I 
 
 r O \v^*^-^ \- 
 
 3513 
 
 1813 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 ys^rti 
 
 §}pt^. - doj^ngl^ !f 0* 
 
 Shelf jil.^lGc 5 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 

 0:90^0 
 
 BTA.R.G. 
 
 AVTHOR OF NIGHT ETCHINaS 
 O 
 
 WITH WOOD ENGRAVINGS Ff\OM 
 DRAWINGS BY EMINENT -ARTISTS 
 
 
 ^r^ys 
 
 X 
 

 \ 
 
 Afe. 
 
 Copyright. 1892, 
 
 BY 
 B, LI PPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 •7f^ 
 
 Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia 
 
LIST or 
 
 > o o o o o o o 
 
 Illvstmtions 
 
 ^:^gX-g^^Q>^(^^Q->:C^^bj 
 
 SWEET FERN. 
 
 If, on tile banks of that other sliore, 
 Or pressed in .^ome tome of spirit-lore 
 A spicy breath might call to her 
 A memory of the days that were 
 
 Drawn bv C. Y. Tuknek. 
 
 Engraved by G. P. Williams. 
 
 SOUL ESSENCE. 
 
 So, from the heart of the wood-thrush 
 
 Quivers on heart of mine 
 An echo of buried music, — 
 
 Gone — in the lost lang-syne. 
 
 Drawn by H. Bolton Jones. Engraved by G. P. Williams. 
 
MY secret/ 
 
 In their cheery, light vibration 
 
 Calling, "There is compensation," — 
 
 To the red leaves fluttering to the ground. 
 
 Drawn bj' P. B. Schell. Engraved by A. E. Anderson. 
 
 RAMBLING. 
 
 My heart among the old ways. 
 Drawn bj> B. West Clinedinst. Engraved hj> G. P. Williams. 
 
 WILD ROSE. 
 
 Believe you, November, in mournful gown, 
 Walking with sad eyes looking down 
 into the graves of flowers dead, 
 Will press to her heart the seed-pods red. 
 
 Drawn by Prederick Dielman. Engraved bj> C. H. Reed. 
 
 BEYOND.'" 
 
 And smiles again steal on those fading faces. 
 Drawn by W. H. Lipi'incott. Engraved by C. H. Reed. 
 
GLEAMS AND ECH0ES. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 Sweet, sad sounds that thrill us from the past 
 
 And echo in the empty spaces, 
 
 With voices faint and rare. 
 
 Reverberating in life's deeper places 
 
 So long as life and earth are bound ; — 
 
 Vibrating still with long, low sound 
 
 While hearts shall love and lose, the low earth 'round 
 
 O voices! with faint sound so low, so long, 
 
 Blend ye not triumph in your minor song? 
 
 Sing ye not highest, O loves of long ago, 
 
 Of that which dieth not? 
 
 Art thou, O Memory, not swiftest, surest. 
 
 With love and loss inwrought, 
 
 Swiftest and surest, thy roots deep-struck below, 
 
 To reach and catch the spirit's after-glow? 
 
SWEET FERN. 
 
 'Tis the scent of a leaf, again, 
 
 That brings me back the days of then. 
 
 Once, when my eyes were clear and blue, 
 
 And my thought was always a thought of you ; 
 
 When my heart was white without a stain, 
 
 And yours had nothing dreamed of death. 
 
 Nor of love with its parted pain ; 
 
 Then — when you stood by the little stream, 
 
 Your eyes far otf, like an angel's dream — 
 
 You gathered the fern of spicy breath : 
 
 Ah, then — in the passionate years of then — 
 
 In the pure, white, truthful years of then — 
 
 You gathered this fern of the grlen. 
 
'Tis years since I smelled a sweet fern's breath, 
 
 Till now, when the lost page open falls. 
 
 Now I am darkened and sad and sere 
 
 With the weights and the wrongs of many a year; 
 
 Now J scarcely dare to think 
 
 If a fern might grow on that farther brink ; 
 
 If, on the banks of that other shore, 
 
 Or pressed in some tome of spirit-lore, 
 
 A spicy breath might call to her 
 
 A memory of the days that were ; 
 
 And I, shame-faced, would shrinking stand. 
 
 Too soiled to touch the radiance of her hand. 
 
And yet I press this little broken thing, 
 
 Fain, with my lips, and press it yet again. 
 
 Even its fragile, gray-worn, crumbling mould, 
 
 A scent of unforgotten days can hold ; 
 
 Should I, at last, after dark doubt and dull despair. 
 
 Drift to her feet, like some dead fern-leaf there, 
 
 And if, from out the yellow-leafed decay. 
 
 Should tloat some essence of that other day ; — 
 
 Oh, Angel Soul, with love of heavenly measure. 
 
 On thee I lean, to count it, hold it, treasure ; 
 
 To hear thee, bending, say, "This outward-faded life, 
 
 Weary and worn with failure and with strife. 
 
 Brings odor from the past through years of loss and pain ; 
 
 I press the deathless spirit to my own again." 
 
SOUL ESSENCE. 
 
 They look at the lovely picture ; 
 
 They say, " Tis moon on the sea;' 
 But from the shimmering silver 
 
 A face looks up to me. 
 
 Deep in spiced glooms of forest 
 
 Haunts an aroma rare ; 
 And 1 know the trail of ber spirit 
 
 Is leaving its fragrance there. 
 
So, from the heart of the wood-thrush 
 
 Quivers on heart of mine 
 An echo of buried music, — 
 
 Gone — in the lost lang-syne. 
 

MY SECRET. 
 
 I WILL leave it with the mountains, — 
 
 They will not tell. 
 I will leave it with the grass-bugs; 
 In their light, harmonious ringing. 
 Like some atmospheric singing ; 
 Like some hidden fairy, bringing 
 Back a dream of summer gone. 
 While they ring in rhythmic measure 
 Still will lie my little treasure, 
 Hidden in their song. 
 
But the mountains will forget it 
 
 When 1 am gone. 
 On their far-off, silent heights, 
 In their tender, pensive lights, 
 There will be no lingering guerdon 
 Of my heart-intrusted burden. 
 On their summits soft will sleep 
 Other secrets in their keep : 
 Mine will go with me, they say ; 
 Others come another day. 
 
And the whirring grass-bugs, blurring 
 All the sunny, autumn silence 
 
 With ethereal sound ; 
 In their cheery, light vibration 
 Calling, "There is compensation," — 
 To the red leaves fluttering to the ground ; — 
 
 They will follow when the frost comes, 
 Leave their haunts of field and hollow, 
 Go, and leave the little secret 
 Yet unkept, — unfound. 
 
So, my heart, to you I trust it 
 
 Till death shall part. 
 Brooding, you will cherish, keep it. 
 
 In field or mart. 
 Faithful, though all else should fail it. 
 
 Will you prove : 
 Ay, beyond the purple of far sunset summits, 
 Beyond the waving lines of earth's best Ever, 
 Into golden depths of the Forever 
 
 Will you clasp it : 
 Death — shall not part. 
 
RAMBLING. 
 
 'Tis the gleam of one scarlet berry 
 
 Half hidden among some gold. 
 
 Only this, yet my dim old eyes 
 
 See a picture fair unfold ; 
 
 And I travel silently backward 
 
 Past long graves of years. 
 
 Past the cypress-trees and the shadows. 
 
 And the urns that are filled with tears : 
 
Back, past the long, sad valley, 
 
 To mountains sunny and fair. 
 
 The mountains of the morning. 
 
 Pink-tipped with sunrise there. 
 
 As my thoughts look back to that high land. 
 
 Where the sunlight rose so sweet, 
 
 A glint seems to shine down the valley 
 
 And creep toward my feet. 
 
Now, a scent of long-withered blossoms 
 Floats over the plains of pain, 
 And 1 fall to wondering — for I'm old — 
 If they'll bloom — up There — again. 
 But they say I am always croaking. 
 For 1 am old, you know. 
 Always croaking of something 
 That's gone, in the long-ago. 
 
So I sit, and I think my old thoughts, 
 
 And poor I know they must be, 
 
 For the others, a score of years younger, 
 
 Don't care much to listen to me : 
 
 And 1 sit, and I walk, without talking. 
 
 My heart among the old ways. 
 
 Where the pinks and the larkspurs blossomed. 
 
 And youth and love brightened the days. 
 
And so I wander and lose myself 
 
 About what I was going to say ; 
 
 But no one heeds, so it matters not, — 
 
 My head is old and gray : 
 
 I can't do things as I used to do. 
 
 Nor talk what 1 used to say. 
 
 Sometimes I think the baby boy 
 
 I lost so long ago, — 
 Sometimes 1 think he listens, — 
 
 Maybe, — 1 do not know. 
 
WILD ROSE. 
 
 Wild rose, — wild rose of the wood, — 
 
 Rose of the road-side, and of by-path hid. 
 
 Rose of frank smiles and childlike grace, 
 
 Fair with innocence upon its face: 
 
 The young spring gathered to her heart 
 
 This child of the roses, dearer than the rest ; 
 
 'Twined it among her tresses fresh and fair. 
 
 Wore the pink thing, with woodbine, in her hair. 
 
 One day, 1 mind me, sunnier than the rest, 
 A sweet wild rose was gathered for my breast. 
 
Back to the spring will wander Autumn's iieart, 
 
 For life'-s as fresh when the old leaves fall 
 
 As when the young buds start ; 
 
 And life's as dear when the leaves are sere 
 
 As in the spring's first thrall. 
 
 Believe you, November, in mournful gown, 
 
 Walking with sad eyes looking down 
 
 Into the graves of flowers dead, 
 
 ■Will press to her heart the seed-pods red. 
 
 In the dead days of November 
 
 1 twine no bloom in my hair, 
 But over the years I remember 
 
 A rose that withered there. 
 
■?■ 
 
 ■MMMMaltMlli 
 
 II I Ml'" imiiMi 
 
BEYOND. 
 
 How dark the pines ! 
 
 The woods stand dank and drear 
 
 With shadows only, all the light to blear; 
 
 And sad, low whisperings, in a minor key, 
 
 Murmur, "The lost, lone dead lie here; 
 
 The universe is brooded o'er with clouding trouble. 
 
 Time, nor eternity have aught of light:" 
 
 Like lost heart-courage, sighing low, 
 
 "The sun lies only on the long-ago. " 
 
 But just beyond, with lifted face, full free. 
 
 The sea lies broad and bright. 
 
 Under the gold expanse of heaven's light. 
 
So on my heart. 
 
 In hidden, silent places 
 
 The shades fall dark ; 
 
 And sad, faint glimpses of half-fading faces 
 
 Flit through the gloom, nor smile; 
 
 And death alone seems regnant. 
 
 Pale and cold and grim. 
 
 Enthroned in shadows dim. 
 
 And then I lift my eyes, and, lo, broad, sunny places ; 
 
 And smiles again steal on those fading feces; 
 
 And still beyond, with grand God-patience, 
 
 Waiting to caress, 
 Stands that which out-crowns death ; 
 And Love, bending above all shadow, 
 
 Waits to bless. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 898 295 A • 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 s\ :-'^s\'i«\«;\\\'' 
 
 1 
 
 » 
 
 «