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 COPYRIGHT DETOSrr. 
 
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One's Self I Sing 
 
 AND 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 Elizabeth Porter Gould 
 
 AUTHOli OF 
 
 "A Pioneer Doctor, A Story of the Se'venties;" 
 
 '^The Broivnings and America;" 
 
 John Adams and Daniel Webster, as Schoolmasters; 
 
 "Ezekiel C/iecver, Schoolmaster;" 
 
 "Anne Gilchrist and fValt Whitman;" 
 
 " Gems from Walt Whitman." 
 
 Boston: Richard G. Badger 
 The Gorham Press 
 1904 
 

 Copyright 1904 by Elizabeth Porter Gould 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Two Oooies »ftr(»'vp,n 
 
 JUL 19 1904 
 (1 OoDvrlffht Entrv 
 
 niA^^ /C] _ I ^ 4- 
 CLASS ft XXc. No. 
 
 ' COPY B 
 
 PRINTED AT 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 
 BOSTON, U. S. A. 
 
 ' 2 *»• *«.•' 
 
^ TABLE OF COxNTENTS 
 
 a 
 
 - PAGE 
 
 :^ I — One's Self I Sing i 
 
 J Birth 
 
 4- Childhood 
 — Youth 
 
 Labor 
 Love 
 
 Motherhood 
 Sorrow 
 Age 
 Immortahty 
 
 2 — Poems of Nature 23 
 
 3 — Songs of the Months .... 49 
 
 4 — Miscellaneous Poems 57 
 
 5 — To Some Contemporaries . . . loi 
 
 6 — Some Impromptus 133 
 
 7 — Centennial Poems 139 
 
 Manchester 
 Fryeburg 
 
I 
 
 ONE'S SELF I SING 
 
I 
 
 BIRTH 
 
 A spark of life. 
 Out of infinite space and infinite light, 
 Finds form on the earth. 
 Trembling and clinging, 
 Crying and sighing. 
 Sleeping and growing, 
 Reveal the new birth. 
 
 A guardian angel 
 Is singing its worth. 
 
 II 
 
 CHILDHOOD 
 
 Coming into consciousness of light within, with- 
 out, 
 Grasping earth's new visions without a fear or 
 doubt. 
 Stumbling, rising, laughing, crying, 
 
 Loving, trusting all, 
 Dancing, singing, hoping, playing — 
 Alive to every call. 
 Happy childhood, 
 God-blest childhood! 
 Life beyond recall. 
 
 Even guardian angel listens, 
 
 Wonders, trembles, 
 At what may befall. 
 
 Ill 
 YOUTH 
 
 I 
 I am dancing along. Just to live is a joy, 
 I'm so happy and free. 
 
 I 
 
I know not nor care what will tame or destroy, 
 
 Life now satisfies me. 
 Oh, there's naught like dear youth 
 
 To reveal the glad truth 
 That 'tis pure, healthful joy just to know and 
 to be ! 
 
 2 
 
 Life immense. 
 
 With passions intense, 
 And appetites lying in wait. 
 
 What shall the youth do — 
 
 Succumb, or be true? — 
 The angel stands by at the gate. 
 
 One turns to the light of the unseeking self, 
 
 Another is lost in the whirl. 
 Oh, guardian angel, where now is thy power. 
 
 Thy flag to unfurl? 
 
 No action of angel of life or of death 
 
 Can tumultuous youth save. 
 Tis the light of each soul anchored to its own 
 goal 
 
 That causes the saint or the knave. 
 
 IV 
 
 LABOR 
 
 I 
 
 Heyday — work-a-day world ! 
 
 My flag is unfurled ! 
 To Labor I bring my hand and my heart, 
 Adjusted to justice, to love, and to art. 
 
 Heyday — work-a-day world ! 
 
 My flag is unfurled! 
 Come round me, dear comrades. 
 
A circle complete, 
 Including all virtues for joy or defeat. 
 For to Labor we offer the strength of our youth. 
 
 The wisdom of age. 
 
 Heyday — work-a-day world ! 
 
 Our flag is unfurled ! 
 
 2 
 
 The labor of serving! 
 
 Oh, who does not know 
 'Tis the flower of loving — 
 
 The life here below 
 Which opens to blessings 
 
 The angels bestow. 
 
 The pleasure erf serving! 
 
 Oh, who can forego 
 Such fullness of being — 
 
 The heart's overflow 
 When born of the Spirit 
 
 Its secret to know. 
 
 3 
 
 Give of thyself, 
 And to thyself be true; 
 And every day shall offer 
 A wealth that is thy due. 
 
 V 
 LOVE 
 
 I 
 
 Oh ! ecstasy rare 
 
 Comes down to share 
 The heart that with human love trembles; 
 
 While all on the earth 
 
 Is crowned with new birth 
 And everything heaven resembles. 
 
But grief and despair 
 
 Have latent their share 
 In hearts that with human love tremble, 
 
 Since fires of love 
 
 Enkindled above 
 In frail earthen vessels assemble. 
 
 Oh, ecstasy rare 
 Comes down to share 
 The heart that with human love trembles 
 While all on the earth 
 Is crowned with new birth 
 And everything heaven resembles. 
 
 How do I love thee? 
 
 Oh, who knows 
 How the blush of the rose 
 Can its secret disclose? 
 
 Oh, who knows? 
 
 Why do I love thee? 
 
 Ah, who cares 
 Sound a passion he shares 
 With the angels? Who dares. 
 
 Yes, who dares? 
 
 3 
 Thine eyes are stars to hold me 
 
 To love's pure rapturous height. 
 Thy thoughts are pearls to lead me 
 
 To truth beyond earth's sight. 
 Thy love is life to keep me 
 
 Forever in God's light. 
 
 4 
 His trembling heart on her bosom lay 
 In ecstasy sweet. 
 
Such knowledge to meet, 
 On the brink of a world known to sin and defeat, 
 Caused the angel to open her eyes in surprise. 
 
 Creations unsung 
 
 By pen or by tongue, 
 
 Came in visions to cheer. 
 To the Holy of Holies they all entered in, 
 
 God's secrets to hear. 
 
 Loving, loving, ceasing never — 
 *'God is Love," vibrating ever. 
 
 5 
 
 The kiss still burns upon my brow, 
 
 That kiss of long ago. 
 When in the flush of love's first hour 
 
 He said he loved me so. 
 
 Another burns yet deeper still 
 
 The kiss of wedded bliss. 
 
 When soul met soul in rapture sweet — 
 Oh, pure love's burning kiss ! 
 
 The third was laid away with him, 
 A kiss for heaven's day, 
 (O heart abide God's way) — 
 When in the life beyond earth's change, 
 Beyond these mysteries sad and strange, 
 New life will spring from out the old. 
 New thoughts will larger truth unfold, 
 And love have endless sway. 
 
 6 
 
 If I were only sure 
 
 He loves me still, 
 As in the realms of beauteous space 
 (Alas! so far from my embrace) 
 
He bides God's will, 
 I could be more content to bear 
 The bitter anguish and despair 
 
 Which now me fill. 
 
 If I were only sure 
 
 He waits for me 
 To join him in the heavenly realm 
 (Oh, how the thought does overwhelm) 
 
 When body free, 
 I could the better bear my fate. 
 As day by day I learn to wait 
 
 In silent agony. 
 
 O Father, in my doubt 
 One thing is sure. 
 
 That thou, all love, could'st ne'er destroy, 
 
 (Death only is in earth's alloy) 
 Such love so pure. 
 
 As that which blessed our union here, 
 
 The love which knew no change nor fear- 
 Such must endure. 
 
 7 
 She gave one look, one piercing look. 
 
 Drew back her anguished soul. 
 Then murmured low, "O bitter hour ! 
 But — God — forgive — the — whole — 
 
 Forgive — " 
 ******* 
 
 He gazed upon her lifeless face. 
 
 He held her lifeless hand. 
 
 Was this the form he once had loved? 
 He did not understand. 
 
 Once loved ? Yes, that was so. 
 
 He'd loved since, one or two — 
 
Well, what was here a woman for, 
 If not for man to woo? 
 
 ****** 
 
 Alas for broken hearts and lives 
 Of those who can but trust ! 
 Alas for those who see no law 
 But that of selfish must ! 
 
 8 
 Has Love come? 
 Ah, too late! 
 Already Death stands o'er me 
 With hungry eyes that bore me — 
 O cruel fate, 
 That after all life's years 
 Of sacrifice and tears, 
 'Tis Death, not Love, that wins. 
 But, stay! This message bear, 
 Ere yet Death's work begins : 
 *'In other realms earth's losses 
 Will change from saddening crosses 
 
 To love-crowned joy, 
 Where Death shall have no mission. 
 But Love his sweet fruition 
 Without alloy." 
 
 VI 
 
 MOTHERHOOD 
 
 Dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep, 
 Darling baby mine. 
 
 Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby. 
 Catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss, 
 While the angels bless thee with a holy kiss. 
 
 Lullaby, lullaby. 
 So shall come the wakening of celestial power 
 
To beautify the ministry of baby's waking hour. 
 Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby. 
 Darling baby mine. 
 Lullaby, lullaby, 
 Lullaby. 
 
 Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor — 
 
 I see! 
 Creeping here and creeping there, 
 Into mischief everywhere. 
 Mamma's little pet and care — 
 
 I see! 
 
 Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse — 
 
 I see! 
 Never slipping from her place. 
 Joyous laughter keeping pace 
 With a motion full of grace — 
 
 I see! 
 
 Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride- 
 I know! 
 Lighting up the passing days 
 With such happy, winsome ways, 
 Joy of household life that pays — 
 I know! 
 
 Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed — 
 
 Sleep on ! 
 Waking, heaven will be more near 
 For the angels' presence here, 
 Whispering secrets in her ear — 
 
 Sleep on ! Sleep on ! 
 
 8 
 
VII 
 
 SORROW 
 I 
 Down the ages comes veiled Sorrow, 
 
 Accompanied by Pain. 
 To each soul she knocks in silence — 
 
 Will she knock in vain ? 
 Ah ! to those who will not see her, 
 
 Will not lift her veil, 
 They can only know Pain's visage, 
 
 Only know his wail ; 
 But to those who open to her, 
 Nestle on her breast. 
 She reveals her needed secrets, 
 Gives her own deep rest, 
 
 2 
 
 Must I always look for sorrow 
 
 On the morrow? 
 
 Must I never have the hope 
 
 That a life of larger scope 
 
 Will before my vision ope ? 
 
 Ah, 'tis true there is but sorrow 
 On the morrow 
 
 For the broken hearts that wait. 
 
 Bearing secretly their fate. 
 
 Yet the opening of the gate 
 To the blessed heaven's morrow, 
 
 When the aching, longing heart 
 Shall be free from pain and sorrow, 
 
 Comes before my tired eyes 
 
 With a wondrous sweet surprise. 
 ******* 
 
 But this joy is not for me, 
 Not for me. 
 
Alas ! for my poor broken heart, 
 With its poisoned arrow's dart, 
 Without hope, alone, apart. 
 
 3 
 
 Why weepest thou, O dear one ? 
 
 Do sorrows press? 
 Beneath the weight of sorrow 
 
 Is love's caress. 
 
 Why joyest thou, O dear one ? 
 
 Is love thine own? 
 Ah ! 'neath love's deep rejoicing 
 
 Is sorrow's moan. 
 
 Indeed, all earth's great passions — 
 
 Is it not so ? — 
 Are circled in the shadow 
 
 Of joy or woe. 
 
 But why should we bemoan this? 
 
 Could otherwise 
 Truth's dazzling light be subject 
 
 To mortal eyes? 
 
 Could otherwise we enter 
 
 The endless light. 
 Beyond the shadowed circle 
 
 Of mortal sight ? 
 
 Somebody knows 
 All the joy I feel ; 
 
 Is there anything surer 
 My pain to conceal? 
 
 lO 
 
Somebody knows 
 
 All the pain I hide ; 
 Is there anything surer 
 
 My heart to confide? 
 
 VIII 
 AGE 
 
 I 
 
 MIDDLE AGE 
 
 I am marching along, full of work and of plan 
 
 To alleviate wrong. 
 With a heart full of love both to God and to man, 
 And an arm free and strong. 
 Oh, there's naught like mid-life 
 Tb make sure without strife 
 The beauty of progress through action and song, 
 
 2 
 
 OLD AGE 
 
 I am living along, sitting down by the way, 
 
 My work is all done. 
 I have fought the good fight, known the full of 
 each day. 
 
 And true victory won. 
 Oh, there's naught like old age 
 To declare with the sage. 
 Life ending on earth is but heaven begun. 
 
 3 
 
 AT life's setting 
 
 Put your arms around me. 
 
 There — like that. 
 I want a little petting 
 
 At life's setting. 
 For 'tis harder to be brave 
 
 II 
 
When feeble age comes creeping, 
 And finds me weeping 
 (Dear ones gone). 
 Or brings before my tired eyes 
 Sweet visions of my youth's fair prize 
 Denied me then and ever. 
 
 Left me alone ? No, never. 
 
 For in God's love I nestled. 
 
 While with deep thought I wrestled, 
 
 Till all my busy life at length 
 
 Was spent in giving others strength, 
 
 In making others' homes more bright, 
 
 In making others' burdens light. 
 
 4 
 But now, alone and weary, 
 I am hungry 
 For a human love's sweet petting 
 At life's setting. 
 Keep your arms around me, 
 
 Kiss my fevered brow. 
 Whisper that you love me — 
 I can bear it now. 
 
 Oh, how this does rest me 
 
 Now my work is done! 
 I've all my life loved others. 
 Now I want love, dear one. 
 Just a little petting 
 At life's setting; 
 For I'm old, alone, and tired. 
 And my long life's work is done. 
 
 12 
 
AN OLD MAN S REVERIE 
 
 Blow breezes, fresh breezes, on Love's swiftest 
 
 wing, 
 And bear her the message my heart dares to sing. 
 Pause not on the highways where gathers earth's 
 
 dust. 
 Nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say 
 
 must. 
 But blow through the valleys where flowers await 
 To give of their essence ere yielding to fate ; 
 Or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lie 
 Imbued with the health which no money can buy. 
 But fail not, O breezes, on Love's swiftest wing 
 To bear her the message my heart dares to sing. 
 
 The breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight, 
 As cradled in hammock, I sang in delight, 
 On that blest summer day in the years long ago, 
 When life was all sunshine and youth all aglow. 
 The sweets of the valleys, the breath of the hills 
 Were gathered — the best that our loved earth dis- 
 tills— 
 As, obedient still to my wish, on they flew 
 To the home of my darling they now so well 
 knew. 
 
 Alas for the breezes, alas for my heart, 
 Alas for my message, so full of love's art ! 
 If only the breezes had followed their will, 
 And loitered among the pure cloudlets so still, 
 They'd have met a fair soul from the earth just 
 
 set free, 
 In search of their help for its message to me; 
 The message my darling, with last fleeting 
 
 breath. 
 In vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death. 
 
 13 
 
The breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since 
 
 then, 
 With messages laden again and again. 
 As for me, I send none. I wait only their will 
 To bring me that message my lone heart to fill. 
 They'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase, 
 For nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space. 
 
 6 
 
 GRANDMA WAITING 
 
 (A True Experience.) 
 ''Still waiting, dear good grandma, for the blessed 
 
 angel Death ?" 
 "Yes waiting, only waiting to be borne across the 
 
 sea, 
 To the home my soul's been building all these 
 
 years of mystery, 
 Through ninety years and over now of deep and 
 
 wondrous change, 
 Wherein I've known the heights and depths of 
 
 human feeling's range 
 And tried to solve the problems old of human life 
 so strange. 
 
 You want to know my history, because I am so 
 good? 
 
 Ah, child, no human life can here be fully under- 
 stood. 
 
 You call me good, and what is more, a 'true and 
 blessed saint.' 
 
 (There is illusion sweet indeed in what you child- 
 souls paint 
 
 Before you know too much of life and feel its 
 evil taint.) 
 
 You even picture beauties of my home across the 
 sea 
 
 14 
 
Which I never dared to hope for in my hours 
 of ecstasy. 
 
 You see me sitting helpless here, blind now for 
 
 many years, 
 Apparently so full of peace, so free from doubts 
 
 and fears. 
 Though never free from Memory's thought which 
 
 often brings the tears. 
 And you wonder where's the passion and the 
 
 energy of youth, 
 The power that even dared to sway to evil ways 
 
 forsooth. 
 Ah, you but see the blessed fruit of what God 
 
 planted sure, 
 When in my vears of sorrow He was whispering, 
 
 'Endure.' 
 You cannot see the dreadful scars which naught 
 
 on earth can cure. 
 You cannot see the passion wild, when, 'neath the 
 
 coffin lid, 
 Among the flowers, my children three, my pre- 
 cious all, were hid. 
 Nor can you see my conflict sore, when I went 
 
 almost mad 
 Before the dying form of him who had loved 
 
 me from a lad, 
 A loving husband, kind and true, as ever woman 
 
 had. 
 But still, before my dear one died, more children 
 
 came to me: 
 Two lovely boys, who seemed at last a recom- 
 pense to be. 
 For sometimes it does seem as if God sends a 
 
 special gift. 
 To be a special help and strength, the selfish 
 
 clouds to lift, 
 
 15 
 
Or — what, perhaps, we need as much — the wheat 
 from chaff to sift. 
 
 Through all my lonely, widowed life I Hved in 
 their sweet ways, 
 
 And found no sacrifice too great in work for 
 future days. 
 
 At length they were my crowning joy. I'd come 
 again to know 
 
 The blessings of a married life — the happiest here 
 below — 
 
 When, lo! Death seized the oldest one, my boy 
 that I loved so. 
 
 This opened fresh the old deep wounds ; but still 
 I had much left. 
 
 For then I was not, as before, of every child be- 
 reft. 
 
 So on I went in daily life, determined to be true 
 
 To blessings that were left to me. That does 
 one's life renew. 
 
 Remember this, my dear one, when your grand- 
 ma's gone from you. 
 
 The years went on. I felt I'd had my share of 
 sorrow's pain. 
 
 So I banished every lingering thought that Death 
 could come again. 
 
 But when we are the surest, child, 'tis then he 
 seems to be 
 
 More vigilant than ever to proclaim his mystery. 
 
 As if he envied lis an hour of joy's sweet com- 
 pany. 
 
 My husband first was stricken down ; then came 
 the added blow : 
 
 Tv/o grown up sons, all settled with as fine a busi- 
 ness show 
 
 As ever comes to mortals, were cut down in 
 prime of life, 
 
 i6 
 
Having just begun to free me from the circum- 
 stances rife, 
 
 Which boded of the bitterness of poverty's dread 
 strife. 
 
 My soul was then so mystified, so dazed before 
 God's will, 
 
 That I could only find my voice in His calm 
 words, 'Be still.' 
 
 Oh, could I not been spared this stroke, known 
 one less bitter pain, 
 
 And been as good for duties here, as fit for heav- 
 en's reign? 
 
 Was this the way, the only way, eternal life to 
 gain? 
 
 It cannot be much longer. I shall soon have 
 
 crossed the sea. 
 To the home my soul's been building all these 
 
 years of mystery. 
 I've had my share of sorrow, but I've done the 
 
 best I could. 
 God knows I've tried through all to grow more 
 
 patient, wise and good ; 
 To get at least this out of life, as every mortal 
 
 should. 
 But, though I've had His comfort, and still hear 
 
 His sweet 'Endure,' 
 I feel the bitter heartache which no time or sense 
 
 can cure. 
 My friends have all been laid away, my work long 
 
 since was o'er, 
 And now I'm only waiting for Death's landing on 
 
 the shore. 
 I hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my 
 
 soul's door; 
 For, somehow, it much easier seems to go the un- 
 known way 
 
 17 
 
Attended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious 
 
 ray. 
 But as I calmly wait and think, it does seem 
 
 rather queer 
 That what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed 
 
 my chief curse here 
 Alas ! how much we suffer before God's ways 
 
 appear." 
 
 IX 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 I 
 "Before Abraham was, I am" — 
 The great Self cried. 
 And Immortality was justified: 
 
 "Because I live, ye live" — 
 The great Love sang. 
 And *'Man Immortal" down the ages rang. 
 
 Immortal, unending, 
 Unending, immortal. 
 O Soul — ope the portal 
 Thy Self to make free ! 
 
 2 
 
 Kind Nature sings through all our earthly way. 
 
 There is no death ; 
 
 All is the breath 
 Of life that opens to an Easter da)- 
 
 And Love sings, too, 'midst all the pain and strife, 
 
 There is no death ; 
 
 Hear what it saith? 
 *'I am the Resurrection and the Life." 
 
 i8 
 
O g^lorious song^ of Nature and of Love ! 
 
 On, onward ring, 
 
 Till all hearts sing. 
 There is no death, 'tis life from God above. 
 
 3 
 
 Two old friends met on the city street. 
 "Good morning," said he, 
 "Good morning," said she. 
 And they paused to talk together. 
 The mysteries strange had come to both 
 
 Since last they met ; 
 And now they wondered more and more 
 What it all meant, 
 But as they parted, 
 He slowly said, 
 ''Sometime, somewhere, somehow — 
 Do not forget." 
 
 The weeks went by in their busy lives. 
 They met again in the rushing crowd ; 
 They had only time to grasp the hand, 
 
 As she sweetly said, 
 ''Somtime, somewhere, somehow — 
 
 We'll not forget." 
 
 Again and again have they met since then ; 
 Their words grow few over mysteries strange ; 
 But ''sometime, somezvhere, somehow'' — 
 They never forget. 
 
 4 
 Transformed, redeemed from all that dwarfs or 
 
 blights. 
 In perfect harmony with beauteous sights 
 Beyond imagination's highest flights 
 Ere reached by seer, 
 
 19 
 
We shall together walk the golden streets 
 Sometime, my dear. 
 
 But how, you ask, shall we each other know, 
 So changed from what we were while here below 
 When, caged like birds, we longed and suffered 
 
 so 
 
 Ah, do not fear. 
 Will not the soul, when free, seek like the bird 
 Its own, my dear ? 
 
 It may not be at once or soon, 'tis true. 
 For you may be among the blessed few 
 Who'll sooner reach the blissful heights — your 
 due 
 
 For pure life here — 
 But sometime, sure as God is love and truth, 
 We'll meet, my dear. 
 
 Some precious, long- forgotten look or word 
 Breathed through the softest, sweetest music 
 
 heard. 
 Or some vibration rare of soul depths stirred 
 
 By memory's tear. 
 Will, like a flash of light, reveal our souls 
 
 Together, dear. 
 To live the fuller life we've dreamed of here. 
 
 5 
 One by one the dear ones leave us. 
 
 Out of sight they go. 
 And we wonder. Ah, we falter, 
 
 At the mystery and woe. 
 But the everlasting progress of the Spirit on the 
 
 wing 
 Leaves behind the word, Transition — 
 Is not this comforting? 
 
 20 
 
 J 
 
6 
 
 From shore unto shore we are paddled by Time 
 
 In our Earth-born attire ; 
 We drop it at last, we reach a new clime — 
 
 Time never goes higher. 
 
 21 
 

 i 
 
II 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE 
 
TO SUMMER HOURS 
 
 DAY 
 
 Trip lightly, joyous hours, 
 While Day her heart reveals. 
 Such wealth from secret bowers 
 King Time himself ne'er steals. 
 O joy, King Time ne'er steals ! 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 Breathe gently, tireless hours. 
 While Night in beauty sleeps. 
 Hold back the softest showers, — 
 Enough that mortal weeps. 
 Ah me, that my heart weeps ! 
 
 UNANSWERED 
 
 **Is that God's ribbon in the sky, 
 To tie the worlds together?" 
 A sweet child asked. 
 On seeing Nature's rainbow belt 
 
 Worn after rainy weather, 
 "Or, is it some of heaven's light 
 A-peeking through the floor, 
 Or at an open door ; 
 I wish I knew 
 Don't you?" 
 
 She paused a moment. 
 Wondered, thought, 
 Then, with a long-drawn sigh, 
 Was heard the old, old cry, 
 *T wish God told us more, 
 Don't you ?" 
 
 25 
 
IN HER GARDEN 
 
 She picks me June roses. 
 
 Were ever such roses? 
 Their fragrance would honor 
 
 The heavenly halls. 
 
 She finds me pet pansies ; 
 
 Such wondrous eyed pansies, 
 And lovely nasturtiums 
 
 That run on the walls. 
 
 Sweet peas she's now bringing, 
 While all the time singing. 
 
 And I? Ask the flowers 
 To tell what befalls. 
 
 WHY NOT ! 
 
 The waves are kissing the shore, 
 
 And trees are seeking each other, 
 The lake is aglow with the love of the sun. 
 And rocks feel the kisses of trees they have won, 
 
 Fresh breezes are sighing, 
 
 And mated birds flying, 
 Sweet flowers are opening their hearts to the bees 
 While ivy is kissing the rocks and the trees. 
 
 Fair clouds are coquetting 
 In June's bluest sky — 
 
 All Nature loves petting, 
 Then why shouldn't I? 
 
 At Lake Mohonk. 
 
 26 
 
O RARE, SWEET SUMMER DAY 
 
 ''The day is placid in its going, 
 To a lingering motion bound. 
 Like a river in its flowing — 
 Can there be a softer sound ?" 
 
 — Wordsworth. 
 O rare, sweet summer day, 
 Could'st thou not longer stay ? 
 The soothing, whispering wind's caress 
 
 Was bliss to weary brain. 
 The songs of birds had power to bless 
 As in dear childhood's reign. 
 
 The tinted clouds were free from showers, 
 
 The sky was wondrous clear, 
 The precious incense of rare flowers 
 
 Made sweet the atmosphere; 
 The shimmering haze of mid-day hour 
 
 Was balm to restlessness. 
 While thought of silent hidden power 
 
 Was strength for helplessness — 
 
 O rare sweet summer day, 
 
 Could'st thou not longer stay ? 
 
 A TRUE VACATION 
 (In a hammock.) 
 
 ''Cradled thus and wind caressed," 
 Under the trees. 
 (Oh what ease) — 
 Nature full of joyous greeting; 
 Dancing, singing, naught secreting; 
 Ever glorious thoughts repeating — 
 
 5f: * * ^ * * 
 
 Pause, O Time, 
 Tm satisfied ! 
 
 27 
 
Now all life 
 Is glorified ! 
 Wenham, Massachusetts. 
 
 AT FAIRFIELDS, WENHAM, 1890 
 
 Buttercups and daisies, 
 Clover red and white, 
 Ferns and crown-topped grasses 
 Waving with delight. 
 Dainty locust-blossoms, 
 All that glad June yields. 
 
 Welcome me with gladness 
 To dearly-loved 'Tairfields." 
 But where's my happy collie dog, 
 My Rosa? 
 
 The orioles sing greeting. 
 Gay butterflies come near. 
 The hens cease not their cackling. 
 The horses neigh, 'T'm here," 
 The cows nod 'T have missed you," 
 The pigs' eyes even shine. 
 And from the red-house hearthstone 
 
 Comes pet cat Valentine. 
 But where's my happy collie dog, 
 My Rosa ? 
 
 I miss her joyful greeting, 
 Her handsome, high-bred face. 
 Her vigorous, playful action 
 In many a fair field chase. 
 Not even lively Sancho 
 Can fill for me her place. 
 
 O Rosa, happy Rosa, 
 Gone where the good dogs go, 
 Dost find such fields as ''Fairfields," 
 More love than we could show ? 
 
 28 
 
ON OLD MONHEGAN'S ISLE 
 
 Lying on the trailing yew 
 
 On old Monhegan's isle, 
 With the rock-bound surf in view, 
 
 Playing all the while 
 With the freedom and the joy 
 Nature gives without alloy — 
 Who would miss it 
 Oh, who would, 
 Lying on the trailing yew 
 Underneath the arch-sky blue ! 
 
 And if to this blest wealth I add 
 
 A thought of you, 
 All of life becomes more clear. 
 Old Monhegan's isle more dear 
 And a life beyond more near — 
 
 Who would miss it 
 
 Oh, who would, 
 Lying on the trailing yew 
 Underneath the arch-sky blue ! 
 
 — 1901. 
 
 THE WEIRD FOG-BELL 
 
 The solemn knell of the weird fog-bell, 
 Sounding clear on the air, now far, now near. 
 Hath a music's spell, as it rings and sings, 
 
 ''Beware — take care. 
 
 Take care — beware ;" 
 It voices the depth of old Neptune's soul. 
 As over his face the mist-veils roll, 
 
 "Take care — beware, 
 
 Beware — take care ;" 
 And strengthens our faith in a hidden power 
 As it sings, ''All's well/' in the clouded hour. 
 
 29 
 
"All's well on the ocean's swell, 
 All's well— All's well." 
 
 BLOSSOM-TIME 
 
 Blossoms floating through the air, 
 Bearing perfumes rich and rare. 
 Free from trouble, toil and care. 
 
 Would I were a blossom ! 
 
 Robins singing in the trees, 
 Feeling every velvet breeze, 
 Free from knowledge that bereaves. 
 Would I were a robin ! 
 
 Violets peaceful in the vale, 
 Telling each its happy tale, 
 Free from worldly noise and sale. 
 Would I were a violet ! 
 
 O sweet day of needed wealth. 
 Full of Nature's perfect health. 
 
 Fill me with thy power. 
 Then like blossoms I shall be. 
 
 Wafting only purity. 
 Or like robins, singing free 
 'Midst the deepening mystery. 
 Or like violets, caring naught 
 Only to reflect God's thought." 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY 
 
 O butterfly, now prancing 
 
 Through the air. 
 
 So glad to share 
 The freedom of new living, 
 Come, tell me my heart's seeking. 
 
 30 
 
Shall I too know 
 
 After earth's throe 
 Full freedom of my being ? 
 
 Shall I, as you, 
 
 Through law as true, 
 Know life of fuller meaning? 
 
 O happy creature, dancing. 
 
 Is time too short 
 
 With pleasure fraught 
 For you to heed my seeking ? 
 Ah well, you've left me thinking: 
 
 If here on earth 
 
 A second birth 
 Can so transform a being, 
 
 Why may not I 
 
 In worlds on high 
 Be changed beyond earth's dreaming ? 
 
 A QUESTION 
 
 Is life a farce ? 
 
 Tell me, O breeze. 
 Bearing the perfume of flowers and trees, 
 
 While gaily decked birds 
 Pour forth their gladness in songs beyond words, 
 And cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer air 
 Rejoicing in everything being so fair — 
 
 Is life a farce ? 
 
 How can it be, child. 
 
 When Nature at heart 
 Is but the great spirit of love and of art 
 Eternally saying, 'T must God impart." 
 
 Is life a farce? 
 Tell me, O soul, 
 
 31 
 
Struggling to act out humanity's whole 
 
 'Midst error and wrong, 
 And failure in sight of true victory's song ; 
 With wisdom and virtue at times lost to view, 
 And love for the many lost in love for the few 
 
 Is life a farce? 
 
 How can it be, child, 
 
 When humanity's heart 
 Is but the great spirit of love and of art 
 Eternally crying, "I must God impart." 
 
 AMONG THE PINES 
 
 Far up in air the pines are murmuring 
 Love songs sweet and low. 
 With a rhythmic flow, 
 
 Worthy of the glad sun's glow. 
 
 The airy clouds are o'er them bending, 
 
 Captured by the sound 
 
 Of such pleasure found 
 In a playful iaily round. 
 
 The birds pause in their flight to listen, 
 Wondering all the while 
 How the trees can smile 
 
 Rooted so to earthly guile. 
 
 The hush of summer noon enwraps them 
 Perfumed from below 
 By the flowers that show 
 
 They, too, murmuring love songs know. 
 
 AH nature finds a joy in loving — 
 Oh, that I could hear 
 
 32 
 
Love songs once so dear 
 Death has hushed forever here ! 
 
 Intervale Woods, North Conwav. 
 
 BY THE ANDROSCOGGIN IN A MOMENT 
 OF DOUBT 
 
 The river is steadily seeking the sea 
 
 In waves of delight, 
 
 While I have lost sight 
 Of the haven of rest that was open to me. 
 
 The mountains are pointing to heaven's clear light 
 
 With unceasing praise, 
 
 While I all the days 
 Am struggling in darkness to do what is right. 
 
 O river, if thou know'st the burdens I bear, 
 
 The doubt and the pain 
 
 Which hide heaven's gain, 
 Let me of thy faith and delight have a share. 
 
 And ye, too, O mountains, if round me ye see 
 
 The way narrowed in 
 
 Spite of struggle within. 
 Lift me to the height oi your life calm and free — 
 So shall river and mountains be messengers here 
 
 To guide and to cheer. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE 
 
 Who tells you, sweet primrose, 'tis time to wake 
 up 
 
 After dreaming all day? 
 Who changes so quickly your sombre green dress 
 
 to the yellow one gay, 
 And makes you the pet of the twilight's caress, 
 
 33 
 
And of poet's sweet lay ? 
 Who does, primrose, pray? 
 
 The primrose, secure on his emerald throne 
 
 Looked up quickly to say, 
 *'A dear lovely fairy glides down from his throne 
 
 In the sun's golden ray. 
 And with a sweet kiss opens wide all our eyes, 
 
 Saying, 'Now is your day.' 
 And lo! when he's gone we are filled with surprise 
 
 At our wondrous array, 
 
 So fresh and so gay. 
 Do tell us the name of this fairy, I pray. 
 Who gives of his beauty, and then hies away 
 
 Without thanks, without pay. 
 
 Does he linger your way ?" 
 
 JOY, ALL JOY 
 
 Lying on the new-mown hay, in a sightly field, 
 
 On a summer day, 
 
 With no care to weigh. 
 Or a bitter thought to stay all that sense might 
 yield — 
 
 What a joy to have alway ! 
 
 Sky as blue as blue can be, perfect green all 
 round, 
 
 Birdlings on the wing 
 Ere they pause to sing 
 On the top of bush or tree, or on sweet hay- 
 mound — 
 
 Restful joy in everything! 
 
 Butterflies just come to light, proud of freedom'? 
 hour. 
 
 Cows in pastures near, 
 
 34 
 
Wondering- why I'm here, 
 Chipmunks now and then in sight, bees in clover- 
 flower — 
 
 O what joy when these appear! 
 
 Happy children far and near climbing loads of 
 hay, 
 
 Running here and there. 
 Farmer's work to share, 
 Skipping, shouting loud and clear, full of daring 
 play— 
 
 Children's joy ! Joy every where ! 
 
 AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT HOLYOKE 
 
 A mountain hides within itself 
 
 This message grand and true, 
 Which at my bidding came to-day 
 
 For me to give to you : 
 
 ''Drink deep of Nature's sweetest life 
 
 While learning how to wait. 
 Stand strong against the tempest's strife. 
 
 Not questioning the fate. 
 Then shalt thou live above the din 
 
 Of petty things below. 
 Absorbing depths of life within, 
 
 The future to o'erflow." 
 
 THE GRAND CANON OF THE YELLOW- 
 STONE 
 
 Earth teems with glories. 
 The works of nature and of man 
 
 Tell old, old stories. 
 But in these latter days there comes to view 
 A wonder never seen before ; 
 
 35 
 
A wonder more and more 
 To make America known the whole world 
 through. 
 
 It is the priceless gem of her great park, 
 The Canon of the Yellowstone! 
 Its coloring, John of Patmos might leave Heaven 
 to see ; 
 
 Its wondrous outline, Michael Angelo. 
 No finer setting ever crowned a river's flow 
 . If human or poetic life give added glow, 
 Then Hudson or the Rhine. 
 But knowing Merced's grandeur, 
 Columbia's beauteous sides. 
 The Royal Gorge of Arkansas, 
 And those Alaska hides, 
 The Canon of the Yellowstone, 
 Bright with its rainbow hue. 
 Stands out sublimest of them all. 
 For earth and heaven to view. 
 
 It is a national glory. 
 
 Born not of song or story. 
 But out of nature's large and generous heart 
 Like grand Niagara, it is the people's own. 
 Unique, alone; 
 
 Their badge of beauty and of constancy. 
 
 In the Yellowstone Park, 1893. 
 
 BEFORE THE TAKU GLACIER, 1893. 
 
 What art thou, O gem of Alaska's fair clime ? 
 A beauty defying 
 The footstep of Time ? 
 
 36 
 
And who was thy sculptor? The hand of the 
 years, 
 
 Each telHng a story 
 Of smiles and of tears? 
 
 What gives thee thy color? The heaven's own 
 blue 
 
 Coming down to caress thee 
 And leaving its hue? 
 
 And who are thy polishers ? Nymphs of the sea 
 In love with the glory 
 Of dancing on thee? 
 
 How freely they throw the rough edges away 
 To the care of Old Neptune. 
 (It thunders, we say.) 
 
 And how he then tosses them up into place 
 As full-fledged, fair icebergs 
 Reflecting his face ! 
 
 O Taku, rare gem on America's breast, 
 Thou hast opened thy beauty — 
 With God be the rest ! 
 
 *While the Muir glacier was the grander, the 
 Taku seemed to me more a gem of beauty. 
 
 — E. P. G. 
 
 ON A MULE ON THE NEVADA TRAIL IN 
 THE YOSEMITE VALLEY, 1893. 
 
 O patient little creature 
 
 Would that thou too could'st see 
 
 This grandeur and this glory, 
 Now so revealed to me. 
 
 37 
 
The Merced River dancing, 
 
 In wild, perpetual glee. 
 While rugged mountains guard it 
 
 In silent majesty. 
 
 The glorius Falls of Vernal, 
 Nevada's beauteous veil — ■ 
 
 O faithful mule, is't possible 
 Thou can'st see but the trail? 
 
 Can'st not uplift thy being 
 To God in conscious praise, 
 
 And know the untold rapture 
 Of catching heaven's rays ? 
 
 Yet 'tis through thy devotion 
 I reach Yosemite's heart, 
 
 And feel the sweet baptism 
 Her wondrous Falls impart. 
 
 For all thy faithful service. 
 
 Perhaps some day thou'lt climb 
 
 A trail of heavenly beauty 
 Beyond the trails of time. 
 
 Till then I can but wonder. 
 If heaven itself will show 
 
 A trail of wilder grandeur 
 Than this, earth does bestow! 
 
 CONSCIOUS OR UNCONSCIOUS? 
 
 The shock of earthquake, thunder's roar, 
 
 Weird lightning's vivid chain. 
 
 The strength of ocean, deluge's pour, 
 
 And wildest hurricane; 
 
 Are moods that Nature loves to show 
 
 38 
 
To us who boast our birth 
 
 Fron conscious force she could not know 
 
 Because denied soul-worth. 
 
 But is it true she does not share 
 A knowledge in God's plan ? 
 Must not she His own secret bear 
 To so touch soul of man? 
 Those who deny this see not clear 
 Into the heart of things; 
 For how could otherwise God here 
 Reveal His wanderings? 
 
 ON MOUNT WASHINGTON. 
 (To my Mother.) 
 
 On highest point of Washington's grand peak 
 I humbly stood. A perfect day and night 
 Had filled my being with that pure delight 
 
 Felt by the saints when holy angels speak. 
 
 "O Father," cried I, 'Thee alone, I seek 
 To make me worthy of this glorious height ! 
 May every soul's horizon be as bright, 
 
 As broad, free from the petty and the weak." 
 
 So, on Truth's highest rock we sometimes stand 
 In ecstacy. The beauteous peaks of love 
 Reveal the glories of a broader life, 
 
 A fuller joy, unknown to lower land. 
 
 'Tis then our quickened prayers find light above 
 To flower in deeds upon a world of strife. 
 
 1892. 
 
 39 
 
ON JEFFERSON HILL. 
 
 (Before the Presidential Range.) 
 
 The sovereign mountains bask in sunset rays, 
 
 The valleys rest in peace ; 
 Soft, lingering clouds melt into twilight haze, 
 
 And birds their warbling cease ; 
 The villager's hour of welcome sleep is near. 
 
 Lone cattle wander home. 
 While, wrapped in summer-scented atmosphere. 
 Calm Evening comes to roam. 
 With gentle pace 
 Through star-lit space. 
 Till moon-kissed Night holds all in her embrace, 
 And Morning waits to show her dawn-flushed 
 face. 
 1899. 
 
 ON LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG. 
 
 By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side, 
 
 In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and 
 bold. 
 
 The spirit of the waters, as of old. 
 Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide. 
 It whispers of the anguish, joy and pride. 
 
 The heart of man has on its bosom told ; 
 
 And hails as conqueror Him who once did hold 
 Its heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried. 
 
 Loved spirit of the waters, we too hail 
 
 The power of Him who walked the holy sea 
 Of Galilee. Capacity to fail 
 Were harder to believe than victory. 
 May He who conquered wildest Nature's heart 
 His infinite power and rest to us impart ! 
 
 40 
 
A GREETING FROM THE ADIRONDACKS 
 TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Old Whiteface and Marcy forget not the Hills 
 Reclining on New Hampshire's breast, 
 
 They send their fair cousins a greeting that fills 
 The atmosphere Summer has blest. 
 
 They pity them, though, for the lack of the gems 
 Which sparkle and gladden their eyes — 
 
 The beautiful lakes, each one a true lens 
 Reflecting the forests and skies. 
 
 But do they not in their wise moments confess 
 They would of their dearest dispose, 
 
 If they to their time-honored bosom could press 
 The Face that the White HiFs disclose? 
 
 For when all is said of the mountains of earth 
 
 That open their secrets to men. 
 Is there anything fraught with more wonderful 
 birth 
 
 Than the Face of the White Mountain glen— 
 
 The Face of the ages, from Nature's own hand 
 
 Proclaiming the secret profound, 
 That the fullest creation on sea or on land 
 
 Must be with humanity crowned ? 
 
 But while Mother Nature is seeking her end 
 
 From age unto age for mankind, 
 Her mountains continue their greetings to send. 
 
 Each bearing the other in mind. 
 
 So Whiteface and Marcy forget not the Hills 
 Reclining on New Hampshire's breast, 
 
 They send their fair cousins a greeting that filh 
 The atmosphere Summer has blest. 
 
 Lake Placid, New York. 
 41 
 
THE OCEAN'S MOAN. 
 
 Last night the ocean's moan was to my ears 
 The deep sad undertone of vanished years, 
 Bearing a burden, 
 A bhss unattained, 
 A strife and a longing, 
 A Hfe sad and pained. 
 To the shores vast and free 
 Of eternity's sea. 
 
 But in that undertone of restless pain. 
 
 Came at length a mouotone of sweet refrain, 
 
 Bearing a passion 
 
 Long known to the sea — 
 
 Told in moments of silence 
 
 A sad heart to free — 
 
 To be borne me some day 
 
 In the ocean's own way. 
 
 And this rare monotone of mystery 
 Was now that passion-moan of secrecy. 
 Bearing, *T love her, 
 My moaning ne'er'll cease 
 Till she on my breast 
 Findeth love's perfect peace; 
 Till she on my breast 
 Findeth love's perfect rest." 
 
 Oh, is there tenderer tone for mortal ear, 
 
 Than such a monotone, distinct and clear. 
 
 Bearing its comfort, 
 
 Its heavenly peace. 
 
 Its help for all sorrow. 
 
 Its heart-pain release, 
 
 To a soul waiting long 
 
 For love's tender, true song? 
 
 42 
 
And now the ocean's moan is to my ears 
 
 The dearest undertone of all the years, 
 
 Bearing a memory, 
 
 A sweet bliss attained, 
 
 A gratified longing, 
 
 A life's joys regained, 
 
 To the shores vast and free 
 
 Of eternity's sea. 
 
 MY RELEASE. 
 
 I hear in the ocean's restless moan 
 My soul's lament. 
 Will it ever cease? 
 
 I feel in the rumbling earthquake's groan 
 Deep anguish spent. 
 Shall I now know peace? 
 
 I see in the smallest heaven's loan 
 Enough for content — 
 ^ut is that release? 
 
 O no! 
 
 My release is but found in the pure undertone" 
 
 Coming nearer and dearer to me, 
 Of a great human love beyond Nature at best 
 Eternal, inspiring, and free. 
 Oh, that's my release. 
 Happy me, happy me ! 
 
 OLD OCEAN SPEAKS. 
 JN BEHALF OF 'OLD IRONSIDES.' 
 
 I have seen the great battles of freemen. 
 Of pirates and slaves of the world ; 
 
 I have felt for the victor and vanquished, 
 For the flag that was furled and unfurled. 
 
 43 
 
I have laid in my graves, "always ready" 
 Yet "unshovelled" — as some of you say — 
 
 The bravest and best of the ages ; 
 
 Ah ! who are more honored than they ? 
 
 For the calm of my depths and the silence 
 Hold them safe in my memory's hall — 
 
 The patriots, heroes, and sailors 
 
 Who have answered the last bugle call. , 
 
 I have loved the strong ships that have battled, 
 I have had my own ''pets," as you say ; 
 
 Among them was old Constitution 
 Who went out from your Boston Bay. 
 
 ''Old Ironsides," one of you called her, 
 In the days when she needed your aid ; 
 
 ''Fair Ironsides," will the world name her 
 When anew on my breast she is laid. 
 
 For again in her old regal splendor 
 
 She will shine, not as war's love and pride, 
 
 But as trophy of thrilling past glory 
 And the keeping of peace by your side! 
 
 Boston, Mass., 1901. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LAUREL 
 
 Dedicated to the Massachusetts Floral Emblem 
 Society, Mrs. Ellen A. Richardson, President and 
 Foimder, and read before the Boston Branch, 
 Feb. 7, 1903. 
 
 The Daisy and the Daffodil, 
 
 And others we might name. 
 Are ever blooming fair in Art 
 
 And Poetry's domain. 
 
 44 
 
But now to guide our old Bay State 
 
 And bring her into line 
 With those who gladly show their choice 
 
 That all may thus combine, 
 
 The Mountain Laurel comes out clear, 
 
 Clothed in a living green. 
 With face upturned to sun and shower — 
 
 Born not "to blush unseen." 
 
 A native of America, 
 
 It has a natural claim. 
 While, borne in love to other lands, 
 
 It wins enduring fame. 
 
 Linneus named it Kalmia, 
 
 For Peter Kalm, whose praise 
 
 First made its value known to him 
 In eighteenth-century days. 
 
 As Spoonwood to the Indians, 
 
 It has historic lore. 
 As Kalmia Latifolia, 
 
 It opens Science' door. 
 
 As member of the family Heath, 
 
 It has a sisterly claim 
 On our first love — the Mayflower — 
 
 Which bears that family-name. 
 
 Its clear-cut beauty stands out well 
 
 To artist eye and hand. 
 While spoons made from it, as of yore. 
 
 Our homes may yet demand. 
 
 It blooms for Independence Day 
 And other days we prize, 
 
 45 
 
When patriots seek the emblems dear 
 Their thought to symbolize. 
 
 Mountain Laurel ! 
 
 Its tinted beauty, 
 
 Its generous bloom, 
 Oh, who does not love it ? 
 
 Oh who can forbear 
 
 On summer-day fair 
 To follow its winding on road or hill-side, 
 And find in its symbols the thoughts that abide ! 
 
 Its name is a glory — 
 
 It hints the old story 
 
 Of victor and gain ; 
 The Laurel, not only to crown our endeavor 
 
 But daily to reign. 
 While Mountain, inviting to visions which ever 
 
 Grand beauty retain, 
 Suggests a stability progress can never 
 
 Defy or disdain. 
 
 Stand out then as emblem for old Massachusetts 
 
 Oh blest rugged flower! 
 An emblem of peace to lead onward and upward 
 
 To beauty and power ! 
 So shall fair Mountain Laurel be loved by us all 
 As its proud name is honored in the states' floral 
 call! 
 
 CHILDREN'S DAY 
 
 When summer reveals her joy and rest. 
 And beautiful flowers deck nature's breast. 
 The ''Children's Day" of all the days 
 Calls forth our song of praise. 
 
 46 
 
Refrain — 
 
 For like the birds we love to sing, 
 And with the flowers our incense bring, 
 To bless the homes and hearts of earth 
 Like Him who srave us birth. 
 
 fcs' 
 
 The mountains reflect the summer light, 
 And valleys are decked in green and white, 
 The meadows and fields with new life glow, 
 Forgetting winter snow. 
 
 Refrain — 
 
 And like the birds we love to sing, 
 While with the flowers our incense bring, 
 To bless the homes and hearts of earth. 
 Like Him who gave us birth. 
 
 How like are our hearts to gardens fair. 
 All needing the wisest love and care! 
 But if with the flowers we seek His light 
 Our lives will know no blight. 
 
 Refrain — ■ 
 
 Then like the birds we love to sing, 
 And with the flowers our incense bring. 
 To bless the homes and hearts of earth 
 Like Him who gave us birth. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'^ OFFERING 
 
 1 lie air is full of melodies that spring 
 
 From Nature's heart to-day, 
 And gladly we our youthful voices bring 
 
 To swell the choral lay. 
 
 47 
 
Refrain — 
 
 To Him who gives our happy childhood days 
 
 These precious, joyous hours, 
 We hft our loving hearts in grateful praise 
 
 While off'ring Nature's flowers. 
 
 Her woods and fields have wakened out of sleep, 
 
 Her trees are clothed in green ; 
 The waters even of the mighty deep 
 
 Reflect the summer sheen. 
 
 Refrain — 
 
 To Him who gives our happy childhood days 
 
 Those precious, joyous hours, 
 We lift our loving hearts in grateful praise 
 
 While off'ring Nature's flowers. 
 
 Glad birds pour forth a melody of song, 
 
 The rivers run in glee, 
 And from their hidden bowers the fairies throng 
 
 Delighted to be free. 
 
 Refrain — 
 
 To Him who gives our happy childhood days 
 
 These precious, joyous hours, 
 We lift our loving hearts in grateful praise 
 
 While off'ring Nature's flowers. 
 
 48 
 
Ill 
 
 SONGS OF THE MONTHS 
 

JANUARY 
 
 January, shivering, knocks at the door ; 
 
 Her arms full of blessings from Time's winter 
 
 store. 
 She holds in her keeping the full-freighted days 
 With long, friendly evenings of love and of 
 
 praise, 
 And all the wild frolic of grave Winter's ways. 
 
 Brave month of the twelve, 
 We welcome you here, 
 To open the way 
 For our Happy New Year ! 
 
 FEBRUARY 
 
 Ho'W our pensive February loves the winter 
 
 scenes ! 
 How fresh she keeps dear January's snows and 
 
 evergreens ! 
 
 Her beads she counts, and each four years, 
 She finds there're twenty-nine. 
 'Tis then she cries, 
 With laughing eyes, 
 ''Now for the fun that's mine! 
 Leap year parties, 
 Sweet surprises. 
 E'en proposal 
 At girl's disposal. 
 For there're twenty-nine ! 
 Heigh-ho — 
 Twenty-nine !" 
 
 51 
 
MARCH 
 
 Blustering March comes in excited after Winter's 
 
 chase : 
 Having caught her, he has left her here with us 
 
 a space. 
 As Spring's daughter we should love her, though 
 
 her changing face 
 Hints of stormy passions leaving here and there 
 
 a trace. 
 But how glad we are to have her show us in her 
 
 way, 
 How the glorious Resurrection sings the first 
 
 spring lay ! 
 
 APRIL 
 
 Tearful April, 
 
 What's the matter? 
 
 Has March been too rough, 
 Spoiled the seeds and torn up roots, 
 Nipped the budding shoots? 
 
 Be not troubled, you have flowers 
 Full of sweet delight. 
 
 How we love to watch their colors 
 Coming into light! 
 
 They, perhaps, first sang the rhyme, 
 — Who can tell — 
 ''April showers 
 Make May flowers — " 
 Oh, the glad spring-time! 
 
 52 
 
MAY 
 
 Sweet, open-eyed May, 
 
 Rising up from her sleep, 
 
 Looks out into space, 
 
 (Ere showing her face) — 
 
 And catching the glory 
 
 Of life ever new, 
 
 Turns gladly to show us 
 
 The beauteous hue ; 
 And lo ! life for us is seen in new light. 
 While Nature herself finds a joy in the sight. 
 
 JUNE 
 
 When June comes in sight decked in bridal array, 
 All the glorious hosts of night and of day 
 Bow down to her beauty and yield to her sway. 
 
 Her scent-laden breath makes the atmosphere 
 sweet ; 
 
 New flowers spring up at the touch of her feet ; 
 
 And birds catch the sound of her happy heart- 
 beat. 
 
 O Queen of the months, 
 Nature's pet of the year ; 
 Why go out of sight — 
 Can'st thou not linger here? 
 
 53 
 
JULY 
 
 In the fair arms of Summer 
 
 Comes languid July, 
 
 With a smile and a sigh. 
 
 The sun is her mistress, 
 
 The ocean her toy, — 
 
 How gladly she tosses a vacation joy ! 
 
 AUGUST 
 
 How August loves her ease ! 
 She sits in fleeting splendors, 
 With wealth that Summer renders, 
 Lost in sweet reveries. 
 Soft atmospheres surround her ; 
 Creation glows around her — 
 Still-life is on its knees! 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 Diana of the months, 
 September ! 
 
 The crown that summer left her 
 
 She gaily throws away 
 
 For Autumn to look after ; 
 
 While day by day, 
 With eager eyes she follows hunt and chase, 
 And offers all her arrows to speed the race ! 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 October is more serious ; 
 She stoops herself to share 
 The burden and the worry 
 Of gathering wheat and tare ; 
 And when she sees earth's storehouse 
 Being filled with harvest gain. 
 Her smile makes Indian summer, 
 Her flush tints mount and plain! 
 54 
 
NOVEMBER 
 
 November, lone and dreary, 
 
 (Of whom we sometimes weary); 
 
 Hides all her charms 
 
 In Winter's arms. 
 But how she loves 
 The lingering days ; 
 The trust that nature gives her ! 
 
 For on her breast 
 
 The seedlings rest — 
 Trees bare themselves before her ! 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 Holly-crowned December ! 
 Her face is still reflecting 
 The glory of the child 
 She on her bosom bore. 
 
 Her secret lies 
 
 In children's eyes — • 
 They know her glistening jewels. 
 
 They love to trace 
 
 Her outlined face. 
 And fan to flame her fuels ! 
 
 55 
 
IV 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
DON'T WORRY 
 
 Why shadow the beauty of sea or of land 
 
 With a doubt or a fear ? 
 God holds all the swift-rolling worlds in His 
 
 hand, 
 And sees what no man can as yet understand, 
 
 That out of life here, 
 
 With its smile and its tear. 
 Comes forth into light, from Eternity planned, 
 
 The soul of good cheer. 
 Don't worry — 
 
 The end shall appear. 
 
 DON'T HURRY 
 
 Why shadow the calm of the progress of time 
 
 With the hurry allure? 
 The march of the ages of action sublime. 
 Though hindered by discord, the ache, and the 
 . climb, 
 
 Is steady and sure, 
 With its watchword, Endure. 
 And the heart of the world is attuned to the 
 rhyme 
 
 That the angels assure. 
 
 Don't hurry — 
 In His calm lies the cure. 
 
 EBB AND FLOW 
 
 There's an ebb and a flow in the heart of the 
 world, 
 
 Then why not in ours? 
 There's a height and a depth in the thought of the 
 world. 
 
 Then why not in ours ? 
 
 59 
 
An ebb and a flow 
 
 In the tide of all being, 
 A height and a depth 
 
 In the thought of all seeing, 
 A heavenly glow 
 
 In the life that is fleeing 
 To glad resurrection 
 
 As crown of full being — 
 Can we here ask for more 
 Of Eternity's store? 
 Rome, Italy. 
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 Drifting, drifting out to sea, 
 
 Alone, alone. 
 Fills the trembling soul with thought of life's im- 
 mensity. 
 
 Drifting, drifting out to sea, 
 Alone with thee, 
 Lifts the blissful soul to light of love's eternity. 
 
 Drifting, drifting out to sea. 
 Alone with God, 
 Crowns the deepening soul with sight of immor- 
 tality. 
 
 TICK ON, LITTLE CLOCK 
 
 Tick on little clock, 
 
 As I think of the day 
 
 When Time gave unquestioned 
 
 My wish and my way ; 
 
 But now I am pausing. 
 
 As onward I go, 
 
 To ask for his secret, 
 
 60 
 
His mission to know. 
 Can'st tell me, O keeper 
 Of each moment's stay 
 What is it — this secret — 
 That holds the heart's sway? 
 
 I listen in vain, 
 I only can hear 
 The little clock ticking 
 Its own word of cheer: 
 **Be faithful and steady. 
 In love with the best. 
 That's all that Time tells me 
 We must wait for the rest." 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG 
 
 The heart of Nature feels the touch of love ; 
 And angels sing, 
 "The Child is King. 
 See in his heart the life we live above." 
 
 And through the ceaseless joy and pain of earth, 
 The song rings on ; 
 ''The Christ is born, 
 O, rise through Him to life of heavenlv 
 birth." 
 
 Ring on, sweet song of rare and wondrous power ! 
 Till every ear 
 The song shall hear. 
 And Christ as King shall reign through every 
 hour. 
 
 6i 
 
A MAGDALENE'S EASTER 
 
 In the different mansions of heavenly space 
 
 Prepared for the faithful and pure, 
 
 (Ah me, for the faithful and pure!) 
 Can I dare hope to find e'en a small resting place 
 
 Free from sin and all earthly allure? 
 
 Can a soul such as mine, that has wasted life's 
 wealth 
 On the baubles and gewgaws of time, 
 (Ah me, on the baubles of time!) 
 Have a fitting strength left to regain needed 
 health 
 For the life of a heavenly clime? 
 
 For a life where the laws of the spirit, not sense. 
 
 Bring their perfect eternal reward, 
 
 (Ah, me, their eternal reward!) 
 And the pleasures obtained with such fever 
 intense 
 
 Can find nowhere a vibrating chord ? 
 
 Oh, woe is me, woe is me, this Easter day! 
 
 No hope riseth up in my soul. 
 
 (Ah me, my poor sin-laden soul!) 
 I have only the dregs of my pleasure to pay, .'J 
 
 And such wrong, bitter thoughts of life's U 
 
 whole. 
 
 But, listen ! What's that ? What's that message I 
 hear 
 Bearing down on my sad, troubled heart ? 
 (Ah me, on my sad, troubled heart!) 
 ''Christ is risen indeed. He is risen to cheer, 
 And His strength to the weakest impart." 
 
 62 
 
 
O Christ, can it be that Thine own risen strength 
 Can give Hfe, added life, to my soul ? 
 To my sin-laden, weak, starving soul? 
 
 Yes, 'tis true. I'll believe, and rejoice now at 
 length 
 To feel Easter's sweet joy o'er me roll. 
 
 THE UNDER WORLD 
 
 Under the restless surface 
 Of ocean's vast domain, 
 
 The god of perfect quiet 
 
 Holds ever peaceful reign. 
 
 Under the restless surface 
 
 Of passions strong and wild, 
 
 The still small voice of conscience 
 Is heard in accents mild. 
 
 Under the restless surface 
 
 Of all man's Hfe on earth, 
 
 The Christ of sacred story 
 
 Renews each day his birth. 
 
 VACATION 
 
 In the heart of Vacation 
 Lies nestling a seed 
 To come to fruition 
 For weary ones' need. 
 Did'st find it, O spirit, 
 So worn with the strife? 
 Thy future will show it 
 In new, stronger life ; 
 The days will be richer. 
 Thy heart more at rest, 
 
 63 
 
More broad the horizon, 
 More work at its best. 
 
 SILENCE 
 
 In the silence Hes a blessing 
 
 New to every soul. 
 Time nor Fortune cannot buy it- 
 
 'Tis a sure pay-roll 
 
 Sent as treasure 
 
 In full measure 
 For the giving up of self 
 
 To the perfect whole. 
 
 This the blessing, gentle reader, 
 
 Only Silence knows ; 
 If thou can'st to her surrender, 
 
 Gladly she'll disclose. 
 
 And the sages 
 
 Of all ages 
 Shall be guardians of thy need 
 
 In action or repose. 
 
 SILENCE AND SERENITY 
 
 Silence and Serenity 
 
 Are precious words to me 
 
 For they help make the atmosphere 
 
 Of peace and charity. 
 
 And so I chant them as a nun I 
 
 Chants over her pet beads '■ 
 
 To bring the Holy Spirit near 
 And lead to kindly deeds. 
 
 64 
 
A TWILIGHT REVERIE 
 
 Outlined against the twilight hue 
 
 On yonder, quiet hill, 
 The passive trees are swaying, singing, 
 In love with Nature's will. 
 Swaying, singing. 
 Singing, swaying, 
 Their destiny to fill 
 
 So 'gainst the sky of fate and chance. 
 
 Or pain that doubts instill, 
 The trustful hearts are praying, planning. 
 Harmonious with God's will. 
 Praying, planning, 
 Planning, praying, 
 Earth's mission to fulfill. 
 
 UPON LEAVING THE MADONNA DI SAN 
 SISTO, DRESDEN, 1894. 
 
 They say in the heavenly mansions 
 That Beauty will show us her best ; 
 
 Her rarest Madonnas and Cherubs, 
 And angels we've dreamed of as blest. 
 
 And while they are telling the story, 
 
 I wonder if she will forget 
 To come for our lovely Madonna, 
 
 The one that her Raphael set 
 
 On the clouds to await her fair coming, 
 With cherubs to open the way, 
 
 And saints that eternally worship 
 The light of the heavenly day. 
 
 65 
 
If this be thy mission, San Sisto, 
 O queen of the art of this world, 
 
 May I in that heavenly mansion 
 Again see thy beauty unfurled! 
 
 AN ANNIVERSARY 
 
 And is time marked in heaven ? Dost know, 
 O spirit friend, 
 'Tis just a year ago today 
 Thou went so suddenly away, 
 And left me in my loneliness the weary days to 
 spend ? 
 
 Ah, weary days 
 Denied thy praise. 
 And all thy many helpful ways! 
 
 And is earth known in heaven? Dost see 
 O clear-eyed soul. 
 The present, changing life of man 
 Still working out the wondrous plan 
 Of making even broken lives add to the complete 
 whole ? 
 
 Ah, broken lives 
 That death deprives 
 Of help like thine that heavenward strives ! 
 
 And are we known in heaven? Do I 
 Thy once fond care. 
 Still have that patient yearning love 
 Which longed to lift my soul above 
 The sweet though transitory joys of even earth's 
 best fare? 
 
 Ah, earth's best fare 
 Cannot compare 
 With thy ideal of me laid bare! 
 
 66 
 
A COMFORT 
 
 ''They that sow in tears 
 
 Shall reap in joy," 
 Sang a poet-heart in the long- ago, 
 'Midst depths of sorrow, pain and woe ; 
 And what to him was truth and life 
 Has shown through all the ages' strife, 
 To be at last our beacon-light 
 Of comfort in the darkest night. 
 
 They that sow in tears 
 
 Shall reap in joy. 
 
 FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MRS. 
 BROWNING'S DEATH 
 
 June 29, 1 86 1. 
 
 " 'Tis beautiful," she faintly cried, 
 Then closed her weary eyes and died. 
 
 So stands plain fact on history's page. 
 Attested to by friend and sage. 
 
 But in our hearts the fact grows bright, 
 Illumined with immortal light. 
 
 For open eyes saw heaven's shores, 
 And life, not death, revealed its stores. 
 
 " 'Tis beautiful !" It must be so, 
 If such a soul 'midst parting's woe. 
 
 Could with truth's perfect clearness see 
 The secret of life's mystery ; 
 
 67 
 
Could kiiozv that fullest life of man 
 Needs heaven's light to round God's plan. 
 
 O woman-soul without a peer, 
 
 We thank thee more and more each year 
 
 For this sweet proof of Beauty's power 
 Beyond earth's transitory hour. 
 
 It calms our hours of doubt and pain, 
 And beautifies earth's troubled reign, 
 
 To feel that thou art sending still 
 
 This same sweet message of God's will. 
 
 Born of fruition's grander sight, 
 Of perfect beauty, peace, and light. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 "A peace out of pain, 
 Then a light, then thy breast. 
 O thou soul of my soul, I shall clasp thee again, 
 And with God be the rest !" 
 
 — Pro spice. 
 
 Fulfilled December 12, 1889. 
 
 Oh, the blessed fruition 
 
 Of peace out of pain ! 
 Of a light without darkness, 
 
 A clasping again ! 
 Of a full soul reunion 
 
 In Love's endless reign ! 
 
 68 
 
 w 
 
Sing, O earth, with new joy 
 
 At this victory won ! 
 For the faith that endured 
 
 Till the setting of sun ! 
 For the hope that shone clear 
 
 Through the mighty work done! 
 For the love that sought God 
 
 To guide love here begun! 
 Sing, O earth, with new joy 
 
 For such victory won ! 
 
 PRAY FOR OUR DEAD? 
 
 Pray for our dead? 
 
 Oh no! 
 They do not need our prayers. 
 'Tis we who need their aid. 
 They're nearer the Infinities, 
 Nearer the blessed Throne^ 
 Where each one comes a^one. 
 
 Pray for the dead? 
 
 Oh no! 
 Pray for ourselves instead. 
 
 WHICH? 
 
 Like a rose revealing its beauty, 
 Joy opened her treasures to me ; 
 
 I held them in loving abeyance — 
 No blest one could happier be. 
 
 But Sorrow came wandering among them, 
 Touched this one and that one to grief, 
 
 And now I am wondering, wondering, 
 To which one I'll turn for relief ; 
 
 69 
 
For each said she was a true angel, 
 
 Sent down from the great King of Kings, 
 
 To lead me the way everlasting, 
 To teach me invisible things. 
 
 HEROES 
 
 The heroes on the battlefieM are calm in death. 
 
 Their fighting o'er. 
 They feel no more the fevered breath 
 
 Of battle's roar; 
 They hear at last the voice that saith 
 
 "Fight on no more." 
 
 But oh, the heroes on the grander field of peace 
 
 Who know no rest! 
 Whose hearts feel not the full release 
 
 From mortal quest, 
 Nor breathe the air where struggles cease 
 The soul to test. 
 
 For such we mourn, O purifying soul of life ; 
 
 For such we pray. 
 Let Nature free them from the strife 
 
 Of falsehood's way. 
 And Love through every struggle rife 
 
 Have free, full play. 
 
 WHERE? WHAT? WHENCE? 
 
 The kingdom of heaven is where. 
 
 Oh, where? 
 Would that the heart which with pity o'erflows, 
 While deigning love's burdens to share, 
 
 Could disclose! 
 
 70 
 
 i 
 
The kingdom of heaven is what, 
 
 Oh, what? 
 Would that the Infinite Presence which flows 
 Through a Hfe on the earth finely cut 
 
 Might disclose! 
 
 Ah, let the wind and the breath of the rose, 
 Their secrets of life and of sense 
 
 Dare disclose ! 
 Could we then see the better whence spirit arose ? 
 
 Who knows? Oh, who knows? 
 
 DOES IT PAY? 
 
 Does it pay — all this burden and worry, 
 All the learning acquired with pain, 
 
 All the planning and nervous wild action, 
 The restlessness following gain. 
 Does it pay? 
 
 To be free from this burden and worry, 
 
 To have knowledge without fear and pain. 
 To be peaceful, farseeing, sweet tempered. 
 
 And calm in the presence of gain, 
 We must know the pure secret of Nature, 
 
 Like her be obedient to law. 
 And work in the light of the promise 
 Of blessed results Christ forsaw. 
 Then each day. 
 And alway, 
 Life will pay. 
 
 71 
 
IS THERE ANYTHING PURER? 
 
 Oh, the prayer of a dear virgin-heart, 
 Brpathed forth with true love's gentle art ! 
 Is there anything purer 
 
 On land or on sea. 
 More laden with blessing 
 For you or for me? 
 
 It is sweeter than song ever heard, 
 More precious than love's spoken word. 
 It is fraught with a keen recognition 
 Of truest soul-need and fruition. 
 Is there anything purer 
 
 On land or on sea. 
 More laden with comfort 
 For you or for me? 
 
 It is oftentimes born in great pain, 
 With no ray of hope's blessed gain. 
 But as lulled by the angels at midnight 
 Ere reaching the infinite daylight 
 Is there anything surer 
 
 On land or on sea. 
 To bring the God-Father 
 To you or to me ? 
 
 ONE DAY AT A TIME 
 
 "One day at a time," is the motto 
 The crest of the ages reveals ; 
 
 "One day at a time." 
 So rolls the sun in the heavens. 
 So shines the beauty of earth, 
 So throbs the heart of creation. 
 
 72 
 
 I 
 
So whispers the angel of birth — 
 "One day at a time." 
 
 "One day at a time," is the motto 
 The crest of humanity shows ; 
 
 "One day at a time." 
 So sings the man in his labor, 
 So prays the heart in its pain, 
 So works the slave in his anguish, 
 So rules the king in his reign — ■ 
 
 "One day at a time." 
 
 "One day at a time," is the motto 
 To honor song, action and rhyme. 
 "One day at a time," 
 "One day at a time," 
 For Humanity's climb, 
 "One day at a time." 
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 Clio, with her flickering light 
 
 And book of valued lore, 
 Comes down the ages, dark and bright. 
 
 Our interest to implore. 
 
 She walks with glad majestic mien. 
 Proud of her knowledge gained ; 
 
 Though mourning oft at having seen 
 Man's life so dull and pained. 
 
 Her face with lines of care is wrought, 
 From searching mystery's cause. 
 
 And dealing with the hidden thought 
 Of nature's subtle laws. 
 
 73 
 
And yet she blushes with new Hfe 
 
 At sight of actions fine^ 
 And pales with anguish at the strife 
 
 Of evil's dread design. 
 
 She stops to sing her grandest lays 
 
 When, in creation's heat, 
 She sees evolved a higher phase 
 
 Of life's fruition sweet. 
 
 'Twas thus in days of Genesis, 
 When man came forth supreme. 
 
 'Twas thus in days of Nemesis 
 When Love did dare redeem. 
 
 And thus 'twill be in future days, 
 
 When out from spirit laws, 
 Shall be brought forth for lasting praise 
 
 The ever great First Cause. 
 
 YOUNG LOVE'S MESSAGE 
 
 Sing, too, little bird, what my heart sings today. 
 Dost thou know ? 
 — I'll speak low — 
 ''Oh, I do love him so." ,, 
 
 ! 
 
 Hold safe, waving grass, in thy rhythmical flow, 
 What I say, 
 Till the day 
 When as sweet new-mown hay 
 
 Thou can'st bear it to him in the fragrance loved 
 best. 
 
 Thou dost fear? — 
 
 74 
 
 i 
 
(Oh, love dear, 
 How I wish thou wert here!) 
 
 But pause, Httle cloud, thou can'st carry it now, 
 I am sure. 
 Sweet and pure, 
 Though the winds do allure; 
 
 For tho'U art on the way to the west where he is, 
 But dost know? 
 —Tell him low,— 
 'That I do love him so, 
 Oh ! I do love him so." 
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED LOVE-SONG 
 
 I love thee — I love thee — 
 
 Not for thy good name. 
 For, onward and upward. 
 
 That's always the same. 
 But— 
 I love thee, I love thee, 
 
 For seeing in me 
 The heart that is loyal 
 
 Tlie mind that is free. 
 Oh, 
 I love thee, I love thee, 
 
 (I whisper it low) 
 Because thou dost love me 
 
 Thine angel to know ! 
 
 ABSENCE 
 
 The days are happy here, dear, 
 But happier would they be 
 
 75 
 
Couldst thou be near to bless me 
 With love's sweet ministry. 
 
 Then all this beauty round me 
 Would on my memory lie, 
 
 As prayers of sainted mother 
 Or childhood's lullaby. 
 
 PRESENCE 
 
 The days are restful here, dear. 
 With thy sweet ministry ; 
 
 All nature feels the breath of love, 
 And life's a symphony. 
 
 Eye drinks in all the beauty. 
 Full heart the music feels ; 
 
 While over all the hopes and fears 
 God's benediction steals. 
 
 LONGING 
 
 Through all this summer joy and rest, 
 Though lying on fair Nature's breast. 
 There breathes the longing heart's desire, || 
 
 ''Would he were here !" * ' 
 
 The thrill of pain kind Nature feels ; 
 For all the while there o'er me steals 
 Like holy chimes in midnight air, 
 "He'll soon be here." 
 
 And flowers and trees, vales, hills, and birds 
 Make haste to echo her glad words, 
 "He'll soon be here. ' 
 
 76 
 
LOVE'S WISH 
 
 Would I were beautiful ! 
 Then you at Beauty's shrine might freely dine, 
 A welcome guest 
 For joy's bequest. 
 But, dear, if this were so, 
 If I were Beauty's child, all undefiled, 
 To make you blest 
 In beauty's quest, 
 
 You might forget to see 
 The soul's pure hidden shrine wherein e'er shine 
 The things that test 
 Love's true behest. 
 Would I were beautiful, 
 That you might better see the soul in me! 
 That wish is best 
 Is't not, dearest? 
 
 A WIDOW'S HEART-CRY 
 
 "Thy will, not mine, be done!" 
 
 So breathe I when the day's begun. 
 
 So breathe I when the day is done. 
 
 I whisper it in blinding tears, 
 
 I pause and listen, till appears 
 
 The welcome voice for listening ears ; 
 
 The voice which checks my wayward will 
 And makes my longing heart to thrill 
 With love for those who need me still. 
 
 ^7 
 
But, O, how long must I so pray, 
 
 When will I learn to calmly say, 
 
 *Thy will is mine," both night and day? 
 
 Ah! this can never be on earth. 
 Since he who gladly gave me birth 
 To everything that was of worth 
 
 Has gone from out my sense and sight. 
 
 To what? O ye who still invite 
 
 To heaven's sure realm and faith's own right, 
 
 Reveal some clue for me to see 
 What life is his, what he's to me. 
 Alas ! ye can't. Then what can be 
 
 More precious when the day is done, 
 
 Or when the morning is begun, 
 
 Than, "Not my will, but Thine, be done." 
 
 A BIRTHDAY GREETING 
 
 Thy birthday, dear? 
 Oh, would I had the poet's art 
 By which I could my wish impart 
 
 For thy new year; 
 But even poet's pen of gold 
 Would fail my wish to thee unfold 
 
 In earthly sphere. 
 
 Thy birthday, dear? 
 Oh, would I had the painter's skill 
 Prophetic visions to fulfill 
 
 For thy new year ; 
 But even painter's rarest brush 
 
 78 
 
Might all my holy visions crush, 
 Or fail to cheer. 
 
 Thy birthday, dear? 
 Oh, would I had sweet music's aid 
 To vitalize the prayers I've made 
 
 For thy new year ; 
 Alas ! not even music's best 
 Could put in form my soul's behest 
 
 For thee, my dear. 
 
 That only will expression find 
 
 In purest depths of thine own mind 
 
 This coming year; 
 As, guided by the inner light, 
 There'll come to thee the new-born sight 
 
 Of ravished seer. 
 
 But in this sight thou may'st so feel 
 Eternal beauty o'er thee steal 
 
 — God's gift, my dear — 
 That thou can'st find the blessed art 
 Of making even depths of heart 
 
 In form appear. 
 
 Yet, it may be a heaven's birthday 
 Will have to dawn for us to say 
 
 Our best things, dear. 
 For, as thou know'st. Truth's deepest well 
 Must e'er reflect, its depths to tell 
 
 Heaven's atmosphere. 
 
 79 
 
THE LITTLE DOUBTER 
 
 "Mamma, where is the sun today, 
 While all this rain comes down?" 
 
 —Ah, little girl 
 
 Of flaxen curl. 
 Who has not asked before 
 This question o'er and o'er? — 
 
 "Behind the clouds so thick and black 
 
 The sun is shining still," 
 The mother quickly answered back, 
 
 Her child with faith to fill. 
 
 The child looked up in strange surprise. 
 
 In doubt almost a pain, 
 Then turned again her wistful eyes 
 
 To watch the pouring rain. 
 
 'T don't believe 'tis shining still," 
 She muttered to herself — 
 
 —Ah, little girl 
 
 Of flaxen curl, 
 Why doubt the mother's word, 
 Because of feelings stirred? 
 
 *T won't believe it till I see 
 
 The sun behind that cloud," 
 She still went on, defiantly 
 
 To say in accents loud. 
 
 Now while she gazed as if to see 
 The truth made known by sight, 
 
 Behold the cloud did suddenly 
 Become imbued with light. 
 
 80 
 
"There, there, mamma, the sun, the sun !'' 
 
 The Httle doubter cried. 
 And full of joy at victory won, 
 
 She danced with childish pride. 
 
 The mother watched with tearful eyes 
 
 Her child's transparent joy, 
 But dared not quench the glad surprise, 
 
 Or victory's power destroy. 
 
 "Perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed, 
 
 "Of hidden things made plain. 
 When in the depths of life she's tried 
 
 And all fond hopes are slain." 
 
 While thus she mused, as mothers will; 
 
 The little daughter fair 
 Rushed to her arms, all smiling still, 
 
 And said, while nestling there, 
 
 "Behind the clouds the sun does shine, 
 While still the rain comes down" — 
 
 —Ah, little girl 
 
 Of flaxen curl. 
 This wisdom is indeed 
 For future hours of need. 
 
 WILLARD AND FLORENCE ON MOUNT 
 WACHUSETT, JULY, il 
 
 Happy little girl and boy, 
 Dancing hand in hand 
 Over hill and valley-land 
 
 Filled with summer- joy. 
 
 8i 
 
Climbing up the steep path-side 
 
 To Wachu sett's top, 
 
 With that graceful skip and hop 
 Born where fairies hide. 
 
 Seeing Holyoke from the height, 
 
 Old Monadnock clear, 
 
 With Washacum twin-lakes near 
 Sparkling in sun-light. 
 
 Tripping down the mountain-road 
 
 Back to summer-home 
 
 Only pausing there to roam 
 Where laurel finds abode. 
 
 Jumping on the new mown hay, 
 
 Sitting under trees, 
 
 Feeling every mountain breeze, 
 Hearing birds' sweet lay. 
 
 Lying on the mossy stone 
 
 By the brook's cascade, 
 
 Listening 'neath the sylvan shade 
 To its rippling tone. 
 
 Down at pretty Echo Lake 
 
 Plucking "maiden-hair," 
 
 Gathering glistening "sundew" there 
 For "dear mamma's sake." 
 
 Picking in the pastures near 
 
 Berries red and blue. 
 
 Spying where the mayflowers grew 
 Earlier in the year. 
 
 82 
 
Watching for the sun to rise, 
 Following sunset-cloud. 
 Singing low and singing loud, 
 
 While the swift day flies. 
 
 Waiting for the ''Tally-ho," 
 With its looked-for mails. 
 While the strangers tell their tales 
 
 As they come and go. — 
 
 Happy little girl and boy 
 Dancing hand in hand 
 Over hill and valley-land 
 
 Filled with summer- joy. 
 
 ROSAMOND AND MILDRED 
 
 Rosamond and Mildred, playing on the floor — 
 
 I see! 
 Laughing blue eyes, dimpled face, 
 Laughing broiwn eyes, ways of grace. 
 Chubby hands that interlace — 
 
 I see! 
 
 Rosamond and Mildred, trying hard to walk — 
 I see! 
 Clinging now to mamma's dress, 
 Trembling in new happiness. 
 Then at last a sweet success — 
 I see! 
 
 Rosamond and Mildred, born the same glad 
 year — • 
 
 I know ! 
 Cousins ; each in her own way 
 
 83 
 
Growing wiser every day, 
 Full of promise as of play — 
 I know! 
 
 Rosamond and Mildred, parting to go home- 
 Good-bye ! 
 Each a little picture fair. 
 Carrying blessing everywhere. 
 Grateful are we for our share — 
 Good-bye ! Good-bye ! 
 
 WHAT LITTLE BERTRAM DID 
 
 (A fact.) 
 
 Our little Bertram, six years old. 
 
 Sat on his grandpa's knee. 
 Enjoying to the full the love 
 
 That grandpa gave so free. 
 
 When, looking up bewitchingly. 
 
 He said, — the little teaze, — ■ 
 "Will grandpa give me just one cent 
 
 To buy some candy, please?" 
 
 Who could resist such loveliness? 
 
 This grandpa could not, sure. 
 So with a kiss he gave the cent — 
 
 Ah, how such things allure ! 
 
 84 
 
 I 
 
No sooner was the cent in hand, 
 
 Than off the fair boy ran 
 To buy his candy, '' 'lasses kind," 
 
 Or little "candy-man." 
 
 Now on his way, in scanning well 
 
 A window full of toys. 
 He spied a ring with big red stone, 
 
 O'erlooked by other boys. 
 
 All thought of candy was forgot. 
 
 He'd buy that ring so fine 
 For his new sister, Rosamond — 
 
 Oh, how his eyes did shine! 
 
 How could he stop to calculate 
 
 The size of such a thing ; 
 His only care was for the price — 
 
 Would one cent buy the ring? 
 
 Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought; 
 
 And never girl or boy 
 Went tripping homeward through the streets 
 
 With greater wealth or joy. 
 
 CHILDISH FANCIES 
 (A fact.) 
 
 My little nephew, four years old, 
 A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy. 
 
 Was one day playing by my side 
 With this and that pet toy. 
 
 When all at once he said to me, — 
 As, laying down my book, 
 
 8s 
 
I paused a while to watch with joy 
 His bright, expressive look, — 
 
 "If Mac and I should plant today 
 
 Some paper in the ground, 
 Say, would it grow to be a book 
 
 Like yours, with leaves all bound ?'* 
 
 These were the same two little boys 
 Whose nurse searched far and wide 
 
 For little sister's rubber shoes ; 
 "Where can they be?" she cried. 
 
 "I know," replied Mac, eagerly, 
 "W^e planted them last night. 
 
 To see if they would bigger grow 
 To fit our feet all right." 
 
 Dear little boys ! These fancies hint 
 
 Of future questions deep, 
 When evolution's grand idea 
 
 Shall o'er their vision sweep. 
 
 God grant that when these come to them, 
 As at Truth's shrine they bow, 
 
 A childlike faith and earnestness 
 May fill them then as now. 
 
 "DEAR LITTLE MAC" 
 
 When nearly eight years old, dear little Mac 
 Was called from out his happy home-life here 
 To that blest sphere 
 Beyond earth's dearest power to call him back. 
 
 86 
 
"His questions wise will now sure answer find," 
 Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face, 
 In happy chase 
 Of many a thought which flitted through his 
 mind. 
 
 "Yes, he knows more than we," another said, 
 "Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guide 
 To where abide 
 The things we need most to be comforted." 
 
 While thus the older ones their comfort sought, 
 Two of the children paused in midst of play. 
 To have their say 
 Concerning this great mystery Death had 
 brought. 
 
 "Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh, 
 "He's gone way up to heaven where angels are, 
 Way up so far 
 That we can't ever see him till we die." 
 
 "He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be. 
 I saw them put him in the cold dark ground. 
 And I went round 
 And threw some flowers in for him to see." 
 
 "He isn't there/' replied the four-year-old, 
 "He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so. 
 He is, I know 
 He isn't in the ground all dark and cold." 
 
 A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought, 
 While Miriam felt the joy of victory. 
 Then suddenly 
 The lovely six-year-old this idea caught: 
 
 87 
 
"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground ; 
 His head, his feet, and every other part, 
 But just his heart — 
 And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found." 
 
 The child thus solved the thoughts that troubled 
 so. 
 And as I overheard this earnest talk, — 
 Which might some shock, — 
 I wondered if we could more wisdom show. 
 
 As each seemed satisfied, their play went on. 
 But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's 
 mind, 
 
 And left behind 
 The wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone. 
 
 At last, when ready for their sweet ''Good 
 Night," 
 She softly said, 'Tt can't be very dark. 
 Not very dark 
 For Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light." 
 
 Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days. 
 Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide, 
 When sadly tried 
 By doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways. 
 
A LITTLE BRAZILIAN 
 
 (A fact.) 
 
 'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day, 
 
 While at a family feast, 
 A little girl of five years old 
 
 The merriment increased. 
 
 By crying out, — as glasses held 
 
 The ice she ne'er had seen, — 
 ''Oh see! what pretty little stones. 
 
 What for? Where have they been?" 
 
 ''Here, give her one," the host exclaimed, 
 
 Pleased with her childish glee. 
 "Twill show her as no words could show 
 
 What ice is, and must be." 
 
 She grasped the "white stone" in her hand, 
 
 All watching eagerly, 
 When suddenly she let it fall. 
 
 And cried, "It's burning me." 
 
 But, anxious still to see it more. 
 
 She asked a servant near 
 To hand it in a napkin wrapped — 
 
 Then there would be no fear. 
 
 Again the ice was in her hand. 
 
 Her plaything for the day. 
 When all at once she cried aloud, 
 
 "The stone is running away." 
 
 A glass of water now was used, 
 Sure that would keep it hers. 
 
 89 
 
But no ! with all her loving watch 
 The same result occurs. 
 
 The plaything gone, at evening hour 
 
 She sat on uncle's knee. 
 '*Who makes those white stones, you or God?" 
 
 She asked, inquiringly. 
 
 'Tn Miss Brown's land (a Boston friend) 
 
 God makes them," answered he. 
 *'But in Brazil a factory-man 
 
 Makes them for you and me." 
 
 A moment's pause. Then said the child, 
 — Heaven's blessing on her fall, — 
 
 "Why doesn't God get from Brazil 
 A man to make them all?" 
 
 THANKSGIVING DAY 
 
 Grandpa and Grandma always say 
 Thanksgiving is the children's day ; 
 And so they let us run and play 
 Just as we please. 
 
 When tired, I sit on Grandpa's knee ; 
 He sings Thanksgiving songs to me, 
 And tells me I must thankful be, 
 Just like the trees, 
 
 Who offer up — as he declares — 
 Their Autumn leaves as little prayers 
 For all the wealth the harvest bears ; 
 And then he tells, 
 
 90 
 
How Nature loves to show her praise, 
 By wearing what the farmers raise 
 As jewels on Thanksgiving days. 
 (How does he know?) 
 
 And while he's telling all these things, 
 And dancing dolly as he sings, 
 The dinner bell Thanksgiving rings ; 
 And off we go. 
 
 With papa, mamma, dolUes, all, 
 To just the same old dining-hall. 
 Where papa heard his Grandma call 
 Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 They put me in the same high chair 
 That papa had when he lived there ; 
 "Her precious little curly-hair," 
 So Grandma says. 
 
 Oh, how we open wide our eyes, . 
 To see the turkeys, puddings, pies, 
 Which mamma calls "Thanksgiving size,' 
 (She always knows.) 
 
 The apples have such rosy cheeks ; 
 And papa says, "All Nature speaks 
 A beauty every artist seeks," 
 (What does he mean?) 
 
 Oh, everything is all so grand ; 
 Why don't all Grandpas in the land 
 Help little children understand 
 Thankgiving Day? 
 
 91 
 
FRANKIE'S POSTAL 
 
 (Dedicated to Postmen.) 
 
 "To God in Heaven," a postal clerk 
 
 Spied on a card one day, 
 While sorting out the Boston mail 
 Ere postmen sped their way. 
 ''What does this mean," 
 He paused to say, 
 "The like of this I've never seen?" 
 Then turning o'er, 
 As ne'er before. 
 He read with trembling lips, 
 "Please, God, send me a cart to get my mother 
 chips." 
 "Dear child," he sighed. 
 To one aside. 
 Then read the name and date, 
 "I'm Frankie Welch of Hammond street, one 
 hundred eight." 
 "Let's find the boy," the postman cried, 
 He really may need care. 
 
 Why can't we be his "God in Heaven" 
 To answer such a prayer?" 
 
 And when they found, as postal said, 
 A cart would help to earn the bread, 
 Their hearts and purse were quickly won. 
 But what the seven-year-old had done 
 The widowed mother never dreamed, 
 'Twas a surprise to all it seemed. 
 But when the child the cart received 
 'Twas no surprise, for he believed 
 His postal card had gone indeed 
 To God in Heaven, who saw his need. 
 
 92 
 
And sent the cart that he might share 
 The burdens mother had to bear. 
 
 O child of faith! O postmen kind! 
 The world is richer for this mind 
 That lifts to God in Heaven the eye 
 And brings relief to human cry. 
 
 OUR KITTIE 
 
 "Chinchilla? Come, 'Chilla"— 
 ***** 
 
 Ah, here she comes bounding, 
 So quick to respond. 
 How can we but love her. 
 Her fur like chinchi'la — 
 Her movements all grace — ■ 
 Such a wise little face — 
 Oh, who could but love her 
 Our dear, pretty 'Chilla! 
 
 OUR KITTY'S TRICK 
 
 [These verses, true in every detail, are only 
 preserved in remembrance of a pet cat of our 
 family for many years.] 
 
 I know that all the boys and gir's 
 
 Would be so glad to see 
 Our kitty do the little trick 
 
 She often does for me. 
 
 When asked, ''O kitty, where's the ball?" 
 
 She to my shoulder leaps, 
 And looks directly to the shelf 
 
 Where from a box it peeps. 
 
 93 
 
She will not cease to look and beg, 
 
 Until I find the place 
 Where she can take between her teeth 
 
 The ball with easy grace. 
 
 Then quickly to the floor she jumps; 
 
 When, dropping first the ball, 
 She runs behind the open door 
 
 That leads into the hall. 
 
 She waits with only head in sight, 
 
 The ball to see me throw ; 
 Then after it she scampers well 
 
 Some forty feet or so. 
 
 She never fails to bring it back; 
 
 Then lifts with wondrous grace 
 Her velvet paw to take the ball 
 
 From out its hiding-place. 
 
 This done, she nestles by my side, 
 
 And purrs while I caress. 
 Unconscious of the trick she's done 
 
 Since three months old or less. 
 
 She thus will lie in calm repose 
 
 So long as I am still ; 
 But if I move to touch the ball, 
 
 Then all her nerves will thrill. 
 
 Her eyes will shine, she'll quickly find 
 Her place behind the door. 
 
 And wait again to see the ball 
 Roll on the long hall floor. 
 
 94 
 
Ah, kitty dear, who told you how 
 
 To join thought, act, and sight? 
 Must not we think that in you dwells 
 
 The germ of mental light, 
 
 The gemi that makes you kin to us 
 
 In kind though not degree, 
 But which was quickened by His touch 
 
 For our supremacy? 
 
 AT WENHAM. 
 
 (The part of the house containing the room 
 referred to was built early in the last half of the 
 seventeenth century. It was the house which 
 Wenham (the first distinct township set ofif — in 
 1639 — from Salem) gave to the second pastor 
 of its church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who mar- 
 ried, while living there, Governor Winthrop's 
 daughter. It was boug'ht by John Porter in 
 1703, and remained in his family name without 
 alienation until 1903, when it was totally de- 
 stroyed by fire.) 
 
 Before a smouldering fire at twilight hour 
 
 I muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed, 
 
 Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that 
 
 teemed 
 Two hundred years ago with life and power. 
 I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flower 
 In light of home ; while life that only seemed 
 On history's page becomes the real, redeemed 
 From all the chafif that time fails not to shower. 
 
 Ah, such old places, holding through the years 
 Continuous life of man's activity, 
 
 95 
 
Reveal a wealth beyond that which appears 
 In modern homes built e'er so lovingly. 
 Imbued so long with human hopes and fears, 
 Have they not claim to perspnality ? 
 
 THE "DAUGHTERS" SONG.* 
 
 While dreaming of a nation fair, 
 Comes floating through the peaceful air, 
 "America, Columbia. 
 Columbia, America." 
 And our hearts feel the glow. 
 
 Of a life at high-tide 
 With its work and its song 
 
 And its joys that abide. 
 With its work and its song 
 And its joys that abide. 
 "America, Columbia. 
 Columbia, America." 
 
 As Daughters we are borne along, 
 While listening to the patriot's song, 
 "America, Columbia. 
 Columbia, America." 
 And we mount on the wings 
 
 Of the soul's fleeting dreams, 
 And the whole world is ours 
 
 Through the love that redeems. 
 And the whole world is ours 
 Through the love that redeems. 
 "America, Columbia. 
 Columbia, America." 
 
 ^Set to music by Adaline Frances Fitz. 
 
 96 
 
 I 
 
THE KNOWN GOD. 
 
 If Paul in Athens' street left nothing more 
 Than what he found when deep in sacred thought 
 He stood and marvelled o'er what had been 
 
 wrought, 
 The To the Unknozvn God of heathen lore, 
 Then were he only one on thought's wide shore 
 To lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught, 
 Undaunted, and in words experience-fraught. 
 Declared he God as known forevermore. 
 
 Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred 
 
 Hfe, 
 Are more than vision deified. They are 
 Love's balm to permeate true mental strife, 
 And bring to sin-sick, weary souls a star 
 Of hope to shine through all their struggles rife. 
 To the known God. Through Paul we dare thus 
 
 far. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF ABIGAIL ADAMS. 
 
 June 17, 1896. 
 
 We build a Cairn replete with thought of her, 
 Who, Queen of Daughters, earned a Nation's 
 lasting praise. 
 It glories in the light and freedom sought 
 
 For all the Sons and Daughters of the coming 
 days. 
 
 Note. — This Cairn was erected with appropriate cere- 
 mony June 17, 1896, by the Adams Chapter of the 
 Daughters of the Revolution of Quincy, Massachusetts, 
 on the spot on Penn's Hill where Abigail Adams and 
 her seven-year-old John Quincy saw the battle of Bun- 
 ker Hill. 
 
 97 
 
Its corner-stone, like her, resplendent shines, 
 To bear the thoughtful gaze of people yet un- 
 born. 
 Its rugged form a mother-love enshrines — 
 A beacon for our land, 'till dawns th' eternal 
 morn. 
 
 Watch tenderly, O air^ O sky, O fates! 
 
 And may these stones, so blessed by loving 
 hearts and hands 
 Be lasting symbols of our glorious States 
 
 Built up by noble souls for pilgrims of all lands. 
 
 AFTER THE DENIAL. 
 
 When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore, 
 The risen Lord, still anxious that his own 
 Should know love's secret as to him 'twas 
 known, 
 Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me more 
 Than these?" The third time Peter's heart was 
 sore. 
 Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone? 
 *'Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his 
 moan. 
 Then ''Feed my sheep," Christ answered as be- 
 fore. 
 
 Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'er 
 The shores of time, and longs for human love ; 
 The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep, 
 And makes response as Peter did of yore, 
 "Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights 
 
 above, 
 Thou knowest that we love Thee. "Feed my 
 sheep." 
 
 98 
 
GETHSEMANE. 
 Matthew 26: 36-46. 
 
 ''Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heart 
 Of Christ, still longing in the bitterest hour 
 For human sympathy and love to shower 
 A needed strength beyond words to impart ! 
 Humanity is richer for this art 
 Of seeing in poor finite man a power — 
 Before which even ministering angels cower 
 
 To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's 
 smart. 
 
 Alas ! the power to know will bring the pain ; 
 
 But through the pain of wisdom's true insight 
 Is Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain. 
 
 Possessed of this, we see in tenderest light 
 His sorrowing heart in failing to obtain 
 
 The longed-for love in hour of darkest night. 
 
 FORGIVENESS 
 
 Luke 23-24. 
 
 From holy depths he to the Father prayed, 
 ''Forgive them, for they know not what they 
 
 do." 
 His heart pierced then — with anguish through 
 
 and through. 
 Cried out, " 'Tis finished," as he death obeyed. 
 In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was 
 
 weighed 
 With tenderest love and longing towards those 
 
 who 
 Through ignorance of what they might be too, 
 Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid. 
 
 99 
 
 l.ofC. 
 
''They know not what they do." O blessed 
 sight 
 Into the heart of sin's great mystery. 
 Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest hght, 
 
 The child of love and of sincerity. 
 Blest are those souls who reach this precious 
 height ; 
 They know the secret of Christ's victory ! 
 
 THE SONG OF LINCOLN 
 
 In Life's great symphony, 
 Above the seeming discord and the pain, 
 A master-voice is ever singing, singing, 
 
 The plan of God to man. 
 
 Thus in America's song, 
 When threatening tumult pierced the tensioned 
 
 air, 
 The voice of Lincoln over all was singing 
 The love of brother-man. 
 
 And still his voice is heard ; 
 'Twill pierce the din of strife and mystery, 
 'Till master-voices cease their singing, singing, 
 
 In life's great symphony. 
 
 lOO 
 
V 
 
 TO SOME 
 CONTEMPORARIES 
 

RECOGNITION 
 
 (To Edmund Clarence Stedman.) 
 
 The flesh faileth, — 
 The heart fainteth, — 
 
 But the soul shines bright and clear, 
 In the faithful work done, 
 The honest fame won. 
 
 And the wealth of the Master's cheer. 
 
 Oh the joy of it all, 
 
 The poet's call ! 
 Past the vision of saint, 
 
 Or wisdom of seer; 
 Immortal, unending, — 
 
 Creation's blest sphere ! 
 
 The flesh faileth, — • 
 The heart fainteth, — • 
 
 But the soul shines bright and clear, 
 In the banner unfurled 
 For the. Truth of the world, 
 
 And the love of each one of us here. 
 
 TO OUR LADY OF THE WHITE HOUSE 
 
 Three little cherubs are feeling 
 
 The love of thy warm mother-heart, 
 While three litt^e hearts are revealing 
 The secrets that angels impart. 
 
 Oh the wealth of the giving. 
 The joy of receiving! 
 Is there deeper delight 
 Or more beautiful sight? 
 
 103 
 
Three little sisters are learning 
 
 The grace of thy womanly ways, 
 While three little minds are discerning 
 The paths that lie open to praise. 
 
 Oh the wealth of the seeing, 
 The joy of the knowing! 
 Is there beauty more pure 
 Or wisdom more sure? 
 
 Three little daughters are loving 
 
 The Lady we all love today. 
 Ruth, Esther and Marion darling — 
 May we not our sweet homage pay? 
 Oh the wealth of the giving, 
 The joy of receiving! 
 Is there picture more fair 
 For the nations to share? 
 
 TO OUR LADY AT PRINCETON 
 
 1897. 
 
 Another dear cherub is blessing 
 The heart of our Lady today. 
 And three little girls are caressing 
 A "new little brother," they say. 
 
 Oh, the weaHh of the blessing 
 The joy of the loving! 
 Is there home-life more fair 
 Or affection more rare? 
 
 TO OUR LADY AT PRINCETON 
 January, 1904. 
 
 Now one of the cherubs is following 
 The Angel of Death without fear. 
 
 And the other dear cherubs are wondering 
 Why came such an angel down here. 
 
 104 
 
Oh, the pain of the learning, 
 The gain of discerning! 
 Is there tenderer need 
 For Wisdom to heed? 
 
 The home of Our Lady is missing 
 
 The presence of word and of deed ; 
 While the hearts that have blest in the leading 
 Now wait for the cherub-child's lead. 
 Or, the rest of believing. 
 The wealth of receiving! 
 Is there comfort more sure 
 For the souls that endure? 
 
 TO LITTLE DOROTHY DREW 
 
 (As Gladstone lay dying, his grandchild, 
 Dorothy Drew, was brought to him. When she 
 saw that he did not recognize her, she burst into 
 tears and left the room sobbing violently.) 
 
 Dear little lonely Dorothy Drew, 
 Bereft of her Grandpa, great and true. 
 Did you find it so hard to understand 
 How his once ever loving heart and hand 
 
 Could not know you ? 
 Did it seem so strange he could not bless. 
 Or give the looked-for sweet caress 
 
 His love for you? 
 No wonder the tears fell thick and fast, 
 And the child-heart sobbed, as it felt at last, 
 
 The mystery new. 
 
 Ah, little Dorothy, Dorothy Drew, 
 
 The pef of a Grandpa, all men knew. 
 
 Should you grasp the wisdom of all the spheres, 
 
 105 
 
And feel the honors of men and years 
 
 Known only to few, 
 You would still long to see on the face of your 
 
 own 
 Some response of the love you had once fondly 
 known, 
 
 The love poured for you. 
 The child and the sage meet on this common 
 
 ground ; 
 The sobs and the tears then as now would abound, 
 Dear, Dorothy Drew. 
 Boston, 1898. 
 
 WILHELMINA 
 Feb. 7, 1 90 1. 
 
 A Queen by right of birth as well as name, 
 Pet Queen of all the nations ! 
 
 On this thy wedding day, 
 'Midst grief profound 
 At passing of another Queen to Heaven's sight 
 
 and sound, 
 The land of uncrowned queens sends greeting to 
 the crowned ! 
 
 While over all 
 Is heard God's call : 
 "Rise to the royal height where love and truth 
 abound." 
 
 TO MRS. H. H. A. BE'ACH 
 
 There's a lingering sound, 
 As the earth goes round. 
 Of the harmonies sung in space 
 By the angel-choirs 
 
 106 
 
With heavenly lyres, 
 And a life no age can displace. 
 
 Sometimes at our best, 
 
 In our heart's deepest rest, 
 Or in soul-stirring, rare, fleeting dreams. 
 
 Its echo we hear — ■ 
 
 The angels appear — 
 And the air with the heavenly life teems. 
 
 And we fall back aghast 
 At the harmonies vast ; 
 
 Our hands fail in trembling despair ; 
 But you, braver soul, 
 Catch the sounds as they roll. 
 
 And save them for nations to share. 
 
 Boston, 1896. 
 
 TO WALT WHITMAN 
 
 'T loafe and invite my soul." 
 And what do I feel? 
 An influx of life from the great central power 
 That generates beauty from seedling to flower. 
 
 'T loafe and invite my soul." 
 And what do I hear? 
 Original harmonies piercing the din 
 Of measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin. 
 
 *T loafe and invite my soul." 
 And what do I see? 
 A temple of God in the perfected man 
 Revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan. 
 
 107 
 
LINES 
 
 (Sent to the dinner given in honor of Walt 
 Whitman's seventieth birthday, at Camden, N. 
 J., May 31, 1889, at 5 o'clock P. M.) 
 
 ''Splendor of ended day floating and filling me."* 
 Comes to my mind as I think of the hour 
 
 When our poet and friend will be lovingly drink- 
 ing 
 The mystical cup of the seventy years' power. 
 
 Were I the man-of-war bird he has pictured 
 Nothing could keep me from flying that way, 
 
 But, though absent in body, there's nothing can 
 hinder 
 My tasting the joys of that festive birthday ; 
 
 For on the swift wings of the ending day's splen- 
 dor 
 My soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's 
 wealth. 
 Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure 
 friendship 
 Will feel, 'midst the joy, what I drink to his 
 health ?— 
 
 Splendor of ended day 
 
 Be but the door 
 Opening the endless way — 
 Life evermore. 
 ^ *"Song at Sunset." — W. W. 
 
 TO PHILLIPS BROOKS 
 
 O type of manhood, strong, serene and chaste, 
 Attuned to law of man as well as God^ 
 We hail thee as a guide, who, having trod 
 
 108 
 
With Christ the spirit fields, in eager haste 
 
 Makes glad return to give us blessed taste 
 
 Of fruit there found. Through thee our feet are 
 
 shod 
 With Gospel-peace, while thy imperial rod 
 
 Becomes our need in times of drought or waste. 
 
 How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer 
 O master-spirit of the priests of earth ! 
 
 By daily doing penance without fear, 
 Or resting, satisfied in deeds of worth? 
 
 Oh no ! 'Tis when we breathe Love's atmosphere 
 And live like thee the life of heavenly birth. 
 
 Boston, 1890. 
 
 TO B. P. SHILLABER 
 July 12, 1888. 
 
 When lingering Day at last recedes from sight, 
 And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place, 
 Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved face 
 
 Reflecting glorious rays of sunset light, 
 'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delight 
 
 Through oft frequented avenues of space 
 To those dear souls — the dearest of the race — 
 
 Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest 
 height. 
 
 From this old mountain top I come to you, 
 
 My large-souled, trusted friend of many a year, 
 
 With birthday greetings of the roseate hue 
 Left by a perfect Day just lingering here. 
 
 Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true 
 And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet 
 cheer ! 
 
 Mount Wachusett, Massachusetts. 
 109 
 
TO MRS. PARTINGTON. 
 
 July 12, 1886. 
 
 Another birthday here? 
 It hardly seems a year 
 Since I these words did hear, — 
 When three score years and one did crown thee, — 
 "Not till I am an octagon, 
 Or, worse still, a centurion. 
 Shall I be old, with factories gone 
 All idiomatic and forlorn." 
 
 But thou art still a "membrane" dear 
 
 Of what we call society's cheer ; 
 
 "Ordained beforehand, in advance." 
 
 (Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,) j 
 
 To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting, | 
 
 But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring, 
 
 Of "fluid" thoughts which counteract 
 
 The "bigamies" of fate and fact. | 
 
 Alas! thy crutch of many years. 
 Still hints "romantic" pains and fears 
 A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say 
 To keep "plumbago" still at bay! 
 
 Its helpful mission has a share 
 In "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare. 
 And, by the way, not crutch alone 
 Finds in that book its value shown. 
 
 There in the depths of friendship's mines 
 Are seen thy tenderest, purest lines ; 
 Impromptus born at love's command 
 To deck occasion's wise demand. 
 
 no 
 
One finds no "Sarah's desert" there, 
 
 No "reprehensible" despair; 
 
 But teeming thoughts on Mounds and Press 
 
 Poured out in pure unselfishness. 
 
 This brings to mind thy Knitting-Work, 
 Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk, 
 And other books with humor rife, 
 Done in the "priming" of thy life. 
 
 "Contusion of ideas," O no ; 
 What "Angular Saxon" would say so? 
 "Congestive thoughts then so inane 
 They'd 'decompose' the soundest brain." 
 
 Yes, there it is, thy humor still. 
 Not seventy years and two can kill, 
 'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore, 
 A "wholesome," not a "ringtail" store. 
 
 AN ANSWER 
 To B. P. S. 
 
 "Why don't I write a story ?" 
 Ah, friend, if you could see 
 
 The depths of hidden heart-life 
 Alas ! so known to me. 
 
 You'd find the truest story 
 
 Flashed out in gleams of light. 
 
 Before which all pens falter 
 And vanish out of sight. 
 
 And as they vanish from me 
 They leave the impress clear, 
 
 III 
 
That only Heaven's pen could write 
 Such stories acted here. 
 
 So in His book of life, 
 Revealed to aU some day, 
 
 You'll find my story grand and true, 
 Worked out in His own way. 
 
 HELEN GOULD 
 
 In the beauty of song or story, 
 In the glory of peace or strife, 
 
 There's ever a Lady Bountiful 
 To honor the daily life. 
 With a wealth of love, 
 A strength of soul, 
 A sense of honor 
 And calm control. 
 
 Which lifts her to the pinnacle 
 Of Fame's high roll. 
 
 With ''Santa Filomena," 
 
 And Clara Barton brave, 
 Now shines our Santa Helen — • 
 Whose work to help and save. 
 
 Through wealth of gold 
 
 Of magic power 
 
 Set in the wish 
 
 To bless the hour, 
 Makes her our Lady Bountiful, — 
 
 Our Nation's dower. 
 
 To praises of the ages, 
 Shall we not give ours here, 
 While gratefully remembering 
 The saints of every sphere? 
 Boston, 1898. 
 
 112 
 
CHILDHOOD'S DAYS 
 To M. C. 
 
 If knowledge gained in later years 
 
 May wholly cloud from sight 
 The glimpse which childhood's eye hath caught 
 
 Of heaven's celestial light, 
 
 Then need we not the atmosphere 
 
 Of second childhood's days 
 To catch another broader glimpse 
 
 Of heaven's immortal rays? 
 
 Ah, yes ; we even need to seek. 
 
 Through earth's illusive hour. 
 Immortal childhood's heavenly days 
 
 Of sweet, revealing power ; 
 
 For how can otherwise we catch 
 
 The deeper glimpses yet 
 Of life eternal, glorious, pure. 
 
 Where sun hath never set? 
 
 ON SUGAR HILL 
 (To F. B. F.) 
 
 The lovely valleys nestling in the arms 
 
 Of growing mountain peaks ; 
 The purple tint of sunset-hour, and charms 
 
 An evening hour bespeaks ; 
 The monarch peak kissed by the rising sun 
 
 While clouds keep guard below ; 
 Grand, restful views, with foliage autumn-won, 
 
 And Northern lights rare glow. — 
 
 113 
 
Will e'er recall 
 
 In memory's hall, 
 The happy days when on fair "Look-OffV 
 
 height, 
 Sweet friendship cast her hues of goMen light. 
 
 JOSEF HOFMANN 
 
 (After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall 
 in 1888.) 
 
 O marvellous child, a temple where in ease 
 Expectant Genius dwells, while lingering here 
 On earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere, 
 Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keys 
 To new and wondrous unheard harmonies? 
 O favored boy, marked out to be the peer 
 Of those who in all ages God's voice hear, 
 Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees ! 
 
 Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates. 
 This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine ! 
 May chilling poverty, or sin that dates 
 Soul loss, ne'er hinder Genius wise design 
 To have full sway, as she anticipates — 
 In working out, in time, her laws divine. 
 
 TO OUR MARY 
 
 Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need, 
 
 Forgetting self, if only we be served, 
 
 How oft thy loving sympathy has nerved 
 
 Our fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed, 
 
 Or brought to being thoughts that intercede 
 
 114 
 
For others' progress. We, all undeserved, 
 Can not forget that life to ends thus curved 
 Made time for us to plant our own pet seed. 
 
 The world owes much to many a sister dear, 
 Who, banishing with tears in midnight hour 
 
 A fond desire for larger, happier, sphere, 
 Strives faithfully in lowly life to shower 
 
 Rich daily blessings. Such may know while here 
 A Christlike joy unknown to worldly power. 
 
 THE REAL STONE FACE 
 
 To Eugenia Jones-Bacon, owner and discov- 
 erer of the natural portrait stone she picked up 
 in the Oberammergau pathway. 
 
 O wondrous face, through untold ages wrought 
 By faithful Nature in the mountain-way 
 O'er looking 'Ammergau's acted Passion P'ay, 
 
 Tell us thy secret as to thee 'twas taught. 
 
 May we like her, whose heart with sorrow fraught 
 Received thee as her own to be a stay 
 In hour of loneliness, as truly say, 
 
 "From heart of sorrow comes the deepest 
 thought." 
 
 Nature, as Art, at last has dared revealed 
 The Man of Sorrows with marvellous face 
 No human soul can fully understand. 
 But every heart its secret may so feel 
 As to reflect a light no time, nor space 
 
 Nor element, its blessing can withstand. 
 
 London, England, 1894. 
 
 115 
 
WILHELM GERICKE 
 (Leader of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.) 
 
 "Great poets can without the aid 
 
 Ot kindred mind 
 Reveal to us the secrets laid 
 
 On them to find ; 
 But music kings need ministries 
 To sound their hidden harmonies. 
 
 For showing us the inmost heart 
 
 Of these great kings, 
 And making clear with wondrous art 
 
 Their wanderings, 
 We thank thee, while we tender here 
 A 'bon voyage' to home loved sphere." 
 
 So said we nine short years ago 
 
 To him who now 
 Comes back to us, again to show 
 
 The why and how 
 Of Music's holy wanderings 
 In heart of her own chosen kings. 
 
 All hail, rare leader, tuned to know 
 
 Such ministry ! 
 Through orchestra of thine must flow 
 
 Pure harmony! 
 Welcome again to friendly shores. 
 We follow where thy vision soars. 
 
 Boston, 1898. 
 
 116 
 
 J 
 
TO B. J. LANG 
 
 They say there are ministering spirits, 
 Who come out of God's loving heart 
 
 To show us the wisdom and beauty 
 Of action, of thought and of art. 
 
 Now I love to call such our "teachers" — 
 A name that the ages have blest ; 
 
 And to such cast a wreath of remembrance 
 Ere they are called back to their rest. 
 
 So here's to my true music-teacher, 
 Who lighted a torch in my youth 
 
 By which I have always had Music 
 To gladden each new path of Truth. 
 
 Boston, 1897. 
 
 AN EASTER CAROL 
 (To Willard Gould Harding.) 
 
 Fair flowers look up to the heavens and sing, 
 
 "Our Easter has come." 
 And birds exultingly sing on the wing, 
 
 "Dear Easter has come." 
 
 Even earth sings the song as she rolls on in space. 
 Reflecting the glory of hope on her face. 
 
 Oh, Easter has come 
 And all Nature sings 
 The glad resurrection 
 That Easter-tide brings. 
 
 117 i 
 
And in the great chorus each one of us sings, 
 
 "Our Easter has come." 
 Out of pain and of sorrow eternal Hfe springs ; 
 
 For Easter has come, 
 With her angels of beauty and hope from above. 
 Revealing the wonders ot Infinite love. 
 
 Oh, Easter has come^ 
 And every heart sings 
 The glad revelation 
 That Easter-tide brings. 
 
 IN A HAMMOCK 
 
 (To Elizabeth Porter Tilton.) 
 
 The rustling leaves above me, 
 Fresh breezes sighing round me. 
 A network glimpse of bluest sky 
 To meet the upturned, seeing eye, 
 The greenest lawn beneath me. 
 Fair flowers and birds to cheer me, 
 A well-kept house of ancient days 
 To hint of human nature's ways — 
 Oh, happy, happy hour! 
 
 Whence comes all this to bless me, 
 The soft wind to caress me. 
 This life which does my strength renew 
 For grander work and larger view ? 
 Alas ! no one can tell me ; 
 But, hush, let Nature lead me. 
 Let even wisest questions cease 
 While I breathe in such life and peace 
 This happy, happy hour! 
 
 Wenham, Mass. 
 
 ii8 
 
 I 
 
TO NEPTUNE, IN BEHALF OF 
 Sister, S. C. G. 
 
 O Neptune, in thy vast survey 
 
 Of all the ships that sail, 
 Watch lovingly the well-known way 
 
 Of one we wait to hail. 
 
 The Cephalonia is her name — 
 
 But why need I tell more ? 
 Thou know'st indeed the well earned fame 
 
 She bears from shore to shore. 
 
 But since among her company's band 
 
 Is one who's life to me, 
 O Neptune, bear her in thy hand 
 
 E'en yet more tenderly. 
 
 O'er gentle waves, 'neath fair blue sky, 
 
 'Midst winds that only blow 
 To make the time more swiftly fly 
 
 For hearts that hunger so ! 
 
 Boston, September 4, 1886. 
 
 A THANK-OFFERING 
 To Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody. 1887. 
 
 Thou priestess of pure childhood's heart, 
 
 Wherein God's spirit lies, 
 Thou willing priestess of the art 
 
 Of true self sacrifice, 
 
 Ere lingering spirit takes its flight 
 To realms beyond our praise, 
 
 119 
 
Where childhood's pure eternal light 
 Shines through the blessed days, 
 
 We thank thee for thy legacy 
 Of thought wrought out in deed, 
 
 By which love's sweet supremacy 
 Becomes man's potent need. 
 
 Must not we all thy secret share. 
 
 Ere we can fully rise 
 To heights of truth and insight rare 
 
 Where wisdom's glory lies? 
 
 SHE KNOWS 
 
 (Written at Mountain Cottage, on Mount 
 Wachusett, where Louisa M. Alcott spent the 
 last summer of her life.) 
 
 Last summer she believed that in and through 
 these beauteous scenes 
 God's loving self did flow. 
 But now she knows 'tis so. 
 
 For, having crossed the boundary lines of honest 
 doubt and fear. 
 She sees with spirit-eye 
 What sense could not descry. 
 
 Her firm belief, thus blossomed into perfect 
 flower of sight, 
 Becomes a restful cheer 
 To all who linger here, 
 
 120 
 
Still asking for the secret of these changing, 
 beauteous scenes, 
 And troubled with the why 
 Of all earth's sorrowing cry. 
 
 Her presence here has fiHed the place with 
 memory of a soul 
 Made beautiful through pain 
 Eternity to gain. 
 
 August I 
 
 AT PITTSFORD, VERMONT 
 To J. A. C. 
 
 As winds the lovely Otter Creek through vales 
 of summer green, 
 Ne'er pausing on its way, 
 Though love its tribute pay, 
 
 So gently winds my loving thought through 
 memory's changing scenes, 
 To days of long ago 
 When thee I first did know. 
 
 Thy heartfelt sympathy and help were to my 
 fresh young soul 
 What these dear Vermont hills 
 Are to the little rills; 
 
 A presence near, a faithful strength, life-giving 
 and serene — ■ 
 Oh, hills, be now as much 
 To her who feels Time's touch ! 
 
 In different paths, through various ways, we've 
 known the world since then. 
 
 121 
 
Together now we rest 
 
 On Nature's peaceful breast. 
 
 THE GOD OF MUSIC 
 To E. T. G. 
 
 Out from the depths of silence 
 The god of music came, 
 
 To echo heavenly cadence 
 
 On earth's fair shores of fame. 
 
 Full-orbed, with heavenly glory, 
 He met the lords of earth. 
 
 But 'twas the oM, old story, 
 They blind were to his worth. 
 
 So back to depths of silence 
 He flew on wings of light, 
 
 'To bide their time of nonsense," 
 He sang when out of sight. 
 
 And as rolled on the ages. 
 
 He ever and anon 
 Sent down to earth his pages 
 
 'the lords to breathe upon. 
 
 At length he felt vibrations, 
 From Germany's fair clime, 
 
 Of sweetest modulations 
 
 Heard in the realms of time. 
 
 So forth he flew in rapture 
 To that dear father-land, 
 
 To seize — ere earth could capture — 
 A spirit pure and grand, 
 
 122 
 
To which he could surrender 
 Himself with perfect ease, 
 
 And weave the music tender, 
 Of heaven's own harmonies. 
 
 He found the child Beethoven ; 
 
 On him his blessing- fell. 
 And in his soul was woven 
 
 The sounds we know so well. 
 
 FOR E. T. F. 
 
 I. 
 
 After the birth of her son, R. A. F. 
 
 I'd rather hear my baby's coo, 
 That little gurgling coo, 
 Than rarest song or symphony 
 Born out of music's mystery 
 Which once did woo. 
 
 I'd rather see my baby's face. 
 That lovely dimpled face, 
 Than all the choicest works of art, 
 Inspired by loving hand or heart, 
 Contained in space. 
 
 I'd rather feel my baby's eyes, 
 
 Such deep blue heavenly eyes, 
 Than all the world's delighted gaze, 
 Proclaiming with continued praise 
 My power to rise. 
 
 O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear, 
 
 My precious baby dear, 
 Is more than music, art, or fame 
 
 123 
 
Or anything that bears the name 
 Of pleasure here. 
 
 For in this joy I find a rest, 
 
 A soul-inspiring rest, 
 Beyond the wealth of fame or art, 
 To satisfy my woman-heart, 
 
 Or make it blest. 
 
 And as I live in this my gift, 
 
 My heaven-sent, blessed gift. 
 Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'er 
 Deep in her heart in days of yore 
 Come to uplift, 
 
 And make the claims of motherhood, 
 
 Dear sacred motherhood, 
 Become creation's mountain height, 
 Whereon e'er shines the beacon-light 
 Of womanhood. 
 
 II. 
 
 After the death of R. A. F 
 
 Would I could see my baby's face, 
 That lovely dimpled face — 
 
 O God, how can I bear the pain 
 
 Of never seeing it again, 
 My baby's face; 
 
 Of never seeing in those eyes, 
 
 Those deep blue heavenly eyes. 
 The wondrous glimpses of soul-light 
 Which filled my heart with strange delight 
 And sweet surprise ; 
 
 124 
 
Of never hearing baby's coo, 
 That Httle gurg ing coo — 
 
 God, how can I bear the pain 
 Of never hearing it again, 
 
 My baby's coo. 
 
 Alas ! "Thy will, not mine, be done. 
 Not mine, but Thine, be done. 
 
 1 can but breathe again this prayer. 
 As in the days of past despair. 
 
 When peace was won. 
 
 TO THE TANSIES GROWING ON THE 
 GRAVE OF A. S. D. 
 
 Beautiful pansies, ye must know 
 
 Your sacred mission here, 
 For how could otherwise ye grow 
 
 So sweet and full of cheer? 
 
 Your watchful love we can't o'errate, 
 
 As, lingering here in tears. 
 Fond memory brings the precious weight 
 
 Of friendship's golden years. 
 
 Ye are the symbols, pure and sweet 
 
 Of heartsease and of life. 
 Through which our thought may dare re- 
 treat 
 
 From pain and death so rife, 
 
 To realms of light and peace above. 
 
 From earth's aPoy set free, 
 Wherein abide immortal love 
 
 And deathless ministry. 
 
 125 
 
But still, while we your comfort seek, 
 Our hearts will wildly yearn 
 
 To hear once more the loved one speak, 
 Once more the form discern. 
 
 At Woodlawn Cemetery, May, 1886. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 (Hon. Riifus S. Frost.) 
 
 The heart so true to city, home and friend, 
 
 Has ceased to beat ; 
 
 No more we greet 
 Tlie form that graced occasions to the end. 
 
 Hushed is the voice that sent its hope and cheer 
 
 To hearts in need ; 
 
 That sowed the seed 
 Of temperance, progress, woman's wider sphere. 
 
 The brain that planned the good of foe or friend 
 
 Is still in death. 
 
 At last it saith, 
 'Take up my work ; continue to the end." 
 
 The legacy of such a life shines through 
 
 The sorrowing hour — , 
 
 A restful power 
 
 To make all future life more blest and true. 
 
 Chelsea, Mass., 1894. 
 
 126 
 
TO C. H. F. 
 
 (Upon receiving a twig of green from the grave 
 of Helen Hunt Jackson, October, 1888.) 
 
 With reverent touch and grateful heart, 
 
 Dear thoughtful friend, 
 I hold this precious bit of green 
 
 You kindly send 
 From Cheyenne's holy, lonely grave, 
 
 Where pilgrims tend. 
 
 It touches springs of tenderest life 
 
 Inspired by her. 
 Who, child of poetry and ease, 
 
 Did not demur 
 From sacrificing all to be 
 
 Wrong's arbiter. 
 
 That rare mosaic it suggests 
 
 Made by the hand 
 Of those who seek this favored spot 
 
 In chosen land. 
 Where, oft in life, she penned her soul 
 
 At Truth's command. 
 
 'Tis true, she wished no monument 
 
 To mark the place ; 
 But must she not be satisfied 
 
 To see the space 
 Thus blessed and open to the heart 
 
 Of every race? 
 
 O brain of power and heart of fire, 
 
 America's pride. 
 No wonder that the mountain height, 
 
 Above sin's tide, 
 
 127 
 
Was chosen as the resting p'ace 
 With death to hide ; 
 
 For such could give the needed rest 
 
 On earth denied, 
 Could satisfy the poet's thought, 
 
 Unsatisfied, 
 And symbolize the soul's true rest 
 
 When glorified. 
 
 I. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY REMEMBRANCE 
 To F. D. L., September 26, 1887. 
 
 Time brings to thee from out his storehouse old, 
 Another year which graciously awaits 
 Thy fair soul's bidding, as it estimates 
 
 The wealth the parting year has left untold. 
 
 Clothed in chameleon garments which enfold 
 The fresh new days thine eye ne'er underates, 
 It brings continued hope of life that dates 
 
 Our finest being. Thou its secrets hold! 
 
 Are not such birthdays restful stepping-stones 
 To aid the growing soul pick out the way 
 
 To life eternal ? Not earth's bitterest moans. 
 Or wildest joys can man's true progress stay, 
 
 If, in these pauses, he but hear the tones 
 Of immortality's soothing, deathless lay. 
 
 128 
 
11. 
 
 A HEAVENLY REMEMBRANCE 
 
 October 29, 1891. 
 
 And now to her has come 
 
 The soothing, deathless boon 
 
 Of ImmortaHty. 
 
 At last the stepping-stones 
 
 Of her large, growing soul 
 
 — Heir of Eternity — 
 
 Have led to Heaven's door, — 
 
 And in the hush and joy 
 
 Of perfect liberty, 
 
 She meets the blest new life. 
 
 As this one here, with love 
 
 And sweet serenity. 
 
 Lo! she its secret holds! 
 While we in patience wait 
 In Faith's security. 
 
 A RALLY HYMN.* 
 
 Dedicated to President Francis E. Clark, of the 
 Society of United Christian Endeavor. 
 
 The saints of all the ages have pioneered our way, 
 And we, as loving comrades, are on the field to 
 
 stay. 
 For us no song of battle, no lost or wasted day, 
 *Set to music by Willard Gould Harding. 
 129 
 
With Christ as our great Captain, we watch and 
 work and pray. 
 
 On field of peace we rally, 
 Through love to perfect light ; 
 "Endeavor" is our watchword, 
 Endeavor for the right. 
 
 Our eager eyes already see fruits that He forsaw, 
 A unity of action in hannony with law, — 
 The law he gladly followed without mistake or 
 
 flaw. 
 Our victory comes from loving, and not from 
 
 hate or war. 
 
 On field of peace we rally, 
 Through love to perfect light ; 
 "Endeavor" is our watchword. 
 Endeavor for the right. 
 
 Our loyal hearts are beating to work of every 
 
 sphere 
 Which calls to finer issues, needs love, and hope 
 
 and cheer 
 Illumined by His presence, how can we doubt or 
 
 fear, 
 Or fail to reach the glory of highest living here ? 
 
 On field of peace we rally, 
 Through love to perfect light ; 
 "Endeavor" is our watchword, 
 Endeavor for the right. 
 
 130 
 
FORGET NOT THE MOAN 
 (For Dewey Day, October, 1899.) 
 
 The heart of the Nation is throbbing and beating 
 
 With joy and with praise 
 For the hero who conquered, who knew no re- 
 treating 
 
 Those stirring May days ; 
 And in the wild glory each heart is repeating 
 
 ''God bless him always." 
 But in the wild glory there lingers the story 
 
 That saddens and pains, 
 Where the spectre starvation — a curse to a Na- 
 tion — 
 
 So cruelly reigns. 
 
 O brothers and sisters 
 
 Forget not the moan 
 Of these brave hidden heroes 
 
 Who struggle alone. 
 Our Admiral hears it — 
 His human heart fears it ; 
 
 'Tis the only alloy 
 
 In his present deep joy. 
 O brothers and sisters, 
 
 Forget not the moan — 
 Remember, remember. 
 
 For war to atone! 
 
 131 
 
VI 
 SOME IMPROMPTUS 
 
To "Our Lady and her Cherubs" upon com- 
 ing to Gray Gables in June, 1900. 
 
 May the Summer, hke June's lovely roses. 
 Reveal what each glad heart supposes — 
 
 An elixir divine 
 
 From Beauty's fair shrine ! 
 Yea, more ; 
 
 A radiant light 
 
 From Apollo's pure height! 
 
 So shall Beauty and Wisdom unite. 
 In making each day a delight, 
 To our favored '*Grav Gables !" 
 
 To Alice Freeman Palmer, in her summer 
 home at Boxford, Mass. 
 
 The Cardinal-flower has faded — 
 
 The one you plucked for me 
 From the ancient brook, on the honored farm 
 
 Where the summer-life runs free ; 
 But its spirit of old-red splendor, 
 
 Its tale of a brooklet's roam, 
 Lives on in memory's chamber, 
 
 To honor both heart and home. 
 
 Pinelands, Topsfield, August, 1898. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GREETING 
 
 To Laura Lee, accompanying a picture of Ra- 
 phael's St. Cecilia. 
 
 To those of all the ages 
 Who've heard the angels sing, 
 I love to add our Laura — 
 
 135 
 
She knows their offering. 
 Then hears she not them singing 
 'The Christ is King?" 
 1898. 
 
 To Dr. and Mrs. Charles F. Dowd, of Temple 
 Grove, Saratoga Springs, for their Golden Wed- 
 ding, October 6, 1902. 
 
 Golden weddings are beacon-lights 
 
 On Life's tempestuous sea. 
 Not only to reflect the Past, 
 
 But Love's eternity. 
 
 This beacon-light of our dear friends. 
 
 Becomes a national pride, 
 Because reflecting Standard Time 
 
 On every golden side. 
 
 To Mrs. Costello C. Converse, for the concert 
 program in behalf of the Maiden Day Nursery, 
 April, 1900. 
 
 Day nurseries are the gardens 
 
 Where angels come to see 
 
 The little ones made happy 
 
 Through loving ministry. 
 
 Thus Heaven lies near, as Wordsworth says, 
 
 To bless their infancy. 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. John J. Enneking. 
 
 ''Sweet pea on tiptie for a flight" — 
 Those that you brought last night. 
 Are still proclaiming beauty's power. 
 And echoing happy friendship's hour. 
 
 May 14, 1903. 
 
 136 
 
To Mrs. Thomas Mack. 
 
 Out of pure, loving hearts spring the blessings 
 of hfe, 
 
 In a world of strife. 
 To such come the visions of beauty and thought 
 
 The ages have wrought. 
 They know the blest secret of kindnesses shown, 
 The seeds by the wayside so thoughtfully sown. 
 To make the world richer to known and un- 
 known. 
 
 That is why we all love you 
 Our wise and true friend, 
 
 You scatter these blessings 
 Without price, without end ! 
 
 Boston, 1904. 
 
 To F. B. G., on receiving a gift of coral for a. 
 Thought I had sent her. 
 
 I wear the pretty coral — 
 It takes me to the land 
 Where life is bright. 
 And days invite, 
 To wealth of beauty no one can withstand. 
 
 And then it brings before me 
 The love behind it all — 
 By which I see 
 She loveth me — • 
 O happy link to friendship's loving call! 
 
 137 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
 F. B. G., January, 1904. 
 
 "She was rich in loving," 
 Is there anything better for one to say 
 When the soul has flung its shell away 
 And bounded to realms of endless day? 
 Oh, no! 
 Then shall we not say in the coming days, 
 As we miss the kindly words and ways 
 "She was rich in loving." 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 To J. A. C. 
 
 The depths of life, my dear one, 
 
 Are only known to those 
 Who, through the ways of darkness 
 
 Find victory over foes. 
 
 And with the heights of life, 'tis true, 
 
 They only reach the goal 
 Who in near sight of mountain tops 
 
 Keep on with steadfast soul. 
 
 The depths and heights I love to think 
 
 Are known alike to you, 
 For both in joy's and sorrow's reign 
 
 You've to yourself been true. 
 
 138 
 
VII 
 CENTENNIAL POEMS 
 
MANCHESTER CENTENNIAL POEM 
 
 Written for the 250th anniversary of my na- 
 tive town, Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachu- 
 setts. 1895. 
 
 For ages long, 
 
 The waves had danced upon the shore, 
 
 In sound of mighty ocean's roar 
 
 And singing sand ; 
 
 While from the land. 
 
 The pines had moaned their song 
 
 Unceasingly. 
 
 Thus Nature free 
 
 On land and sea 
 
 Praised Love which gave her birth 
 
 Among the powers of earth. 
 
 Then out from heaven, 
 
 A conscious spirit came to share 
 
 The wondrous beauty, and to wear 
 
 A crown so blest 
 
 With freedom's crest. 
 
 That it became the leaven 
 
 Of liberty. 
 
 And Indian free 
 
 On land and sea, 
 
 Praised Love which gave him birth 
 
 Among the sons of earth. 
 
 While here he ruled. 
 
 The waves ceased not their dancing 
 
 Upon their long loved shore; 
 
 The sands responded singing. 
 
 In spite of ocean's roar ; 
 
 141 
 
And pines still rhymed in moaning 
 A wealth of hidden lore. 
 
 But all the wondrons glory 
 Of land and sea and shore, 
 The pride of Masconomo 
 — A favorite Sagamore — 
 Was not to be forever 
 Confined to Indian lore. 
 
 For ages long, 
 
 The heart of man had sought the light 
 
 Of freedom as its perfect right : 
 
 Through varied form, 
 
 'Midst stress and storm, 
 
 Was heard the prophet's song 
 
 Of victory. 
 
 On Plymouth Rock, 
 
 A brave and trusted few at last 
 
 Found moorings from a troubled past. 
 
 And, later, one, 
 
 Brave Higginson, 
 
 Came hither, with his flock ; 
 
 His glad eyes saw 
 
 On this wild shore, 
 
 ''Thick woods," a "harbor fayre and sweet," 
 
 **Wild roses, strawberries to eat." — 
 
 And the next year 
 
 There sailed in here 
 
 Another band who bore 
 
 God's heraldry. 
 
 By Winthrop led: 
 
 With Dudley, Bradstreet, Saltonstall, 
 
 142 
 
[What stirring scenes these names recall. 
 
 And gentle souls 
 
 Whom time enrolled 
 
 As women born and bred 
 
 To Liberty. 
 
 The Lady fair, 
 
 Was she for whom the ship was called, 
 
 Arbella; the young wife Anne, extolled 
 
 In latter days. 
 
 With ardent praise. 
 
 As noble mother, poet rare, 
 
 The one "Tenth muse."^ 
 
 And these souls free 
 
 On land and sea, 
 
 Praised love which gave them birth 
 
 Among the minds of earth. 
 
 While lingered they. 
 
 The waves ceased not their dancing 
 
 Upon the long-loved shore, 
 
 The sands responded, singing. 
 
 In spite of ocean's roar, 
 
 And pines still moaned in rhyming 
 
 Their wealth of hidden lore. 
 
 And to this song of Nature 
 The Indians added praise ; 
 In wild and wondrous gladness, 
 They watched the vessel's ways; 
 And, ]ed by Masconomo, 
 Prepared for coming days. 
 
 Who can forget the story 
 John Winthrop told that year. 
 How "they were like as merry 
 
 143 
 
With strawberries gathered here 
 As were the Salem gentlefolks 
 With venison and beer." 
 
 And then that other picture 
 Of Sunday in the bay, 
 When, full of deep thanksgiving 
 For guidance on the way 
 They welcomed Masconomo 
 To spend on ship the day ; 
 
 While he and his companion 
 Were welcomed with that grace 
 Which brought out all their goodness 
 And left of ill no trace. 
 Ah, would that all the Indians 
 Had so met our white race! 
 
 The vessel sailed, 
 
 And soon on Naumkeag's shore began 
 
 A work — none greater done by man. 
 
 Like ocean's life. 
 
 Its restless strife 
 
 A larger harbor hailed 
 
 For life of all. 
 
 Ten years went on. 
 
 This land as ''Jeffries Creek" — so named 
 
 From William Jeffrey, planter, famed 
 
 In Agawam lands 
 
 Where Ipswich stands — 
 
 Was owned by men who shone 
 
 As pioneers. 
 
 They dared to strive ; 
 
 To their wise plea for village here. 
 
 144 
 
The General Court lent listening ear ; 
 
 Till "Jeft'ries Creek" 
 
 At last they seek 
 
 (In sixteen forty-five) 
 
 As '"Manchester." 
 
 This new town free 
 
 On land and sea, 
 
 Praised love which gave it birth 
 
 Among the towns of earth. 
 
 And at its birth, 
 
 The waves ceased not their dancing 
 
 Upon the long-loved shore ; 
 
 The sands responded singing. 
 
 In spite of ocean's roar ; 
 
 And pines still rhymed in moaning 
 
 Their wealth of hidden lore. 
 
 To Lawrence Leach and others, 
 The Court the following year 
 Gave orders "for a road built 
 From Salem village here." 
 Leach mountain on the "Plain" road 
 Now marks this pioneer.'' 
 
 Then down the busy ages 
 The Aliens, Lees shine clear, 
 With Bennett's, Hoopers, Tappans ; 
 And Cheever — settled here 
 As minister of the parish 
 And town for many a year.^ 
 
 When Captain Allen builded 
 His large brick house in town,* 
 Though not a leading churchman, 
 
 145 
 
He gave it rare renown 
 Of reverent dedication — 
 Today it wears this crown. 
 
 I well recall in childhood 
 
 The story old dames told 
 
 How through his invitation 
 
 The people came to hold 
 
 With song and prayer a service. 
 
 Some thought it fine, some bold. 
 
 'Twas in this faithful spirit 
 The people felt their need 
 Of having God to help them. 
 They did his counsels heed. 
 Old Eagle Head inspired 
 To noble thought and deed. 
 
 So passed the days. 
 
 Smith's pasture was the child's delight. 
 
 And ''Old Neck Beach" a loved birthright. 
 
 The ocean's shore 
 
 And all it bore 
 
 Was to their simple ways 
 
 An heritage. 
 
 At last there came 
 
 To find a restful summer place, 
 
 And see more fully Nature's face, 
 
 A poet-soul 
 
 Who found his goal 
 
 On what soon bore his name 
 
 As "Dana Beach." 
 
 Since then the cream 
 
 Of social life, and those that hear 
 
 The sounds above the common ear 
 
 146 
 
Find blessed rest 
 
 On Nature's breast, 
 
 And help make summer seem 
 
 A heaven on earth. 
 
 The human heart 
 
 Here feels poetic ebb and flow ; 
 
 A wreck on reef of Norman's Woe 
 
 Lives for the age 
 
 On Longfellow's page ; 
 
 And Holmes' and Whittier's art 
 
 Fresh impulse felt. 
 
 Li woods near by, 
 
 — Old Essex — Aggasiz Rock has fame 
 
 For both its rarity and name. 
 
 While Club-house gay 
 
 Fills summer day 
 
 With gaities that vie 
 
 Myopia. 
 
 United thought 
 
 Makes fair the town on every side. 
 
 The work of Coolidge will abide. 
 
 While honor yields 
 
 To Sturgis, Fields, 
 
 And others who have wrought 
 
 For public good. 
 
 So townsmen free 
 
 On land and sea 
 
 Praise love which gave them birth 
 
 Among the b'est of earth. 
 
 And while they praise, 
 
 The waves cease not their dancing 
 
 Upon the long-loved shore ; 
 
 147 
 
The sands respond in singing, 
 In spite of ocean's roar ; 
 The summer pines are moaning 
 Their wealth of hidden lore. 
 
 And Nature still is loyal 
 This anniversary day, 
 She welcomes to her bosom, 
 Decked in her bright array, 
 The ladened ship, Arbella, 
 As in the old-time way. 
 
 The Indians and the heroes 
 Who worked as pioneers — ■ 
 Must they not feel the gladness 
 Of these victorious years? 
 For what is heaven but seeing 
 The victories born of tears? 
 
 And all the towns send greeting 
 To Manchester-by-the-Sea — 
 The pride of Essex County, 
 The Queen of gaity. 
 Where Elder Brethren gather 
 In picnic jollity! 
 
 We who in this fair region 
 First opened mortal eyes. 
 Though other places hold us 
 And other duties rise, 
 Love tenderly our birthplace 
 And bless the sacred ties. 
 
 Guests, citizens and natives 
 Extend most heartfelt praise 
 For honor, wealth and beauty 
 Which this old town displays. 
 
 148 
 
May freedom, love and progress 
 Still guard its future days! 
 
 And we all free 
 
 On land and sea 
 
 Praise love which gives us birth 
 
 Among such towns of earth. 
 
 July i8, 1895. 
 
 Note i. — A direct ancestor on my father's side, 
 through her son, John Bradstreet. 
 
 Note 2. — Leach Mountain on the Plain belonged to 
 my mother's people, the Leaches, until sold by them in 
 1899. 
 
 Note 3. — Rev. Ames Cheever, the grandson of Ezekiel 
 Cheever the famous schoolmaster, was my mother's 
 great-grandfather. 
 
 Note 4. — My birthplace. 
 
 149 
 
FRYEBURG CENTENNIAL POEM 
 
 Written for the Centennial Celebration of Dan- 
 iel Webster as a schoolmaster, held in Fryeburg, 
 Maine, August 14, 1902 ; and preluded by the 
 author — in its delivery — with some extempor- 
 aneous words leading to the introductory lines of 
 Webster. 
 
 ''Health to my friends ! began my earliest song, 
 Health to my friends ! my latest shall prolong. 
 Nor health alone — be four more blessings thine. 
 Cash and the Fair One, Friendship and the Nine, 
 Are these too little? Dost thou pant for fame? 
 Give him, ye Powers, the bubble of a name ! 
 Ask all of Heaven an honest man should dare, 
 And Heaven will grant it, if it hear my prayer." 
 
 Thus wrote a youth of twenty. 
 
 In 1802. 
 I think its worth our reading now, 
 
 Don't you? 
 
 And this was not the ending 
 
 Of what he said that day ; 
 
 This one of many rhymes he wrote, 
 
 His say, 
 On how the world did look to him. 
 Whose eye of faith had not grown dim, 
 Whose ear still heard the cherubim. 
 
 I think 'twill give him honor. 
 
 This 1902, 
 To give a moment to it now — 
 
 Don't you? 
 
 iqo 
 
" 'Tis true, let Locke deny it to the last, 
 Man has three beings — Present, Future, Past. 
 We are, we were, we shall be ; this contains 
 The field of all our pleasures and our pains. 
 Enjoyment makes the present hour its own, 
 And Hope looks forward into worlds unknown ; 
 While backward turned, our thoughts incessant 
 
 stray, 
 And 'mid the fairy forms of memory play ; 
 Say, does the present ill affect thee more 
 Than that impending o'er a future hour? 
 Or does this moment's blessing more delight 
 Than hope's gay vision fluttering in thy sight? 
 Call now the events of former years to view. 
 And live in fancy all thy life anew, 
 Do not the things that many years ago 
 Gave woe or joy, now give thee joy or woe? 
 In this review, as former times pass by. 
 Dost thou not laugh again, or weep or sigh? 
 Dost thou not change, as changing scenes ad- 
 vance, 
 Mourn with a friend, or frolic at the dance? 
 
 With present time thus Hope and Memory join. 
 This to bear back, and that to extend the line." 
 
 Thus wrote our Daniel Webster 
 
 In 1802. 
 I think it's worth our hearing now — 
 
 Don't you? 
 
 This slender youth of twenty, 
 
 So earnest and so wise. 
 Who, when he lived here, some one called 
 
 "All-Eyes," 
 Did not forget to put in rhyme 
 
 151 
 
The little school which took his time 
 
 That Wisdom's hill his ''Zeke" might climb. 
 
 He saw in this loved brother, 
 
 A personality rare, 
 Which he must bring at any cost. 
 
 To share, 
 The education he had won 
 Through father-love to seeking son. 
 Reward to him was in Well done. 
 
 To be yet still more helpful, 
 He wrote in his own hand 
 Some County Deeds we see today. 
 
 That stand, 
 As monuments of labor spent 
 In evenings which more oft are lent 
 To friendship's cheer, or frolic's bent. 
 
 Who can forget the story. 
 
 As told in his own name. 
 When later years had brought him wealth, 
 
 And fame. 
 How blest he was that day in spring, 
 When his first earnings he did bring 
 That ''Zeke" might Wisdom's anthems sing ! 
 
 Three hundred fifty dollars 
 
 Was salary for the year, 
 With now and then a present given 
 
 For cheer; 
 But though the teaching was success. 
 And added to his happiness. 
 His vision soared. Hear what he says : 
 
 "Six hours to yonder little dome a day. 
 The rest to books, to friendship and my tea ; 
 
 152 
 
And now and then, as varying fancies choose, 
 To trifle with young Mary, or the Muse. 
 This life, though pleasant of its kind, is yet 
 Much too inactive ; I'm resolved to quit. 
 
 God gave me pride. I thank Him ; if He choose 
 To give me what shall make that pride of use — 
 Chance and the talent — I'll adore His will ; 
 If He deny them, I'll adore it still. 
 Now Hope leans forward on Life's slender line, 
 Shows me a doctor, lawyer, or divine. 
 Ardent springs forward to the distant goal. 
 But indecision clogs the eager soul." 
 
 Thus wrote the Fryeburg teacher 
 
 In 1802. 
 I'm glad his soul was thus revealed — 
 
 Aren't you? 
 
 For in this revelation. 
 
 Faith shows her blessed face. 
 While Prophecy, with Doubt and Hope, 
 
 Has place. 
 For us to see today fulfilled 
 In act and speech as lawyer willed. 
 Or in Congressional halls instilled. 
 
 But though this deep-souled nature 
 
 Had not yet found its own. 
 He walked these streets with joyful heart, 
 
 Alone, 
 Or with "Maine misses" fair and gay. 
 Who joined him in the "baUs" and play. 
 And felt his calm, majestic sway. 
 
 But could they understand him, 
 This serious, high-born youth, 
 
 153 
 
In wonder oft as to life's way, 
 
 In truth, 
 One who could open school with prayer, 
 And lift a soul profound to share 
 The atmosphere of those who dare. 
 
 His own deep joy in Nature, 
 As he these hills did roam, 
 Was tinged with thought of college life. 
 
 Of home, 
 Of worldly honor, gift and name 
 Which in the after years became 
 A hidden power for praise or blame. 
 
 'Twas here his Alma mater, 
 His Dartmouth life so rich. 
 Became a temple of his mind. 
 
 In which. 
 Was held the fire to burst in flame 
 In its own time, and make his name 
 To rank with Dartmouth and her fame. 
 
 'Twas here this youth of twenty, 
 
 On Independence Day, 
 Held in the little meeting-house 
 
 Full sway. 
 Expounding truth which not before 
 Had come so near the nation's door. 
 'Tis read today as classic lore. 
 
 His plea for Constitution 
 To which his thought did bow, 
 For years did linger in the town. 
 
 Till now. 
 As "Great Expounder" of its laws, 
 We claim him without price or flaws, 
 Whenever we his name applause. 
 
 154 
 
With Jefferson as President, 
 
 And Washington at rest ; 
 John Adams in his Quincy home 
 
 Time-blest, 
 How good to have a teacher say 
 The thought we know as truth today, 
 A hundred years cannot gainsay. 
 
 For then, as now, a teacher, 
 
 Was called to be a guide. 
 To lift the soul to higher life. 
 
 Or tide. 
 The waves of feeling and of thought 
 Which bound the shores of mind when fraught 
 With depths of life, unknown, unsought. 
 
 Thus taught our Daniel Webster 
 
 In 1802. 
 I think he's worth remembering here — 
 
 Don't you? 
 
 August 14, 1902. 
 
 155 
 
JUL IB law 
 
^, 
 
,,L'BRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 897 455 1 ♦