 
 Spirits called me ; low and sweet, 
 Pulse by pulse the words repeat — 
 '• Linger not when bidden to go ! " 
 16 
 
242 "NON OMNIS MORIAR." 
 
 List, my soul ! that warning tone 
 Not of sadness breathes alone ; 
 Something of promise, good and fair, 
 Something of prophecy is there, 
 Of a future which shall be 
 
 Better, brighter, holier far 
 Than earth's life can give to thee ; 
 0, surpassing all we know 
 Or of good or pure below — 
 
 " Non Omnis Moriar ! " 
 
 ii. 
 
 Shadows, I know not how or why, 
 Day by day creep o'er mine eye ; 
 And the fire that once was hid 
 Underneath the drooping lid, 
 Or, my soul with passion fraught, 
 Flashed the lightning of my thought, 
 Gleams but seldom now, and faintly : 
 Even the noon-day seemeth dim ; 
 Hills, by brightest sunshine kissed, 
 Swell beneath a robe of mist, 
 Or in shimmering vapor swim ; 
 And the trees by twos and threes, 
 Deftly shaken by the breeze, 
 Waltz to music, slowly, quaintly. 
 Ah, this treason of the eye ! 
 Whence is it, or how, or why? 
 
"NON OMNIS MORIAR." 243 
 
 Tells it not that night is nigh ? 
 The still night, unstirred by breath, 
 
 Through whose dark shines never a star, 
 The vague opaque which men call death ? 
 
 Yet — " Non Omnis Moriar ! " 
 
 in. 
 
 A quick coming weariness, 
 "When with laggard pace I tread 
 
 Olden paths where once, as fleet 
 
 As the roe, I sprang to greet 
 The morn, dawning dim and red, 
 Now doth every limb oppress : 
 Wearily they follow still 
 The slow motions of my will, 
 Wearily, but soon give o'er : 
 Youth, with lithe and supple thews, 
 Passed as pass the morning dews — 
 Vanished youth returns no more ! 
 Now I tread the solemn shore 
 Of that sea whose vastitude 
 Mortal eye hath never viewed, 
 Never mariner did explore ; 
 And its thund'rous organ-roll, 
 
 Booming grandly from afar, 
 Pours its anthem on my soul, 
 With a many-voiced refrain, 
 Heard again — again — again — 
 
 " Non Omnis Moriar ! " 
 
244 "NON OMNIS MORIAR. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As the dew that bends the grass, 
 As the breath that stains the glass, 
 As the morning's floating mist 
 By the fervid sunbeam kissed, 
 As the pageant of a dream, 
 As the lapsing of a stream, 
 As the hope that glorifies 
 Youth, and with its day-spring dies, 
 As the rapture which is sweetest, 
 As whatever thing is fleetest, 
 Life, with all that it can borrow 
 From the world of joy or sorrow, 
 All its petty conflicts o'er, 
 Passes, and is known no more. 
 
 Nay, one hope remains to bar 
 The despair that else would gloom 
 Over the portals of the tomb — 
 
 " Non Omnis Moriar ! " 
 
 Something of me, when men have said 
 Speak kindly of him — he is dead ! " 
 Something that doth appertain 
 To throbbing heart and thinking brain, 
 Shall, when I have passed, remain : 
 The memory of some sweet thought, 
 
"NOX OMNIS MORIAR." 245 
 
 Or good deed in kindness wrought, 
 
 Verse of mine, perchance, impressed 
 
 With the love that fills my breast, 
 
 Or its woe and wild unrest, 
 
 Shall, enshrined in some fond heart, 
 
 Of its very life a part, 
 
 Live on, and with sweet constraint, 
 
 Hold it to my memory — 
 
 Thus "I shall not wholly die." 
 
 Then, soul ! let nor pain, nor fear, 
 
 Nor the wrong that shadows life, 
 
 Nor hate, with which thou art at strife, 
 
 Claim the tribute of a tear, 
 
 Or the language of complaint. 
 
 Henceforth, naught thy peace should mar: 
 Deeper than thy fears or woes 
 Sinks the spirit of repose, 
 "When triumphant faith can cry, 
 " From death I wrest the victory ! 
 No n Omnis Moriar ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 But the heart must yield its trust, 
 And its memory be as dust 
 When, at length, it bows before 
 Earth's exulting Conqueror ! 
 Earth itself (so prophets say) 
 In the flames shall pass away, 
 
246 "NON OMNIS MORIAR" 
 
 And the heavens together roll 
 Like a crisped and burning jscroll, 
 And its myriad orbs expire 
 In a baptism of fire. 
 Yet even then the soul can cry, 
 " Nay, I shall not wholly die ! " 
 From its place though earth be driven, 
 Though shall fade the stars from heaven, 
 ' Though the regnant sun be hurled 
 From his throne above the world, 
 And in fervent heat be blent 
 Every fusing element, 
 
 Still, outliving sun and star, 
 In a life serene and high, 
 Clothed with immortality, 
 
 Victor over death and hell, 
 I my triumph-song will swell, 
 
 " Non Omnis Moriar ! " 
 
"LET THERE BE LIGHT!' 
 
 When moved upon the waveless deep 
 
 The quickening Spirit of the Lord, 
 And broken was its pulseless sleep 
 
 Before the Everlasting Word, 
 Earth heard the voice " Let there be light ! 
 
 O'er sullen wastes of chaos borne, 
 And from the dark embrace of night 
 
 Sprang up to greet her earliest morn ! 
 
 No longer void, her bosom teemed 
 
 "With life of tree, and plant, and flower ; 
 Nor formless more, as o'er her streamed 
 
 The sunlight in a golden shower ! 
 "What wondrous beauties stood revealed 
 
 As in creation's march she trod, 
 While suns and stars around her wheeled 
 
 Obedient to the voice of God ! 
 
 Then from the choirs celestial rang 
 Triumphantly the notes of song, 
 
 While morning stars together sang 
 
 In concert with the heavenly throng ; 
 
248 . "LET THERE BE LIGHT." 
 
 With eager joy she caught the strain 
 That thrilled along her fields of air, 
 
 Till mount and valley, hill and plain, 
 
 Seemed tremulous with praise and prayer. 
 
 O Thou, who art the fount of light, 
 
 Pour light our darkened souls within ! 
 Speak the strong word again, whose might 
 
 Shall scatter all the murk of sin ; 
 And let thy quickening Spirit move 
 
 O'er the wild wastes of doubt and fear, 
 Till order, beauty, faith, and love, 
 
 Bright with thy sovereignty appear ! 
 
GOOD IN ILL. 
 
 When gladness gilds our prosperous day, 
 Aud hope is by fruition crowned, * 
 " Lord," with thankful hearts we say, 
 " How doth thy love to us abound ! " 
 
 But is that love less truly shown 
 
 When earthly joys lie cold and dead, 
 
 And hopes have faded one by one, 
 Leaving sad memories in their stead ? 
 
 God knows the discipline we need, 
 Nor sorrow sends for sorrow's sake ; 
 
 And though our stricken hearts may bleed, 
 His mercy will not let them break. 
 
 O, teach us to discern the good 
 Thou sendest in the guise of ill ; 
 
 Since all Thou dost, if understood, 
 Interpreteth thy loving will. 
 
 For pain is not the end of pain, 
 Nor seldom trial comes to bless, 
 
250 GOOD IN ILL. 
 
 And work for us abundant gain, — 
 The peaceful fruits of righteousness. 
 
 Then let us not, with anxious thought, 
 Ask of to-morrow's joys or woes, 
 
 But by His word and Spirit taught, 
 Accept as best what God bestows. 
 
"IN THE NIGHT SEASON." 
 
 Lord, give us rest ! Night's shadows round us 
 close, 
 Hushing the tumult of the voiceful day ; 
 Over our souls let thy divine repose 
 Assert its gentle sway. 
 
 The night is thine ; its skies above us bent 
 
 Glitter with worlds all fashioned by thy hand — 
 The radiant armies of the firmament, 
 Marshaled at thy command. 
 
 Rank upon rank the shining squadrons press 
 
 Through the far spaces which no eye can scan ; 
 Thy mercies, Lord, like them are numberless, 
 Showered upon sinful man ! 
 
 We read thy record in the starry sky, 
 
 Nor less we trace it in earth's lowliest flower ; 
 And, in adoring wonder, magnify 
 
 Thy goodness and thy power. 
 
252 "IN THE NIGHT SEASON." 
 
 Yet, when we view thy works, so vast, so fair, 
 
 Till fails our vision in the distance dim, 
 "Lord, what is man," we sob amid our prayer, 
 "That thou shouldst visit him?" 
 
 Formed in thine image, with thy glory crowned, 
 
 O, let thy love our yearning spirits fill ; 
 And be our will, in all life's changes, found 
 Obedient to thy will ! 
 
ADMONITION. 
 
 i. 
 
 Ah, how soon are purest feelings lost 
 
 When by pride or passion breathed upon ! 
 
 Frailer than the tracery of frost 
 
 On the window where looks in the sun ! 
 
 Angels will not linger in the heart 
 
 Where a thought of evil dares to dwell ; 
 
 Goodness seeketh aye its counterpart ; 
 Heaven was never married unto hell ! 
 
 Seeks thy soul to hold communion high 
 With the spirits of a world divine? 
 
 Upward let it look with single eye, 
 And the blessed intercourse is thine. 
 
 Sternly banish every wrong desire, 
 
 Every thought that is not pure repress, 
 
 And with purpose rising high and higher, 
 Struggle after perfect holiness ! 
 
254 ADMONITION. 
 
 Vainly shall the once-besetting sin 
 
 Strive to turn thee from thine upward way ; 
 Victory o'er the tempter shalt thou win, 
 
 By thy faith prevailing : watch and pray ! 
 
 Every conflict with opposing wrong, 
 Every effort for the true and right, 
 
 Nerves thy soul anew, and makes it strong 
 Still to struggle in the moral fight. 
 
 Doubt not of thy triumph ! Lo ! a power 
 
 Guides and guards thee through the thickest 
 strife, 
 
 And shall crown thee in thy victor-hour 
 With the garlands of eternal life ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Stormy passions, with a pen of steel, 
 
 Write their record on the human heart ; 
 
 Grows the tracery fires of sin anneal, 
 Deep and deeper as the years depart. 
 
 Perish hopes that holy made its youth ; 
 
 Fades the promise of its golden prime ; 
 Meek affections, sympathies and ruth, 
 
 Sweepeth over all the tide of crime. 
 
 Downward presseth evermore the soul 
 That is wedded to its hideous sin ; 
 
ADMONITION. 255 
 
 Downward madly to the dreadful goal 
 Spirits hating purity must win. 
 
 In the path that leadeth from the light, 
 Every footfall soundeth like a knell ! 
 
 Darklier o'er the spirit gathers night, 
 Blackest horrors thick around it dwell ! 
 
 Lost the brightness of its earlier day, 
 All its longings for the holy lost ; 
 
 Like a wreck whose helm is torn away, 
 On the waves of error see it tossed ! 
 
 Hapless spirit ! heedless of its birth, 
 Mad to drink the bitter cup of woes, 
 
 Dark hath been thy pilgrimage on earth, 
 Darker still that pilgrimage shall close ! 
 
 Ye who linger on forbidden ground, 
 Dreadful is your recompense, and sure ! 
 
 For the blessedness of peace is found 
 Only by the holy and the pure ! 
 
"REJOICE IN THE LORD ALWAYS." 
 
 Their brows should wear a holy light, 
 Who front the heavens serenely bright ; 
 And gladness should their steps attend 
 Who walk with God as with a friend. 
 
 For every footfall of their way 
 But brings them nearer to the day 
 That knows no night, and to the joy 
 Nor grief can mar, nor sin alloy. 
 
 Fixed in the path that He hath trod, 
 Their lives are hid with Christ in God, 
 And dwell secure from every harm, 
 Encircled by the Father's arm. 
 
 Behind the cloud, above the storm, 
 
 His sunlight lingers soft and warm ; 
 
 And even through midnight's gloomiest pall 
 
 Some beams of mercy gently fall. 
 
 However dark the frown of fate, 
 God will His promise vindicate, 
 
"REJOICE IN THE LORD ALWAYS." 257 
 
 And in His own good time and way, 
 Bring in the full and perfect day — 
 
 In whose glad light shall disappear 
 All that perplexed and troubled here, 
 And show the weary path they trod, 
 As the one path whose end is — God ! 
 17 
 
"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." 
 
 O, deem not that earth's crowning bliss 
 
 Is found in joy alone ; 
 For sorrow, bitter though it be, 
 
 Hath blessiDgs all its own ; 
 From lips divine, like healing balm, 
 
 To hearts oppressed and torn, 
 This heavenly consolation fell — 
 
 " Blessed are they that mourn ! " 
 
 As blossoms smitten by the rain 
 
 Their sweetest odors yield — 
 As where the ploughshare deepest strikes 
 
 Rich harvests crown the field, 
 So, to the hopes by sorrow crushed, 
 
 A nobler faith succeeds ; 
 And life, by trials furrowed, bears 
 
 The fruit of loving deeds. 
 
 Who never mourned, hath never known 
 
 What treasures grief reveals : 
 The sympathies that humanize, 
 
 The tenderness that heals, 
 
"BLESSED ARE TREY TEAT MOURN." 259 
 
 The power to look within the veil 
 
 And learn the heavenly lore, 
 The key-word to life's mysteries, 
 
 So dark to us before. 
 
 How rich and sweet and full of strength 
 
 Our human spirits are, 
 Baptized into the sanctities 
 
 Of suffering and of prayer ! 
 Supernal wisdom, love divine, 
 
 Breathed through the lips which said, 
 0, blessed are the souls that mourn — 
 
 They shall be comforted ! " 
 
OUR REFUGE. 
 
 Though darkness gather round our path, 
 
 And angry clouds the sky deform, 
 Yet doubt not, in its fiercest wrath, 
 God sits serene above the storm 
 
 We suffer, but He knows it all, — 
 Our fears, anxieties, and pain ; 
 
 And Love, that notes the sparrow's fall, 
 No trial sends to us in vain. 
 
 He hears and heeds our feeblest cries, 
 And knows what lot for us is best ; 
 
 In what He gives and what denies, 
 His care alike is manifest. 
 
 We choose, and He annuls our choice, 
 Because His eye discerns the end ; 
 And if He chide, 'tis with the voice, 
 The tender accents of a friend. 
 
 Then let us trust Him and obey, 
 
 Through all life's trials yet to come ; 
 
 Better than we He knows the way 
 That leads the pilgrim to his home. 
 
NEEDED BLESSINGS. 
 
 We ask not that our path be always bright, 
 But for thy aid to walk therein aright ; 
 That Thou, O Lord, through all its devious way, 
 Wilt give us strength sufficient to our day, 
 For this, for this we pray. 
 
 Not for the fleeting joys that earth bestows, 
 Not for exemption from its many woes ; 
 But that, come joy or woe, come good or ill, 
 With childlike faith we trust thy guidance still, 
 And do thy holy will. 
 
 Teach us, dear Lord, to find the latent good 
 That sorrow yields, when rightly understood ; 
 And for the frequent joy that crowns our days, 
 Help us with grateful hearts our hymns to raise, 
 Of thankfulness and praise. 
 
 Thou knowest all our needs, and wilt supply; 
 No veil of darkness hides us from thine eye, 
 Nor vainly, from the depths, on Thee we call ; 
 Thy tender love, that breaks the tempter's thrall, 
 Folds and encircles all. 
 
262 NEEDED BLESSINGS. 
 
 Through sorrow and through loss, by toil and 
 
 prayer, 
 Saints won the starry crowns which now they wear ; 
 And by the bitter ministry of pain, 
 Grievous and harsh, but O, not sent in vain, 
 Found their eternal gain. 
 
 If it be ours, like them, to suffer loss, 
 Give grace, as unto them, to bear our cross, 
 Till, victors over the besetting sin, 
 We, too, thy perfect peace shall enter in, 
 And crowns of glory win. 
 
DOMINE, NE IN FURORE. 
 
 From profoundest depths of tribulation, 
 Lord, I 4ift my earnest cry to Thee ! 
 
 O, rebuke me not iu indignation, 
 Nor in thy displeasure chasten me. 
 
 With my groaning I am very weary ; 
 
 All the night I wet my couch with tears ; 
 All the day my plaintive miserere 
 
 Bears to Thee the burden of my fears. 
 
 O'er my soul have rolled the floods of anguish ; 
 
 Every light hath faded from my sky ; 
 And in darkness I am left to languish, 
 
 Till Thou send me succor from on high. 
 
 From my weary foot hath passed the lightness 
 Of the bounding step of earlier years, 
 
 And mine eye hath lost its youthful brightness. 
 Dimmed by sorrow and continual tears. 
 
264 DO MINE, NE IN FURORE. 
 
 Sick and helpless, and of hope divested, 
 In my weakness and my sore distress, 
 
 Be thy healing mercy manifested, 
 
 And with peace my troubled spirit bless! 
 
 Wherefore should I die ? since with the living 
 Only dwell remembrances of Thee ; 
 
 From the grave ascendeth no thanksgiving, 
 Psalm, or laud, or benedicite ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 IN DOMINO CONFIDO. 
 
 Not in vain I poured my supplication, 
 Voiced in anguish that was nigh despair ; 
 
 God, henceforth the Rock of my salvation, 
 Hears in pity and receives my prayer. 
 
 On his name, from midst the darkness calling, 
 He my soul hath ransomed from its fears, 
 
 By his strength my feet are saved from falling, 
 And His love hath dried my flowing tears. 
 
 Therefore come I to His altars, bringing 
 Hymns and vows my gratitude would pay ; 
 
 Hallelujahs and the voice of singing 
 Best interpret all the heart would say. 
 
DOMINE, NE IN FURORE. 265 
 
 Henceforth, with a spirit meek and lowly, 
 With a faith that nothing can appall, 
 
 Hopes serene, and purpose high and holy, 
 I will meet whatever may befall. 
 
 If around me clouds and darkness gather, 
 Lo. the brighter day that dawns beyond ! 
 
 Through the gloom the Everlasting Father 
 Sends a voice that bids me not despond. 
 
 By His mercy which hath never failed me, 
 Over Hate and Falsehood's brood abhorred, 
 
 Over all the foes that have assailed me, 
 I shall triumph greatly through the Lord ! 
 
MISERERE DOMTNE. 
 
 Thou, who look'st with pitying eye 
 From thy radiant home on high 
 On the spirit tempest-tossed, 
 Wretched, weary, wandering, lost ; 
 Every ready help to give, 
 And entreating, " Look and live ! " 
 By that love, exceeding thought, 
 Which from heaven the Saviour brought 
 By that mercy which could dare 
 Death to save us from despair, 
 Lowly bending at thy feet, 
 Lifting heart and voice to Thee — 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 With the vain and giddy throng, 
 Father, we have wandered long ! 
 Eager from thy paths to stray, 
 Chosen the forbidden way ; 
 Heedless of the light within, 
 Hurried on from sin to sin, 
 And with scoffers madly trod 
 On the mercy of our God ! 
 
MISERERE DO MINE. 267 
 
 Now, to where thine altars burn, 
 Penitently we return : 
 Though forgotten, Thou hast not 
 To be merciful forgot ; 
 Hear our suppliant cries to Thee — 
 Miserere Doraiue ! 
 
 From the burden of our grief, 
 Who but Thou canst give relief? 
 Who can pour salvation's light 
 On the darkness of our night? 
 Bowed our load of sin beneath, 
 Who redeem our souls from death ? 
 If in man we put our trust, 
 Scattered are our hopes like dust ! 
 Smitten by thy chastening rod, 
 Lo, we cry to Thee, our God! 
 From the perils of our path, 
 From the terrors of thy wrath, 
 Save us when we look to Thee — 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 Where the pastures greenly grow, 
 Where the waters gently flow, 
 And beneath the sheltering Rock 
 With the Shepherd rests the flock — 
 O, let us be gathered there, 
 Under thy paternal care; 
 
268 MISERERE DOMINE. 
 
 Love and labor and rejoice 
 With the people of thy choice, 
 Till the toils of life are done, 
 And the crown with heavenly glow 
 Sparkles on the victor's brow! 
 Hear the prayer we lift to Thee, — 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
THANKSGIVING. 
 
 " Lord, I believe ; help Thou mine unbelief ! " 
 Thus in its anguish cried my soul to Thee 
 And Thou didst hear and heal its bitter grief, 
 And from its weary bondage set it free. 
 
 At thy command the shadows rolled away, 
 Tlie fetters crumbled that had held me long ; 
 
 Kindled the dawn-light into perfect day, 
 
 And changed the voice of weeping into song. 
 
 Thy love was equal to my sorest need, 
 
 When I was naked, hungry, sick, and blind ; 
 
 Clothed, fed, healed, seeing, now I know indeed 
 Thou art a Saviour pitiful and kind. 
 
 To Thee who heard the cry of my despair, 
 
 My hope shall cling through all life's devious 
 ways; 
 
 Thou who in mercy answeredst my prayer, 
 Deign to accept my hymns of grateful praise. 
 
A PRAYER FOR GUIDANCE. 
 
 Lead us, O Father, in the paths of peace ! 
 
 Without thy guiding hand we go astray, 
 And doubts appall, and sorrows still increase ; 
 
 Lead us through Christ, the true and living 
 Way. 
 
 Lead us, O Father, in the paths of truth ! 
 
 Unhelped by Thee, in error's maze we grope, 
 While passion stains and folly dims our youth, 
 
 And age comes on uncheered by faith or hope. 
 
 Lead us, O Father, in the paths of right ! 
 
 Blindly we stumble when we walk alone, 
 Involved in shadows of a moral night ; 
 
 Only with Thee we journey safely on. 
 
 Lead us, O Father, to thy heavenly rest ! 
 
 However rough and steep the pathway be ; 
 Through joy or sorrow as Thou deemest best, 
 
 Until our lives are perfected in Thee ! 
 
FAITH'S REPOSE. 
 
 Father, beneath thy sheltering wing 
 
 In sweet security we rest ! 
 And fear no evil earth can bring, 
 
 In life, in death, supremely blest. 
 
 For life is good, whose tidal flow 
 The motions of thy will obeys ; 
 
 And death is good, that makes us know 
 The life divine that all things sways. 
 
 And good it is to bear the cross, 
 And so thy perfect peace to win ; 
 
 And naught is ill, nor brings us loss, 
 Nor works us harm, save only sin. 
 
 Redeemed from this, we ask no more, 
 But trust the love that saves, to guide 
 
 The grace that yields so rich a store, 
 Will grant us all we need beside. 
 
«TE DEUM LAUDAMUS." 
 
 Myriad voices, God, to Thee 
 Shout from earth and air and sea ! 
 While on high the angel-throng 
 Raise a louder, bolder song — 
 "Holy! holy!" thus they cry 
 Through the vast immensity, 
 And creation's farthest bound 
 Vibrates to the rapturous sound. 
 
 " Holy ! holy ! " we would join 
 In that chorus all divine ; 
 With seraphic choirs above 
 Sing thy ever-during love, 
 Till or hearts are all aflame 
 With the glory of thy name, 
 And with rapture evermore 
 Love and worship and adore ! 
 
« BLESSED ARE THE PURE IN HEART." 
 
 They who have kept their spirit's virgin whiteness 
 
 Undimmed by folly and unstained by sin, 
 And made their foreheads radiant with the bright- 
 ness 
 Of the pure truth whose temple is within — 
 They shall see God. 
 
 Freed from the thrall of every sinful passion, 
 Around their pathway beams celestial light; 
 
 They drink with joy the waters of salvation, 
 And in His love whose love is infinite — 
 They shall see God. 
 
 Though • clouds may darken into storms around 
 them, 
 The promise pours through all its steady ray ; 
 Nor hate can daunt nor obloquy confound them, 
 Nor earth's temptations lure them from the way 
 That leads to God. 
 
 They shall see God ! O, glorious fruition 
 
 Of all their hopes and longings here below ! 
 18 
 
274 "BLESSED ARE TEE PURE IN HEART." 
 
 They shall see God in beatific vision, 
 And evermore into His likeness grow — 
 Children of God ! 
 
 So when the measure of their faith is meted, 
 And angels beckon from the courts on high, 
 
 Filled with all grace, the work divine completed, 
 They shall put on their immortality, 
 
 And dwell with God! 
 
A PSALM OF NIGHT. 
 
 Fades from the west the farewell light 
 
 Flung backward by the "setting sun, 
 And silence deepens, as the night 
 
 Steals with its solemn shadows on. 
 Gathers the soft, refreshing dew, 
 
 On spiring grass and flow'ret stems, 
 And lo, the everlasting blue 
 
 Is radiant with a thousand gems ! 
 
 Not only doth the voiceful day 
 
 Thy loving-kindness, Lord, proclaim, 
 But night, with its sublime array 
 
 Of worlds, doth magnify thy name ! 
 Yea, while adoring seraphim 
 
 Before Thee bend the willing knee, 
 From every star a choral hymn 
 
 Goes up unceasingly to Thee ! 
 
 Day unto day doth utter speech, 
 
 And night to night thy voice makes known : 
 Through all the earth where thought may reach, 
 
 Is heard the glad and solemn tone ; 
 
276 A PSALM OF NIGHT. 
 
 And worlds beyond the farthest star 
 
 "Whose light hath reached a human eye, 
 
 Catch the high anthem from afar 
 That rolls along immensity ! 
 
 O, Holy Father ! 'mid the calm 
 
 And stillness of this evening hour, 
 We too would lrft our solemn psalm 
 
 To praise thy goodness and thy power; 
 For over us, as over all, 
 
 Thy tender mercies still extend, 
 Nor vainly shall the contrite call 
 
 On Thee, our Father and our Friend. 
 
 Kept by thy goodness through the day. 
 
 Thanksgiving to thy name we pour ; 
 Night o'er us with its stars, we pray 
 
 Thy love to guard us evermore ! 
 In grief console, in gladness bless, 
 
 In darkness guide, in sickness cheer. 
 Till, perfected in righteousness, 
 
 Our souls before thy throne appear. 
 
SUPPLICATION. 
 
 Forbid my feet to stray, 
 
 O Father, from the way 
 That leads to Thee and to thy perfect rest ; 
 
 Though rough that way aud steep, 
 
 Right onward would I keep : 
 The path Thou choosest for me is the best! 
 
 The best, though on its flints 
 
 My feet leave bloody prints, 
 And every step is added toil and pain ; 
 
 The best, though hard and straight, — 
 
 Since through its narrow gate, 
 The Golden City shall my soul attain. 
 
 Misled by sinful pride, 
 
 Too long I turned aside, 
 Placing in human wisdom all my trust; 
 
 Too long, in sore-t need, 
 
 Leaned on a broken reed, 
 And fed my heart with hopes that turned to du.u. 
 
278 S UPPLICA TI ON. 
 
 I thank Thee for the care 
 That waited not my prayer; 
 
 But kindly through the ministry of woe, 
 By loss and bitter pain, 
 Hath called me back again, 
 
 To taste thy love and thy forgiveness know. 
 
 And now, thy work complete, 
 
 Creator ! Paraclete ! 
 Thy will be done ! and may that will be mine, 
 
 Till through thy grace I win 
 
 The victory over sin, 
 And all my soul is filled with love divine. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 
 
 There's a Beautiful Land, by the spoiler uutrod, 
 
 Unpolluted by sorrow or care ; 
 It is lighted alone by the presence of God, 
 
 Whose throne and whose temple are there: 
 Its crystalline streams, with a murmurous flow, 
 
 Meander through valleys of .green, 
 And its mountains of jasper are bright in the glow 
 
 Of a splendor no mortal hath seen. 
 
 And throngs of glad singers, with jubilant breath. 
 
 Make the air with their melodies rife ; 
 And one known on earth as the Angel of Death. 
 
 Shines there as the Angel of Life ! 
 An infinite tenderness beams from his eyes, 
 
 On his brow is an infinite calm ; 
 And his voice, as it thrills through the depths of 
 the skies, 
 
 Is as sweet as the seraphim's psalm. 
 
 Through the amaranth-groves of the Beautiful Land 
 Walk the souls who were faithful in this ; 
 
 And their foreheads, star-crowned, by the breezes 
 are fanned, 
 That evermore murmur of bliss. 
 
280 TIIE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 
 
 They taste the rich fruitage that hangs from the 
 trees, 
 
 And breathe the sweet odors of flowers, 
 More fragrant than ever were kissed by the breeze 
 
 In Araby's loveliest bowers. 
 
 Old prophets, whose words were a spirit of flame, 
 
 Blazing out o'er the darkness of time ; 
 And martyrs, whose courage no torture could tame, 
 
 Nor turn from their purpose sublime ; 
 And saints and confessors, a numberless throng, 
 
 Who were loyal to truth and to right, 
 And left, as they walked through the darkness of 
 wrong, 
 
 Their footprints encircled with light; 
 
 And the dear little children, who went to their rest 
 Ere their lives had been sullied by sin, 
 
 While the Angel of Morning still tarried, a guest, 
 Their spirits' pure temple within — 
 
 All are there — all are there — in the Beautiful 
 Land, 
 The land by the spoiler untrod, 
 
 And their foreheads, star-crowned, by the breezes 
 
 are fanned 
 
 Tliat blow from the Gardens of God ! 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 281 
 
 My soul bath looked in, through the gateway of 
 dreams, 
 
 On the city all paven with gold, 
 And heard the sweet flow of its murmurous streams 
 
 As through the green valleys they rolled ; 
 And though it still waits on this desolate strand, 
 
 A pilgrim and stranger on earth, 
 Yet it knew, iu that glimpse of the Beautiful Land, 
 
 That it gazed on the home of its birth ! 
 
A MORNING HYMN. 
 
 Sing to the Lord ! the shades of night 
 At His command have passed away, 
 
 And the dim morning's doubtful light 
 Hath brightened to the full-orbed day. ■ 
 
 Watched by that Love which never sleeps, 
 Safe, and in confidence, we slept ; 
 
 Who suns and stars innumerous keeps, 
 His servants faithfully has kept. 
 
 No earthquake shook, no hungry flame, 
 No tempest with destroying breath, 
 
 At midnight to our dwelling came, 
 
 To make our sleep the sleep of death. 
 
 Thy guardian angels, Lord, were near, 
 
 To smoothe the pulse and soothe the breast 
 
 Nor torturing pain, nor haunting fear, 
 Broke the sweet quiet of our rest. 
 
 Now, called to duty by the light, 
 
 Our morning thanks to Thee we pay, 
 
A MORNING HYMN. 283 
 
 For the kind ministry of night, 
 For the new glory of the day ; 
 
 For life preserved, for strength renewed, 
 For the dear love that guards us still ; 
 
 But best we speak our gratitude 
 By wills submissive to thy will. 
 
FARMER'S NOONDAY HYMN. 
 
 Noon is over earth : the flowers, 
 Drooping, wait reviving showers, 
 And the flocks, to shun the heat, 
 Seek the forest's cool retreat ; 
 While the sun, with burning eye, 
 Glares from out a cloudless sky, 
 And beneath his torrid rays 
 All the landscape seems ablaze. 
 
 From the meadow newly shorn, 
 Summoned by the blatant horn, 
 Lo, the weary reapers haste 
 To their bounteous repast ! 
 Simple yet delicious fare, 
 Spread by loving hands with care : 
 Healthful meats with odorous steam, 
 Fruits, and curds, and golden cream, 
 Water clear as that which first 
 From the founts of Eden burst, 
 Ere along their margin green 
 Had the serpent's trail been seen — 
 Such the banquet that invites 
 Unperverted appetites. 
 
FARMERS NOONDAY IIYMN. 28-5 
 
 Gathered round our ample board, 
 Let us thank the loving Lord, 
 And to Him our prayers uplift, 
 Giver of each perfect gift, 
 Who doth all our needs supply, 
 Pouring bounties from the sky. 
 
 Lo, the wide extended plain, 
 Sentineled with sheaves of grain ! 
 Lo, the hill-sides, where the maize 
 Glimmers in the noonday blaze ! 
 Lo, the orchards, through whose green 
 Red and luscious fruits are seen ! 
 Lo, the vines, whose clustered stores 
 Wait for autumn's sun and showers ! 
 Prophecies by nature given, 
 Pledges of the truth of Heaven, 
 That successive seasons still 
 Shall his promises fulfill, 
 And reward with golden sheaves 
 Him who labors and believes. 
 
 Not alone for daily food, 
 But for every needed good, 
 Trusting Him whose sure supply 
 Feeds the ravens when they cry, 
 "We in faith our burdens cast 
 On the love that blessed the past, 
 
286 FARMER'S NOONDAY HYMN. 
 
 And from thankful hearts our prayer 
 Still invokes a Father's care. 
 
 Unto Thee, O God, alone 
 
 Is the hidden future known ; 
 
 But whatever it may bring, 
 
 Be it joy or suffering, 
 
 Only let thy spirit dwell 
 
 In our heart*, and all is well ! 
 
 Only let thy grace sustain, 
 
 Hell shall hurl its shafts in vain ; 
 
 Earth in vain its lures essay, 
 
 To beguile us from our way ! 
 
 Keep us, Father, by thy power, 
 Safe through every changing hour ; 
 So when Death with sickle keen, 
 Gathers thy great harvest in, 
 Ripe for heaven may we be found, 
 Girded by thy love around, 
 Freed from tares of hate and strife, 
 Golden sheaves of endless life ! 
 
EVENING THANK-OFFERING. 
 
 Through the changes of the day, 
 
 Kept by thy sustaining power, 
 Offering of thanks we pay, 
 
 Father, in this evening hour. 
 Praises to thy name belong, 
 
 Source and Giver of all good ; 
 While we lift our evening song, 
 
 Fill our souls with gratitude. 
 
 From the dangers which have frowned, 
 
 From the snares in secret set, 
 "We have through thy mercy found 
 
 Safety and deliverance yet. 
 All the day that mercy hath 
 
 Guarded us from ills untold, 
 All the day along our path 
 
 Scattered blessings manifold. 
 
 Spirit, who hath been our Light 
 And the Guardian of our way, 
 
 Let thy mercy and thy might 
 Keep us to another day ; 
 
288 EVENING THANK-OFFERING. 
 
 Help us, Father, so to spend 
 All our moments as they flee, 
 
 That when life and labor end, 
 We may fall asleep in Thee ! 
 
"UPON THE WATCH-TOWER." 
 
 O Lord, how long ? We watch and wait 
 
 The coming of that better day, 
 When love, triumphant over hate, 
 
 Shall rule the earth with sovereign sway ; 
 When he who toils, and he who bleeds, 
 
 The promise of its dawn shall see, 
 And slaves of power and slaves of creeds 
 
 Shall hear the word that makes them free. 
 
 Lord, how long ? We wait and watch ; 
 
 Night lingers, and the rough wind chills ; 
 We strive some gleam of morn to catch, 
 
 Slow climbing o'er the eastern hills — 
 Some glimpses of. the herald star, 
 
 Whose light shall tell its advent near ; 
 But lo ! the darkness wide and far, 
 
 Blots out the whole broad hemisphere ! 
 
 O Lord, how long? The earth is old, 
 And reels, sin-stricken, to its doom, 
 
 Burdened with sorrows manifold, 
 
 And veiled in more than midnight gloom ; 
 19 
 
290 "UPON TEE WATCH-TOWERS 
 
 Her children weep upon her breast, 
 
 And, heavenward, eyes of suppliance turn ; 
 
 Perplexed by doubts, by fears distressed, 
 Too blind thy promise to discern. 
 
 Yet is that promise sure! and sure 
 
 The coming of earth's better day, 
 Though long the night of wrong endure, 
 
 And still the dawn of right delay ! 
 O make us brave to watch and wait 
 
 The hour by prophet-bards foretold, 
 When thou shalt lift the Orient's gate 
 
 And flood the "lands with morning's gold! 
 
OPTIMUS. 
 
 Hl who made all made nought in vain 
 Of fair or foul, of mean or grand ; 
 The shores no needless grain of sand 
 
 Nor needless drop the seas contain. 
 
 Their use we may not know, yet all 
 Combine to form a perfect whole ; 
 And to the all-inclusive soul 
 
 There can be neither great nor small. 
 
 The flowers that bloom upon the waste, 
 Nor win the glance of human eye; 
 The gems that deep in caverns lie ; 
 
 The fruits that fall where none may taste ; 
 
 The coral palaces that grow 
 
 Beneath the 'ever-murmuring wave9, 
 Homes of their builders and their graves, 
 
 Wrought through the centuries moving slow ; 
 
292 optimus. 
 
 The crystal spires that gleam and flash 
 In sunlight on the mountain's crest, 
 Above the loneliest eagle's nest, 
 
 Above the storm, the thunder's crash — 
 
 These and whate'er He bids to be, 
 Are needful to His vast domain ; 
 Nor falls the sunshine, nor the rain, 
 
 Vainly on desert or on sea. 
 
 ii. 
 
 No ill, so called, is only ill ; 
 
 No grief can probe the heart in vain ; 
 
 No pain can ultimate in pain ; 
 No loss in loss ; no death can kill : 
 
 But ever since the world began, 
 
 Have grief, and pain, and loss, and sin 
 Helped by their bitter discij^line 
 
 The progress of still erring man. 
 
 Life, to our dim half-seeing, seems 
 A thing to fill the soul with fear; 
 And all its voices pain the ear 
 
 Like cries of anguish heard in dreams. 
 
 But the clear eye that scans the whole, 
 Beyond its storm can see the calm ; 
 
op Tim us. 293 
 
 And o'er its discords sounds a psalm 
 Of triumph to the prescient soul : 
 
 And all that is, or dark or bright, 
 All that fears, hopes, despairs, exults, 
 Helps to bring in the large results 
 
 Of love, and liberty, and light — 
 
 Helps to bring back to truth's control 
 A world that long had gone amiss, 
 And give to life its crowning bliss 
 
 And oneness with a perfect whole ! 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Hoarding can but bring thee loss ; 
 
 Wealth is found alone in giving ; 
 Treasures kept, resolve to dross ; 
 
 Love by loving, life by living, 
 Still augments, and richer grows 
 For the largess it bestows : 
 Outward-flowing, it shall be 
 Ever flowing back to thee. 
 
 Thus the more thou giv'st, the more 
 
 Still, in giving, shall be thine ; 
 Thus shall thy replenished store 
 Overflow with wealth divine. 
 Joy and peace thy heart shall fill, 
 While that heart shall widen still, 
 Till to its embrace is given 
 All of good in earth and heaven. 
 
MATINS. 
 
 For the dear love that kept us through the night, 
 
 And gave our senses to sleep's gentle sway — 
 For the new miracle of dawning light 
 
 Flushing the east with prophecies of day, 
 We thank thee, O our God ! 
 • 
 For the fresh life that through our being flows 
 
 With its full tide to strengthen and to bless — 
 For calm, sweet thoughts, upspringing from repose 
 To bear to thee their song of thankfulness, 
 We praise thee, O our God ! 
 
 Day uttereth speech to day, and night to night 
 Tells of thy power and glory. So would we, 
 
 Thy children, duly, with the morning light, 
 Or at still eve, upon the bended knee 
 Adore thee, O our God ! 
 
 Thou knowest our needs, thy fullness will supply ; 
 
 Our blindness — let thy hand still lead us on. 
 Till, visited by the dayspring from on high, 
 
 Our prayer, one only, " Let thy will be done ! " 
 We breathe to Thee, O God ! 
 
THE HARVEST-CALL. 
 
 Abide not in the realm of dreams, 
 man, however fair it seems, 
 Where drowsy airs thy powers repress 
 In languors of sweet idleness. 
 
 Nor linger in the mist^ past, 
 Entranced in visions vague and vast ; 
 But with clear eye the present scan, 
 And hear the call of God and man. 
 
 That call, though many- voiced, is one, 
 With mighty meanings in each tone ; 
 Through sob and laughter, shriek and prayer, 
 Its summons meets thee everywhere. 
 
 Think not in sleep to fold thy hands, 
 Forgetful of thy Lord's commands ; 
 From duty's claims no life is free — 
 Behold, to-day hath need of thee ! 
 
 Look up ! the wide extended plain 
 Is billowy with its ripened grain, 
 
THE HARVEST-CALL. 297 
 
 And on the summer-winds are rolled 
 Its waves of emerald and gold. 
 
 Thrust in thy sickle ! nor delay 
 The work that calls for thee to-day : 
 To-morrow, if it come, will bear 
 Its own demands of toil and care. 
 
 The present hour allots thy task ! 
 For present strength and patience ask, 
 And trust His love whose sure supplies 
 Meet all thy needs as they arise. 
 
 Lo ! the broad fields with harvests white 
 Thy hands to strenuous toil invite ; 
 And he who labors and believes 
 Shall reap reward of ample sheaves. 
 
 Up, for the time is short ! and soon 
 The morning sun will climb to noon : 
 Up! ere the herd;*, with trampling feet, 
 Outrunning thine, shall spoil the wheat. 
 
 "While the day lingers, do thy best ! 
 Full soon the night will bring its rest ; 
 And, duty done, that rest shall be 
 Full of beatitudes to thee. 
 
ASPIRATION. 
 
 Sitting in my lonely chamber, 
 
 Listening to the dismal rain, 
 As its melancholy plashes 
 
 Beat against my window-pane, — 
 O, what troops of sombre fancies 
 
 Throng the chambers of the mind, 
 While I hear the dirge of summer 
 
 In the moaning of the wind ! 
 While I hear the dying summer 
 
 Sobbing o'er its latest eve, 
 Wailing for the hoarded glories 
 
 That forever it must leave. 
 
 Then I say, " How brief the summer ! 
 
 Yet its early wealth of flowers, 
 Ripened into golden harvests, 
 
 Though it passes, shall be ours. 
 Lo ! the apple-laden orchards ! 
 
 Lo ! the sheaves of gathered grain ! 
 These, the largess left behind her, 
 
 Prove she hath not lived in vain ! " 
 So, with fervent benedictions 
 
 Linked, her memory shall be, 
 
ASPIRATION. 299 
 
 When the winter spreads his snow-pall 
 Over mountain, moor, and lea. 
 
 Passeth rapidly my summer ! 
 
 Will the promise of its flowers 
 Be fulfilled in golden harvests 
 
 When are gone its sunny hours ? 
 Will it ripen to a future 
 
 Filled with memories sweet and pure, 
 That shall troop like angels round me ? 
 
 Or, amid the world's obscure, 
 Shall I pass, unsung, forgotten, 
 
 With no star-crown on my brow ? 
 With no wail from broken harp-strings ? 
 
 With no laurel's drooping bough ? 
 With no dirges sobbed in anguish ? 
 
 With no grand, exultant strain 
 Saying, " He who died at night-fall 
 
 Shall to-morrow live again ! 
 Live in sonjrs that cleave, like lightning, 
 
 Through oblivion's heavy pall, 
 Changing all its murk to splendor, 
 
 Bright'ning, glorifying all ; 
 Live in thoughts that thrill the ages, 
 
 (Though his body is in u rued) 
 Like the fire of consecration 
 
 On Isaiah's lips that burned ! " 
 
300 ASPIRATION. 
 
 I would wrest the meed of glory 
 
 From the future's iron grasp, 
 Or, like Egypt's Cleopatra, 
 
 Bare my bosom to the asp ! * 
 
 What to me were life, if bounded 
 
 By the present's narrow span ? 
 "Worthless as the coffined ashes 
 
 Which were once a living man ! 
 Let the sottish and the sensual 
 
 Rot in their ignoble rest — 
 
 I would make the earth my debtor 
 
 Ere I sleep upon her breast ! 
 I would live in after-voices 
 
 Chanting my melodious rhyme, 
 In sublime reverberations 
 
 Sounding through remotest time ; 
 In the thought that prompts to greatness ; 
 
 In the deed that shrines a name 
 Hallowed in the world's affection, 
 
 Doubly consecrate to fame ! 
 This is life! — the flower immortal 
 
 Springing from the earthly clod ; 
 Life, forever broad'ning, bright'ning, 
 
 Till 'tis perfected in God ! 
 
OUR OFFERING. 
 
 "What shall we lay upon thy shrine, 
 Lord ! as tribute worthy Thee ? 
 
 The gold and gems of earth are thine, 
 And thine the treasures of the sea. 
 
 Thine, all the myrrh the grove distills, 
 The nectar of the vines' full veins, 
 
 The cattle on a thousand hills, 
 
 The billowy harvests of the plains. 
 
 Thou needest neither praise nor prayer, 
 Nor regal gifts of costliest price ; 
 
 The glory which no one can share, 
 Doth for Infinity suffice. 
 
 But we, so constantly we need 
 
 Thy watchful love, thy guardian care, 
 
 Should feel that we were lost indeed, 
 But for the privilege of prayer. 
 
 And when we sum the rich e.\ 
 
 Of mercy that has crowned our day-, 
 
802 OUR OFFERING. 
 
 Our hearts are filled with thankfulness, 
 And their sweet overflow is praise. 
 
 These hearts, O Lord ! to thee we bring 
 
 And ask that thou wouldst make them thine ; 
 
 Touched by thy love, the offering 
 Poor in itself, shall be divine. 
 
ORDINATION HYMN. 
 
 Father ! thy servant waits to do thy will ! 
 
 Called to thy work, O, clothe ltim with thy 
 might, 
 And with this threefold grace his spirit fill — 
 Love, liberty, and light ! 
 
 "With love, for the dear souls that thou hast made, 
 
 And for the truth which only maketh free ; 
 So, with all patience, faithful, unafraid, 
 
 He shall be true to thee. 
 
 "With liberty, that where thy Spirit leads, 
 
 Follows, whatever faith it haves behind, 
 And wears no fetters formed from olden creeds, 
 
 That blight whate'er they bind. 
 
 With light, an effluence of the Life Divine, 
 
 Before which error falls and falsehood dies, 
 Leading his spirit joyfully to thine, 
 
 And upward to the skies. 
 
304 ORDINATION HYMN. 
 
 Thus, furnished for his work, O Father, stand 
 
 Close by his side to give that work success ; 
 And may the good seed, scattered by his hand, 
 Bear fruits of righteousness ! 
 
GIFTS. 1 
 
 Not as the world gives, God to us doth give ; 
 Xo doubtful good, with half-reluctaut hand 
 That chides the taking ; but an amplitude 
 Of blessing, vast beyond the reach of thought, 
 Rich beyond count, and constant as the heavens, 
 With all their solemn march of sun and stars, 
 Whose motions know no pause nor weariness, 
 Chiming forever to the rythmic songs 
 Of angel-choirs, He presses on our souls, 
 And most rejoices when we most receive. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Then let as take as greatly as He gives ; 
 Not with a hand that challenges the gift, 
 Or seems the Giver's goodness to impeach, 
 Or to fix bounds to His beneficence; 
 ljut with a soul all open to receive, 
 And giouing ampler to receive the more, 
 The more His love bestows ; with thankful i 
 That links us in divinest fellowship 
 
 1 This was the author's last poem, and \\a> written only a few 
 weeks before he died. 
 
306 GIFTS. 
 
 To Him who gives all good and perfect gifts 
 From His great goodness and full perfectness. 
 
 in. 
 
 So, to their overflowing, shall our hearts 
 Be filled with love and gracious charities ; 
 So shall we learn, no more to be unlearned, 
 The lesson, most divine, of doing good, 
 "Whence goodness, its divine necessity ; 
 So, growing in its likeness, we shall grow 
 To the full stature of the Lord's redeemed. 
 And know how sweet the freedom from all sin, 
 How beautiful the ministry of love, 
 How blest and all-sufficing, holiness. 
 
fl 
 
I