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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
Songs from Bohemia 
 
 BY 
 
 Daniel O'Connell 
 
 ... 5 
 
 Edited by Ina D. Coolbrith 
 Biographical Sketch by Wm. Greer Harrison 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 A. M. ROBERTSON 
 
 1900 
 
 1 
 
91413 
 
 i Library of Conjrreas 
 
 Iwo Copies Received 
 DEC 201900 
 
 SECOND COPY 
 
 OellvarMi to 
 
 ORDER DIVISION 
 JAN 11 1901 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1900 
 
 BY 
 
 MABEL ASHLEY o'CONNELL 
 
 THE MURDOCH PRESS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Biographical Sketch i 
 
 After Death i8i 
 
 Alone 159 
 
 Angelus, The 163 
 
 Angler's Confession, The 59 
 
 Anita 57 
 
 Archery Idyl, An 136 
 
 Ashes 15 
 
 At Rest 17 
 
 Bal-Masque 211 
 
 Berrying 161 
 
 Business of the Future, The 205 
 
 By the Lake 70 
 
 By the Sea 52 
 
 Camp Indolence 13 
 
 Cenci, The 183 
 
 Chamber of Sleep, The 231 
 
 Christmas Dream, A 66 
 
 Christmas Reverie, A 22 
 
 Color of Gold, The 121 
 
 Crastine Vive Hodis 36 
 
 Cui Bono? 11 
 
 Dead in the Mine 130 
 
 iii 
 
iv Contents 
 
 Dead Warrior, The 113 
 
 Death List, The 176 
 
 Difference, The i99 
 
 DiGMAN Pasha 94 
 
 Drayman, The 187 
 
 Drowned 89 
 
 Drunk in the Street 26 
 
 Enamored 30 
 
 Exile's Musings, The 227 
 
 Fallen 62 
 
 Farewell no 
 
 Farewell the Pipe 49 
 
 Favorite Toast, The 74 
 
 Fifty Years Ago 221 
 
 God's Forgotten Poor 170 
 
 In Memoriam 50 
 
 In Memory 153 
 
 In Sir Humphrey's Hall 165 
 
 In the Coliseum 76 
 
 Into God's Hands 119 
 
 Irish Tramp, The 33 
 
 Is Life Worth Living? 217 
 
 Jovina: a Legend of the San Carlos Mission 38 
 
 Just as of Old 224 
 
 La Grippe lor 
 
 Land of the Never Was, The 84 
 
 Last Pool, The 128 
 
 Legend of the Hazel 213 
 
 "Little Hut upon the Beach," . 195 
 
 Loving-Cup, The 191 
 
ConUntisf V 
 
 Market-Day 189 
 
 Marriage a la Mode 92 
 
 Mary's Cat • 215 
 
 May Idyl, A 9 
 
 Mission Dolores 123 
 
 Mission Roses 147 
 
 Monterey 108 
 
 Mutations 103 
 
 My Favorite Book 179 
 
 Nature and Man 91 
 
 New- Year Thoughts 47 
 
 Old Sailor, The 132 
 
 Only a Woman's Face 106 
 
 On the Banks of the Nile . . 134 
 
 On the Brink 201 
 
 Outcast 138 
 
 Refugee, The 151 
 
 River's Teachings, The 219 
 
 Romance and Reality 54 
 
 Rose and the Nightingale, The 208 
 
 Rose and the Wind, The 157 
 
 Rover 139 
 
 Singer, The 125 
 
 Sing Me a Ringing Anthem 45 
 
 Song of the Fields 203 
 
 South Wind, The 185 
 
 Spanish Vista, A 72 
 
 State-House Bell, The (1776) 80 
 
 Sweethearts and Wives 24 
 
 Through Sun and Cloud 174 
 
vi Content!2( 
 
 Tom Moore 96 
 
 Trees . . . 141 
 
 True Philosopher, The 144 
 
 Two Rivers 87 
 
 Waiter, The 104 
 
 Wanderers from the Sea 99 
 
 Were I to Die To-night 197 
 
 Which? 229 
 
 Willow Tree, The 28 
 
 Wine Pictures 19 
 
 With the Dead 64 
 
 Workers, The 116 
 
DANIEL O'CONNELL 
 
 The biographic gift is rare, and at best its possessor 
 can only depict the man as he appeared to him. I have 
 often thought that a biography should be like a composite 
 picture, made up of the several views of the subject. 
 
 The publishers of this work have asked me to write 
 a brief sketch of Dan O'Connell's life. I am quite sure 
 the request is made because of my love for the man, and 
 not because of any very special fitness for the work. I 
 knew, and I think understood, O'Connell. Our friend- 
 ship covered a quarter of a century of California' s growth. 
 I saw him under all the conditions of life. I knew him 
 as poet, litterateur, athlete, humorist, and Bohemian; and 
 the more I saw of him, and the better I knew him, the 
 more I loved him. 
 
 His good humor was inexhaustible, his nature sunny, 
 and his temper exceptionally sweet. 
 
 But under the jester's' garb, beneath the habiliments of 
 humor, there was a nature strong, deep, and extremely 
 reflective; a mind that dealt with all the great problems 
 of life, that dared to question, that dared to ask why. 
 
 O' Connell was a true Bohemian in the highest sense 
 of that much misunderstood word. He had an abundant 
 faith in the providential impulses of his friends, who never 
 failed him. The cares and worries of ordinary life passed 
 
IBtogtapgtcal &Utti 
 
 him by as one immune. No man ever saw O'Connell in 
 despondent mood. He was the sun itself — comforting 
 others, he had no time for regrets. He was in love with 
 Nature, and she was very generous in her gifts to him. 
 He had a magnificent physique — which he kept always 
 in condition. He was an excellent boxer, a capital wres- 
 tler, a splendid swordsman, a great angler, and loved all 
 kinds of outdoor life. Had he not been a Celt, he would 
 have been a gypsy. 
 
 Bohemian as he was, he knew nothing of idleness, 
 mental or physical. His pen was ever busy with the 
 things of life; his mind was ever in the dreams, hopes, 
 passions that do not belong to mere materialism, but 
 which are the environment of the poet. But the cumula- 
 tive art was abhorrent to O'Connell. His desire to spend 
 far exceeded his capacity to acquire. It would follow that 
 he would frequently find himself in short straits, and that 
 his table would be decorated by suggestion only. I have 
 dined with him when the ** banquet" was almost entirely 
 intellectual, and the simple meal was made luxurious by 
 the wealth of his humor and the beauty of his thoughts. 
 He was an inventor of humor, genial, loving hits without 
 a suggestion of rancor. His laugh was a benison, his 
 smile an inspiration. To be with him was to be happy. 
 
 The rich organ-like tone of his voice was a moral tonic, 
 bracing one up to deeds of love. 
 
 He had no enemies, because he would not permit any 
 man to be out of harmony with him. 
 
 With all his humor, — indeed, because of his humor, — 
 O'Connell was a reverent man, and the profound things 
 
Btograplbical &lietc|) 
 
 of life were sacred to him. Born in beautiful, historic 
 Clare, in the old town of Ennis, one of the most romantic 
 spots in a land of romance, son of a distinguished lawyer, 
 Charles O'Connell, grand-nephew of the great Irish 
 patriot, associating with the brightest and best in his 
 native land, O'Connell had every advantage in his en- 
 vironment. Naturally he would sympathize with youth's 
 fair dreams of a people lifted by song and oratory from a 
 position of dependence to the alta of hope, the lofty pin- 
 nacle of freedom, and his Celtic heart went out in patriotic 
 songs which were echoed throughout his native vale. 
 
 O'Connell in himself connected the family of Derry- 
 nane, the home of the great Liberator, with his own 
 family at Ennis. The young lad was always a welcome 
 visitor to Derrynane, where his quick wit and heart-born 
 humor made him one of the family. 
 
 O'Connell greatly resembled the orator in physique 
 and vocal expression. There was the same quality of 
 voice, the same musical expression, the same Celtic inspi- 
 ration. Both loved and spoke the language of their fathers 
 — a language rich in liquid beauty, powerful in its strength, 
 grand in its dramatic use, falling upon the ear of the Celt 
 as the songs of the gods. 
 
 O'Connell' s early education was directed by the Jesuit 
 Fathers, whose training left a profound impression on his 
 mind, evidenced by his keen appreciation of the classics 
 and of all phases of philosophy. His life at the Jesuit 
 College in Dublin, though brief, must have been full of 
 delightful incidents; for all through his wandering career 
 he never ceased to speak in loving terms of what he 
 
IBiograpJical fefeetcfi 
 
 regarded as his Alma Mater. He must have drank deeply 
 from the loving-cup of youth in his college days, and we 
 can well believe there was never a heavy hour with his 
 companions, nor a weary moment with his friends in the 
 old college. A fatal accident to his beloved mother and 
 sister, who were drowned by the upsetting of a coach in 
 the Grand Canal reservoir, brought him back to his home. 
 
 From the home of the mourner, O'Connell was trans- 
 ferred to Clongowes Wood College, the chief establish- 
 ment of the Jesuit order in Ireland, where he remained 
 for three years. There he absorbed Latin and Greek 
 and caught the passion for literature which influenced all 
 his life. 
 
 His father was offered a commission in the British 
 Navy for his son, and the boy, always an enthusiastic 
 lover of the world of waters, left the shades of classic 
 Clongowes to become a toiler of the seas. He became 
 a middy, and it is not difficult to believe that he was a 
 most welcome addition to his mess. His frolics, his 
 escapades, his wit, and above all his splendid temper, 
 made him the idol of his brother middies. He saw all 
 sides of the world during his sea-going days, and his 
 visits ashore were always the occasion of legitimate mirth 
 and boyish jollification. 
 
 A bachelor uncle of O'Connell's, resident in New 
 York, induced the sailor lad to pay him a visit. The 
 fascination of the New World led O'Connell to abandon 
 the sea; but the death of his uncle changed his prospects 
 in the city of wealth, and he migrated to San Francisco. 
 
 Here he found his Mecca. The freedom of thought 
 
©lOfftapSical &feetcS 
 
 and impulse, the generous disposition of the people, the 
 thousand and one charms which no one can explain, but 
 which all appreciate, captured his youthful imagination 
 and held him in gentle bonds all his life. 
 
 His earliest days in California — days of undoubted 
 happiness — were spent at Santa Clara College, then under 
 the presidency of the Rev. Father Varsi, a man of great 
 culture, noble nature, and most charming manner. 
 
 It was natural that O'Connell should drift into journal- 
 ism, chiefly, perhaps, because in that profession he found 
 so many bright, genial companions, so many brilliant fel- 
 lows whose Bohemian appreciation of life and its myste- 
 ries found a ready response in his own nature. 
 
 To the journalistic class the Bohemian Club owes its 
 origin and its splendid success. O'Connell was one of 
 the founders, and remained all his life the truest and best 
 exponent of its social ideas. He towered high in Bohe- 
 mia, upon which he never lost his loving grip nor a 
 moment of its allegiance, and to the last he was Bohemia. 
 
 Hundreds of bright men passed into Bohemia and 
 out into the grave, but to O'Connell alone was rendered 
 the last tribute of the great. That which contained the 
 noble form of him whom we loved always, was placed in 
 the Green Room of the Club, and his mourners, from all 
 classes, reverently looked upon their beloved and wept 
 and passed away. 
 
 O'Connell' s life as a journalist, dramatist, novelist, and 
 poet was too large, too full of incident and pathos to be 
 told in a fragmentary way. His place in literature must 
 be described by some other pen. The man as I knew 
 
Biographical §)lietcS 
 
 him is my topic, but his life-work demands the attention 
 of the gifted. That he had a place, a distinguished place, 
 in literature must be accorded. That he is not more 
 widely known, that his works are not more generally 
 demanded, is readily understood. O'Connell was su- 
 premely indifferent to the commercial side of art, and 
 could not avail himself of even legitimate advertising. 
 He wrote for his friends. He wrote because the message 
 in him demanded utterance. His message was noble — 
 his readers must determine the character of its utterance. 
 
 O'Connell, like many kindred artists, delighted in 
 delicate cookery. He was a natural chef, and the dishes 
 which he prepared were odes, madrigals, songs, hymns, 
 as the fancy took him. He wrote a charming work on 
 the etiquette of eating, and he cordially disliked the 
 slovenly feeder. 
 
 He was attached from time to time to all the dailies, 
 and most of the weeklies, and his style, always Celtic, 
 his ready wit, and versatile pen gave his work a distinc- 
 tion at a time when San Francisco rejoiced in a legion of 
 exceptionally brilliant men. 
 
 His "Bluff King Hal," a delightful opera, which he 
 wrote in collaboration with Dr. H. J. Stewart, his drama, 
 '*The Red Fox," his novel, "A Special Deposit," in 
 which he collaborated with J. V. Coleman, are of the class 
 of work that deserves to live. But his fugitive pieces, 
 his good-natured satire, his merry conceits — these not 
 being framed between boards, linger only in the memory 
 of his intimates. Could they be collected, in them would 
 be found a library in which all phases of life were presented. 
 
IBiofftapSical ^feetcfi 
 
 He, jointly with Henry George, founded the Evening 
 Post, and to his fertile fancy we owe the birth of the Illus- 
 trated Bohemia?i, which, unhappily, refused to live. 
 
 For thirty-three years O'Connell sang to the people of 
 San Francisco. Occasionally he wandered into other 
 spheres, but always returned to the city of his love to 
 renew his allegiance. He was once lured away to the 
 island kingdom of Hawaii when Kalakaua reigned. 
 
 Between the monarch and the poet there was instant 
 friendship, and with the chivalric tendency of the Celt, 
 O'Connell threw his gauntlet at the world, challenging all 
 who dared to see Kalakaua with other eyes than the 
 champion's. But Hawaii, with all its charms, was only an 
 incident; O'Connell's life and work were here. 
 
 O'Connell's home life was singularly happy. In 1874 
 he married Miss Annie Ashley, the daughter of Senator 
 Delos R. Ashley. With kindred tastes and a boy-and- 
 girl love, which endured all the vicissitudes of life, their 
 union was perfect. A large family made the household 
 a small world where love reigned. O'Connell's children 
 worshiped their genial father, and it is to that filial devo- 
 tion on the part of his family, and the desire to honor his 
 memory, that this book owes its birth. 
 
 In his " Lyrics," of which he published a volume, the 
 true poet speaks his best thoughts. Here we have 
 O'Connell himself, singing his Celtic strain, tenderly 
 touching us to tears or laughter as the humor took him. 
 
 Strange coincidence, the last of his songs — the last 
 that he sang — the last in this work, was written just 
 ten days before his fatal illness. In the "Chamber of 
 
8 lBiD0i:ap8icaI fefettcj 
 
 Silence," O'Connell unconsciously spoke his farewell 
 message to his world — said good-by to loving friends, 
 and entered by anticipation the silent mansion where 
 death reigns. 
 
 Broken down by the burden of a great grief, his wife, 
 the dear companion of so many years, lingered here only 
 long enough to say farewell to her many friends, and then 
 joined her husband in the land that is hidden from ma- 
 terial eyes, where love and life are one. 
 
 W. G. H. 
 
Songs from Bohemia 
 
A MAY IDYL 
 
 Through pleasant vales the streamlets course; 
 The babble of a summer's day- 
 Fills all the fragrant fields of May; 
 The wild flowers here, and there the gorse, 
 Are stirred with breezes mild and sweet, 
 Fair carpeting for Summer's feet. 
 
 Ah! who that rests beneath the trees 
 
 And drinks in Nature's holy calm, 
 
 The song of birds, the freshing balm 
 
 The teeming earth exhales, but sees 
 
 In all those gracious things the hand 
 
 Of Him, the artist of them all? 
 
 The brook, the wood, the swelling seas. 
 
 The thunder of the waterfall. 
 
 The birds that dip and spring and rise, 
 
 The gracious sun, the azure skies. 
 
 Are picture limned for men to praise 
 
 The Artist, while in Nature's ways 
 
 From dawn of day to set of sun, 
 
 They walk, and mark the work well done. 
 
 9 
 
 B 
 
lo ^ igi^a^ B^I 
 
 Who, then, shall sit in endless gloom, 
 The shadow of the soul within. 
 And brood on ruin, wrong, and sin, 
 And let the vapors of the tomb 
 Embrace him like a cerement. 
 When Nature's summer sacrament 
 Awaits him in the field and wood, — 
 Is for him by the shining flood 
 To stir the current of his blood, 
 And bid him look above and praise 
 The Power that guides, nor ever strays 
 From clemency to us, but makes 
 This summer landscape for our sakes? 
 
 Then, weary toilers, put aside 
 The petty schemes, the nets you weave 
 With thoughts of hate and jealous pride, 
 And hand in hand walk forth with May, 
 And drink the incense of the breeze. 
 And list the lessons of the trees, 
 And live in peace one perfect day. . 
 
GUI BONO? 
 
 As A traveler belated, who still follows 
 
 The windings of the wood, and hopes to see 
 
 At length, beyond the dense and tangled hollows, 
 The dying sun illume the open lea, 
 
 But meets, instead, thick brake and growing 
 shadows. 
 Then sinks upon the damp and trackless clay, 
 And, weary, dreams of open fragrant meadows, 
 And wakes and sleeps, and longs and moans for 
 day. 
 
 Is he, who stored with wealth of garnered learning. 
 Would solve the mystery that wraps him round. 
 
 And dream that unswayed science, cold, discerning, 
 Can pass beyond this clay-encircled bound. 
 
 He reads the stars, he measures every distance 
 That lies between each planet and the earth; 
 
 The globe itself can offer no resistance. 
 But yields to him the story of its birth. 
 
 But when he grapples with his own soul's mystery, 
 A wall unyielding rears its bulk between; 
 
12 €ni 150no? 
 
 All else surrenders long-restrained history, 
 This only stands a grim, impervious screen. 
 
 We live, we die — so much, no more, is given: 
 From dust we spring, return again to dust. 
 
 And ties are made, and dearer ties are riven, 
 And trust is true, and oft betrayed is trust. 
 
 What good, I ask you, is this vain undoing? 
 
 What good this fruitless measurement of years ? 
 The old beliefs may perish — the pursuing 
 
 Can only find its goal in nameless fears 
 
 That we may perish with the tree and blossom, 
 And be no more in any time or place. 
 
 But form one atom of Earth's mighty bosom. 
 One particle upon the parent's face. 
 
 What good ? Ah me, who cares for the hereafter, 
 If only here we taste the hour's delight ? 
 
 The world is full of song, and wine, and laughter; 
 The day is ours — be happy until night. 
 
CAMP INDOLENCE 
 
 Our camp beneath a shady oak, 
 The sand a carpet at our feet, 
 
 The bay before us, and around 
 
 The summer breezes fresh and sweet. 
 
 Here all the day we lie and dream, 
 Nor read, nor speak, but lazily 
 
 Look out upon the waves and think 
 On all the secrets of the sea. 
 
 The ships sail in, the ships sail out. 
 White sea-gulls hover here and there; 
 
 The fisher's song from far-off beach 
 Comes softly on the evening air. 
 
 At night the drift-wood fire is piled. 
 It seams the dark with crimson bars; 
 
 Its sparks shoot up a ghttering shower, 
 In yearning for the distant stars. 
 
 This is another world, indeed, — 
 A world of deepest peace serene, — 
 
 Where all the cares of troublous years 
 Come to us onlv as a dream 
 
 13 
 
14 Camp Iritolmtt 
 
 From which we have awaked, to find 
 The perfect peace of perfect rest — 
 
 The home that Fate for man designed, 
 Close, close on Mother Nature's breast. 
 
ASHES 
 
 Buds and blossoms, and life-renewal, — 
 
 Strong, passionate life in Nature's plan; 
 Corn upspringing, and full brooks rushing, 
 
 Torpor alone in the heart of man. 
 Stagnant and dull and beyond revival. 
 
 The once quick pulses now sad and slow; 
 Spring joyfully breathes on the moldering ashes, 
 
 But their bright, fierce fever no more shall glow. 
 
 Buds and blossoms and leaves outstarting, 
 
 Promise of harvest and promise of wine, 
 Only the human heart lies dormant — 
 
 Dormant, athirst for the thrill divine, — 
 The olden thrill that awoke its music. 
 
 And bade it leaf with the leafing tree, 
 Bud with flowers, with streams expanding. 
 
 Swell out and onward to life's great sea. 
 
 Is this the goblet that once could gladden? 
 
 This discord music? these wan lips red? 
 To some sepulcher bear both cup and woman. 
 
 Let strains be sounded to please the dead. 
 
 15 
 
i6 mW 
 
 Ah ! the wine is sweet and rich as ever, 
 The Hps as tempting, the heart as true, 
 
 ' T is the heart alone that has turned to ashes, 
 The bay to cypress, the rose to rue. 
 
 O Mother Nature, if Hfe 's worth living. 
 
 Once more I crave you that glorious sense 
 Of high endeavor and ancient passion. 
 
 With its strength of life and fire intense. 
 When grief was greater, and love was deeper. 
 
 And music clearer, and grape-juice bright. 
 And the buoyant years were unflecked by shadow, 
 
 But all was purpose and hope and light. 
 
 Must we ever hnger while others hasten? 
 
 Must we be sighing while others sing? 
 Is the wine of life for us exhausted? 
 
 And winter chill us, though it be spring ? 
 No more for us is the rosy dawning: 
 
 The sun creeps downward — we mark its rays; 
 But O for the strong, rich flush of morning 
 
 That lit the splendor of other days ! 
 
AT REST 
 
 Weary of the rivers, and the verdure of the 
 meadows; 
 Of the sky's unchanging azure, of the sea's un- 
 tiring hymn; 
 Of the glories of the landscape, with its sunshine 
 and its shadows; 
 Of the bustle of the city, with its folly and its sin. 
 
 Panting with a longing, and a golden - misted 
 dreaming 
 For a haven where the spirit knows no surfeit in 
 its joy; 
 Where the sparkle of the wine-cup, and the love 
 from bright eyes streaming. 
 Steal from age its bitter poison — steal from time 
 its power to cloy. 
 
 Where regrets may never enter, never cross the 
 guarded portal; 
 Where decay shall be a stranger, and the past an 
 unstained leaf, 
 
 17 
 
1 8 m m^t 
 
 With no doubtings for the future, but a sense of 
 bHss immortal — 
 Deaf to hear the voice of sorrow, strong to turn 
 the lance of grief. 
 
 Where the wailing of the widow, and the wrong and 
 crime and aching 
 In the hearts of saddened brothers, treading dark 
 and lonesome ways, 
 Shall never pierce the ramparts, nor, the trance 
 perpetual breaking, 
 Cloud the sun of its enjoyment, mar the music 
 of its lays. 
 
 Where no winter' s frost may wither flowers of per- 
 fume everlasting — 
 Never hush the song of brooklets, change the 
 splendor of the scene; 
 But the shades of peace eternal — soul and sense 
 
 and mind o' ercasting — 
 • Wrap them safe from outer troubles, in a grand 
 unbroken dream. 
 
WINE PICTURES 
 
 "Fill me a brimming goblet," 
 
 I said to my winsome wife; 
 ''Let me read, in its bubbles reflected, 
 
 The story of its life." 
 
 From a flask, long treasured and olden, 
 
 She filled the goblet up, 
 And I spoke of the pictures that passed me 
 
 In the bubbles of the cup. 
 
 Here is a generous vineyard 
 On the slope of a pleasant hill; 
 
 Below, the village lies sleeping 
 In the noontide, warm and still. 
 
 I can hear the summons to labor, 
 And the maids come tripping along 
 
 To gather the grapes, while weaving 
 Their toil into blithesome song. 
 
 And one there is standing among them, 
 Whose face is more fair and sweet 
 
 Than all others; like snow in the winter 
 Is the gleam of her bare white feet. 
 
 19 
 
20 Wiim ^ittutt0 
 
 She plucks from the vine its burden — 
 They are fair, these maids of France — 
 
 And she whispers to one who will lead her 
 At eve through the village dance. 
 
 He answers; she blushes. The story- 
 Is the old one, ever new — 
 
 The dawn of the dream — " And the ending, ' ' 
 Quoth my wife, " I will read for you." 
 
 See how the glamour and glory, 
 
 Mark how the luster divine. 
 In the hand of a woman departed 
 
 From this cup of historic wine. 
 
 ' ' I see in this bubble your maiden, 
 
 A wan and a weary wife; 
 And I read in this wine the story 
 
 Of a sad and a wasted life ! 
 
 ' ' No vineyard is here — no music 
 
 Of villagers' songs at eve — 
 But the wailing of wives heart-broken — 
 
 And the sobs of mothers who grieve 
 
 ' ' For sons and husbands and brothers, 
 And many a grand, great soul," — 
 
Wiint ^ictnu0 21 
 
 Here I reached for the antique goblet, 
 And drained the deHcious bowl, 
 
 And remarked to my wife, ** When I started 
 
 This pleasing little romance 
 About vineyards and maidens and flirting. 
 
 And billing and cooing in France, 
 
 " 'T was not to provoke a sermon — " 
 Here my wife in wrath went out, 
 
 And I fought with the bottle till daylight, 
 In an old-time bachelor bout. 
 
A CHRISTMAS REVERIE 
 
 Until skies were darkened, and fortune failed me, 
 And friends forsook me for lack of pelf, 
 
 I never knew what a good companion, 
 What a glorious fellow I was myself. 
 
 Now, seated here by the blazing embers, 
 With my cup of wine in the twilight dim, 
 
 A long procession of dead Decembers 
 Come floating over the goblet's rim. 
 
 And I drink to him, that other fellow, 
 Who never has wandered from my side. 
 
 From youth's callow hours to the sere and yellow 
 Pal and companion, both true and tried. 
 
 We have no secrets from one another; 
 
 We've been in sunshine, we 've been in rain. 
 At the knees we 've knelt of the same dear mother 
 
 By her bier have suffered the same keen pain. 
 
 I bid him call up those dear dead faces 
 We both so loved in the golden past. 
 
 And we dream again of the old embraces. 
 And the clinging arms about us clasped, 
 
And of one fair woman, so sweet and tender, 
 No lovelier maid on God's earth, I ween; 
 
 Oh, lips like rose-leaves, eyes deep and tender! 
 Right proud you found us to call you queen. 
 
 It was then we quarreled, you bid me shun her. 
 And you called her false, and your words were 
 sooth, — 
 
 But what mortal eyes could have gazed upon her 
 And not swear her breathing of love and truth. 
 
 Then came hopes and fears, and long nights of 
 waking, 
 
 Heart-sore with yearning, and passion tossed, — 
 One day contentment, and then the aching 
 
 Of a ruined life and a treasure lost. 
 
 Now, old companion who has walked beside me 
 In desert paths and when blooms were rife, 
 
 Too close and faithful to e'er deride me, 
 My alter ego^ my other life, 
 
 From this silver goblet we '11 quaff together 
 
 The same good draught of the same good wine; 
 
 When the curtains falls on life's stormy weather, 
 In the same cold chamber we '11 both recline. 
 
SWEETHEARTS AND WIVES 
 
 If sweethearts were sweethearts always, 
 
 Whether as maid or wife, 
 No drop would be half so pleasant 
 
 In the mingled draught of life. 
 
 But the sweetheart has smiles and blushes 
 When the wife has frowns and sighs, 
 
 And the wife's have a wrathful glitter 
 For the glow of the sweetheart's eyes. 
 
 If lovers were lovers always, 
 
 The same to sweetheart and wife, 
 
 Who would change for a future of Eden 
 The joys of this checkered life ? 
 
 But husbands grow grave and silent. 
 And cares on the anxious brow 
 
 Oft replace the sunshine that perished 
 At the words of the marriage vow. 
 
 Happy is he whose sweetheart 
 Is wife and sweetheart still — 
 
 Whose voice, as of old, can charm him. 
 Whose kiss, as of old, can thrill; 
 
 24 
 
&toeeti)eart0 and mi\^t0 25 
 
 Who has plucked the rose, to find ever 
 
 Its beauty and fragrance increase, 
 As the flush of passion is mellowed 
 
 In love's unmeasured peace; 
 
 Who sees in the step a lightness; 
 
 Who finds in the form a grace; 
 Who reads an unaltered brightness 
 
 In the witchery of the face, 
 
 Undimmed and unchanged. Ah! happy 
 
 Is he, crowned with such a life, 
 Who drinks the wife, pledging the sweetheart, 
 
 And toasts in the sweetheart the wife. 
 
 C 
 
DRUNK IN THE STREET 
 
 "" Drunk, your honor," the officer said: 
 
 '' Drunk in the street, sir." She raised her head; 
 
 A Hngering trace of the olden grace 
 
 Still softened the lines of her woe-worn face; 
 
 Unkempt and tangled her rich brown hair; 
 
 Yet with all the furrows and stains of care, 
 
 The years of anguish and sin and despair, 
 
 The child of the city was passing fair. 
 
 The ripe red mouth, with lips compressed, 
 The rise and fall of the heaving breast. 
 The taper fingers, so slender and small. 
 That crumple the fringe of the tattered shawl. 
 As she stands in her place at the officer's call. 
 Seem good and fair, seem tender and sweet, 
 Though this fallen woman was drunk in the street. 
 
 Does the hand that once smoothed the ripple and 
 
 wave 
 Of that golden hair lie still in its grave ? 
 Are the lips that pressed her lips to their own 
 Dead to the pain of that stifled moan? 
 
 26 
 
SDrunli in t§e Street 27 
 
 Has the voice ihat once chimed with the lisping 
 
 prayer 
 No accent of hope for the lost one there — 
 Bearing her burden of shame and despair ? 
 
 Drunk in the street — in the gutter down — 
 From a passionate longing to crush and drown 
 The soul of the woman she might have been, — 
 To cast off the weight of a fearful dream, 
 And awake once more in the home hard by 
 The wooded mountain that kissed the sky; 
 To pause a while on the path to school 
 And catch, by the depths of the limpid pool, 
 Under the willow shade, green and cool, 
 A dimpled face and a laughing eye, 
 And the pleasant words of the passers-by. 
 
 Ye men with sisters and mothers and wives. 
 
 Have ye no care for these women's lives? 
 
 Must they starve for the comfort ye never speak? 
 
 Must they ever be sinful and erring and weak, 
 
 Tottering onward with weary feet. 
 
 Stained in the gutter, and drunk in the street ? 
 
THE WILLOW-TREE 
 
 Once, when the world was young, the willow 
 proudly lifted 
 Its branches to the smiling sky as straight as 
 poplar-tree; 
 Silver cloudlets greeted it, soft winds o'er it drifted, 
 None dared to rival its grace and symmetry 
 
 Murmuring rivers wooed it with accents low and 
 tender, 
 But it never bent to listen — its gaze was on the 
 sun; 
 Yearning to the zenith, its tendrils lithe and 
 slender, 
 Bid the stars a welcome, saw the dawn begun. 
 
 Alas for the direful hour the tyrants flogged our 
 Saviour! 
 Flogged him with willow rods ! — then it cursed 
 its birth! 
 And since that bitter time, mourning their behavior, 
 The willow-tree has, weeping, bent toward the 
 parent earth. 
 
 28 
 
^6t ^illoto - ^ttt 29 
 
 Crying in its anguish, " Mother, who can blame 
 me? 
 Dear Christ, forgive me! O children of men, 
 Do not my weeping boughs through all the ages 
 shame thee? 
 I who unconsciously wrought the Saviour pain. 
 
 ** Oh, had I a voice! then never Heaven's thunder. 
 Nor all its clamor the shrinking woods among — 
 
 Aye, though its bolts tore rod and branch asunder. 
 Could command me silence in this cruel wrong. 
 
 ** Yet fondly do I hope I shall yet be shriven, 
 And my offending forgotten evermore; 
 
 That, in the ages, Christ, who has forgiven. 
 Shall lift up kindly my branches as of yore." 
 
ENAMORED 
 
 If ever I think of those pleasant nights, 
 Those moments of loving we stole from the ball, 
 
 And if ever I dream of those dear delights, 
 When you and I parted, at twelve, in the hall, 
 
 I assure you, Miss Inez, it is not because 
 
 I fancied your heart ever turned towards me. 
 
 We flirted, you know, but respected the laws, 
 So both from love's arrows are perfectly free. 
 
 Yet, again, I have thought in your eyes dwelt a 
 light — 
 
 A something denied to the rest of the world — 
 When prone at your feet, on the festival night, 
 
 Beneath that old porch I lay blissfully curled. 
 
 'Twas a charming flirtation; we both were expert, 
 
 And both rather seasoned — well up in the art — 
 
 Though I sometimes half wished that you were not 
 
 a flirt, 
 
 And had less of the ball-room and more of the 
 
 heart. 
 
 30 
 
(Enamoreti 31 
 
 For your hand, love, was soft (I am e'en flirting 
 yet, 
 So the language is naturally tender and warm), 
 And I 've tried very hard, dear, but can not forget 
 How my silly cheeks burned when you leant on 
 my arm. 
 
 And I 've dreamed now and then that we were not 
 in jest, 
 But were each, mind and soul, all in all to the 
 other; 
 And I 've hoped, in my blindness, there burned in 
 your breast, 
 A spark that our vanities never could smother. 
 
 Well, of course, I was wrong; but still do I wear 
 The rose-leaves you gave me — those rose-leaves 
 you kissed; 
 
 And I find in my locket a tress of brown hair. 
 And I find in my bosom that something is missed. 
 
 'T was playing with fire; and if one felt the pang. 
 And still feels the scar — why, who is to blame? 
 
 You remember the ballad one evening you sang. 
 About ^ * loving and trust bringing sorrow and 
 shame" ? 
 
32 (Enamoteti 
 
 Did we love and trust? Did you fear that we 
 might. 
 When you sang me that ballad of shame and 
 disgrace ? 
 Let bygones be bygones ; farewell, and good- 
 night! 
 Pass out from my life-path, O beautiful face! 
 
THE IRISH TRAMP 
 
 Whin the sun is shining brightly, an' the grass 
 
 (God bless it!) is green, 
 Like the ould sod o'er the ocean I sailed from at 
 
 siventeen, 
 An' my mother came down to the steamer (it was 
 
 the first she ever did see), 
 Crying, "Terence Cushla Machorra, don't forget 
 
 the Asthon Machree." 
 
 Whin the sun is shining brightly, an' the grass 
 
 (God bless it!) is green, 
 Back to me like a vision comes her face in that 
 
 parting scene, 
 Wid her gray hair over her shoulders, an' her arms 
 
 about me neck, 
 An' she begging the Virgin to save me from sin 
 
 an' trouble an' wreck. 
 
 Shure she thought I 'd make me fortune in a couple 
 
 of years or more, 
 An' come sailing back wid my pockets lined, again 
 
 to sweet Ireland's shore, 
 
 33 
 
34 %lit Iti0i ^ramp 
 
 An' buy the ould cabin out an' out, an' ride in my 
 
 coach an' four, 
 An' till the meadows wid fine milch cows, an' have 
 
 pigs an' sheeps galore, 
 
 An' marry the landlord's daughter, an' become a 
 
 magistrate, 
 An' drink whisky an' wine an' porter wid the 
 
 wealthy an' the great, 
 An' restore once more the O'Houllihans to their 
 
 ancient medaval state, 
 An' for the County Galway in Parliament take my 
 
 sate. 
 
 Av course, it was idle draming; but many a night 
 
 I know 
 Has the ould mother, sad an' lonesome, sat by the 
 
 logwood's glow. 
 An' smiled whin she thought of her gossoon away 
 
 beyond the say, 
 Makin' slathers of money to carry home to his 
 
 mother's lap some day. 
 
 Whin the sun is shining brightly, an' the grass 
 
 (God bless it!) is green, 
 An' the beautiful sky above me is smiling an' 
 
 serene, 
 
Ut)e Jri0f) ^ramp 35 
 
 I wondfrr, al;ts, I worjd(:r, an' my j/rirny chf-jik^ 
 
 j/row damp, 
 Jf thf: oij]rJ mother homf: in Irr^land prays still for 
 
 thr: Irish Tramp. 
 
CRASTINE VIVE HODIE 
 
 Give us this day our daily bread; 
 Feed us to-day, and let the morrow 
 
 Trust to itself. 
 We live to-day, and little care 
 What burdens foolish mortals bear 
 
 For love of pelf. 
 
 The day is ours — the sun, the breeze, 
 The song of streams, the shade of trees. 
 
 The balmy wine. 
 The clasp of hands, the flash of eye, 
 The melody of passion's sigh 
 
 In love divine. 
 
 Our daily bread — not for the years 
 Do we foreshadow joy or tears — 
 
 But for the day. 
 We care not if through toil or rest. 
 With heart o'erjoyed, or sore oppressed, 
 
 We see our way. 
 r,6 
 
€ta0tim l^ibe l^odie 37 
 
 Let it be hidden; if we fail, 
 Life is at best so dim, so frail, 
 
 It matters not — 
 If we the thorny path may dimb 
 Or faltering, sink before our time 
 
 And are forgot. 
 
 Shall we, the atoms of a day. 
 Build palaces along our way, 
 
 And glory crave, 
 When every hour we see the end 
 Of wife and mistress, father, friend. 
 
 Is but the grave? 
 
JOVINA 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE SAN CARLOS MISSION 
 
 Many legends of the Mission, in the pleasant days 
 
 of old, 
 Round the hearth in Spanish households, when 
 
 evening falls, are told; 
 Many tales of love and daring, and woman's faith, 
 
 that last 
 In the archives of those people who reverence the 
 
 past. 
 In the cold, material present, it is well to catch a 
 
 glance 
 Of those dim and moldering pages of a country's 
 
 brief romance. 
 
 One evening in December, half a century ago, 
 In the Mission of San Carlos fell the sunset wintry 
 
 glow. 
 From the belfry-tower the Angelus was musically 
 
 rung. 
 In the aisles the hymns were chanted in the soft 
 
 Castilian tongue, 
 
 38 
 
Padre Juan, with hands upHfted, the kneeling faith- 
 ful blest, 
 
 Then dismissed them, — and the Mission was 
 wrapped in sleep and rest. 
 
 Up rose the moon; its soft light in tender shimmer 
 lay 
 
 On the cypress-shadowed bosom of Carmel's tran- 
 quil bay. 
 
 Round Point Pinos' rugged headland, by ocean 
 breaker swept. 
 
 By the west wind gently wafted, a tall-sparred 
 schooner crept; 
 
 And ere had ceased the ratde of her noisy anchor- 
 chain, 
 
 At her peak streamed out her ensign — the flag 
 of haughty Spain. 
 
 Next morning, in the Mission, her commander 
 and the priest 
 
 Sat down in friendly concourse to a hospitable 
 feast. 
 
 Count Alfredo told his story — how his idol and 
 
 his pride, 
 His faithful wife, Jovina, but a week ago had 
 
 died, 
 
40 Sobina 
 
 And how the hopes that filled him of name and 
 
 fame were gone; 
 He'd lift anchor on the morrow and return to 
 
 Spain alone. 
 He had longed to bring back tidings of this 
 
 unknown northern shore, 
 But ambition had departed — he was stricken and 
 
 heartsore. 
 
 He would leave his Httle daughter with the padre 
 
 till again 
 A larger, safer vessel should arrive from distant 
 
 Spain. 
 
 Then he called the little maiden, who among the 
 
 rose-trees played, 
 And her hand within the padre's with graceful 
 
 reverence laid. 
 The good priest kissed with tenderness the sweet 
 
 upturned face, — 
 " May the Virgin help me!" said he, " I will try 
 
 to fill your place." 
 
 A dozen years passed over, and the padre, old and 
 
 gray, 
 Looked seaward from the Mission, for never since 
 
 that day 
 
3iotJ(na 4i 
 
 The Count Alfredo left him Jovina for his ward 
 Had aught that might concern the Captain's fate 
 been heard. 
 
 And she, the fairest daughter of the Mission, like 
 
 the rest 
 Of maidens, felt love knocking for admittance at 
 
 her breast. 
 Her tender heart was given, — nay, her pure and 
 
 earnest soul, — 
 For what Spanish maid who loves well surrenders 
 
 not the whole 
 Of her being to her lover? But the youth Jovina 
 
 loved 
 By the good folks at the Mission was very ill 
 
 approved — 
 Carlos Sanchez, brave and handsome, who careful 
 
 mothers said 
 Wandered round, guitar on shoulder, when 'twas 
 
 time to be in bed. 
 
 The old priest, sighing, murmured: " I am full of 
 
 years and rust, — 
 Yet a few years and this chancel will open for my 
 
 dust,— 
 
 D 
 
42 Sobma 
 
 And Jovina (who can fathom a youthful maiden's 
 
 mind?) — 
 Her fancies are as various and fickle as the wind. 
 I have told her of her father; I have taught her all 
 
 I could 
 Of the fortitude and bearing that belongs to noble 
 
 blood, 
 And this Sanchez — but she loves him — " " Padre 
 
 mio! " — at his side 
 Kneels Jovina. *' Ah, my daughter, so soon to be 
 
 a bride! 
 Blessings on you, mi chiquita; may your future 
 
 be as bright 
 As yon mellow sun now bathing this dark hair in 
 
 his light." 
 
 Christmas Eve: The bells are ringing, and the 
 Mission maids are gay 
 
 In mantles and mantillas for Jovina' s wedding- 
 day. 
 
 It lacked an hour of sunset, when on the ocean's 
 rim 
 
 The white sails of a vessel loomed indistinct and 
 dim. 
 
 Another hour a great ship her anchor drops, and 
 
 flies 
 
lobina 43 
 
 The Spanish ensign, greeted by many wondering 
 
 eyes. 
 Padre Juan stands on the wet sands; the first that 
 
 leaps to land 
 Rushes rapidly toward him and grasps his out- 
 stretched hand: 
 '*My daughter?" **She is yonder," said the 
 
 padre, with troubled face, 
 And the Count strides toward the Mission in fierce, 
 
 impatient haste. 
 The news has traveled quickly, and the Mission 
 
 maidens grieve — 
 Jovina and her lover will not wed this Christmas 
 
 Eve. 
 For the bride has kissed the bridegroom she will 
 
 never see again, 
 And sleeps aboard the vessel that will carry her to 
 
 Spain. 
 
 The night is dark and gloomy, and the anchor 
 
 watchmen creep 
 'Neath the forecastle for shelter, where all their 
 
 comrades sleep; 
 The plash of oars they hear not, so loud the storm's 
 
 loud wail, 
 Nor see the muffled form now bending o'er the rail. 
 
44 iobina 
 
 They only hear from Pinos the breakers on the 
 
 strand, 
 Nor see the tossed and spray-lashed skiff that 
 
 struggles toward the land. 
 
 Christmas Day, the sun dispelling the early morning 
 
 haze, 
 Gleams through the fringing pine-trees; its broad 
 
 and golden rays 
 Rest on the old church belfry, then mercifully fall 
 On the long black tresses, veiling the body like a 
 
 pall, 
 Of a woman, drowned, disfigured, and cast up by 
 
 the tide. 
 And clad in wedding garments, — for Death had 
 
 claimed a bride. 
 Nor was the bridegroom wanting, — for farther 
 
 down the shore. 
 Lay Sanchez, in his death-clasp grasping still a 
 
 broken oar. 
 And all the Mission mourned them, and still old 
 
 gossips say 
 The roses bloom the whole year round, above 
 
 their graves to-day. 
 
SING ME A RINGING ANTHEM 
 
 Sing me a ringing anthem 
 
 Of the deeds of the buried past, 
 When the Norseman brave dared the treach- 
 erous wave, 
 
 And laughed at the icy blast. 
 
 And fill me a brimming beaker 
 
 Of the rich Burgundian wine, 
 That the chill of years, with its chain of tears, 
 
 May unbind from this breast of mine; 
 
 For working and watching and waiting 
 Make the blood run sluggish and cold, 
 
 And I long for the fire and the fierce desire 
 That burned in the hearts of old. 
 
 I can dream of the fountains plashing 
 
 In the soft, still summer's night. 
 And of smothered sighs, and of woman's eyes, 
 
 And of ripe lips, ruddy and bright. 
 
 But better the tempest's fury, 
 
 With its thunders and howling wind. 
 
 And better to dare what the future may bear. 
 Than to muse on what lies behind. 
 
 45 
 
46 Mm ^t a ISiimim ^ntfiem 
 
 Then chant me no tender love-song, 
 
 With its sweet and low refrain, 
 But sing of the men of the sword and the pen. 
 
 Whose deeds may be done again. 
 
NEW-YEAR THOUGHTS 
 
 As IN the west the evening sun goes down, 
 And, dying, glorifies with varied hues 
 Of gold and purple all the floating clouds 
 That saw him slowly sink below the verge; 
 So the old year to us — who, with a sigh, 
 Mark his last hour, as tranquilly he fades — 
 Leaves many a rich-hued memory behind. 
 
 The twilight fades, the night goes by, anon 
 The eastern sky is flushed with joyous clouds 
 That wait expectant for the sun's return; > 
 
 And as he climbs the blue, and gleams and glows, 
 Gladdening the world and all life with the dawn. 
 The clouds and peaks receive his kiss, and blush, 
 So we, the fresh young New Year hail, nor grieve 
 For that which in the solemn midnight died. 
 
 The hope, the promise of some better things 
 Than we have known brightens dull hearts, as when 
 A sunbeam swift from parted clouds breaks forth 
 O'er meadows on a fitful April day. 
 Chasing the shade to hide on hills and groves. 
 The buried aspirations — though their graves 
 
 47 
 
48 jl5eto = 9ear ^fiottffjt^ 
 
 Have not yet known a single season's change — 
 Are all forgotten; as the child who flies 
 To grasp the gaudy moth, and, failing, turns 
 To pluck a flower, which seems the richer prize. 
 
 The storm-tossed sailor, when the wave is high, 
 And bitter winds, ice-laden, sweep the deck, 
 In dreams beholds the tropic summer seas. 
 Where gentle zephyrs, with the perfumed breath 
 Of fruited woodlands, sigh through shroud and sail. 
 Thus, turning from the old year's cheated hopes 
 And broken promises and erring deeds, 
 We look beyond to pleasant scenes and paths 
 Which virgin months shall smilingly disclose. 
 
 Come, glad New Year, unwritten scroll, white page 
 Where we may write the record of good deeds 
 Long left undone — annals of brave resolve. 
 Accomplished by sweet patience and strong will. 
 Come, glad New Year, and make us strong and true; 
 And when you sink, sun-hke, below the verge. 
 Be we the clouds to wear for evermore 
 The golden brightness of your memories. 
 
FAREWELL THE PIPE 
 
 Throw down the pipe, and let its shattered bowl 
 Lie on the earth in atoms at my feet! 
 
 Adieu the fragrant incense which my soul, 
 
 Dark and bewildered, once found passing sweet ! 
 
 No more shall float before my half-closed eyes 
 Fair visions, mingled with its azure clouds; 
 
 No more succeeding forms shall fall and rise 
 In vapors soft, a shadowy welcome crowd. 
 
 No more tall castles rear their gleaming walls 
 With open portals and inviting ways; 
 
 No more the drowsy hum of waterfalls, 
 
 The memories of the rapturous yesterdays. 
 
 No more to see, locked in the noisy town, 
 
 Long meadow reaches, where the brooks rush by 
 
 To meet the sea, and in a last kiss crown 
 Their sacrifice and ocean's victory. 
 
 Throw down the pipe, and with this parting plaint 
 Perish the pleasures all good smokers love; 
 
 I '11 smoke no more; I 'm training for a saint, — 
 The harp and robe and purer joys above! 
 
 49 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Cherished and honored beyond all others, 
 
 Loved and looked up to, as dearest and best, 
 Noblest of natures and kindest of brothers, 
 
 Truest of souls that a friend ever blest; 
 Could you but speak to us, poor dead one, lying 
 
 Cold in thy casket; and if it were meet 
 That you could whisper us, '' Hush and cease 
 sighing," 
 
 Even our grief for you then would be sweet. 
 
 Oh! but 't is hard to feel we, left behind you, — 
 
 We, sore and sorrowing, here by your bier, — 
 Never again in this life may remind you 
 
 How much we worshiped you, how held you 
 dear. 
 Hand, cold and motionless, though we may clasp 
 you,— 
 
 Hand, true and faithful, now rigid and prone, — 
 Though we may cling to you, fervently grasp you, 
 
 No pressure shall thrill in response to our own. 
 
 Eyelids now closed in the last solemn slumber, 
 Would that beneath you our own eyes might see 
 
 50 
 
In 9$tmomm 51 
 
 One glance of the many that beamed without 
 number, 
 Soothing our troubles, or brightening our glee! 
 Voice that once flowed like a beautiful river,— 
 In song sweeter than song-birds' most exquisite 
 trill,— 
 How can we feel that you are silenced forever, 
 Your glory departed, your melody still ? 
 
 Ah! but we '11 keep thy grave green with love's 
 fountains, 
 And close in our hearts a grave greener for thee, 
 With a grief that shall last, friend, as long as the 
 mountains. 
 As deep and unchanged as the sob of the sea. 
 The heart-place left vacant shall never, oh never, 
 
 By another be claimed, by another be filled. 
 Until we, too, lie down in thy calm sleep forever. 
 And our pulses, like thine, friend, forever are 
 stilled. 
 
BY THE SEA 
 
 The curling waves crept up the beach, 
 The fishers drew their nets to land; 
 
 Behind us lay the clover reach, 
 
 Before us gleamed the pleasant sand. 
 
 A deeper blue was on the sea, 
 
 Than ever touched its waves before; 
 
 In sweeter fragrance bloomed the lea, 
 In purer silver stretched the shore. 
 
 We sat on rocks, where time and age 
 Had fretted many a curious trace. 
 
 Her heart was mine — an open page; 
 Her love was written in her face. 
 
 A ship sailed by. The sea-birds led; 
 
 The waters clasped her gliding form. 
 '*And so shall be our lives," she said; 
 
 "With never sorrow, never storm." . 
 
 A black cloud darkened all the sky. 
 And darkened all the smiling land; 
 
 A sunbeam chased the cloud away. 
 My love then raised her dimpled hand 
 52 
 
T5v tit &ea 53 
 
 And said : " If shadows chill our hearts, 
 'T is aye for fear the sun may cloy; 
 
 For when the past of gloom departs, 
 The warmer glows the present joy." 
 
ROMANCE AND REALITY 
 
 "Here is the bed where NelHe slept," 
 She turned the snowy coverlet down; 
 
 In through the lattice the ivy crept — 
 
 What a blissful change from the heated town! 
 
 "Good-night." She left me; the moonbeams fell 
 On flowered carpet and dainty bed; 
 
 I smoked and pondered, but strange to tell 
 I could n't get Nellie out of my head. 
 
 *' My aunt had never a friend," I said, 
 '* Named Nell or Nellie; yet I am here, 
 
 Seated on Nell or Nellie's bed — 
 
 My clothes upon Nell's or Nellie's chair." 
 
 '' ' Nellie!' — I always hked that name, — 
 The gods are propitious, and I, perchance, 
 
 Who voted the country dull and tame 
 Am here beginning my life romance. 
 
 ** How fragrant this soap! And this ewer quaint 
 Has the water held in which Nellie washed, — 
 
 Nellie, whose face needs no nasty paint; 
 
 And the basin, too, — what a pity 'tis smashed! 
 
 54 
 
IBlomante anti Witalitv 55 
 
 * ' How soft the towel ! Nellie or Nell 
 
 Has hung it thus. What a dear, sweet girl 
 
 She is, to be sure! And this brush! Ah well, 
 I wish I could drop on a truant curl. 
 
 " Is she a blonde? or is she a brunette? 
 
 I 'm sure to love her! These nights of bliss 
 Are made for loving. I knew that yet 
 
 I should meet my fate in some way like this." 
 
 I sank on the pillows. * * O dear, sweet Nell ! 
 
 To think that your cheeks have pressed this 
 down. 
 And your limbs reclined here, my country belle, 
 
 One day to be queen of my house in town." 
 
 My sleep was broken. 'T was not the breeze 
 That sighed through the trees the whole night 
 long; 
 I rather fear that it was the fleas, 
 
 Though the thought seemed wicked and base 
 and wrong. 
 
 I looked in vain in the breakfast-room 
 For Nell or Nellie. She was not there. 
 
 *' Dear aunt," I said, ** are we not too soon? 
 Miss Nell has not finished her morning prayer. ' ' 
 
56 IRomance anh Witalitv 
 
 * ' Nellie, come here. ' ' With cheeks aflame, 
 I could not raise my eyes from the floor; 
 
 But grim was the air of the ancient dame, 
 As Nellie, her poodle, came in at the door! 
 
ANITA 
 
 A SOFT, dark eye — so deep, so deep, 
 Its liquid depths no glance may follow; 
 
 A face where lights and shadows creep 
 O'er arching brow and dimpled hollow. 
 
 A voice, now loud in maiden glee, 
 
 As tides on pebbly reaches throbbing, — 
 
 Now sorrow-hushed, as sunset sea 
 In purple rays at even sobbing. 
 
 O twining hands! O rich, dark sheen 
 Of gleaming braids that crown in glory 
 
 A face as fair as spirits seen 
 
 In ancient books of Bible story! 
 
 O love! O life! like generous wine — 
 
 Like breezes from the streams and mountains. 
 
 Thy presence thrills this soul of mine, 
 
 Thy glances stir my heart's deep fountains. 
 
 O love! O life! a rose, a weed. 
 
 Touched by thy hand, my peerless beauty, 
 Is cherished with a miser's greed. 
 
 And guarded well in jealous duty. 
 
 57 
 E 
 
58 Sinita 
 
 But though you 've woven warp and woof 
 Into the thread of my life's passion, 
 
 J dare not speak, but stand aloof, 
 
 And dream and sigh — the olden fashion. 
 
THE ANGLER'S CONFESSION 
 
 I 'VE angled in many waters, 
 
 On many a summer's day, 
 By many a murmuring river, 
 
 In many a tangled way ; 
 And the voice of the brook has never 
 
 Lost pathos and charm for me, 
 As it rippling runs forever 
 
 To its grave in the mighty sea. 
 
 These were the days the angler, 
 
 In the flush of guileless youth, 
 Told all his simple story — 
 
 Told nothing but the truth: 
 I fished the stream near the mill-dam 
 
 Hour after hour in vain — 
 I 've not a trout in my basket; 
 
 To-morrow I ' 11 try again. ' ' 
 
 ( ( 
 
 But now, alas! this bosom 
 Is sadly changed — I fear 
 
 I 've learned to lie like others, 
 In the angling time of year. 
 
 59 
 
6o fWbt ^m\tf0 €ontt0^ion 
 
 '• Fishing? I rather think so — 
 
 A hundred in half a day; 
 Two-pounders, and strong — such monsters! 
 
 Each took an hour to play." 
 
 I 've learned to lie like others: 
 
 I 've gone to the stream and found 
 A small boy fishing before me; 
 
 Then prone on the pleasant ground 
 I 've lain and slumbered, and bid him 
 
 Call me when he had caught 
 Just enough to fill my basket — 
 
 And thus my fish were bought. 
 
 Then over my nice clean stockings 
 
 I 've plastered the river mud, 
 And the sleeves of my angling jacket 
 
 I 've smeared with fishes' blood. 
 And strolled to the ferry landing 
 
 With a weary look in my eye. 
 Then reveled for days succeeding 
 
 In one luxurious lie, — 
 
 How I fell from the massive bowlder; 
 
 How I swam the turbulent brook; 
 How in one pool four and twenty 
 
 Speckled beauties I took. 
 
^it ^mW0 €onM0wn 6i 
 
 Men may rave of the joys of angling, 
 
 But let them not despise 
 The pure, the esthetic pleasure 
 
 That dwells in those angling lies. 
 
FALLEN 
 
 I vow the strain from yon ball-room band, 
 Which steals tender and sweet through the 
 moonlight now, 
 Recalls me the touch of her matchless hand, 
 And the odor that breathed from her gold- 
 crowned brow. 
 
 And here alone this September's eve, 
 
 With the moon above and within the glow 
 
 Of that brilliant hall, I cannot but grieve 
 For the queenly woman I used to know. 
 
 For queen she was once of the fair and gay — 
 Once the courted and loved of all, 
 
 Whose light step moved like a forest fay 
 
 Through the glare and glitter of many a ball. 
 
 Once before her the richest and proud 
 Craved a smile from those ripe red lips. 
 
 And with courtly murmur of soft praise bowed 
 To press with passion her finger-tips. 
 62 
 
She is now \ht j^r:st of each ruffian boor, 
 
 A stranger to all that is good and bright, — 
 
 No longer honored, no longer pure, 
 A star that has lost its luster and light. 
 
 And the ballad you careless revelers trolled 
 Was a song she loved in the golden years, 
 
 In the sunlight days, ere a woman sold 
 }lf:r soul for riot, her peace for tears. 
 
WITH THE DEAD 
 
 White folds of linen on the marble face 
 Lie in the silence of the coming day; 
 
 Theflong black shadows creep with laggard pace; 
 The eastern sky is marked with streaks of gray. 
 
 O quiet dead, let but those pallid lips 
 
 Oneyate-learned secret of the soul disclose, 
 
 So that our wisdom may at once eclipse 
 All that the sage of all the sages knows. 
 
 O tranquil lids, Hft from those hidden eyes, 
 That on their orbs our doubting eyes may see 
 
 The graven gleams of startled, rapt surprise 
 Which marked their first glimpse of eternity. 
 
 The morning breeze sweeps thro' the solemn room 
 And stirs the folds that wrap the dead around; 
 
 The bold, broad sun dispels the chilling gloom; 
 The streets are all astir with life and sound. 
 
 Most tacit dead! has mourning love no power 
 To win one accent for its many tears? 
 
 64 
 
mm tje SDean 65 
 
 Most ingrate dead! who leaves us in an hour, 
 And with us leaves the grief of loss for years, 
 
 One single word — the faintly-breathed farewell 
 That failed thee as the fluttering spirit fled! 
 
 No answer yet! Ring out the final knell! 
 And, men, come in to bear away our dead. 
 
A CHRISTMAS DREAM 
 
 I STOOD on the shores of the Wide Awake, at the 
 
 close of a winter's day, 
 Then I boarded my shallop and steered my course 
 
 to a country far away; 
 I was bound to the land of the Fast Asleep, my 
 
 track in the silver beams 
 Of the lustrous moon that lighted my way to the 
 
 harbor of Pleasant Dreams. 
 
 A Norman castle with lofty keep stands on a flower- 
 ing lea, 
 
 And a landmark bold for miles around it frowns on 
 the open sea. 
 
 I am bidden to enter the pillared hall where the 
 banquet board is spread, 
 
 And knights and ladies surround the feast, and the 
 baron sits at the head. 
 
 Stream and forest, and crag and lake have sent 
 their offerings here, 
 
 Deer and boar from the parent wood, and fish and 
 bird from the mere; 
 
 66 
 
Si C|)ti0tmaj5 2Dream 67 
 
 And the wine is quaffed in mighty draughts from 
 
 cups of silver and horn, 
 As the minstrels chant in holy phrase of the night 
 
 that Christ was born; 
 And the yule-log blazes upon the hearth, and I 
 
 mark by its ruddy flame 
 A cavalier, grander than all the rest, who sits by a 
 
 winsome dame. 
 
 The blush is red on her lovely cheek, as he whis- 
 pers low in her ear: 
 " This day and night will forever be to me the best 
 
 in the year. 
 And wherever I go, and wherever I be, I swear 
 
 on the cross of Christ 
 That my soul with thine on each Christmas Eve 
 
 will keep its solemn tryst. 
 And whether I perish by heathen sword, or by 
 
 knightly lance am sped, 
 Whether we twain must live apart, or by God's 
 
 grace we are wed, 
 This night of all nights will bring me back from 
 
 the spirit world to say 
 That love is immortal and knows no death, but 
 
 must live for ever and aye." 
 
68 Si CSti0tma0 2Dteam 
 
 An English manor, and elm and oak are draped in 
 
 the gleaming snow, 
 But laughter and mirth are rife within, as under the 
 
 mistletoe 
 The daring youth leads the bashful maid, and salutes 
 
 her hps of red — 
 Lips that rival the crimson glow of the berry wreaths 
 
 overhead. 
 And the same old chant from the waits outside to 
 
 the merry throng is borne, 
 " God bless you, dames and gentlemen, on this 
 
 night that Christ was born." 
 
 Where have I seen this maiden's eyes, and marked 
 
 the bearing bold 
 Of that comely youth ? ' T is the dame and the 
 
 knight of the Norman tower of old! 
 Now I know that the souls of the lovers then abide 
 
 with these lovers now. 
 And I know that the knight to the peerless dame 
 
 has kept his solemn vow. 
 That on this eve of the good Christ's birth, though 
 
 fate had parted the twain. 
 Their souls in those of a later life have found union 
 
 and love again. 
 
Si Cl)ti0tma0 2Dteam 69 
 
 And now I behold in my changeful dream, by the 
 
 calm Pacific sea, 
 In a stately mansion a comely throng that surrounds 
 
 a Christmas-tree; 
 No Norman castle, no manor old, no waits on the 
 
 snow-clad lawn. 
 On this night that the shepherds saw the star and 
 
 hailed the immortal dawn. 
 But the holly-berries are bright and red,— and in 
 
 yonder nook, I swear, 
 Hand clasped in hand, and lip close to lip, sit a 
 
 youth and a maiden fair! 
 
 Oh, wonder of wonders! That maiden's eyes are 
 
 the eyes of the dame of old, 
 And the bold, broad brow is the brow of the knight, 
 
 and his voice the voice that told 
 His own true love that he 'd keep his tryst, and his 
 
 fond devotion prove, 
 On this night when the hearts of all mankind are 
 
 moved to pity and love. 
 
 Ah, who shall question those gracious things, no 
 
 matter how strange they seem. 
 Or doubt that to many the best of life is the Hfe 
 
 they live in their dream ? 
 
BY THE LAKE 
 
 O summer's day! O smiling- lake! 
 
 O plash of wave! O pebbly beach! 
 The low, sweet words that softly break; 
 
 The thoughts too full for common speech; 
 
 The round, soft hand that lay within 
 
 The brown, broad palm that burned and clung; 
 
 The heart that strove a heart to win, 
 
 While meadows waved and robins sung; 
 
 The memories of a golden day, — 
 
 Of fresh spring flowers, of sun and lake, — 
 
 Of all she would yet could not say. 
 Of all I would yet could not take, — 
 
 Are green this autumn, though the trees 
 Have lost the bloom they wore and waved, 
 
 Though many an ebb and flow of seas 
 
 The lake's white shores have left and laved. 
 
 The corn then peeped above the sod 
 
 In unripe beauty, fresh and cool; 
 The cautious angler swung his rod 
 
 Above the purple-shadowed pool. 
 
 70 
 
T5r> tSe Eafee 7^ 
 
 To-day the harvest- fields are bare; 
 
 The clover hues are gray and dead; 
 The meadow-grass, where lurked the hare, 
 
 Is gathered to the farmer's shed; 
 
 The mottled fowl float on the lake; 
 
 The ripples murmur in the reeds; 
 The quail pipes in the sheltered ?jrake; 
 
 The minnow darts among the weeds; 
 
 The sky is clear, the air is pure, 
 
 And all is sweet as when before 
 The dreams, too golden to endure, 
 
 Were dreamed beside the lake's fair shore. 
 
A SPANISH VISTA 
 
 Large, lazy cattle on the hill, 
 
 The landscape dotted over, 
 The sigh of breeze, the song of rill, 
 
 The scent of blooming clover. 
 
 Beyond, the tired sun sinking down, 
 
 In clouds of lurid splendor, 
 And gilding all the mountain's crown 
 
 With rays serene and tender. 
 
 A hacienda, shaded o'er 
 
 By oaks, which in this wildwood 
 Rose high above the river's shore, 
 
 In the Franciscan's childhood, 
 
 Were large and strong in those old days, 
 
 When Spanish expeditions 
 Came here to plant, in tangled ways, 
 
 The tall cross of the Missions. 
 
 Upon the porch a maiden lies, 
 
 And over hill and meadow 
 Beholds, with calm and lustrous eyes, 
 
 The sun-rays yield to shadow. 
 72 
 
ja &pani!36 ^i0t^ 73 
 
 She chants a cadence soft and clear, 
 
 A tale of Spanish glory; 
 The oaks seem bending down to hear 
 
 The music of her story. 
 
 I listen, and I live again, 
 
 In twilight dream Elysian, 
 That past when legendary Spain 
 
 Made romance in the Mission. 
 
 The song is hushed, the sun is down, 
 
 The moon is rising slowly; 
 Still on the porch the mountain's frown 
 
 The singer shadows wholly. 
 
 Backward and backward creeps the shade. 
 By gracious moonlight driven, 
 
 Till lightly rests upon the maid 
 The silver light of heaven. 
 
THE FAVORITE TOAST 
 
 Here! stop the song! Look at the clock! 
 
 Although it's to our liking, 
 The joke must wait. Ease up the talk; 
 
 Eleven's nearly striking. 
 
 Fill glasses for the old-time toast 
 
 We hold above all others, 
 The one we love and honor most: 
 
 " Here's to our absent brothers." 
 
 Good fellows all, where are you now, 
 Who came with cheery greeting 
 
 In other days, and w^ondered how 
 Men thought that life was fleeting? 
 
 There 's Charley, brightest of them all, — 
 
 His face shines in the claret. 
 He wears a smile to conquer Gaul, 
 
 As none but he could wear it. 
 
 Dear boy, his shadow in the glass 
 Shines bright and fair and cheery. 
 
 I almost hear the old jest passed, 
 " Let's drink, and all be merry." 
 
 74 
 
^it jFabotite ^oa0t 75 
 
 And Jack, who died a year ago, 
 When life was in its summer, — 
 
 I see him in the shadow show 
 A new and loving- comer. 
 
 And good John Boyd, and Hull, and those 
 Who've passed across the ferry, 
 
 Return, as round that chorus goes, 
 *' Let 's drink, and all be merry." 
 
 Dear boys, I know not where you are. 
 
 Nor do I care to ponder 
 Upon your home in that land far 
 
 Across the ferry yonder. 
 
 But yet I know, where'er you rove, 
 
 You 'd hurry out of heaven 
 To drink this toast with those you love 
 
 When clocks point to eleven. 
 
 So we, who stand around the board, 
 
 Remember all those others, — 
 Drink deep this toast without a word: 
 
 " Here's to our absent brothers." 
 
IN THE COLISEUM 
 
 On the Campagna fell the shades of night, 
 And by the yellow, full-fed stream that rolled 
 On through the broad and far-extending plain. 
 The herdsman shouted to his thirsty flock. 
 Whose heads were buried in the Tiber's flood, 
 Drinking their fill as closed the sultry day. 
 
 An old man clad in skins, with painful step 
 Walked on to where, skirting the western sky, 
 Arose the tall and frowning walls of Rome; 
 And by his side, guiding his feeble steps, 
 A maiden whose soft cheek the sun had kissed 
 Brown as the nuts on lofty Sabine hill, 
 Moved, speaking words of tenderness to him. 
 
 " Think you," he said, " that soldier's words were 
 
 sooth. 
 That he had seen amid the brotherhood, — 
 Aye, in the arena,-— Faustus, my lost son, 
 The handsomest and the bravest of them all, — 
 Faustus, thy playmate? Surely thou must mind 
 How when the Goths thy father's cottage wrecked. 
 And slew him then before thy mother's eyes, 
 
 76 
 
In tSe Coliseum 77 
 
 " Faustus did bear thee, — he then but a boy, — 
 Far from the bloody hearth, and guarded thee. 
 And think ye now that Faustus wounds and 
 
 slays, — 
 He whose once tender hand would gently lift 
 A piping fledgling from the ground and smooth 
 Its tiny feathers, lay it once again 
 Back in the nest it wandered from too soon ? ' ' 
 
 The maiden shuddered. "Faustus could not brook 
 The sober dullness of the herdsman's Hfe, 
 And so sought Rome, where men of warlike minds 
 Find ever favor in Augustus' eyes." 
 Conversing thus, the twain at last drew near 
 The gates of Rome, and entered and moved on 
 To where the Coliseum's bulk stood out 
 Beneath the shadow of the Palatine Hill. 
 
 Struck by the maid's fair face, a soldier said: 
 " You come in time, sweet one, to see to-night 
 The games, for noble Caesar has decreed 
 That forty of the brotherhood contend, 
 And that so hotly that but one survives 
 And Caesar hails above his brethren slain. 
 Nay, shrink not, maiden; if thou tarriest here 
 But a few months, thy appetite for blood 
 
78 3n tfie €oli0tnm 
 
 Shall grow as keen as that of our fair dames, 
 Who love to see a Roman's full veins bleed." 
 
 Into the circus next day poured the throng. 
 Matron and maid and proud patrician filled 
 The benches rising, tier surmounting tier. 
 Lictor and legionary and centurion stood 
 Around the throne where haughty Caesar sat, 
 Cold, like a marble god, upon his shrine. 
 
 *' All hail, great Csesar!" rose the ringing shout, 
 
 And then a pause, for marching on the sands. 
 
 With gleaming shield and sword, the brethren 
 came. 
 
 *' The dying hail thee, Caesar!" Then the fray! 
 
 Steel rings on steel, swords clash, the sands are 
 
 dyed 
 
 Red with the blood of slaughtered men, and still 
 
 The sinewy arms rise high to smite and thrust, 
 
 And women's cheeks are flushed, and languid eyes 
 
 Flash into life to see this reign of death. 
 
 But two are left. They meet — their blades are 
 
 crossed ! — 
 *' Faustus!" — above the mighty din is heard 
 The girl's wild scream. One of the twain looks 
 
 back. 
 
Jin tit Coliseum 79 
 
 Ah, fatal pause! his foeman's blade falls swift, 
 And prone he lies upon the crimson sands. 
 Pitiless Caesar to the earth points down. 
 And then the gladiator's restless heart, 
 Which wearied of the quiet herdsman's life, 
 Had ceased to beat. 
 
 A few hours later, when the games were done, 
 Upon those benches where the plebeians sit 
 They found a lovely maiden cold in death. 
 Her head was pillowed on an old man's breast. 
 He, too, was dead, and none their story knew. 
 
THE STATE-HOUSE BELL 
 
 (1776) 
 
 Standing proudly on the threshold of her fruit- 
 ful hundred years, 
 
 The youngest of the nations lifts her head among 
 her peers. 
 
 Pointing backward to the patriots that mark her 
 century's tide, 
 
 With the laurel on her fair brow, she names their 
 deeds with pride; 
 
 And the old theme that so often has been told and 
 
 read and sung: 
 How the great bell of the State-house, from its 
 
 ponderous brazen tongue, 
 Sonorous rang its tidings — with quick pulse and 
 
 moistened eye 
 Was hailed a nation's birthday in memorial July. 
 
 But never can the story be too often wreathed in 
 
 verse, 
 And never can historian too oft the tale rehearse — 
 
 80 
 
^6e fetate = Ifeoude 15t\l si 
 
 For the old to bid them gladden, and be strong 
 
 and stout of heart; 
 For the young to let the future see them act as well 
 
 their part; 
 
 As a requiem for the warriors whose blood baptized 
 
 the sod; 
 For the statesmen whose wise counsels broke British 
 
 rule and rod. 
 In the belfry stand the ringers — hangs above the 
 
 silent bell — 
 Their arms are bared, their eyes gleam, they love 
 
 this duty well. 
 
 Without, the eager people sway and murmur like 
 
 the sea; 
 Within, the statesmen listened to the words that 
 
 made them free. 
 The noonday sun is blazing; but greater than its 
 
 heat. 
 And fiercer, is the fire within those hearts upon the 
 
 street. 
 
 So grave and so determined, with bent brows and 
 
 lips compressed. 
 Toward the meeting-house the eager mass, with 
 
 steady purpose, pressed. 
 
82 (W^t state ^^0tt0^ ffidi 
 
 Maid and matron, age and childhood, gaze with 
 
 anxious look on high, 
 Where the massive tower, gigantic, looms against 
 
 the summer sky. 
 
 ''Oh, this weary expectation! How the minutes 
 
 drag along ! ' ' 
 Hush, good friends! You '11 be rewarded with the 
 
 richest, rarest song 
 Ever rung from brass and iron. Hush! be still 
 
 and hold your breath ! 
 On the swinging of yon metal hangs our country's 
 
 life or death! 
 
 ' ' Have they signed it ? " " Not all ! Hear them — 
 
 they are still in hot debate! 
 Oh, pass on, you sluggish moments, and let us 
 
 know our fate! " 
 Then the waiting throng is silenced — over all a 
 
 stillness fell; 
 When clang! clang! from the steeple peals the 
 
 thunder of the bell. 
 
 Hear its grand reverberations swelling o'er the 
 
 anxious town. 
 Bringing joy to all the people, bringing sorrow to 
 
 the crown. 
 
^tt ^tate-'^oMt ISell 83 
 
 Hand grasps hand with warmest pressure. " Ring 
 
 out, ringers, well and strong! 
 Ring in the joys of freedom — ring out the woes 
 
 of wrong! 
 
 "Ring right lustily, my brave boys! The great 
 
 pledge signed to-day 
 Shall be sealed with freemen's best blood in many 
 
 a fiery fray. 
 Ring out, and never weary, — for children yet 
 
 unborn 
 Shall bless the glorious music you 've made for us 
 
 this morn.*' 
 No sooner was the peal stilled, than burst the bell 
 
 in twain — 
 After such a lofty message it could ring no meaner 
 
 strain. 
 
 Nigh a hundred years 'tis silent, but the memory 
 of that chime 
 
 Shall echo on forever until the end of time; 
 
 Echo on through other nations, bidding other hearts 
 rejoice, 
 
 And like it, in Freedom's honor, lifting up a peo- 
 ple's voice. 
 
THE LAND OF THE NEVER WAS 
 
 I BOARDED my ship and I sailed away 
 
 With never a sigh or pause, — 
 Away, away, to the rim of day, 
 
 And the land of the Never Was. 
 
 White were my sails as the soaring gull 
 
 That followed me o'er the sea; 
 The breeze was strong with never a lull; 
 
 And the only crew with me 
 
 Were my hopes and dreams of another shore, 
 
 A port of refuge and rest, 
 Around the cape of the Evermore, 
 
 In the land of the Golden West. 
 
 Land ho! land ho! and the anchor falls 
 
 Deep in the purple tide. 
 From the bordering, the towering walls 
 
 Face me on either side. 
 
 And my ship is safe in a sheltered bay. 
 
 And only, from miles afar. 
 Is heard in the hush of the twilight gray 
 
 The surf on the harbor bar. 
 
 84 
 
And now as I step on the shining sand, 
 There comes to the peaceful shore, 
 
 With kindly faces and outstreiched hands, 
 From the land of the Nevermore, 
 
 The noble souls from the Never Was, 
 
 This isle in the purple sea, 
 Who have framed its tender and kindly laws, 
 
 To give this welcome to me. 
 
 There never has been in the Never Was, 
 Since the birth and beginning of time, 
 
 A friend that was false, or a maid untrue, 
 Or the faintest shadow of crime. 
 
 There never has been a pang of pain, 
 
 Or a human heart gone wrong, 
 And the echoes of life have been the strain 
 
 Of a sweet, harmonious song. 
 
 And nobody toils from the early light 
 
 To the dusky close of day. 
 In this beautiful land of glory and right, 
 
 Where my anchored vessel lay. 
 
 They gave me a palace of towering height, 
 With meadows and woods and streams. 
 
And my house was peopled with fancies bright, 
 My hopes, and my noontide dreams. 
 
 The shriek of the tempest, the breaker's shock 
 
 As it foams on the iron shore, 
 And my ship is lost on the cruel rock, 
 
 Off the Cape of Evermore! 
 
 And the beautiful land of Never Was, 
 With its great souls fresh and free. 
 
 Are buried with me and my gallant ship, 
 Deep in the purple sea. 
 
TWO RIVERS 
 
 As THE lark from his cosy nest 
 
 Welcomed the morn, 
 Fresh from the mountain's crest, 
 
 Twin streams were born. 
 
 Through deep vale and wooded dale, 
 
 Meadow and lea, 
 One singing merrily, 
 
 Gushed to the sea. 
 
 Through bleak waste and arid plain, 
 
 Cheered by no song, 
 Far from the waving grain, 
 
 One toiled along. 
 
 And one stream the sunlight 
 
 Tinted with gold. 
 While gloomy clouds, black as night, 
 
 The other enfold. 
 
 But when the evening sun 
 
 Sank in the west. 
 The sea caught the rivers both 
 
 Home to her breast. 
 87 
 
88 'JEtOD UMt0 
 
 And the song of the river 
 That burst o'er the lea, 
 
 Has been hushed for all time 
 In the moan of the sea. 
 
 And the wail of the river 
 
 That toiled through the plain, 
 
 In nature's wild throbbing 
 Will ne'er sound again. 
 
 Our lives, like these rivers, 
 Howe'er they be cast, 
 
 In the grave, the great ocean, 
 Find nepenthe at last. 
 
DROWNED 
 
 On the bosom of the river 
 
 Dainty moonbeams gleam and quiver; 
 
 TrembHng forms shrink and shiver, 
 
 Gazing on its silver sheen. 
 There is peace and calm forever: 
 Bonds of sin may solve and sever 
 In a journey with the river, 
 
 Through its willow banks of green. 
 
 PalHd faces are uplifting 
 
 To the moonbeams, glint and shifting; 
 
 Stiffened limbs are drowned and drifting 
 
 Underneath the rusthng trees. 
 For, while all the world was sleeping, 
 Found a tired heart rest from weeping; 
 Sought the river sadly creeping 
 
 Towards the moan of distant seas. 
 
 Never more the pain of losing, 
 Never more the chill refusing. 
 Never more the deadly choosing 
 Of the sin and taint of care; 
 
90 SDrotoneti 
 
 Past the days and nights of longing, 
 Past the sense of wrong and wronging, 
 Comes the deadly sleep belonging 
 To the erring ones that were. 
 
NATURE AND MAN 
 
 The moon is dawning, the west is darkening, 
 A sighing sound haunts the bodeful air; 
 
 The forest pines appear hushed, and harkening 
 Like living forms, for vesper prayer. 
 
 Their leaves are sparkling, but not with gladness: 
 Who readeth well what their sheen bespeaks 
 
 Will deem those pearly, pale dews of sadness 
 Most like the tear-drops on weepers' cheeks. 
 
 The knelling fall of the mournful waters 
 Floats down the dell like the saddest song, 
 
 As though the flood's fabled fairy daughters 
 Bewailed some victim, or deed of wrong. 
 
 And as the gold of the sunset slowly 
 Decays and darkens till all hath fled, 
 
 Those tones appear to unite in holy 
 
 And choral swells for the lost and dead. 
 
 Is this illusion? A poet's dreaming? 
 
 An airy legend from Feristan ? 
 Or are the thoughtful more wise in deeming 
 
 That Nature may sometime mourn with man ? 
 
 91 
 
MARRIAGE A LA MODE 
 
 Harry, old fellow, the other day 
 
 The wedding-bells chimed for a girl we knew — 
 A boarding-house beauty, with golden hair, 
 
 And the dainty complexion, and eyes of blue; 
 
 And the bridegroom proudly stood at her side, 
 And the parson pronounced them man and wife; 
 
 But I thought, when I looked at the stately bride, 
 Of those days when she made a part of your life. 
 
 And I wondered if, laid away in your trunk. 
 
 Are those letters I 've carried by dozens to you, 
 
 When she was your sweetheart, and you believed 
 There was none in the world so fond and true. 
 
 The groom, poor mortal, believed, no doubt. 
 That he was the idol of that heart's shrine; 
 
 But I could have sworn her thoughts were afar 
 With you, in your ship on the sultry line. 
 
 Well, the wedding presents came thick and fast. 
 
 I did as you told me. The opal ring 
 I gave her, saying: *'A leaf from the past. 
 
 From an absent friend, by request I bring." 
 
 92 
 
Sl^artiaffe a la 9?otie 93 
 
 She smiled and laughed and admired the stone, 
 And turned to her husband; but well I knew 
 
 What it cost her to stifle an agonized moan, 
 When she placed on her finger her gift to you. 
 
 Farewell, dear fellow ! ' t is best as it is — 
 But be sure of this: that she 'd rather be, 
 
 Though rich her husband and proud her home. 
 With you to-night on the lonely sea. 
 
 Since the fates have willed it, she '11 live her Hfe 
 With the man of money — he 's good and kind; 
 
 But whenever she looks at that opal ring 
 She ' 11 grieve for the Eden she left behind. 
 
DIGMAN PASHA 
 
 * ' General, dismount ! ' ' The warrior laughed, 
 
 And stroked his beard, and laughed again. 
 "What! I, who danger's draught have quaffed 
 
 On many a hard-fought battle-plain, 
 Dismount because the balls are flying ? 
 I 've seen the Russian squadrons hying 
 Before our Moslem's troops in force, 
 And never yet have left my horse." 
 
 A bullet strikes the grand old man, 
 
 A shell beneath him plows the ground; 
 He, smiling, says, ''Life's but a span," 
 And binds his scarf about the wound. 
 "General, dismount!" He called back, "Nay, 
 I 've lived through many a bloody fray, 
 And while the crescent floats on high, 
 I ride as Moslem should — to die! 
 For Allah and the Sultan yield 
 My life, if needs, on this red field!" 
 
 Another volley ! That bold breast 
 
 Is bleeding now! The gleaming sword 
 
 Falls from his nerveless hands, — the best. 
 The bravest, die for faith and lord. 
 
 94 
 
SDifftttan Paisfja 95 
 
 As Digman Pasha's old gray head 
 Lies on a mourning comrade's knee, 
 
 He whispers ere the soul has fled, 
 '' Abdul, I die for faith and thee! " 
 
 As long as valor wins a name 
 
 To glisten upon history's page, 
 As long as soldier' s cherished fame 
 
 And great deeds live from age to age, 
 Let Digman Pasha's name have place 
 Among that gallant Moslem race, 
 Who never fail when called to stand 
 And battle for their native land ! 
 
TOM MOORE 
 
 The legends were dim and forgotten, 
 
 Neglected the heart and unstrung, 
 And the sad, sweet lore of the nation 
 
 Grew strange on her children's tongue, 
 When out of the ranks of the people 
 
 Sprang a bard, like the flash of a blade, 
 And the world stood passive, and wondered 
 
 At the weird, sweet music he made. 
 
 As the west wind, that breathes of the summer, 
 
 Wins the chilled buds to fragrance and bloom. 
 So the strains of the God-gifted comer 
 
 Won the genius of song from its tomb ; 
 From the old abbeys, ruined and hoary, 
 
 From the castles that frowned o'er the sea. 
 He wove a romance and a glory 
 
 As he chanted the hymns of the free. 
 
 What pathos he wrung from that shattered, 
 
 That time-worn harp, when again 
 He swept its strings, breathing of sorrow, 
 
 Of love and oppression and pain — 
 96 
 
^om 9^oott 97 
 
 Of pain and of passion the deepest — 
 Like wine, in the ripeness of years 
 
 The richer, because of the glimpses 
 Of smiles through its burden of tears. 
 
 It began, as the promise of dawning 
 
 Empurples the clouds of the night; 
 It grew till, like landscapes at noontide. 
 
 The land was aglow with its light. 
 To-day it is mellow and tender, 
 
 Half mirthful, half sad, and all pure. 
 As it teaches the children of Ireland 
 
 To be faithful, and strong to endure. 
 
 In the far batde- fields of the stranger, 
 
 By the camp-fires of France and of Spain, 
 On the eve of the morrow of danger. 
 
 The bivouac rang with its strain, — 
 Now low, like the summer tides throbbing 
 
 On the beaches of Ireland, and then. 
 Like the winter gales, raging and sobbing 
 
 In the hearts of those strife-worn men. 
 
 O bard of our own land, thy laurels 
 
 Are brighter than ever to-day. 
 As we tread the dark pathway of sorrow, 
 
 And struggle towards Liberty's ray, 
 
98 %om 99oott 
 
 For the songs you have taught us have cheered us; 
 
 And when we have conquered, be sure 
 The first toast, the first pledge of our fi-eedom, 
 
 Shall be to thy memory, Tom Moore! 
 
WANDERERS FROM THE SEA 
 
 Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy! Speeding hither o'er the 
 foam, 
 With the waters white before thee, and their spray 
 upon thy deck, 
 Steer you steadily, and surely, for you bring our 
 treasures home, 
 As the harbor-bar you pass o'er, safe from storm 
 and wreck. 
 
 Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy! when the winds about our 
 dwelling 
 Blew fierce, and told disaster, our hearts were 
 out with thee; 
 Far from shore our hearts were drifting o'er the 
 ocean wildly swelling, 
 To the ship that bore our treasure, far, far out 
 upon the sea. 
 
 Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy! long and wearily we've 
 pondered 
 On the dangers of the tempest, and the cruel 
 rocks a-lee, 
 
loo dfllantiftetisi ttom tit &ea 
 
 And the ship that braves the billows, for had that 
 good ship foundered, 
 Our hearts, O gallant vessel, had gone surely 
 down with thee. 
 
 Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy! the links that long have 
 bound us 
 Stretch farther than the farthest shore, reach over 
 every sea; 
 Were thy homeward coming never, the years would 
 still have found us 
 Looking seaward for thy lofty spars, and waiting 
 on the quay. 
 
 Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy! thou art welcome to thy 
 mooring, 
 Whether outward bound or homeward, our good 
 wishes are with thee. 
 May you ride out many a tempest, and shun rock 
 and reef, secure in 
 Our blessings, that you brought us our friends 
 safely o'er the sea! 
 
LA GRIPPE 
 
 Happy the man who, on a gloomy day 
 
 When the streets are mud and mire, 
 
 Can put the business of the hour away, 
 
 And before a blazing fire. 
 
 Sip to his heart's desire, 
 
 Even as he gazes on the crackling log, 
 
 The hottest kind of grog. 
 
 Not to the millionaire alone does fate vouchsafe 
 For rain and cold this pleasant recompense; 
 Philosophers of ripened common sense 
 Can tranquilly surrender business obligation, 
 And put (such is the great law of life's compensa- 
 tion!) 
 Upon their doors, while they the goblet sip, 
 " Gone home to bed: La Grippe." 
 
 Though churchyards fatten, and the doctor sees 
 With each declining sun increasing fees, 
 For many more than plausible apologies, 
 We are indebted to La Grippe. 
 
I02 3ta (Btippe 
 
 The florid face which follows terrapin, 
 The morning of the night of song and gin, 
 We place (alas, for man's mendacious lip!) 
 To that convenient visitant, La Grippe. 
 
 Why reeled the model citizen, the man whose mind 
 Is ne'er to pleasures bibulous inclined? 
 Is that demeanor staid upset by wine? 
 He '11 tell you, *' Whisky— whisky and quinine, 
 For grippe, the doctor said." He took it; life 
 Must be preserved, though an indignant wife 
 Might scold a man with bitter, biting word 
 For coming home, his starboard tacks aboard. 
 
 For various kinds of ailments doctors pour 
 
 Into the patient horrid, nauseous doses. 
 
 Which make the nurses gasp and -hold their noses, 
 
 And tear the victim to his bosom's core. 
 
 They leech and blister, and in other ways 
 
 Inferno's margin with their tortures graze; 
 
 But in the grippe changed is the painful scene, 
 
 And the afflicted sips with brow serene, 
 
 His medicine which naught his soul distresses. 
 
 His only mourning when he convalesces. 
 
 Nor finds in grippe the welcome, dear excuse 
 
 That friend afforded for his daily booze. 
 
MUTATIONS 
 
 " Non semper agros manat in hispidos^ 
 
 The darkest shadows at times are lifted, 
 The clouds not always obscure the sun; 
 
 The hardest burden is sometimes shifted, 
 The hardest toiling is sometimes done. 
 
 The stream that flows from distant fountain. 
 Now through desert and now by lea, 
 
 Though wide the plain or steep the mountain, 
 Sooner or later must reach the sea. 
 
 The gales of winter that shake the forest 
 Give place in spring to the softer wind; 
 
 The wounded hearts that have ached the sorest 
 In the changeful future their solace find. 
 
 Did spring last ever, 't would lose its sweetness; 
 
 If flowers bloomed always, we'd cast them by. 
 'Tis change that makes the world's complete- 
 ness — 
 
 The sweetest laughter succeeds the sigh. 
 
 103 
 
THE WAITER 
 
 No cross he bears, nor ivory beads; 
 
 At matin chime he says no prayer, 
 Nor text, nor hymn from volume reads, 
 
 Nor bends the knee with saintly air. 
 
 He kneels in no confessional, 
 The penitent's sad tale to hear, 
 
 Nor on his hand, in blessing reached. 
 There falls the sinner's heart- wrung tear. 
 
 And yet he knows so much — so much. 
 That tall, grim waiter, mild and gray, 
 
 That homes would wither at his touch, 
 And vows dissolve had he his say. 
 
 But yet he speaks not. On his lips 
 The seal of silence rests supreme; 
 
 The crowds that nightly come and go 
 Are but the shadows of a dream. 
 
 The song, the jest, the wine, the kiss. 
 The plighted promises, — to him 
 
 Are fancies all, with naught amiss. 
 But phantoms, undefined and dim, 
 104 
 
<^fit Wiaittt 105 
 
 Of worlds outside his narrow sphere, 
 
 Of worlds where boisterous cohorts move- 
 
 And all are near and all are dear, 
 And every chant's refrain is love, 
 
 And every vow is emphasized. 
 
 With bubbling wine and beaker quaff; 
 
 And all by chastity most prized 
 Is greeted with the scoffing laugh. 
 
 tall, grim waiter, few indeed 
 
 Can hear so much and yet not speak. 
 
 1 pledge thee, for thy noble creed, 
 
 The golden silence of the Greek. 
 
 H 
 
ONLY A WOMAN'S FACE 
 
 Only a woman's face 
 
 Seen in the Latin quarter, 
 Maybe a fisherman's child, — 
 
 Maybe a scavenger's daughter. 
 
 But eyes of infinite depths, 
 
 Not easily forgotten, 
 And a figure of queenly grace, 
 
 Though clad in a gown of cotton. 
 
 Ah! far away in the past. 
 
 When Spain was in its glory, 
 
 Some lord of that mighty land 
 Whispered love's tender story 
 
 Into the wilHng ear 
 
 Of a dame, whose great-granddaughter 
 In her cotton gown to-day 
 
 Roams through the Latin quarter. 
 
 For never from lowly race 
 
 Sprang maid so sweet and winning. 
 Perhaps the ring, perhaps 
 
 The tale of passionate sinning. 
 
 io6 
 
flDnl^ a (lflloman'0 JFace 107 
 
 It matters not to me; 
 
 Never again I 've sought her, 
 Like the dream of a pleasant hour 
 
 Is this queen of the Latin quarter. 
 
MONTEREY 
 
 In a mantle of old traditions, 
 In the rime of a vanished day, 
 
 The shrouded and silent city- 
 Sits by her crescent bay. 
 
 The ruined fort on the hilltop 
 Where never a bunting- streams, 
 
 Looks down, a cannonless fortress, 
 On the solemn city of dreams. 
 
 Gardens of wonderful roses, 
 
 Gimbing o'er roof and wall, 
 Woodbine and crimson geranium. 
 
 Hollyhocks, purple and tall, 
 
 Mingle their odorous breathings 
 
 With the crisp, salt breeze from the sands. 
 Where pebbles and sounding sea-shells 
 
 Are gathered by children's hands. 
 
 Women, with olive faces, 
 
 And the liquid southern eye, 
 Dark as the forest berries 
 
 That grace the woods in July. 
 
 io8 
 
9$onttttv 109 
 
 Tenderly train the roses, 
 
 Gathering here and there 
 A bud— the richest and rarest — 
 
 For a place in their long, dark hair. 
 
 Feeble and garrulous old men 
 
 Tell, in the Spanish tongue, 
 Of the good, grand times at the Mission, 
 
 And the hymns that the Fathers sung; 
 
 Of the oil and the wine, and the plenty, 
 And the dance in the twilight gray — 
 
 ''Ah! these," and the head shakes sadly, 
 "Were good times in Monterey!" 
 
 Behind in the march of cities — 
 
 The last in the eager stride 
 Of villages born the latest — 
 
 She dreams by the ocean side. 
 
FAREWELL 
 
 Dear friend, kind friend, and must we say farewell, 
 And break that circle, comrade, which so long 
 
 Has held us, brother, in its pleasant spell — 
 A loving, faithful, merry-hearted throng? 
 
 Death claims his own; we mourn, we pray and trust, 
 And softly praise the dead, but yet we know 
 
 When nature summons us again to dust. 
 
 We, too, along the drear, dark path must go. 
 
 But when we feel that though the sun-rays fall 
 Upon us living, though when stars are bright 
 
 We gaze above and say: " He now sees all 
 The mellow beauty of this summer's night; 
 
 ** Still he is absent, and his cheering voice 
 Is lost to us, as if our friend were dead; 
 
 Though he may grieve, and we, perchance, rejoice. 
 And he rejoice while we are sad instead; 
 
 "We know not; for, alas! between us lies 
 A barrier our thoughts alone may span. 
 
 What matter to us stars, or glowing skies, 
 Since we have lost of men the truest man ? ' ' 
 
Jfacttoell III 
 
 The circle narrower grows. Ah ! what is wrong 
 In this strange world, that partings are so rife? 
 
 For ere are hushed the echoes of the song, 
 There comes the dirge and bitterness of life. 
 
 The breeze that creeps through aisles of woodland 
 shade, 
 When day is done, bringing delicious balm, 
 The cooling mist that freshens all the glade, 
 
 The wave-borne lights that gleam when seas are 
 calm, 
 
 Are grand, rich blessings in creation's plan 
 From the Beneficent who reigns above. 
 
 But greater is the love of man for man — 
 The love exceeding woman's rarest love. 
 
 Such is our love. And never better placed 
 Was man's affection since the Persian youth. 
 
 Beneath the tyrant's footstool strong, embraced, 
 Glorying in death for friendship and for truth. 
 
 The morning sun that climbs the eastern sky 
 And fades at evening in the crimson west. 
 
 Though grand at noon its luster to the eye, 
 Its last light is the fairest and the best. 
 
112 ifatetoll 
 
 And thus our love. In its meridian heat, 
 In all the warmth of its noontide power, 
 
 Has never seemed so dear, so sadly sweet, 
 As in the twilight of this parting hour. 
 
 And now, farewell ! Night may give place to dawn. 
 And birds sing on, and autumn crown the land; 
 
 But what care we when you, our friend, are gone, 
 And but the last clasp of your faithful hand 
 
 Left as a memory of a golden scene. 
 
 On which the curtain all too early fell — 
 
 The sad awakening that succeeds the dream 
 
 Of severed ties ? Farewell, dear friend, farewell ! 
 
THE DEAD WARRIOR 
 
 Muffle the drum, let the musket point downward, 
 Twine crape in yon banners, — the soldier lies 
 low! 
 His hands shall no more draw the sword from its 
 scabbard. 
 His wan lips no more cheer his men on the foe. 
 
 Oh, what a harvest that great soul is reaping. 
 The grandest, the rarest a soldier e'er won: 
 
 For, behold, a whole nation lies prostrate and 
 weeping 
 At the bier of its savior, its warrior son. 
 
 What shall we say of him? How tell his story? 
 Who shall be worthy to hear of his glory ? 
 How chant the praises of him who is gone? 
 Who blazon the deeds that our soldier has done ? 
 
 Ye, who have marched with him, camped with him, 
 fought with him, 
 On plain and on mountain -side, swamp and 
 redoubt. 
 Ye who have thrilled at the voice of the leader, — 
 Comrades of Grant, it is time to speak out! 
 
 "3 
 
114 %it 2)eati ^Ifllatrior 
 
 Tell of the soul that knew no hesitation, 
 The warrior born, a stranger to fear. 
 
 The sun in the gloom of the land's desolation, 
 That banished the tempest, and brought her 
 sons cheer. 
 
 Who now dare murmur a word of disfavor ? 
 
 Who breathe a slander to tarnish his fame ? 
 Who grudge a tear to the country's savior? 
 
 Who not bend low at the sound of his name ? 
 
 Soldiers of Grant, who went down in the battle, 
 Whose bones have long moldered in the South 
 and the North, 
 
 Come from your graves! 't is no musketry's rattle 
 That bids you, dead heroes, arise and stand forth. 
 
 Come in your shadowy, awful battalions, 
 
 For the hand of the leader is waiting for you, — 
 
 You who met death when he bade you, and flinched 
 not, 
 The valor he trusted, the brave hearts he knew. 
 
 'Mid the muffled drum's beat and the wail of the 
 bugle. 
 And the swell of the organ in mournfulest song, 
 
%fit SDeab WLaniot 115 
 
 Comes the murmur of these, the Republic's dead 
 soldiers, 
 Whose legions outnumber the sable-clad throng. 
 
 And sentries, unseen, by his grave will pass slowly, 
 Side by side with the living who honor that rest. 
 
 Let us go — for the slumber of heroes is holy; 
 They who died at his bidding have loved him the 
 best. 
 
THE WORKERS 
 
 Ours is the earnest strife, 
 
 Who write and think, 
 And press the grapes of Hfe 
 
 That you may drink. 
 We lay our dearest treasure 
 
 Before your feet. 
 Nor pause the gift to measure, 
 
 So it be sweet. 
 
 When we the work have wrought, 
 
 And gained the goal. 
 And wrung the glowing thought 
 
 From burning soul. 
 To you the key is given 
 
 That we have won; 
 No heed how hearts be riven, 
 
 So it be done. 
 
 Our offspring born in fears, 
 
 For you to toil, 
 Rewarded us with tears — 
 
 You with the spoil. 
 
 ii6 
 
Wbt dfllotftet^ 117 
 
 Our homes are gaunt and bare — 
 
 Yours rich indeed; 
 And yet we smile at care — 
 
 Such is our creed. 
 
 We only lip the brink — 
 
 You quaff the whole; 
 What need to brood or think — 
 
 You have our soul. 
 We only reach the door — 
 
 You gain the aisle. 
 Our hearts are sad and sore, 
 
 That you may smile. 
 
 Our cheeks are pale and wan — 
 
 Yours flushed with health; 
 And still we struggle on, 
 
 But not for wealth. 
 That you may read and learn, 
 
 And gain in mind — 
 For this we toil, nor turn 
 
 To look behind. 
 
 And if we dream at all, 
 
 Or dare to trust, 
 The boon is very small: 
 
 That our poor dust 
 
ii8 ^5e Motftetjaf 
 
 (When weary brain is calm, 
 And peace is met ) 
 
 The friends we gave the palm 
 Shall not forget. 
 
INTO GOD'S HANDS 
 
 Into God's hands, than yours, which bore 
 Through dreary years the martyr's crown, 
 
 The placid face that never wore 
 The shadow of rebelHous frown. 
 
 When airs were soft, I 've seen you lie 
 On slopes that overlooked the sea. 
 
 With poet's speech and kindling eye 
 Dwelling on all its mystery. 
 
 In rustling leaf, in song of bird, 
 In pipe-quail from the wooded hill, 
 
 The glory of a song you heard, 
 
 Which seemed your inmost soul to fill, — 
 
 Until you overflowed with song, 
 
 And I, reclining at your side, 
 Have marked its torrent clear and strong, 
 
 And drank the sweetness of its tide. 
 
 What loss is ours, who ne'er can place 
 Another king upon thy throne. 
 
 Nor looking on that tranquil face. 
 Bask in a sunshine all its own! 
 119 
 
I20 Unto (Koti*0 !&anti0 
 
 O soul, whose wealth of charity 
 
 Was boundless as the waves, and grand 
 
 As the tall hills you loved to see 
 Loom high above the level land! 
 
 O heart, as warm as is the beam 
 
 That lights the landscape where you caught 
 In many a pleasant noonday dream 
 
 The beauty of the poet thought! 
 
 Shall we no more, when toil and grief 
 With iron bands our minds oppress, 
 
 Gather from thee a kind rehef, 
 
 Reflecting thy great peacefulness? 
 
 Your grave shall be a double one — 
 One for the soulless, perished clay, 
 
 Where through the hours the generous sun 
 Shall shed its brightest, warmest ray, — 
 
 The other, in our breasts, a shrine — 
 A shield against the cold years' rust, 
 
 For memories for our love and thine 
 Till heart and shrine with thee are dust. 
 
THE COLOR OF GOLD 
 
 Cheer up, old friend, and forget the past, 
 
 The months of discomfort, disease, and cold. 
 Come, look in this [)an — we 've struck it at last! 
 
 Here, my boy, is a color of gold. 
 Color of gold! Ah! three years ago, 
 
 In the season when daisies their sweets unfold, 
 I said, " Farewell! 't is the hour to go," — 
 
 And I kissed her ringlets — the color of gold. 
 
 We 've worked together, Jim, side by side. 
 
 In snow and in rain, as men work for life — 
 I for a sunny-haired, blue-eyed bride. 
 
 You for your winsome and waiting wife — 
 And though others around us made their pile. 
 
 Ever to us fell the barren claim. 
 Patient endurance and ceaseless toil 
 
 Availed us nothing — luck was the same. 
 
 But we never lost heart; for well we knew, 
 
 If prayers for the wanderers are heard in heaven — 
 
 The sweetheart's for me, and the wife's for you — 
 That were each hour for our safety given. 
 
122 %fjt Color of (Boltr 
 
 Would sooner or later turn the tide, 
 
 Bring us out victors at last in the strife — 
 
 Give to my arms the trusting bride, 
 Give to your arms the faithful wife. 
 
 Oh! the sweet home meadows, the blithe brown 
 brook, 
 That caught its tints from verdure and sky; 
 The old bent willow, that sheltered the nook, 
 Where in drowsy noontime we used to lie; 
 And beyond the river, the reaches of sand 
 
 Which the west wind flecked with the yellow 
 spume; 
 The jagged reefs, where the tall rocks stand. 
 
 With their rough breasts bared to the breakers' 
 fume! 
 
 But we never lost heart; for well we knew. 
 
 If prayers for the wanderers are heard in heaven — 
 The sweetheart's for me, and the wife's for you — 
 
 That were each hour for our safety given, 
 Would sooner or later turn the tide, 
 
 Bring us out victors at last in the strife — 
 Give to my arms the trusting bride. 
 
 Give to your arms the faithful wife. 
 
MISSION DOLORES 
 
 Away from the din of the city, 
 
 From the mart and the bustling street, 
 
 Stands the old church of the Mission, 
 With the graveyard at its feet. 
 
 Here alone in the silence and shadow 
 
 The crumbling belfries cast, 
 Lie the dust of the Spanish founders 
 
 Who reared the pile in the past. 
 
 The willows and tall marsh-mallows 
 Grow rank and luxuriant between 
 
 The monuments moldered and ruined. 
 The pathways neglected and green. 
 
 There are curious Spanish inscriptions 
 On the headstones, moss-grown and gray, 
 
 Bidding those who stand over the sleepers 
 *' Be thoughtful and pause to pray." 
 
 And sometimes a Spanish woman, 
 Veiled and dark-eyed and brown, 
 
 When the Angelus peals from the belfry. 
 By the graves of her people kneels down, 
 123 
 
124 ^i00wn 2DoIott0 
 
 And tells her beads with devotion 
 
 For the sleeper's eternal rest, 
 Then noiselessly passes outward, 
 
 With a flower from the grave in her breast. 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 (to ina coolbrith)* 
 
 I HOLD that every brook that flows 
 From mountain crest, by dale and glen, 
 Now near, now far from haunts of men, 
 Now where the gnarled alder grows, 
 And swift by ferny banks again, 
 Then slow o'er shallows on the lea, 
 As loath to meet the yearning sea, 
 Calls to the poet, " Come, old friend, 
 And chant a song in praise of me. 
 
 ** Sing of the tiny crystal well, 
 Deep hidden in the jealous earth, 
 From which I take my feeble birth, 
 But gather strength and vigor; sing 
 A song in praise of every spring. 
 Tell of the sun's hot kisses; say 
 How moonbeams steal at close of day 
 To tell me that they love me best 
 When my bold lover seeks the West, 
 And in their silvery arms caressed 
 His fevered kisses fade away. ' ' 
 
 * Written for the occasion of the Bohemian Club's testimonial to 
 Ina Coolbrith, and read by Mr. O'Connell in person. 
 
 125 
 
126 ^|e &mget 
 
 I hold that every forest tree, 
 
 Sedate and grand in solemn mood, 
 
 Arouses from its solitude 
 
 And rustles all impetuously 
 
 Its myriad leaves, when, dreaming, strays 
 
 The poet into woodland ways; 
 
 And bids the breeze to give it voice 
 
 To bid a dreamer to rejoice. 
 
 And sing its generous shade, its grace, 
 
 A jewel in the earth's fair face, 
 
 Its foliage green, — till men depart 
 
 From noisy street and toilsome mart 
 
 To bless the trees with praiseful heart. 
 
 I hold that even the restless sea, 
 In all its power and majesty. 
 Craves from the poet's soul a song. 
 Bids him forget the bitter wrong 
 Of strong ships cast on iron coast 
 To sands which cast them back again. 
 To show how futile, weak, and vain 
 Man's skill its fury to enchain; 
 Bids him forget, and chant the sea 
 Its glory and tranquillity, 
 Its likeness to eternity. 
 
^^t &ing:er 127 
 
 A sweet and true interpreter 
 
 Stream, wood, and sea have found in her 
 
 We honor now; for she can read 
 
 In nature's book, the lay of lays, 
 
 The lessons of the flower and seed, 
 
 The song of songs, until we raise 
 
 Our dim, sad eyes from grosser things 
 
 To brighten as the poet sings. 
 
 She tells us what the sea has told 
 
 Her watchings on the sands of gold. 
 
 The language of the murmuring leaf, 
 
 The rustle of the yellow sheaf, 
 
 To her are true and clear and plain, — 
 
 And, drinking in her joyous strain. 
 
 We bid her sing and sing again. 
 
THE LAST POOL 
 
 Through the murmuring sycamore branches 
 Swept the breeze from the south, fresh and cool, 
 
 And the hues of the leaves, autumn-tinted, 
 Lay in trembling sheen on the pool. 
 
 The song of the stream had been silenced 
 
 In the heat of the summer past, 
 And in all the bed of the river 
 
 This leaf-shadowed pool was the last. 
 
 This last, lone pool of the river, 
 
 In the shade of the sycamore-tree, 
 To the heart of the man world-weary 
 
 Had a type and a likeness for me. 
 
 When the heats of passion are over, 
 
 And hope gives way to distrust; 
 When the brightness and joy of existence 
 
 Are dimmed with canker and rust; 
 
 Though all may seem arid and worthless, 
 
 And the founts of feeling be dry. 
 There is still in the soul, close guarded, 
 
 Remote from the passers-by, 
 
 128 
 
Wbt JL^0t Pool 129 
 
 One spring, which wears all the freshness 
 Of the days when the heart was green — 
 
 One spot, like the pool in the river, 
 Fair and pure in its shadow and sheen. 
 
 When the traveler, footsore and weary, 
 
 Comes suddenly, unprepared. 
 On a river pool, lonely and lovely. 
 
 Which the heats of summer have spared, 
 
 His heart is filled with thanksgiving. 
 And he blesses the path which led 
 
 His steps to this secret beauty 
 In the sandy river-bed. 
 
 So, when the human-hearted 
 
 Find, in the darkest breast, 
 This spring, which has never yielded 
 
 To the heats that consumed the rest, 
 
 They bless the hope it brings them: 
 That the showers will some time come, 
 
 When the silent current of feeling 
 Shall no longer be dry and dumb. 
 
DEAD IN THE MINE 
 
 Fire and death in the mine! 
 
 Weeping" and woe, 
 Women with pallid faces, 
 At the mouth of the shaft above, 
 Asking for those they love, 
 
 Hurrying to and fro. 
 
 Thank God for this: "All saved! 
 
 Welcome to life ! ' ' 
 All ? Oh, horror, that cry — 
 
 Hold the poor wife! 
 ' * They are not — they are not! Ye he! 
 
 Jem's in the mine." 
 
 •' Back, lads — Jem 's my mate." 
 
 Forward he broke. 
 Lower him — ''Steady, boys, now!" 
 Into the smoke and the fire, 
 Now climbing higher and higher, 
 
 Into the mine. 
 
 130 
 
2Deal3 m ttt 9$int 131 
 
 A roar and a shock, and lik*: thund'rr 
 The timh>erh are torn asunder. 
 
 Death in the mine! 
 Tread softly, oh men, and :-peak lov/ — 
 A hero is lying below. 
 
 Dead in the mine! 
 
THE OLD SAILOR 
 
 He is tawny and bronzed with the fervor 
 
 Of summers in tropical lands; 
 His arms are powerful and brawny, 
 
 Like a vise-grip the clasp of his hands, 
 And an odor of tar and tobacco 
 
 Is perceived round the place where he stands. 
 
 He tells of the wonderful islands 
 
 Embosomed in southern seas, 
 And of marvelous matters in China — 
 
 Of typhoons, and Mandarin teas, 
 And of shores where the barbarous natives 
 
 Live, like birds, in the branches of trees. 
 
 He can boast of a brush with the pirates, 
 When he captured a murderous crew 
 
 A mile off the coast of Sumatra, 
 
 And himself a bold buccaneer slew — 
 
 And he shows you the scar on his shoulder, 
 To convince you his yarn is true. 
 132 
 
%it SDlh bailor 133 
 
 And when strolling along by the shipping, 
 
 With anger he's ready to choke 
 At the iron and composite vessels 
 
 That were better of teak and stout oak, 
 And he swears that their silly inventor 
 
 Was a pig-headed, ignorant bloke. 
 
 I am fond of this honest old sailor. 
 With his whimsical nautical tales — 
 
 His shooting of tigers in India, 
 His capture of monstrous whales, 
 
 And the spectral ships that have passed him 
 Without rudders, or seamen, or sails. 
 
ON THE BANKS OF THE NILE 
 
 You ask me whence this silver ring, 
 
 Where serpents intertwine, 
 An odd, antique, and fragile thing. 
 
 Of quaint and strange design. 
 
 A hundred miles from Thebes, or more, 
 
 On Nile's banks, one day, 
 A Nubian maiden gave this ring 
 
 And stole my heart away. 
 
 She watched her father's herds — I came 
 And begged a cooling draught; 
 
 She hid her face with virgin shame 
 While I the water quaffed. 
 
 Somehow — I know not how, I swear — 
 
 The incident occurred; 
 Though she was dark, and I was fair, 
 
 And not a single word 
 
 She spoke, was understood by me. 
 Nor knew she Saxon tongue. 
 
 But we were quite alone, and she 
 Was graceful, kind, and young. 
 134 
 
flDn t6e IBanfe^ of t6e BUt 135 
 
 And so we fell in love outright, 
 
 And while the Nile rolled by, 
 Her Nubian eyes were sweet and bright, 
 
 And soft her maiden sigh. 
 
 Of course, we '11 never meet again; 
 
 And yet I often think 
 Of her, and love's delicious pain 
 
 By Nile's level brink. 
 
OUTCAST 
 
 Out on the pavement, foggy and damp, 
 Streams the brilHant glare of the lamp, 
 And the homeless, shrinking, hungry tramp. 
 Whose haggard features bear the stamp 
 
 Of sin and ruin and crime, 
 Peers through the blinds at the glittering throng, 
 And rapt in the music and blaze and song, 
 Forgets her harvest of sorrow and wrong, 
 
 In a dream of the olden time. 
 
 And the windy streets are fields and woods. 
 And she hears the ripple of pleasant floods. 
 And the shadowy houses are fields in May, 
 And the foggy night is a summer's day. 
 
 And the old love-tale is spoken. 
 But the hand of the officer warns her on, 
 The dream has vanished, the joy is gone. 
 
 The spell of the past is broken. 
 
 138 
 
ROVER 
 
 In a grave unmarked by stone or mound, beneath 
 
 a tall fir-tree, 
 Lies the dust of one for many years a faithful friend 
 
 to me; 
 No guile dwelt in his dark brown eye, his heart was 
 
 solely mine — 
 A great big heart of fire and love which ached to 
 
 give some sign 
 Beyond the province of his race, to show how much 
 
 he loved 
 The hand that fed him morn and night, the accents 
 
 that approved 
 The steady point, the quick retrieve, and all the 
 
 canine lore. 
 My poor friend's pride on hot hill-side, or on the 
 
 wintry shore. 
 
 He scorned the cur of low degree, but still was ever 
 kind, — 
 
 For Rover, though of noble birth, possessed a 
 gentle mind, — 
 
 But to his peers the threatening growl and gleam- 
 ing teeth displayed, 
 139 
 
OUTCAST 
 
 Out on the pavement, foggy and damp, 
 Streams the brilHant glare of the lamp, 
 And the homeless, shrinking, hungry tramp, 
 Whose haggard features bear the stamp 
 
 Of sin and ruin and crime, 
 Peers through the blinds at the glittering throng. 
 And rapt in the music and blaze and song. 
 Forgets her harvest of sorrow and wrong, 
 
 In a dream of the olden time. 
 
 And the windy streets are fields and woods. 
 And she hears the ripple of pleasant floods. 
 And the shadowy houses are fields in May, 
 And the foggy night is a summer's day. 
 
 And the old love-tale is spoken. 
 But the hand of the officer warns her on. 
 The dream has vanished, the joy is gone, 
 
 The spell of the past is broken. 
 
 13S 
 
ROVER 
 
 In a grave unmarked by stone or mound, beneath 
 
 a tall fir-tree, 
 Lies the dust of one for many years a faithful friend 
 
 to me; 
 No guile dwelt in his dark brown eye, his heart was 
 
 solely mine — 
 A great big heart of fire and love which ached to 
 
 give some sign 
 Beyond the province of his race, to show how much 
 
 he loved 
 The hand that fed him morn and night, the accents 
 
 that approved 
 The steady point, the quick retrieve, and all the 
 
 canine lore. 
 My poor friend's pride on hot hill-side, or on the 
 
 wintry shore. 
 
 He scorned the cur of low degree, but still was ever 
 kind, — 
 
 For Rover, though of noble birth, possessed a 
 gentle mind, — 
 
 But to his peers the threatening growl and gleam- 
 ing teeth displayed, 
 139 
 
I40 IRober 
 
 Declared that if they cared for fight, why, he was 
 
 not dismayed. 
 No woman gentler than he, no woman's ways more 
 
 mild, — 
 A lion to his foes, to me as playful as a child; 
 And when the world looked black and strange, his 
 
 eyes on mine would rest, 
 So full of love, I ' d swear he knew the sorrow in my 
 
 breast. 
 
 And when my poor dog passed away, I dug his 
 
 grave alone. 
 Beneath a tall fir's kindly shade, unmarked by 
 
 mound or stone. 
 But in my heart the sense of loss was keen and 
 
 bitter pain, 
 Nor do I blush to own my tears fell on that grave 
 
 like rain. 
 Sometimes, sometimes I dare to hope in that 
 
 mysterious land, 
 That when the veil is rent aside, and all may 
 
 understand, 
 The soul-gem in that casket, so great, though 
 
 humbly set, 
 Has not perished with the clay, — so he, my dog, 
 
 may greet me yet. 
 
TREES 
 
 Kissing the streams 
 
 As they glide toward the sea; 
 Shading the wild flowers 
 
 That grow on the lea; 
 Telling, in murmurs, 
 
 A tale to the breeze; 
 Friends of humanity. 
 
 Beautiful trees! 
 
 Trees of the forest, 
 
 Majestically grand; 
 Trees by the castle, 
 
 The pride of the land; 
 Trees guarding kindly 
 
 The laborer's door; 
 Knowing no level, 
 
 No rich and no poor. 
 
 Trees of the lonely. 
 
 Untenanted glen; 
 Trees of the city, 
 
 'Mid bustle of men; 
 141 
 
142 %ttt0 
 
 Trees sadly waving 
 
 'Mid homes of the dead, 
 
 Tenderly shading 
 
 Each slumbering head. 
 
 On hill-side or forest, 
 
 In village or glen, 
 Your presence is ever 
 
 A blessing to men; 
 Your rustling voices. 
 
 When zephyrs are near, 
 To each tells the story 
 
 He longs most to hear. 
 
 To lovers you whisper 
 
 Of dear joys to come; 
 The wanderer listens 
 
 To breathings of home, 
 The poet dreams fondly 
 
 Of laurels to win; 
 And you speak to the fallen 
 
 Of mercy for sin. 
 
 And thus we may gather 
 
 Good words from your leaves, 
 
 And drink in the lessons 
 That flow from the trees; 
 
%ttt0 143 
 
 And, like you, growing higher 
 
 Each day from the sod, 
 So may we, grown purer, 
 
 Draw nearer to God. 
 
THE TRUE PHILOSOPHER 
 
 I HOLD the true philosopher 
 
 Not he who wears a solemn frown — 
 Who speaks alone of those who err, 
 
 And swears the world is upside down ; 
 Who aims at every shining mark 
 
 The shafts of wisdom tipped with hate — 
 Who walks forever in the dark, 
 
 And deems men's lives are ruled by fate. 
 
 But he who looks across the tide 
 
 Of troubles incident to man, 
 Still seeking on the other side 
 
 Fulfillment of some bounteous plan — 
 Who feels men's hearts are made of stuff 
 
 That should resist each petty grief. 
 And bravely turns from each rebuff 
 
 Unconquered in his strong belief. 
 
 Who mourns not for the olden time, 
 Declaring, with a somber sneer, 
 
 The world is more debased with crime, 
 And life more wretched year by year, 
 144 
 
%it %mt P5ilo0op5et 145 
 
 But boldly says that men to-day 
 
 Are nobler than they ever were, 
 And doubts this doctrine of decay — 
 
 He is the true philosopher. 
 
 The cynic's crown is lightly won, 
 
 And simple are his scornful ways, 
 For, ever since the world begun, 
 
 'Tis easier to rail than praise. 
 A moment — you may cloud the stream, 
 
 And dim its rippling breast with clay. 
 But it will wear its silver sheen 
 
 Again the livelong summer's day. 
 
 The morning sun that lights the grass 
 
 With diamond flashes from the dew. 
 The morning winds that, as they pass. 
 
 Waft dreams of flowers the lattice through. 
 The morning hopes that fill the heart 
 
 And all its thrilling pulses stir, 
 When on to bear his earnest part 
 
 Goes forth the true philosopher, — 
 
 Are deep, convincing evidence 
 
 That smiles befit us more than tears — 
 
 That, call it fate or providence. 
 
 Some mighty power directs the years; 
 
146 ^atfie ^mt pstlaisiopjtt 
 
 And if we take the good and ill, 
 And chide the cynic's heresy, 
 
 With humble faith and steadfast will, 
 We have the true philosophy. 
 
MISSION ROSES 
 
 "Padre mio, by the Carmel grows the pallid 
 
 Mission rose, 
 Snugly sheltered by the willows, where the shallow 
 
 river flows. 
 
 '* Let me gather some, my father, for our pleasant 
 
 home to-night. 
 See, the sun has but just vanished — there is plenty 
 
 time and light. 
 
 "I will shun the quicksand, father, and return to 
 
 kiss you soon; 
 Mission roses should be gathered by the twilight or 
 
 the moon." 
 
 Then Don Ramon's only daughter kissed the old 
 
 man's withered Hps; 
 Deftly rolled the cigarito in her dainty finger-tips, 
 
 And Don Ramon, smiling, took it from her tiny 
 
 dimpled hand, 
 Wondering where a woman fairer could be found 
 
 in all the land. 
 
 147 
 
148 9$i00ion Wio0t0 
 
 ' ' Mission roses should be gathered by the twilight 
 
 or the moon," 
 Hummed the old ranchero's daughter, to a gay 
 
 Castilian tune — 
 
 A roundelay that often, in proud, romantic Spain, 
 Brought blushing face to lattice, smiling from the 
 window-pane. 
 
 But 't is not to gather roses by the moon or waning 
 
 light, 
 That Inez, the dark-eyed darling, leaves her father's 
 
 porch to-night: 
 
 Flowers of passion — poisonous blossoms, fatal to 
 
 a maiden' s breast — 
 Flowers that wither when we grasp them, are the 
 
 senorita's quest. 
 
 Dense and tall the sheltering willows that line the 
 
 Carmel's bank; 
 Ferns and mosses grow between them among 
 
 grasses long and dank; 
 
 And 'mid all, the Mission roses, pure and pallid as 
 
 the snow. 
 Fill the air with tender fragrance by the current's 
 
 quiet flow. 
 
9^i00ion ISio^t^ 149 
 
 *' Mi querida, alma mia, Inez mia !" And her face, 
 Quickly to her lover's lifted, meets his quicker, 
 fond embrace. 
 
 The hours wear on. She lingers till the August 
 
 moonlight falls 
 On the river, on the roses, on the Mission's massive 
 
 walls. 
 
 Flowers of passion! Ah, poor roses! — 'mid the 
 
 willows you may bloom; 
 Never Inez's hand shall pluck you by the twilight 
 
 or the moon. 
 
 Many days and nights passed over, but never any 
 
 more 
 The erring feet of Inez passed Don Ramon's arched 
 
 door. 
 
 But long after, when the strong walls were leveled 
 
 to the ground, 
 And the Mission bells were silent, and the house a 
 
 nameless mound, 
 
 A woman, wan and stricken, prone upon the ruin 
 
 lay. 
 And moaned and wept and muttered, and kissed 
 
 the crumbling clay. 
 
I50 9^i0^ion lR00t0 
 
 And sobbed out her life in sorrow for the shame 
 
 of twenty years — 
 When she left to gather roses, and found disgrace 
 
 and tears. 
 
THE REFUGEE 
 
 A VARYING scene of mist and sun, 
 
 Of sleeping bay, and purple hill; 
 And thither, when the day is done, 
 
 And all the noisy world is still, 
 And men sit down by happy hearths, 
 
 And merry voices fill the air, 
 And night's dark mantle folds the earth, 
 
 I come, a refugee from care. 
 
 I come: the hacienda's door 
 
 Is opened wide, its master stands 
 Upon the threshold, and warm hands 
 
 Clasp mine — a welcome, o'er and o'er 
 Repeated, bids me cast away 
 The cares and cankers of the day. 
 
 The calm of softly flowing tides 
 By moonlight silvered, visits me; 
 I gaze, and gather from the sea 
 
 A peace which in my soul abides; 
 And like the sea-bird, storm-tossed, 
 
 That seeks at last the sheltering rock, 
 151 
 
152 %it Wittnm 
 
 And safe from all the tempest's shock, 
 
 Sleeps high above the foam-lashed coast, 
 I fold my wings; — shine on, pale moon, 
 The day of parting comes too soon! 
 
IN MEMORY 
 
 When the toiler in the morning goes forth to sow 
 the seed, 
 His brown hands full of garnered grain, and his 
 footsteps free and bold. 
 Through all his weary labor he is thinking of the 
 meed, 
 When Autumn's russet mantle shall the teeming 
 earth enfold. 
 
 The ploughshare shapes the furrow, the seed is 
 scattered wide, 
 And the winter rains fall kindly upon the thirsty 
 field. 
 And the toiler's heart is gladdened, as he contem- 
 plates with pride 
 The rich reward of labor the harvesting shall 
 yield. 
 
 Midst the singing of the sailors, across the harbor- 
 bar, 
 The tall ship moves, her gliding keel the foaming 
 waters spurn, 
 
 153 
 K 
 
154 In 9^tmotv 
 
 And many watch her progress, and bless her from 
 afar — 
 Their farewells filled with yearning for the noble 
 bark's return. 
 
 But by the storm that gallant ship is stricken, and 
 the wreck 
 The hurricane has driven upon the iron shore, 
 And drowned men are lying upon her shattered 
 deck, 
 And they who watched her from the port shall 
 never see her more. 
 
 And the harvest for the reaper is naught but tare 
 and weed. 
 For the heavens withheld their moisture, there 
 was naught but drought with frost; 
 There is no single blade of corn that born is from 
 the seed, 
 And the labor of the husbandman is futile all, 
 and lost. 
 
 But patiently he sows the grain and trusts another 
 year, 
 And gallantly another ship goes forth upon the 
 sea, 
 
3In 9^tmotv 155 
 
 And the sailor's sturdy bosom a stranger is to fear, 
 And the husbandman looks forward to his harvest 
 from the lea. 
 
 Ah! such was he, the statesman, the great, the 
 honored dead. 
 Who for many a well-sown harvest reaped naught 
 but tare and weed, 
 Saw many a gallant ship go down, but never bowed 
 his head. 
 Still sending ships upon the sea, still sowing the 
 good seed. 
 
 O mind above all selfish ends! O true, majestic 
 soul! 
 In the hour of party triumph you passed away 
 to God; 
 And the bells that rang out psean were mingled 
 with the toll 
 Of the funeral bells that thrilled us when they 
 placed you 'neath the sod. 
 
 Beyond ambitious promptings, beyond the fair 
 reward 
 Of those who loved and praised him, he held the 
 Nation's peace, 
 
156 In 9?tmotp 
 
 And he drank the bitter chaHce, and though the 
 task was hard, 
 He calmed an angry faction, and bade the storm 
 to cease. 
 
 O patriot heart! that steadfasdy in that fierce, 
 threatening time. 
 When wrong was bold and rampant, and when a 
 single word 
 Would have plunged the land in conflict, with sac- 
 rifice sublime, 
 Resigned thy well- won laurels, and sheathed the 
 half- drawn sword. 
 
 Thou art gone from us, the leader, the learned, and 
 the sage, 
 After years of fruitless sowing you saw the har- 
 vest wave. 
 In the story of our statesmen thou shalt have a 
 brilliant page, 
 And a Nation, not a party, shall weep above thy 
 grave. 
 
THE ROSE AND THE WIND 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 I KISS thee, Rose, invoking gentle showers, 
 
 And dew and rain, 
 And tender growth, that morning's sunny hours 
 
 Be not in vain. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 Thy kiss is death — a deadly, poisoned greeting, 
 
 Thou Winter Wind! 
 Go! pass me by, and cease thy wild entreating; 
 
 Be not unkind. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 Alas! my Rosebud, dost not remember 
 
 The glowing day 
 I pressed thy lips with kisses tender — 
 
 Only last May? 
 I was a Zephyr then — the South my mother; 
 
 My breath so sweet. 
 You cried: *'0h, cease; my perfume, love, you 
 smother. 
 
 Too fond you greet. ' ' 
 157 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 Your kiss, O Wind, in May came with a blessing; 
 
 'Tis not a blight. 
 With joy I hailed your sensuous caressing 
 
 Through all the night. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 The bird awakened from his evening slumber, 
 
 And cried: "Desist! 
 Shame on thee, Rosebud! Zephyr, can you number 
 
 How oft you've kissed?" 
 Were you but faithful — though my kiss the urn 
 
 To clasp your dust — 
 You ' d cry, * ' Old friend, your memories sweet I 
 burn; 
 
 With love I thirst!" 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 Tho' death should follow — one kiss for the olden, 
 
 The vanished May! 
 And let it be sweet, as in sunsets golden — 
 
 The self-same way. 
 
 O power of love! O power of faith and duty! 
 
 The kiss was given; 
 And, soft, the true soul, grand in dying beauty, 
 
 Passed up to Heaven. 
 
ALONE 
 
 Here we are seated, you and I, 
 
 The blinds drawn close, the waiter gone, 
 
 And yet you glance at me and sigh, 
 And wish that we were not alone. 
 
 With abstract air you sip the wine, 
 
 Toy with your glass, your eyes downcast, 
 
 Those troubled eyes will not meet mine, 
 And yet the time is speeding fast. 
 
 At last you speak, — a commonplace. 
 
 I answer in the same dull tone; 
 But still I cannot read your face, 
 
 And we are quite alone. 
 
 The tumult of the clamorous street 
 Is borne toward our listless ears. 
 
 O moments that should be so sweet! 
 O idle hopes! O foolish fears! 
 
 The silence grows. Was it for this 
 We were so bold, we dared so much? 
 
 Not one dear word, not one fond kiss, 
 No tender glance, no loving touch. 
 
 159 
 
i6o jSLlone 
 
 Was it for this we dared and schemed ? 
 
 An hour of silence — are we changed ? 
 Is this the meeting so long dreamed ? 
 
 What spell has thus our souls estranged? 
 
 What is it that repels us ? Why 
 
 Do we forget the vows of old ? 
 Her lips are opened but to sigh, 
 
 And we are both so cold. 
 
 She glances at her watch. ' ' And now, * ' 
 She murmuring faintly, " we must part." 
 
 I rise and touch her chill, pale brow, 
 I mark the beating of her heart. 
 
 I know we stand upon the brink, 
 I know that fate our paths divide, 
 
 I know we never more may drink 
 The chalice now we push aside. 
 
 Yet hand in hand we slow descend 
 The stairs, the last of all the guests: 
 
 One farewell clasp. She whispers, ''Friend, 
 ' T was for the best,—' t was for the best' ' 
 
BERRYING 
 
 The berries stained her dimpled face, 
 
 And dyed her white dress here and there, 
 
 As standing, with a laughing grace, 
 She twined the tendrils in her hair. 
 
 The brambles round her fondly clung — 
 I envied branch and thorn that day — 
 
 The very woodland, when she sung, 
 
 Seemed hushed, and listening to her lay. 
 
 The pines, that lined the shadowed lane, 
 And grew far down the rugged brake. 
 
 Had changed their weird and sad refrain 
 To one glad paean, for her sake. 
 
 The purpled lips, so full and sweet; 
 
 The dainty hand, so round and fair — 
 I could have fallen at her feet, 
 
 In worship of her, smiling there. 
 
 Another June, and in the wood, 
 Among the berries in the lane, 
 
 I stand where once my idol stood, 
 
 But where she ne' er shall stand again. 
 
 i6i 
 
i62 T5tnvim 
 
 Comes from the pines a dreary dirge; 
 
 Comes from the sea a solemn moan; 
 And, oh! your waihng, wood and surge, 
 
 Is but an echo of mine own. 
 
THE ANGELUS 
 
 When the Angelus bell is ringing, 
 And the shadows are creeping down, 
 
 A far-off echo is bringing, 
 
 Distinct 'mid the hum of the town, 
 
 A silvery voice, which sayeth, 
 
 *« O friend, when the Angelus tolls, 
 
 And the pious, on bent knees, prayeth 
 For the peace of translated souls, 
 
 •• For thee my voice will be given. 
 My prayers for thee will ascend 
 
 To the loftiest vaults of heaven, 
 Beloved and cherished friend." 
 
 When the Angelus bell is ringing 
 From belfries high in the air. 
 
 On swift pinions my soul is winging 
 Its way to that friend in prayer. 
 
 'Mid all Hfe's tribulations, 
 
 'Mid its worry and crosses and pain, 
 Comes this reigning consolation, 
 
 This sense of immortal gain: 
 163 
 
i64 %it Simt\U0 
 
 That whether my burden be shifted 
 Or no, there is one who prays, 
 
 Whose gentle voice is uplifted 
 For my welfare in thorny ways. 
 
IN SIR HUMPHREY'S HALL 
 
 Outside the castle shrieked the wind, 
 
 The snow was on the moor, 
 God' s mercy ! ' t was an awful night 
 
 For homeless, wandering poor. 
 
 But in Count Humphrey's hall, the logs 
 
 Blazed high upon the hearth, 
 And all about the vassals thronged 
 
 To share his Christmas mirth. 
 
 Ye wassail-bowl, filled to the brim. 
 
 Went merrily around. 
 And all was jest and mirth within, 
 
 Though snow lay on the ground. 
 
 The waits had sung their greeting song 
 
 Outside the castle wall. 
 And bidden now the guests among. 
 
 They sat within the hall. 
 
 But though the songs are loud and high 
 
 Within that vaulted room, 
 There 's sadness in Count Humphrey's eye, 
 
 His soul is filled with gloom. 
 165 
 
i66 3tt &ir ^nmvittf0 ^M 
 
 Nor is the fair dame by his side 
 
 Less sorrow- touched than he; 
 What burden rests upon their pride 
 
 ' Midst all this revelry ? 
 
 For Humphrey's lands are broad and fair, 
 
 His vassals stanch and true, 
 Nor, Alice, dwells in English bowers 
 
 A fairer dame than you. 
 
 The harper of that ancient house 
 Then swept the plaintive chord, 
 
 Yet, when the last strain died away. 
 The Count said ne'er a word. 
 
 Dame Alice spake: '* Play, harper, now 
 
 That old and touching strain, 
 Of that young knight who long had sought 
 
 A lady's hand in vain. 
 
 "And how, when in the battle shock 
 
 Before the infidel. 
 With her sweet name upon his lips 
 
 The hapless lover fell. 
 
 * ' And how he sent her back her gage 
 With his life's current dyed. 
 
In ^it ^nm}^iuf0 l^all 167 
 
 And how she wept and begged our Lord 
 For mercy for her pride." 
 
 The harper played, and while the song 
 
 With sorrow filled each soul, 
 A maiden, fair as poet's dream, 
 
 Into the great hall stole. 
 
 Her hand about Count Humphrey's neck 
 
 She placed with gentle grace, 
 And lightly bent to press a kiss 
 
 Upon his troubled face. 
 
 The melody was done, the bowl 
 
 The applauding henchmen drain. 
 "Sing me," quoth moody Humphrey then, 
 '* Sing me another strain.'* 
 
 From a dim corner in that hall. 
 
 Where armored figures stood, 
 A youth arose, in monkish garb 
 
 Arrayed, but cowl and hood 
 
 Seemed ill to suit his martial air. 
 
 And when his voice was heard, 
 A hush upon the soldiers fell — 
 
 None spake a single word. 
 
i68 In &it l^umpjte?*0 =^aU 
 
 Count Humphrey's brow grew black as night, 
 
 His daughter's face grew white, 
 Dame AUce gazed in wonderment, 
 
 When 'neath the cresset's Hght 
 
 The singer stood, and then he told 
 
 A tale of love and faith: 
 How, facing the fierce Saracen, 
 
 A Knight had courted death. 
 
 But though, when wounded on the field, 
 
 A blood-stained gage he sent, 
 To her he loved, to her whose pride 
 
 Had caused his banishment, 
 
 He lived to seek her father's hall. 
 
 And keep his knightly word, 
 That he would win his lady's love. 
 
 And win it with his sword. 
 
 The singer paused, and while appalled 
 
 The henchmen all were still. 
 From castle-keep the great bell tolled 
 
 Its message of good- will. 
 
 *' Put ye away," the priests intone, 
 * * All things of hate and scorn, 
 
3n &ir ^umpjtt^'0 ^a\\ 169 
 
 Peace and good-will to each to-night — 
 The night that Christ was born. ' ' 
 
 Down through that vaulted chamber 
 The Count's fair daughter moved, 
 
 And kissed the singer's lips, that all 
 Might know the man she loved,. 
 
 Then, as he knelt before her. 
 Once spurned, but now adored,. 
 
 The massive arches echoed back 
 The message of the Lord. 
 
GOD'S FORGOTTEN POOR 
 
 When the feast is piled on the table, and the 
 
 holly hangs over the door, 
 Whose heart shall go out in yearning for God's 
 
 forgotten poor? 
 Is it he of the close communion, the Christian 
 
 smug and sleek, 
 Who struts the aisle in his broadcloth, caressing 
 
 his smooth, plump cheek? 
 Who sits in his pew, soft-cushioned, while the 
 
 well-paid parson above 
 Discourses in polished phrases of Christ and the 
 
 Saviour's love; 
 Who shudders whenever the harlot crosses the 
 
 good man's path, 
 And whose God is a grim avenger — a God of 
 
 reprisal and wrath ? 
 Not he, so enfolded and sodden, so steeped in 
 
 his self-conceit, 
 That he'd spurn the penitent woman who knelt 
 
 at the Saviour's feet. 
 Who are the chosen of Christ, then, and who 
 
 forgotten by him ? 
 170 
 
(Boti*0 JFotffDtten Poor 171 
 
 O Pharisee, Christ-detested, over thy pathway 
 
 dim 
 And strewn with the bigot's error, forever the 
 
 cloud is rolled — 
 Aye rolled, and dark, and threatening, as in the 
 
 days of old: 
 Is yon shivering pauper, begging his way from 
 
 door to door — 
 Is he, O Pharisee, counted of God's forgotten 
 
 poor? 
 Is this woman, wanton and noisy, whose shout- 
 ings disturb the street, 
 One of the sinful outcasts the Saviour used to meet, 
 And bless, and forgive, and warn to go and sin 
 
 no more? 
 Ah, then, who shall dare to name them as God's 
 
 forgotten poor? 
 
 Who are the God- forgotten ? Who at this season 
 
 of peace 
 Sip no goblet of loving pleasure, know not the 
 
 pulse increase, 
 But, cold and custom-ridden, self-worshiping, bend 
 
 the knee 
 To a Christ of their own devising, but not — 
 
 ah, no! not He, 
 
172 (B0ti*0 jFotptten Poor 
 
 Who courted no rich man's favor, but the lowly 
 
 and poor caressed, 
 And who pillowed the vagrant and weary on his 
 
 holy, loving breast. 
 
 If to-day the Christ, the preacher of the Sermon 
 
 on the Mount, 
 Were to seek the gospel he uttered at the Chris- 
 tian's boasted fount, 
 And clad in his humble garbing, the temple's 
 
 threshold gain, 
 And see on its summit the emblem of his sacrifice 
 
 and pain. 
 Who would stand round about him? — the poor 
 
 he loved of yore? 
 Would the Pharisee lead the Pauper beyond the 
 
 temple's door 
 To a seat near the gaudy altar ? He 'd spurn 
 
 him, and bend the knee 
 To crave from the Christ of his fancy the grace 
 
 of humility. 
 
 These are the God-forgotten, these of the church, 
 
 whose store 
 Is filled to nigh o'erflowing, but who still are 
 
 sadly poor. 
 
(I5oli*0 jforgottm ^oot 173 
 
 Poor and bereft of the feeling, that even the out- 
 casts know — 
 
 The joy in another's pleasure, the grief in 
 another's woe; 
 
 These, the stony-hearted. Christian by rite and 
 rules, 
 
 With faith in their world-taught wisdom, are of 
 all others the fools. 
 
 Pharisee, furs and diamonds thy poverty flaunts 
 the more; 
 
 Thou, indeed, art the pauper of God's forgotten 
 poor. 
 
THROUGH SUN AND CLOUD 
 
 A LONG, low wharf, with ruined planks, 
 The swift tide eddying under, 
 
 The clouds above, in gloomy ranks. 
 All charged with rain and thunder. 
 
 The skiffs of fishers sailing by, 
 To the shrill blast careening, 
 
 The dense fog 'twixt the sea and sky. 
 The bay shore densely screening. 
 
 And we, hand clasped in hand, behold 
 The gathering tempest's warning, 
 
 And mark the west, all ribbed with gold. 
 The rock above still scorning. 
 
 "Behold," I said, "far in yon west, 
 That shrouds the sun in glory. 
 
 Defiant of the tempest's crest. 
 The reflex of our story. 
 
 "The threatening cloud, the flying mist. 
 
 Beyond it soars unheeding; 
 The sun and ocean will have kissed. 
 
 Despite its angry speeding. 
 
 174 
 
^StottffS &ttn and Cloub 175 
 
 "And so our love, — beyond the rim 
 
 Of storms it glows forever; 
 Nor rolling clouds nor fog-wreaths dim 
 
 The sun and sea may sever. 
 
 ' ' For when that veil the west line hides, 
 
 We know the current flowing 
 Will mingle with the distant tides 
 
 In yon fair sunset glowing." 
 
THE DEATH-LIST 
 
 If in the morning papers should appear 
 My name within the list of those departed, 
 
 Would Smith, whose weeds I smoke, look sad and 
 drear. 
 Forbear to laugh that day, nigh broken-hearted ? 
 
 Would other customers, beholding him — 
 
 A melancholy monument of woe. 
 His tie untied, his bright eyes red and dim, 
 
 Spots on his shirt, and mud-dabs on his toe, 
 
 Inquire, " Oh, Smith, what ails thee, tearful lad? 
 
 Why weepest thou, who 're wont to be so gay ? 
 Let 's shake the dice; 'tis foolish to be sad; 
 
 Did some fair damsel flout thee yesterday? " 
 
 Would Smith reply, the while he shakes his head, 
 And on his cheek a big tear courses down, 
 
 "I'm sad because Jestiferous is dead; 
 He bought from me since first he came to town" ? 
 
 Would Smith do this? I do not think he would; 
 I think he would not curb a single jest; 
 
 176 
 
^fjt S>tati''lLi0t 177 
 
 He 'd tie his tie, he 'd show no speck of mud; 
 No care would bide in his dishonest breast. 
 
 If in the morning papers Bob, who twists 
 My daily toddies into pleasant shapes, — 
 
 Bob of the skillful toss and dexterous wrist, 
 So proud withal of every drink he makes, — 
 
 Should see my death, would Robert drop a tear 
 Into the cocktail ? Would his master-punch 
 
 Lack lime or sugar ? Would life be so drear 
 To Robert that he could not carve the lunch ? 
 
 For soda water would he ope champagne ? 
 
 Serve gin for whisky, and Martell for rum ? 
 Make juleps with a face of keenest pain, 
 
 And say, "Jestiferous hath made me glum " ? 
 
 Faith, I think not. The brigand would pursue 
 His grinning, mixing, deep, concoctions way; 
 
 Passing the glasses to the festive crew. 
 
 Without one thought for my poor drinkless clay. 
 
 And as the hearse passed by, and o'er the stones 
 Made melancholy rumble, Bob would swear, 
 
 The while his nimble fingers shook the bones. 
 He'd shake a full and pulverize two pair. 
 
178 die SDeatS-Eiisit 
 
 And thou, Mignon, if, when the evening fell, 
 No lover's footsteps to thy bower came, 
 
 Thy mat unscraped, unrung thy hall-door bell, 
 And no fond voice to call upon thy name, 
 
 Wouldst weep, sweet one, and wear a bit of rue 
 Upon thy breast for that true lover gone, 
 
 And for one week look sad, or even blue. 
 
 And mourn that fate had left thee quite alone? 
 
 Faith, I think not. You 'd find another beau; 
 
 Eat oysters with another, gaily mark 
 The bubbles of the rich wine's amber flow, 
 
 In those dear hours when dawn dispels the dark. 
 
 These things considered, on my word, I think 
 I ' d better for the present shun that list, 
 
 Smoke and make love, have Robert mix my drink, 
 For fear that when I die I sha'n't be missed. 
 
MY FAVORITE BOOK 
 
 Of all books in my library, the one I cherish most 
 Is a book of ringing poems, and I read them 
 o'er and o'er; 
 They sing to me of woodland, they whisper of the 
 coast, 
 When I watched the sounding river dash its 
 waters on the shore. 
 
 ' T is a fly-book, old and battered, and to its covers 
 cling 
 The scales of good fish captured in riffle and in 
 pool; 
 And when I part those covers, the birds begin to 
 sing, 
 And the south wind on my forehead blows 
 lovingly and cool. 
 
 And the low of homing catde is borne up the lea. 
 How the murmur of the river is musical, yet 
 strange, 
 For the voice of running water has ever been to me 
 A monition of the progress of that mighty law of 
 change, 
 
 179 
 
i8o s?p ifabotite 3ooli 
 
 Saying, Come into the woodland while thy heart 
 doth still retain 
 Its buoyancy and freshness, and breathe these 
 pleasant airs; 
 To all men comes that moment when nothing will 
 remain 
 Of the memory of the past time but its worries 
 and its cares. 
 
 I look into my fly-book; 't is a gallery to me 
 Of pictures of old places, old streams, old bat- 
 tles, when 
 The strong fish leaped and bounded in his struggles 
 to be free, 
 And I fought him through the river, past the 
 bridge and up the glen. 
 
 Thus, when weary of the city, and tired of other 
 books, 
 I gaze into my fly-book, and lo! is with me now 
 The voice of homing cattle and the murmur of the 
 brooks. 
 And Mother Nature's greeting is pressed upon 
 my brow. 
 
AFTER DEATH 
 
 I WONDER, love, if after death 
 
 You and I shall sit together 
 
 Talking of our earthly days, 
 
 Of the pleasant woodland ways. 
 
 Where we 've walked, in soft May weather, 
 
 Drinking in the violet's breath. 
 
 I wonder, love, if after death 
 You and I shall still remember 
 Gusty evenings in December, 
 When we spoke of old-time places, 
 With the firelight on our faces, 
 And the wind shrill on the heath. 
 
 Can it be that we shall meet, 
 Knowing God, but not forgetting 
 This orb, in its starry setting. 
 With its June suns and its sleet. 
 After death ? 
 
 Will your face, love, then be fairer; 
 Will your voice be sweeter, rarer; 
 
 i8i 
 
i82 mttt SDeatfi 
 
 Will your step be dearer, lighter; 
 Will your eyes be bluer, brighter, 
 After death ? 
 
 Oh, if cold should be our meeting — 
 No clasped arms, and no Hps greeting, 
 Woe no human tongue could utter, 
 Dread no mortal voice could mutter, 
 Would be death. 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 The Cenci's face I 'd seen. ... A moment after 
 In a dim room a sweet face looked at me. 
 
 An artist's room, — an hour of joy and laughter, 
 Forgetting care; yet 'mid the gay crowd's glee, 
 
 The oval face, eyes filled with mournful longing. 
 My own did greet, and all about did seem 
 
 As if the grief to Cenci's soul belonging 
 Did mirror it, as in a shadowed dream. 
 
 Sometimes I think the souls of those departed, 
 The souls and sorrows of the lost to earth, 
 
 In other forms, all buoyant and free-hearted. 
 Asylum find, and mark another birth. 
 
 If that was so, those eyes so brown and tender. 
 That mild, sad look, that calm and touching 
 gloom, 
 That round, sweet face, that figure lithe and 
 slender. 
 Would seem to me the Cenci's living tomb. 
 
 The saddest things in life are aye the sweetest; 
 The funeral bells exceed the wedding chime; 
 
 183 
 
i84 ^it €tnti 
 
 The best of joys are those that are the fleetest; 
 The dullest pleasures those which challenge time. 
 
 O haunting eyes! O face so full of sorrow 
 
 Of some grief borrowed from the mystic past! 
 
 May fate ordain for thee each bright to-morrow, 
 Nor clouds thy maiden pathway overcast! 
 
THE SOUTH WIND 
 
 South Wind, South Wind, hearken to the flowers. 
 Hearken from the hillside, hearken from the plain: 
 
 Whither stray the cloudlets, burdened with the 
 showers, 
 Lingering, O South Wind, with the laggard rain? 
 
 Are the summer islands, gemming azure waters, 
 Blessed with thee, O South Wind, whispering to 
 the palms? 
 Murmuring to the tropics' red and purple daughters, 
 Drinking in their breathings, rich in Eastern 
 balms ? 
 
 South Wind, South Wind — mariner and maiden, 
 
 Sailing on the ocean, waiting by the strand, 
 Woo thee from thy dwelling, woo thee from thy 
 Aiden; 
 Welcome to the South Wind from the aching 
 land. 
 
 South Wind, South Wind, never prayer ascended 
 
 From the weary watchers by the glassy main, 
 
 185 
 M 
 
1 86 %it feoutS Wiin^ 
 
 With more earnest pleadings than the longing 
 blended 
 Of the thirsty herbage, parching on the plain. 
 
 Hearken to his sighing, mourners in the meadows; 
 
 Group the swollen cloudlets o'er the arid sky; 
 Falls upon the valley, soothing, welcome shadows; 
 
 Quivers every leaflet — for the rain is nigh. 
 
THE DRAYMAN 
 
 The Captain that walks the quarter-deck. 
 
 Is the monarch of the sea; 
 But every day, when I 'm on my dray, 
 
 I'm as big a monarch as he. 
 For the car must slack when I 'm on the track, 
 
 And the gripman's face gets blue, 
 As he holds her back till his muscles crack. 
 
 And he shouts, " Hey, hey! Say, you! 
 Get out of the way with that dray ! " * * I won' t ! " 
 
 ' * Get out of the way, I say ! ' ' 
 But I stiffen my back, and I stay on the track, 
 
 And I don't get out of the way. 
 
 When a gaudy carriage bowls along 
 
 With a coachman perched on high. 
 Solemn and fat, a cockade in his hat, 
 
 Just like a big blue fly, 
 I swing my leaders across the road 
 
 And put a stop to his jaunt. 
 And the ladies cry, "John, John, drive on!" 
 
 And I laugh when he says, ** I caun't." 
 
 187 
 
i88 f^^t SDra^man 
 
 Oh, life to me is a big picnic, 
 
 From the rise to the set of sun; 
 The swells that ride in their fancy drags 
 
 Don't begin to have my fun. 
 I ' m king of the road, though I wear no crown, 
 
 As I leisurely move along, 
 For I own the streets, and I hold them down. 
 
 And I love to hear this song: 
 " Get out of the way with your dray!" " I won't!" 
 
 * ' Get out of the way, I say ! ' ' 
 But I stiffen my back, and I stay on the track, 
 
 And I don't get out of the way. 
 
MARKET-DAY 
 
 See Maggie in the morning spring up and seize 
 her basket, 
 While Alice, drowsy Alice, lies prone between 
 the sheets; 
 But Maggie, rosy Maggie, the household queen, 
 whose task it 
 Is to go to market, trips along the silent streets. 
 
 Fair goddess of the dawning, the opening buds, the 
 grasses. 
 All glistening in the night dews, are not fresher 
 than her face; 
 The birds, but half- awakened, salute her as she 
 passes, 
 The tall trees bend in homage to her beauty and 
 her grace. 
 
 As she moves among the farmers, they know well 
 that the cherries 
 Wear no hue that can be likened to the ruby of 
 her lips. 
 
 189 
 
igo S^arfeet^SDa^ 
 
 Mark the snowy hand that picks out the largest, 
 ripest berries, 
 Staining with their crimson juices her dainty- 
 finger-tips. 
 
 They look after her and bless her, — and the coin 
 her hands have clung to 
 Is cherished as a talisman from one so fair and 
 bright. 
 Were yon rustic but a Cory don, he surely would 
 have sung to 
 This Aurora buying butter in the early morning 
 light. 
 
 Were I thy lover, Maggie, they should paint thy 
 picture, dearest, — 
 Not dressed in gleaming satin, the splendor of the 
 feast. 
 But arrayed in market costume, the same plain dress 
 thou wearest, 
 With thy pouting lips preparing yon golden roll 
 to taste. 
 
THE LOVING-CUP 
 
 I FOUND in an attic closet, by hands long vanished 
 placed, 
 
 A goblet dinted and olden, with antique figures 
 chased. 
 
 With reverential fingers I lifted the relic up, 
 
 For two hundred years had faded since was fash- 
 ioned that Loving-Cup. 
 
 With fragrant and rich Burgundy I filled it to the 
 
 brim, 
 And as I gazed upon it, in the twilight somber 
 
 and dim, 
 The bells from the distant steeple rang faint o'er 
 
 moor and fen 
 Their joyous Christmas greeting, "Peace and 
 
 good will to men." 
 
 While looking into the goblet, pale shadows 
 
 thronged the room — 
 Shadows of men and women moved through the 
 
 gathering gloom; 
 
 191 
 
192 %lt Eobinff'Cup 
 
 And I knew by the flowing love-lock, as one of the 
 
 shades drew near, 
 That the phantom my fancy conjured was a stately 
 
 cavalier. 
 
 Lofty and free his bearing, gallant and full of 
 
 grace, 
 And rich were the chestnut curls that framed his 
 
 warrior face. 
 "My faith, but the gods are gracious!" he cried, 
 
 as he marked the wine. 
 " Come hither, Dorothy, pledge me; come hither, 
 
 sweetheart of mine.' ' 
 
 Then by his side a woman in riding-habit and 
 
 hood. 
 With a face like a rosebud glowing, and eyes like 
 
 the bright stars, stood; 
 There was love in the glance uplifted to his tender, 
 
 passionate gaze. 
 And I felt I was reading a chapter from a romance 
 
 of old days. 
 
 One hand the cup encircles, one arm her waist 
 
 entwines. 
 He like the oak of the forest, she like its clinging 
 
 vines. 
 
^f)e Eobinff'Cup 193 
 
 '' One draught we'll drink to King Charles; may- 
 Satan his foes confound, 
 
 And may every Roundhead rascal rot on the battle- 
 ground! 
 
 "Good fortune bid me, sweetheart, for the hawk 
 
 approacheth the lure, 
 And soon shall grim Cromwell's soldiers perish on 
 
 Marston Moor." 
 Her red lips kiss the goblet, and he kisses the red 
 
 wine's stains. 
 And close to his bosom pressed her, as the Loving- 
 
 Cup he drains. 
 
 ** And now, farewell to thee, darHng; my steed waits 
 
 at the door. 
 Ho! for the good King Charles, and ho! for 
 
 Marston Moor! 
 May the Lord in heaven protect thee, my love, 
 
 from sorrow and pain. 
 Till our hands may clasp, my sweetheart, this 
 
 Loving-Cup again." 
 
 When I raised the antique goblet those phantom 
 
 lips had kissed. 
 Stole through the open portal a strange, unearthly 
 
 mist, 
 
194 W^t Eotiing-Cup 
 
 And then, like a curtain parted, and before my 
 
 eyes unveiled, 
 Lay under the glinting moonbeams a corpse-strewn 
 
 battle-field. 
 
 And there, where the slain were thickest, like leaves 
 
 in the autumn sere. 
 His love-locks tangled and gory, lay a gallant 
 
 cavalier. 
 I knew the pallid features, though disfigured by 
 
 blood and pain. 
 And I knew the hand should never clasp the 
 
 Loving- Cup again. 
 
"A LITTLE HUT UPON THE BEACH" 
 
 A LITTLE hut upon the beach, 
 
 A view of rock and billow, 
 There all day long to lie and dream, 
 
 The white sands for our pillow. 
 
 To watch the ships sail in and out, 
 
 The gulls above us veering, 
 And far out in the distant west 
 
 The great sun disappearing. 
 
 This were enjoyment. Naught should come 
 
 To mar our sweet seclusion. 
 The echoes of the city's hum, 
 
 Its conflict and confusion, 
 
 Would faintly reach our weary ears. 
 
 And from the harsh commotion 
 We ' d turn to list with awe and praise 
 
 The great voice of the ocean. 
 
 We'd find a dear companionship 
 
 In every cliff; we 'd wander 
 By dizzy paths, on herb and flower 
 
 And drifting weed to ponder. 
 
 195 
 
196 ** Si ILiUlz ^nt uvon tbt T5tati*' 
 
 When at our feet lay spars of ships, 
 
 The wounded in the battle, 
 Where fierce gales blew, we 'd hear again 
 
 The tempests shriek, the rattle 
 
 Of flapping rope and groaning mast, 
 And see the good ship driven 
 
 Before the demons of the blast, 
 Loosed from the scowling heaven. 
 
 Again, some branch of stranger tree, 
 
 From coral birthplace torn. 
 Would bring back, friend, to you and me 
 
 A glimpse of life's fair morn. 
 
 When in those summer isles we roved. 
 And watched their fearless daughters, 
 
 Brown, lovely eyes, like Lorelei, 
 Sport in their purple waters. 
 
WERE I TO DIE TO-NIGHT 
 
 Were I to die to-night, 
 
 Would the memory of the years, 
 With their blossoms and their blight, 
 
 With their sunshine and their tears, 
 Follow me beyond the grave. 
 Were I to die to-night? 
 
 Ah, should I die to-night. 
 Would the rose which once she gave 
 Be placed upon my grave — 
 Dead and lifeless as the clay 
 Which beneath its petals lay — 
 Would it move the dust beneath 
 With the fragrance of its breath? 
 
 Were I to die to-night. 
 Would my friends about my bed 
 Lay kind hands upon my head, 
 And from hearts, with sorrow rife, 
 Say in weeping accents thus: 
 "He was all in all to us; 
 May his long sleep be in peace!" 
 197 * 
 
198 Wittt I to S>it ^O'-MiQit 
 
 Were I to die to-night, 
 Would woman's eye be wet; 
 Would any say: "Adieu, 
 Friend, warm-hearted, true! 
 Poor clay! so cold and still, 
 Void of sense and soul and will, 
 Ere the worm thy essence sips. 
 Here 's one kiss upon thy lips — 
 Pallid lips with death's seal set, 
 Be thy cheeks with our tears wet: 
 We shall mourn and not forget; 
 Peace be with thee, silent dead!" 
 
 Ah, were I sure of this — 
 Sure of woman's tender kiss. 
 Sure of friendship's sorrowing hand 
 On my brow in kind embrace. 
 On my cold, impassive face — 
 I could die in peace to-night. 
 
THE DIFFERENCE 
 
 Sing you a song of love? Ah, no! 
 
 Those days are gone forever; 
 The bonds you severed years ago 
 
 May be united never. 
 
 You press my hand, and your sweet eyes 
 
 Revive the ancient passion 
 Of hours when you, love, were the prize, 
 
 And courting was in fashion. 
 
 But courting now is dead and stale, 
 Gone kiss and fond pursuing; 
 
 The mamma tells the tender tale, 
 The papa does the wooing. 
 
 I pluck a rose from yonder bush, — 
 
 Its touch recalls one even, 
 When you in the soft twilight's hush 
 
 A foretaste gave of heaven. 
 
 You 've married well; I am not mad. 
 Your husband is not jealous; 
 
 And when you think I 'm very sad, 
 I ' m only very bilious. 
 
 199 
 
200 'JCle S>itUuntt 
 
 Your husband is my bosom friend, — 
 I lost, he was the winner, — 
 
 I never now regret the end 
 When we sit down to dinner. 
 
 I never now regret the pain 
 Of all that sweet flirtation. 
 
 The port is good, the dry champagne 
 Is ample consolation. 
 
 Sing you a song of love? Ah, no! 
 
 We 've slain the babe of Venus. 
 But Heaven ! how quick a turkey goes 
 
 When placed, old friend, between us. 
 
ON THE BRINK 
 
 *' Let us go," she said, " no further," 
 
 And I saw her backward shrink; 
 Beneath us flows the river, 
 
 We are standing on the brink. 
 When we hp the glowing goblet 
 
 Do we hesitate to think, 
 Or dream when drunk with pleasure 
 
 That our feet have passed the brink ? 
 
 •* Look," she said, " into the darkness, - 
 
 See you nothing there below ? " 
 I saw nothing but the willows, 
 
 Waving sadly to and fro. 
 But beneath her long dark lashes 
 
 Something lay which made me think; 
 Perhaps she does remember 
 
 We are standing on the brink. 
 
 The word remained unspoken, 
 The glowing thought unframed, 
 
 For 'twas better, oh! far better. 
 That her love should be unclaimed. 
 
 N 
 
202 flDn tfie IBrmfe 
 
 Than cherished dreams should wither, 
 Frail hopes perish link by link, 
 
 And the soul with sorrow wounded, 
 Wish it never passed the brink. 
 
 If ever in the future 
 
 You recall that glorious night, 
 With its dance and song and music, 
 
 Its soft and sensuous light. 
 Oh, remember, too, the river! 
 
 But I would not have you think 
 Throb answered not to heart-throb, 
 
 Though I dared not cross the brink. 
 
 Could I tell you that I loved you, 
 
 When I feared the cold reply ? 
 Could I speak of my devotion. 
 
 When a dearer one was nigh ? 
 And with pain I checked the torrent, 
 
 And forebore the draught to drink, 
 Though sadly, sorely tempted, 
 
 When standing on the brink. 
 
SONG OF THE FIELDS 
 
 How often in my city den, 
 When wearied o'er my books, 
 
 I close my eyes and float away 
 To pleasant forest nooks. 
 
 I mark along the cafion-side 
 
 The hues of varied green, 
 And gleaming, like a copper staff, 
 
 Madroiio's trunk between. 
 
 I lie beside the noisy brook, 
 
 Amid the pungent fern; 
 I read with rapture Nature's book, 
 
 And prayerfully discern 
 
 The great, grand page — so new, yet old, 
 So vast, so clear, so broad — 
 
 Where every joyous season writes 
 The poetry of God. 
 
 No martial rhymes of clanging war, 
 
 No rancorous strife of men, 
 But songs of peace and rest and love 
 
 Flow from that mighty pen. 
 203 
 
204 &onff ot tfie jFWti0 
 
 Some sweet-voiced bird the strain begins 
 
 With proud, ambitious trill; 
 The song of God the trees take up, 
 
 And breathe it to the rill. 
 
 It sweeps along the rustling grain 
 
 In tender melody; 
 And now the pines bend whispering down 
 
 And voice it to the sea. 
 
 O song of songs! how weak, how tame, 
 Compared, sounds mortal rhyme! 
 
 Thy fame is for the centuries, 
 Thou conqueror of time. 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE FUTURE 
 
 Paw, give baby Jack his pillow — 
 
 Hang it o'er his little cot; 
 Let him punch it all the morning, 
 
 Let his blows be quick and hot; 
 
 For our little four-year Johnny, 
 Sucking now his silver mug, — 
 
 Golden hair and eyes of azure, — 
 Shall grow up a lightning **pug." 
 
 Great shall be our little Johnny, 
 Not with learning of the schools. 
 
 Not with tedious Greek and Latin, 
 Tiresome books and musty rules. 
 
 Sullivan shall be his Homer, 
 
 Jackson his Herodotus, 
 Charley Mitchell his Macaulay, 
 
 Dempsey his Theocritus. 
 
 Never shall our little Johnny 
 
 Be permitted to peruse 
 All the reckless, vicious nonsense 
 
 Of that idiot, Mother Goose; 
 
 205 
 
206 ^5e 3Mim00 ot tit ^ntntt 
 
 But when Johnny knows his letters, 
 
 And his tender mind is set, 
 From his Httle bank he '11 purchase 
 
 Mr. Fox's live Gazette. 
 
 Paw, remove that silly rattle, 
 Throw away that woolly dog; 
 
 Johnny, love, go punch your pillow. 
 Lead and dodge, and jab and slog. 
 
 That 's a darling! Now, the right, love! 
 
 Counter now — again — well done! 
 Paw, how blest are we in having 
 
 Such a darling, clever son! 
 
 Lizzie, pet, draw near your brother, — 
 
 Never mind his little blows; 
 Put your props up, gentle Lizzie; 
 
 Let him punch you in the nose. 
 
 For when Johnny grows up, darling, 
 And his name rings through the land. 
 
 You '11 be proud to feel that nose once 
 Felt the weight of Johnny's hand. 
 
 Paw and I will sell the farm. 
 Just for what the place will bring; 
 
U6e 15n0im00 of tje Jfuture 207 
 
 With the money we '11 hire talent 
 To train Johnny for the ring. 
 
 Not for law, or art, or physic, 
 Not to preach or scribble rhyme; 
 
 For the business of the future 
 Is the slogger's, all the time. 
 
THE ROSE AND THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 ''Through all the night long," 
 
 Said the rose, 
 " Have I listened to your song," 
 
 Said the rose, 
 *' Till the stars above us shining 
 Have grown dim with your repining. 
 And the murmur of the river 
 Seems to echo your ' forever,' " 
 
 Said the rose; 
 ** But I can love you never," 
 
 Said the rose. 
 
 '* Ah! fair, but cruel flower," 
 
 Said the bird, 
 * ' No more I ' 11 seek your bower, ' ' 
 
 Said the bird; 
 ' * Let the cool stream by us flowing, 
 And the trees around us growing. 
 Hear my last song, as a token 
 Of a vow to be unbroken," 
 
 Said the bird; 
 '* Of a love to be unspoken," 
 
 Said the bird. 
 208 
 
die 1Ro0e anti tit jRig^tinffale 209 
 
 " When you sing, my petals close,'' 
 
 Said the rose, 
 *' For you trouble my repose," 
 
 Said the rose; 
 "But when your song is hushed, 
 And the eastern sky is flushed 
 With the coming of the day, 
 And you are far away," 
 
 Said the rose, 
 * ' Then again my heart is gay, ' ' 
 
 Said the rose. 
 
 *' When my song has died away," 
 
 Said the bird, 
 ' ' In the garish light of day, ' ' 
 
 Said the bird, 
 * ' Then your petals open wide, 
 For I am not at your side; 
 But the wild bee comes and dwells 
 Deep amid your honeyed cells," 
 
 Said the bird, 
 " In my darling's honeyed cells," 
 
 Said the bird. 
 
 " But the twilight, soft and calm," 
 Said the bird, 
 
2IO f^^t 3Ro0e anti tfie Mi^Wmalt 
 
 ''With its zephyrs breathing balm," 
 
 Said the bird, 
 ' * Will never bring again 
 Your lover's song of pain, 
 For this very hour we part; 
 I will seek some warmer heart," 
 
 Said the bird, 
 *' But beware the wild bee's dart," 
 
 Said the bird. 
 
 * ' For a moment stay your heart, ' ' 
 
 Said the rose, 
 '' Linger just this single night," 
 
 Said the rose; 
 "Ah! forgive my foolish pride; 
 Stay forever by my side; 
 In my petals you shall lie. 
 And shall kiss me till I die," 
 
 Said the rose, 
 *' And the bee shall ne'er come nigh," 
 
 Said the rose. 
 
BAL-MASQUE 
 
 In Paris — 't was almost a year ago, 
 
 At a bal-masque, in the carnival time. 
 I wore the motley; the ebb and flow 
 
 Of the reckless crowd, like some ancient rhyme 
 Of folly and mirth, which had power, they say, 
 
 To win men's hearts from the present, and be 
 Of the morrow careless, with naught to stay 
 
 The current of riotous, reckless glee, 
 
 So filled me, and thrilled me, that, reckless of all, 
 
 I danced and sang, and my song was loud. 
 But one there was in that brilliant hair — 
 
 One sweet girl-face in that garish crowd — 
 One low, soft voice that drew me apart 
 
 From the rush and revel, by her to stand; 
 And the longing that filled my throbbing heart 
 
 When she smiled on me, and I took her hand. 
 
 Was a dream and a story. I know not how. 
 But I know — oh, darling, so kind and fair — 
 
 You, with the stars on your low, sweet brow 
 
 Of the Queen of Night, and your rich, dark hair 
 
212 15ah9^a0qm 
 
 With rare pearls glistening — and I, the clown, 
 In motley decked, bells, wand, and cap, 
 
 Were together drawn; and I there laid down 
 My heart, O love, in your silken lap! 
 
 A rush and a tumult, a curse and a blow. 
 
 In the light of the morning, dim and gray, 
 I am hurried over the shining snow 
 
 To avenge an insult, my comrades say. 
 No time have we at honor's call 
 
 To deck ourselves for this grim parade; 
 We wear the costumes we wore at the ball. 
 
 And each takes from his second a gleaming blade. 
 
 What is it all about? God knows! 
 
 I only remember a smile and a kiss. 
 And a soft hand's pressure, the gift of a rose, 
 
 A curse, a scuffle, the insult, and this. 
 In Paris, 't was almost a year ago, 
 
 When face to face with my rival I stood, 
 And thrust, and marked on the virgin snow 
 
 The crimson tints of his heart's best blood. 
 
LEGEND OF THE HAZEL 
 
 The angel of the Lord to Joseph said, *' Fly thither! 
 Take the mother and the infant, and into Egypt 
 
 fly; 
 
 For cruel Herod has decreed that Jesus perish, 
 whether 
 Every child in Israel at his stern command should 
 die." 
 
 Then the Virgin took the infant, the sweet child 
 newly born. 
 And crossed the trackless desert; and then the 
 Virgin said, 
 •' Let us linger in this hazel grove, and there rest 
 till the morn; 
 For if we travel farther, child and mother shall 
 be dead." 
 
 Out from the frowning heavens, leaped the flash- 
 ing thunder, 
 And the sand waves of the desert in mighty bil- 
 lows rolled, 
 
 213 
 
214 Ht^txit} ot tilt ^ml 
 
 And they knelt to God the Father, and they prayed, 
 as crouching under 
 The hazel-boughs, they shivered in the bitter, 
 cruel cold. 
 
 Above them and around them, the fiery bolts were 
 dashing, 
 And the hazel's slender branches over Jesus 
 kindly spread. 
 And they feared not the anger of that mighty tem- 
 pest crashing. 
 And that night God blessed the hazel that had 
 sheltered Jesus' head. 
 
 Now, since that fateful moment, no thunderbolts 
 may harm 
 The traveler who shelter seeks beneath the hazel- 
 tree, 
 For God the Father blessed it, each leaf and branch- 
 ing arm 
 That guarded child and mother, through all 
 eternity. 
 
MARY'S CAT 
 
 The tall magnolia-tree outside her lattice 
 
 Its heavy perfume flung; 
 I said: " I wonder where that yellow cat is, — 
 
 That cat with silvery tongue ? ' ' 
 
 I moved with caution o'er the shining gravel; 
 
 I looked above to see 
 My Mary, after weeks of weary travel 
 
 Across the raging sea. 
 
 Now, Mary's cat, the household pet, the daisy, 
 
 Was ever at her side; 
 Where Mary is, the cat is, sleek and lazy, 
 
 The cat with yellow hide. 
 
 I softly tapped, no steps came to the portal; 
 
 I pushed the door — 
 All silent still; with anxious, timid footfall 
 
 I crossed the floor. 
 
 Ah! she was there — my Mary, fair and blushing! 
 
 Her lips I kissed, 
 And all her anxious questions gently hushing. 
 
 Her hand I pressed. 
 
 215 
 
2i6 9^atf0 €at 
 
 But as she rested on my loving arm 
 
 Her dainty head, 
 I noticed with a feeling of alarm 
 
 A hair of red. 
 
 A long, long hair, a coarse-grained hair, a twister! 
 
 *' Whose hair is that? 
 It is a flotsam from a man's red whisker! " 
 
 '*It is the cat." 
 
 " No, Mary, no; you can not thus deceive me, — 
 
 Ah, woe is mine! 
 That long hair never grew, false maid, believe me, 
 
 On hide feline." 
 
 ' ' It did. " " It did n' t. " And in wrath we parted. 
 
 At the mat 
 I paused a second, sobbing, broken-hearted, 
 
 To kick the cat. 
 
IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? 
 
 Is LIFE worth living ? Faith, I hardly know. 
 
 Sometimes I think it is, and sometimes nay. 
 When the to-morrows throng upon my soul 
 
 I turn for refuge to the yesterday, — 
 
 Because within the golden past I find 
 Some spar to ding to in this ebbing sea; 
 
 Something to give me more of tranquil mind. 
 Some little change from human misery. 
 
 Is life worth living ? O the foaming wine 
 We drank upon the threshold of the years! 
 
 how it thrilled us, and how faint the line 
 On the horizon's verge of future tears! 
 
 Sometimes I deem that could I once again 
 Feel but the burning thrill of love's first kiss, 
 
 1 'd give a whole eternity of pain 
 
 For that past joy— that ancient perished bliss. 
 
 O, I remember when my life was young 
 How joyously the merry seasons rolled, 
 
 The lips that thrilled, the melodies we sung, 
 
 Ere hands grew palsied and ere hearts grew cold. 
 
 217 
 O 
 
2i8 J0 %iu Qfllortfi Eitiinff? 
 
 Could I within my yearning arms enfold 
 The woman that I loved in years gone by, 
 
 Methinks that then I never should grow cold, 
 And life's long dirge be changed to lullaby. 
 
 Is life worth living ? Ah ! when I turn back, 
 And view the weary road that I have trod, 
 
 And miss the many faces from the track, 
 
 Who from those dim days have been drawn to 
 God, 
 
 I truly fear that I am weary too; 
 
 That I, too, fain would rest where they have lain. 
 And steal away to join the good and true. 
 
 And bid good-by to worriment and pain; 
 
 Still hoping, when the kindly breezes blow 
 Above my grave in some sea-bordered grove, 
 
 The thoughts of those I cherished long ago, 
 
 Would mingle with the winds that swept above. 
 
THE RIVER'S TEACHINGS 
 
 What whispers the pine to the river ? 
 
 What murmurs the stream to the tree ? 
 As its torrents flow onward and ever 
 
 To its home in the clamorous sea ? 
 Does it tell of the past, when its margin 
 
 Was lined with the cabins of those 
 Who sought for the glittering treasure 
 
 That sleeps where the broad current flows ? 
 
 It springs from its crags to long reaches, 
 
 In thunder, and bubble, and spray; 
 It gHdes by its smooth, pebbly beaches 
 
 In the sheen of the soft summer day; 
 It boils through rough granite crevasses, 
 
 Now is still as a smooth lake, and then 
 From the day and the sun swiftly passes 
 
 To the gloom of the pine-shadowed glen. 
 
 Ah! this is the marvelous story 
 
 The branches bend downward to hear: 
 
 ** In the type of man's sadness and glory, 
 His triumph, rejoicing, and fear; 
 219 
 
220 fd^t JSiitn'0 %tatiim0 
 
 Not ever the sunlight, not ever 
 
 The smooth pebbles glisten and gleam, — ■ 
 There 's labor and wrath in the river, 
 
 Solemn deeps and rude crags in the stream. 
 
 '' I flow on in musical measure, 
 
 And the wild bird chimes in with my strain; 
 'Neath my bed lies a glittering treasure, 
 
 Man's agent for pleasure or pain. 
 I guard it with jealous resistance; 
 
 Those who trouble my waters for gain, 
 Shall find their disturbing insistence. 
 
 Their delving and toiling in vain. 
 
 * * But to him whom my rugged bank wanders 
 
 Not for gold, but from life's cares surcease, 
 Steals into his soul as he ponders, 
 
 A lesson of loving and peace: 
 To cherish the sun, and not borrow 
 
 The silence and gloom of the glen, 
 To know a life mingled with sorrow 
 
 In the heritage given to men." 
 
FIFTY YEARS AGO 
 
 There stood before a big bazaar 
 
 A mother and her boy; 
 Its windows were completely filled 
 
 With every kind of toy — 
 With toys that danced, and toys that sang, 
 
 A perfect feast of joy. 
 
 Grave bishops nodded from the shelves, 
 
 In somber raiment clad, 
 From ferny grooves peered little elves, 
 
 And windmills spun like mad; 
 In fine, the shop held everything 
 
 To make young children glad. 
 
 *' What will you buy, my little son ? 
 
 Here is a good gray steed, 
 A gallant charger which might well 
 
 Assist in knightly deed. 
 Or on the green turf win the race 
 
 With most excelling speed. 
 
222 jfift^ ^tat0 ^ffo 
 
 ** Here is a farmer, scythe in hand, 
 
 Prepared to mow his wheat, 
 And in this cage a Httle bird, 
 
 And here a church and street.' ' 
 * * I want the book about the ships 
 
 That sunk the Spanish fleet. 
 
 '' You know the story that you told, 
 
 And grandpa told again. 
 How over fifty years ago, 
 
 The battle- cruiser Maine 
 Was blown up in the dead of night 
 
 By the wicked men of Spain. 
 
 " And how we sent out other ships 
 
 To punish them, and then 
 How gallant Dewey swept their fleet 
 
 From all the southern main; 
 And how Cervera's sailors died 
 
 Beneath the iron rain. 
 
 "For that's what grandpa called the shot 
 From Sampson and from Schley; 
 
 He said it was an awful thing 
 To see those sailors die. 
 
 If we 'd been old, might we have gone, 
 My brother Bob and I ?" 
 
Mttv 9tat0 SiQo 223 
 
 The mother stooped and kissed his lips, 
 And said, " Would you have gone 
 
 To fight those awful men, and left 
 Poor mamma all alone ? " 
 
 "Of course, mamma, we'd have to go 
 And do as grandpa done. 
 
 ** Is it not right that all brave men 
 When they are called, should go ? 
 
 And take the sword, and take the gun. 
 And rush to meet the foe ? 
 
 Those are the words that grandpa said; 
 They must be true, you know. 
 
 '* Did he not say that uncle's name, 
 
 Who in the battle died, 
 Should be placed in the roll of fame. 
 
 Great heroes' names beside ? 
 And we who bear that name can now 
 
 Remember it with pride." 
 
 Thus shall the tales of heroes' deeds, 
 
 For flag and country done. 
 Along the generations' line, 
 
 Be proudly handed down. 
 Until the earth has passed away, 
 
 And God withdrawn the sun. 
 
JUST AS OF OLD 
 
 Old Glory waves again, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 O'er deck and batde-plain, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 Once more the fife and drum 
 Summon the hosts to come 
 From ocean-side, vale, and town, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 
 The ploughshare is cast aside, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 The bridegroom has left the bride, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 The mother has sent her son 
 Where the grim work is done; 
 Battles are lost and won, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 
 Muster the soldiers now, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 Hope high on every brow, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 . 224 
 
3lu0t a0 ot flDld 225 
 
 Many a gallant breast, 
 On rampart and mountain crest, 
 Shall find eternal rest, 
 Just as of old. 
 
 Some shall win valor's crown, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 Some their young lives lay down. 
 
 Just as of old. 
 Many a vacant chair 
 Shall the sad truth declare. 
 How dear the price of war, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 
 When the sad list is read, 
 
 Just as of old, — 
 Names of the soldier dead. 
 
 Just as of old, — 
 Many a heart must break. 
 For the loved heroes' sake, 
 Never again to wake, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 
 Not against brother's life, 
 
 Just as of old. 
 Wage we this bloody strife, 
 
 As once of old. 
 
^^^ Imt aisf 0t €)Iti 
 
 Vermont and Tennessee 
 In pure fraternity 
 Battle on land and sea, 
 Just as of old. 
 
 And when the trumpet-blast 
 Sounds the recall, 
 
 And when the sheathe'd sword 
 Hangs on the wall, 
 
 Ask what the gain shall be: 
 
 Once more a people free. 
 
 For liberty, victory. 
 Just as of old. 
 
THE EXILE'S MUSINGS 
 
 When the night stars glimmer, and the sun is 
 sinking 
 
 To his bed of crimson in the waveless sea, 
 I find myself still sadly thinking, 
 
 With heavy bosom, my land, of thee. 
 Though the vine above me be richly twining, 
 
 And the jasmine perfumes the evening air, 
 I say: My heart! cease this fond repining 
 
 To leave these shores for a land less fair. 
 Does that sun you long for, in noontide glowing, 
 
 Gild the drooping ear of the golden grain. 
 With a full, rich light to the glad eye showing 
 
 How blest by God is that happy plain. 
 Where plenty dwells, and a banner streaming 
 
 Floats proudly over a nation free? 
 Then, foolish heart, why art thou dreaming 
 
 Of a land of slaves beyond the sea ? 
 
 Has that land of woe flung a spell around you, 
 
 Unbroken ever by joy or pain, 
 And to her shores forever bound you 
 
 In a bond of love, with a magic chain ? 
 
 227 
 
228 fH^t (Btilt'0 99tx0im0 
 
 That though smiling fields and unending summer 
 Surround your dwelling in the home of the free, 
 
 You coldly turn, with a sad glance, from her, 
 And murmur, " Ireland, my heart's with thee." 
 
 Have those mystic legends, by mothers chanted 
 
 To their sleeping babes in that shrouded land, — 
 Have those somber lakes, by old chieftains haunted, 
 
 Woven around you some fairy band? 
 That when laugh is loudest, and wine is streaming 
 
 From the goblet, grasped in the exile's hand, 
 With hot cheek flushed, and with proud eye 
 gleaming. 
 
 You drink to Ireland, our native land ? 
 
WHICH? 
 
 Here's luck, my friend! fill up again; 
 
 A few years hence which will it be ? 
 Shall you go on to toast and drain, 
 
 While the Dark Angel claimeth me? 
 
 Or will I, standing here as now, 
 
 Remembering all we 've done and said, 
 
 With moistened eye and saddened brow, 
 Drink to the dear beloved dead? 
 
 It must be one of us, it must, — 
 
 The hours are fleeting sure and fast; 
 
 The dark grave yearneth for our dust. 
 The best of life for us is past. 
 
 One of us must mourn beside 
 
 The coffined form of his dead friend; 
 
 One of us mark the ebbing tide. 
 The dying throb that tells the end. 
 
 One of us lay with reverent hand 
 The wreath upon the pulseless breast, 
 
 One of us by the other stand 
 
 The while the dead is laid to rest. 
 
 229 
 
230 ^5ic8? 
 
 One of us muse in dreary days 
 On all we twain have lost and won, 
 
 And looking forth to lonesome ways, 
 Wish that, like him, our task was done. 
 
 One of us — Pshaw! fill up and drink; 
 
 Who cares for coffin, shroud, and pall ? 
 The man's a fool who '11 mope and think, 
 
 And mourn the fate that 's meant for all. 
 
 We 've had our share of wine and bliss; 
 
 Bright eyes and rosy lips we've had; 
 We 've never missed a chance to kiss, 
 
 Never a moment to make glad. 
 
 To-night we ' 11 dine, and drink and sing, 
 And massive beakers blithely pour, 
 
 And grave thoughts to the wild winds fling, 
 And drink, and kiss, and drink once more. 
 
THE CHAMBER OF SLEEP 
 
 I HAVE a Castle of Silence, flanked by a lofty 
 
 keep, 
 And across the drawbridge lieth the lovely chamber 
 
 of sleep; 
 Its walls are draped with legends woven in threads 
 
 of gold, 
 Legends beloved in dreamland, in the tranquil days 
 
 of old. 
 
 Here lies the Princess sleeping in the palace, solemn 
 
 and still, 
 And knight and countess slumber; and even the 
 
 noisy rill 
 That flowed by the ancient tower, has passed on its 
 
 way to the sea. 
 And the deer are asleep in the forest, and the birds 
 
 are asleep in the tree. 
 
 And I in my Castle of Silence, in my chamber of 
 sleep lie down. 
 
 Like the far-off murmur of forests come the turbu- 
 lent echoes of town, 
 
 231 
 
232 Wbt €iambtt ot feleep 
 
 And the wrangling tongues about me have now no 
 
 power to keep 
 My soul from the solace exceeding the blessed 
 
 Nirvana of sleep. 
 
 Lower the portcullis softly, sentries, placed on the 
 wall; 
 
 Let shadows of quiet and silence on all my palace 
 fall; 
 
 Softly draw my curtains. . . . Let the world 
 labor and weep, — 
 
 My soul is safe environed by the walls of my cham- 
 ber of sleep. 
 
^^ ^ ^i lyijx 
 
DEC 20 \im