O N Q 5 
 
 OF SCENES AT HOME 
 
Class J?_S..:^_.5lJ1^ 
 Book__.£i:?_iA 
 
 Copyright N°,__ 
 
 ^0? 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
•^m^. 
 
 m^i^^J-. 
 
 WILL N. DENTON 
 
of 
 
 tmtB at ^ttmt 
 
 MtU N. Bmtm 
 
 WllX, N, DENTON 
 
 THOMAS, ALA. 
 
 1907 
 
<^\ 
 
 f 
 
 ^4^ 
 
 ROBERTS & SON 
 
 PRINTERS AND BINDERS 
 BIRMINGHAM, ALA. 
 
-JJN PUBLISHING this little volume of verse I wish 
 c!l to say, by way of introduction, that I am not antic- 
 ipating its being a literary success — of its bringing me 
 either fame or gold — for I am actuated almost solely by 
 a desire to see the production of my pen placed in a per- 
 manent and convenient form for distribution among my 
 readers and personal friends, who have encouraged me in 
 its publication by expressing a desire to possess a copy 
 of my verses in book form. 
 
 As the matter it contains will speak for itself, I 
 leave it to my readers to decide its literary merits for 
 themselves. THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Birmingham, Ala., Dec. i^, igo6. 
 
ffinnt^nts 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PACK 
 
 Songs of Scenes at Home 15 
 
 Beauties Here at Home 17 
 
 When Mona Plays 19 
 
 Old Bob White 21 
 
 The Blue Tennessee 23 
 
 Illusions 24 
 
 With Every Fall of Snow 25 
 
 The Snow 26 
 
 A Lily and a Life . . . . ' .... 27 
 
 Uncle Si 28 
 
 Her Last Sweet Song 29 
 
 Thoughts of Harvest Days 31 
 
 A Walk in Autumn Woods . 32 
 
 Oh, Heart Be Brave 33 
 
 Late September 34 
 
 October Days 36 
 
 After the Frost 38 
 
 Dreams of You 40 
 
 Song of the South 41 
 
 Nightfall 43 
 
 In Winter 44 
 
 To the Powers that Be 45 
 
 Dawn Lights 46 
 
 A Morning Thought 47 
 
 Metrical Waifs. . 48 
 
 My Old Scrap Book . . . . ■ 49 
 
 The Little Hand of You 51 
 
 The Better Days 52 
 
 A Shadow on the Wall .53 
 
 Eolus 56 
 
 How Flows the Brook 58 
 
 The Query 59 
 
 Kept His Word 60 
 
 Summer Night 62 
 
 Alone by the Sea 63 
 
 iz 
 
page; 
 
 Lines to One that Died 65 
 
 A Mid-Winter Dream 67 
 
 The Plaint of the World 69 
 
 A Song by 'Sephus 70 
 
 Fall Days on the Farm 72 
 
 The Fair Musician 74 
 
 Life's Problem 7& 
 
 Song o' Moonlight Memories 76 
 
 The Voice at Manila 77 
 
 A Song of Autumn 78 
 
 Columbia Weeps 80 
 
 A Song of the Brook 82 
 
 Dawn, Noon and Sunset 84 
 
 When Love Was Kind . 85 
 
 A Fallen Hero 86 
 
 Pickin' de Geese in de Sky 88 
 
 The Wind among the Pines 89 
 
 The Last Kiss .90 
 
 When Nellie Sings .92 
 
 Fate 93 
 
 My Dreams of the South 94 
 
 The Badge of the Brave 96 
 
 Life's Day 97 
 
 Dreams o' Summer 98 
 
 Good Night 99 
 
 Where My Love Sleeps 100 
 
 The Difference . 101 
 
 When Woods and Fields Are Green 102 
 
 Mountain Song 104 
 
 Song of a Dead Dream 105 
 
 In Summer Woods 106 
 
 Song of the Hills 107 
 
 By the River 109 
 
 When the Hills Are White Ill 
 
 The Love Enduring 112 
 
 The Old Dinner Horn . 113 
 
 12 
 
PAGE 
 
 The Vanquished Summer 115 
 
 In Autumn Days. 117 
 
 Springtime 119 
 
 A Spring Idyl 121 
 
 Morning on the Farm 123 
 
 When Winter's Over • • 125 
 
 The Dream Haven 126 
 
 Longing for Autumn 127 
 
 In Fancy's Fair Domain 129 
 
 Kathleen 131 
 
 .Song of the Seasons * 132 
 
 Do Good Today 134' 
 
 Love Song 185 
 
 Of a Mountain River 137 
 
 To Maude-Lillian 138 
 
 Lola Wayne. 140 
 
 Life's Lane o' Dreams 142 
 
 The Autumn's Pathos 143 
 
 When Summer Calls Me Home 145 
 
 The Pin-Ghost 447 
 
 Christmas Song 149 
 
 My Hour to Dream 151 
 
 My Sweetheart 153 
 
 13 
 
&0tt90 0f BttmB at ^iimt. 
 
 There's songs of smiling, songs of tears, 
 
 And songs of peace and war, 
 The melodies of other years. 
 
 From alien lands afar. 
 IvOw lyrics and the epics grand, 
 
 As high as heaven's dome, 
 But dearest songs of any land 
 
 Are songs of scenes at home. 
 
 The simplest song may thrill the souls 
 
 Of sages with its art, 
 As might it one whose bosom holds 
 
 A tender, childlike heart; 
 But sweetest will they ever prove — 
 
 No matter where we roam — 
 The songs of where we live and love, 
 
 The songs of scenes at home. 
 
 15 
 
BEA UTIES HERE A T HOME 17 
 
 BEAUTIES HERE AT HOME. 
 
 "CJTERE at home the world is lovely, 
 
 lyike the lands of legends fair, 
 For the scenes of home are sweeter 
 
 Than they ever are elsewhere; 
 So a lover of the Southland, 
 
 May my fancy never roam, 
 To a scene of song or story 
 
 From the beauties here at home. 
 
 Here the waters murmur music, 
 
 Like the lyrics of a dream. 
 And the sunlight lies in glory 
 
 On the cotton fields a-gleam. 
 Willows with the cypress whisper 
 
 Where the sweet magnolias bloom, 
 And the roses to the lilies 
 
 Send a greeting of perfume. 
 
 Here the lowlands are as fertile 
 
 And the mountains are as grand, 
 Under skies as blue and tender 
 
 As in any other land. 
 Tempered by the gentle breezes 
 
 Are the sunny days so bright. 
 While a dream of fairy fragrance 
 
 Is the moonlit summer night. 
 
 In this land so loved and lovely, 
 Whether skies are gray or blue. 
 
 Hearts are ever fond and tender 
 And the spirit brave and true, 
 
18 BEAUTIES HERE AT HOME 
 
 For the fathers are as valiant 
 As the sires of olden Rome, 
 
 And no matrons are more loyal, 
 Than the mothers here at home. 
 
 Here among the pleasant valleys, 
 
 In some blooming woodland dell. 
 Might the fairies have a kingdom. 
 
 And the gods of fable dwell; 
 So a lover of the Southland, 
 
 May my fancy never roam 
 To a scene of song and story 
 
 From the beauties here at home. 
 
WHEN MONA PLAYS 19 
 
 WHEN MONA PLAYS. 
 
 "IX^HEN Mona plays the violin 
 
 The world of dreams is mine, 
 Of summer seas of sunny sheen 
 
 With isles of palm and pine 
 Where ceaseless, sings the siren surge, 
 
 As restless billows roll, 
 A sweet, half melancholy dirge 
 
 That soothes the saddened soul. 
 
 For as the bow is swept along 
 
 The strings, her violin 
 Resounds as if a spirit throng 
 
 Around her, sang unseen, 
 And Mona's matchless measures move. 
 
 With gentle grace controlled. 
 As dreamy as a dream of love 
 
 Where hearts are never old. 
 
 Across the strings, in gleams of white, 
 
 Her dainty fingers glance, 
 As deftly in their airy flight 
 
 As might the faries dance 
 To elfin music when the moon. 
 
 At misty mid-night, throws 
 A dewy kiss of light in June 
 
 Unto the blooming rose. 
 
 When weird and wild the music moans 
 
 Along the vibrant strings. 
 As plaintive as the eerie tones 
 
 The breeze-blown pine tree sings, 
 
20 WHEN MONA PLAYS 
 
 The soul in rapt attention leaves 
 
 All else alone, apart 
 Except the dulcet strain that weaves 
 
 A spell around the heart. 
 
 From wood and string, insensate thing, 
 
 God grant the gift were mine, 
 In melting manner forth to bring 
 
 Such melody divine. 
 For radiant, with the phantom gleams 
 
 Of brighter, better days. 
 One revels in the deathless dreams 
 
 Of love when Mona plays. 
 
OLD BOB WHITE 21 
 
 OLD BOB WHITE. 
 
 "\X7 HEN the morning dawns in splendor, 
 
 And the pearly dewdrops gleam 
 On the blossoms sweet and tender 
 
 That as flashing diamonds seem; 
 With the lifting of the shadows 
 
 At the waxing of the light, 
 Comes the call across the meadows 
 
 Of the quail for Old-Bob- White. 
 
 I/ike a spirit fluting sweetly, 
 
 Dreamlike on the scented breeze, 
 Floating slowly up or fleetly. 
 
 Then across the blooming leas 
 From the wheat fields ripe and yellow, 
 
 For the harvest golden bright, 
 Comes the monotonic, mellow 
 
 Melody of Old-Bob- White. 
 
 As the wraith-voice of some lover 
 
 Murdered in the long ago, 
 From the woodland's leafy cover 
 
 Comes it weirdly, sad and low 
 When the sunset's growing redder 
 
 With the waning of the light. 
 As it told the name, and shedder 
 
 Of the blood, was Old-Bob- White. 
 
 In the summer's splendid beaming 
 At the noontide's drowsy spell, 
 
 As a maiden rapt in dreaming 
 Speaks the name she loves full well, 
 
22 OLD BOB WHITE 
 
 Comes that liquid triad, faintly 
 Sounding from the sunny height, 
 
 Slumbersome in tones that quaintly, 
 Sweetly utter Old- Bob- White. 
 
 Thus the timid solo singer, 
 
 Gleaner of the harvest fields. 
 Pipes a song that seems to linger 
 
 Ivong about the heart and wields, 
 As the mood be, pain or pleasure, 
 
 When his throat in tuneful might 
 Forth an anapest in measure 
 
 Clearly voices — Old-Bob-White. 
 
THE BLUE TENNESSEE 23 
 
 THE BI,UE TENNESSEE. 
 
 A BEAUTlFUIy river— the blue Tennessee, 
 
 And as sweet as a love-lighted dream, 
 Remembrance that thrills me with longing to be 
 
 On the banks of its wild, winding stream. 
 The valleys are fertile and mountains are grand 
 
 With the bluest of soft summer sky 
 O'er-arching the forest and green meadow-land 
 That its waters flow murmuring by. 
 
 The serpentine brooks by the clover fields sweet. 
 
 As if ribbons of silver unrolled, 
 A-quiver with breezes that rimple the wheat 
 
 To a billowy glimmer of gold; 
 The crab-apple, grape and the chestnut in bloom, 
 
 With the locust and tall tulip tree. 
 That lend to the forest the sweetest perfume 
 
 On the banks of the blue Tennessee. 
 
 The turtle dove calling his mate at the morn 
 
 And the mockingbird singing at noon. 
 The whippoowill piping a monody lorn 
 
 In the weird woodland lit by the moon; 
 The catbird that mimics the wail of the jay. 
 
 The bob-white and the plaintive kildee 
 That mourn in the meadows the death of the day 
 
 On the banks of the blue Tennessee. 
 
 The song of the wheel of an old water mill. 
 With its music of slumbersome spell — 
 
 The little brown cottage that stood on the hill 
 Where the belle of the valley did dwell — 
 
24 ILLUSIONS 
 
 The queen of my first love of spirit as light 
 As the heart of the bird on the wing; 
 
 In beauty more tenderly sweet to the sight 
 Than the blossoming roses of spring. 
 
 The sweet rose of loving is faded and dead 
 
 With the morning of youth far away — 
 The bright star of hope has forsaken and fled, 
 
 And the shadows are gathering gray, 
 Around me in life where its light used to gleam. 
 
 But in fancy I often shall be 
 The lover of yore in illusions to dream 
 
 By the beautiful, blue Tennessee. 
 
 II.I.USIONS. 
 
 T BUIL/T air castles at the morn, 
 
 Resplendent as a dream of June, 
 In all that fancy might adorn — 
 They toppled ere the noon. 
 
 At noon I wrought me pictures fair 
 Of wondrous art, and loved them well, 
 
 But, too, they vanished as of air 
 When dewy twilight fell. 
 
 I then had dreams of love, its bliss, 
 Throughout the solemn, silent night, 
 
 Of beauty's lips that I might kiss — 
 All left me at the light. 
 
 Oh, wild, sweet dreams of yesterday. 
 Illusions all ! For now the strife. 
 
 The toil, the tears beset the way 
 On the rough road of life. 
 
WITH EVERY FALL OF SNOW 25 
 
 WITH KVKRY FALI, OF SNOW. 
 
 "'iXT'HEN dawn uplifts the pall of night, 
 
 And wakes the light from sleep, 
 And lies the world, all dazzling white. 
 
 In snowf lakes buried deep, 
 'Tis then my heart leaps glad and free, 
 
 As if it were a boy's. 
 And leagued with youth in boist'rous glee 
 
 To share in youthful joys. 
 
 Then faintly up my lonely stair. 
 
 The merry music climbs. 
 Of jingling sleigh-bells on the air 
 
 I/ike far-off fairy chimes; 
 And through the dingy window pane, 
 
 I see the roisters ride 
 Across the snow, a fleeting train, 
 
 lyike dream-ships o'er the tide. 
 
 And out within the frosty park 
 
 I see the youngsters there. 
 Up early as the morning lark. 
 
 To build a snow-man rare — 
 Or hid by angles of the walls. 
 
 Bold lads of roguish eye. 
 Up-piling pyramids of balls 
 
 To pelt the passer-by. 
 
 And while I look, the city streets 
 Are blurred with memory's tears 
 
 Till down the misty past it meets 
 With joys of other years, 
 
26 THE SNOW 
 
 For dear old times and dear old scenes 
 
 Of winters long ago 
 Come fondly back, like fadeless dreams, 
 
 With every fall of snow. 
 
 THE SNOW. 
 
 T N ebon lines, across the sky, 
 
 The drifting clouds trail slowly by; 
 From east to west a sable pall — 
 
 As if the light, 
 In dying, draped the earth and all 
 
 In semi-night. 
 
 In ghostly whispers moan the winds. 
 Among the leafless oaks and pines. 
 As grieving for the gray old earth 
 
 Of beauty shorn. 
 With fields, bereft of summer mirth. 
 
 Cold, bare and lorn. 
 
 Then suddenly a darker shade 
 
 Of shadow falls, and silence made 
 
 The deeper for the gloom, spreads round; 
 
 While motionless. 
 They stand a little space, no sound 
 
 The trees express. 
 
 So lifeless seems the great world heart, 
 No sound, nor stir, its pulses start, 
 Till from the lead-hued vault of cloud 
 
 Falls softly, slow 
 The winter's white and shining shroud — 
 
 God's gift, the snow. 
 
A LILY AND A LIFE 27 
 
 A LII.Y AND A LIFE. 
 
 A I<ILY in a garden fair 
 
 I saw a-blooming white, 
 But while its petals spreading there 
 With dew were gleaming bright, 
 There came a bee of vagrant art 
 
 To dally with the flow'r 
 And stole the sweetness from its heart 
 Which withered in an hour. 
 
 Then blew the ruthless winds that roam 
 
 The pleasant gardens round, 
 And plucked it from its leafy home 
 
 And cast it on the ground, 
 Where every wanton foot might tread 
 
 Upon its tender face, 
 Unmindful of the beauty fled, 
 
 Or of its former grace. 
 
 I knew a maiden in the mom 
 
 Of virtue's priceless worth — 
 A woman fitted to adorn 
 
 The proudest place on earth — 
 Who trusted in an evil hour 
 
 False love's alluring guile, 
 That took from innocence its pow'r 
 
 And from her lips the smile. 
 
 It murdered love within her breast. 
 It dulled her sparkling eyes. 
 
 And, robbing slumber of its rest, 
 It filled her dreams with sighs; 
 
28 UNCLE SI 
 
 For like the lily, virgin sweet, 
 That lost its proud estate, 
 
 She, at the world's remorseless feet, 
 Ivies dying of its hate. 
 
 UNCIvE SI. 
 
 /^lyD Uncle Si is as black as a pot, 
 
 But his wool is as white as snow, 
 For he was old Si when I was a tot. 
 
 And that has been many years ago; 
 But he putters around and croons a song. 
 Through the hottest or the coldest day. 
 And sure as I happen to pass along 
 
 With: "Howdy Uncle Si," he will say: 
 
 " I'se a-libbin along, 
 
 Marse John — 
 
 Jes a-libbin along 
 
 To-day." 
 
 So day after day, as the years go by. 
 
 My own feet falter, my hair grows gray, 
 But crooning around is Old Uncle Si, 
 
 In the quaint, old-time darkey way. 
 And sometimes I tell him we soon must quit 
 lyiving along, and sleep neath the sod: 
 " Yassuh, by-um-by, but we aint gwien yit," 
 He replies with a grin and a nod — 
 " Fur we's libbin along, 
 Marse John — 
 We's a-libbin a long 
 T'ank Gawd!" 
 
HER LAST SWEET SONG 29 
 
 HBR I/AST SWEET SONG. 
 
 A S gently as the June winds blow, 
 
 The night before she died, 
 I heard her singing sweet and low — 
 
 My wife — to be death's bride 
 So soon — and bloom an angel flower, 
 
 And thinking makes me weep, 
 Of how that solemn midnight hour 
 She sang hei babe to sleep. 
 
 I'd heard her singing so before, 
 
 To bring her loved ones rest. 
 But saintly songs of sacred lore 
 
 Had never seemed so blest 
 With loving as that last that fell 
 
 From lips so soon to cease 
 Their music with the silent spell 
 
 Of Death's cold kiss of peace. 
 
 As soothing to my ears it crept 
 
 As if my fancy dreamed 
 Celestial music while I slept, 
 
 For eerie-low it seemed. 
 As might love's matchless melodies, 
 
 From out an angel throat. 
 At dawn, upon the morning breeze. 
 
 In sweetest cadence float. 
 
 As plaintive, weird and sweet and soft 
 As moans the autumn breeze 
 
 That grieves among the leaves aloft 
 The frosted forest trees, 
 
30 HER LAST SWEET SONG 
 
 Her gentle voice, as if her soul, 
 
 In prayer called to mine 
 As through the gates of gold it stole 
 
 To sing a song divine. 
 
 The pathos of that song as sung 
 
 The coldest heart would thrill 
 To hear it were I given tongue 
 
 To voice it, or the skill 
 To sing it with the minstrel's art, 
 
 A mournful threnody, 
 A careless world of calloused heart 
 
 Might weep as one with me. 
 
 With bleeding, broken heart I still, 
 
 May hear that gentle strain. 
 In dream-like fancy when I will 
 
 To think of it again. 
 For ever through my coming life. 
 
 With memory shall abide 
 That last sweet singing of my wife 
 
 The night before she died. 
 
THOUGHTS OF HARVEST DAYS 31 
 
 THOUGHTS OF HARVEST DAYS. 
 
 TN memories of long ago, 
 
 The scented breeze that used to blow 
 The fragrance of the new mown hay 
 Across the ways, I feel today, 
 
 In fancy and remember, 
 The harvest lands of far away 
 
 In beautiful September. 
 
 To mind returns the old farm days 
 Of autumn when the azure haze. 
 Upon the hills and o'er the stream. 
 In veils of vapor, dimmed the gleam 
 
 Of sunlight on the meadows. 
 And made the woodland ways a dream 
 
 Of shifting shine and shadows. 
 
 Out through the mist of memory 
 The past is ever fair to see, 
 "For distance lends enchantment to" 
 The visual and the mental view, 
 
 So of no future dreaming, 
 Adown the past the sky is blue 
 And stars of hope still gleaming. 
 
 And weary of the ways of men, 
 I would I were a boy again 
 Heart-free to rove in orchards old. 
 Where apples gleam in red and gold 
 
 Among the leaves a-quiver. 
 Or from the school a truant bold 
 
 A dreamer by the river. 
 
32 A WALK IN AUTUMN WOODS 
 
 A WAIyK IN AUTUMN WOODS. 
 
 "r\OWN dusky aisles of forest trees, 
 
 Sweet-scented with the autumn breeze, 
 My pathway leads by break and fen 
 Where seldom tread the feet of men; 
 In trailing robes of clinging vine. 
 The sturdy oak and stately pine 
 Are drest, and scarlet, green and gold 
 Of matchless hue is upward rolled 
 The wooded hill in splendor. 
 
 The mountains in the distance lift 
 Their misty tops while slowly drift 
 The clouds beyond them leaving there 
 A scalloped line of azure where 
 The sky, wide-arching overhead, 
 A cloudless sea of blue is spread, 
 From which on forest, field and streams 
 In golden glints the sunlight beams 
 Through hazes soft and tender. 
 
 As Scotland's heather, purple-dyed. 
 The iron- weed blooms far and wide, 
 By reedy pools and upland glades. 
 In beauty, while in denser shades, 
 With drooping plumes of old gold sheen 
 The yellow golden-rod is seen 
 Like sheets of flame along the wood 
 Where aromatic scents exude 
 
 From fragrant leaf and flower. 
 
 And though as dreaming, yet awake, 
 A pleasant journey on I make. 
 
OH, HEART BE BRAVE 33 
 
 Forgetful of the cares behind 
 That burden either heart or mind; 
 Enchanted with the varied scene 
 Of colors, yellow, red and green, 
 For beauties of the earth and sky- 
 Still lure me on and on as by 
 Some mystic, occult power. 
 
 OH, HKART BK BRAVK. 
 
 'THROUGH all the world seem desolate, 
 
 And all of life seem sad, 
 Obeisant to the will of Fate, 
 Oh, heart be glad ! 
 
 Though troubled all the days of life, 
 
 From cradle to the grave, 
 Amid the sorrow and the strife, 
 
 Oh, heart be brave! 
 
 Through trials, toils and tears. 
 
 For better days to dawn, 
 Until the last of life's brief years, 
 
 Oh, heart hope on! 
 
 Oh, heart! in sadness or in mirth, 
 
 Dream ever of the best. 
 For done the weary walk of earth, 
 
 There's endless rest. 
 
34 LA TE SEPTEMBER 
 
 I^ATE SEPTEMBER. 
 
 np HOUGH chilly hints of winter time, 
 
 Of snowflakes and the glittering rime, 
 
 Now from that far off, colder clime 
 The icy northland sends us. 
 
 The fervid days of summer gone, 
 
 The autumn with its charm comes on, 
 
 And at the sunset or the dawn 
 A spell of beauty lends us. 
 
 With breaths of mellow, musky air 
 September passes mild and fair, 
 Presenting pictures everywhere 
 
 Of gaudy colored glory. 
 Rich-hued in purple, gold and green. 
 The forest is a varied scene 
 Of shadow blent with sunny sheen. 
 
 As changeful as life's story. 
 
 The stubble-land a bronze-hued plain, 
 Is studded with the shocks of grain 
 To where the lane divides in twain 
 
 The wheatfield and the meadow. 
 And fleecy clouds go floating by, 
 Like dewey gossamers on high. 
 In foam-like flecks across the sky, 
 
 That's neither light nor shadow. 
 
 Along the streams the muscadines. 
 In dusky clusters on the vines. 
 
LA TE SEPTEMBER 35 
 
 Are ripe and full of fragrant wines, 
 
 And too, the nuts are browning 
 On wooded hilltops where the beams 
 Of golden sunlight softer gleams, 
 For nature now with plenty teems, 
 The harvest season crowning. 
 
 As half in sorrow, half in mirth, 
 September smiles the while the earth. 
 Moves on to meet the winter's dearth 
 
 Of beauty, halting never; 
 As might a woman fair and sweet 
 Who, all her charms become complete, 
 Is waiting with reluctant feet 
 
 To walk with age forever. 
 
36 , OCTOBER DAYS 
 
 OCTOBER DAYS. 
 
 ' I 'he dreamy days have come once more 
 
 And sweet October reigns, 
 A queen of mystic beauty o'er 
 
 The mountains and the plains; 
 And nature's voices seem repressed, 
 
 In mute mysterious ways. 
 To silent, sleep-like, dreamful rest 
 
 In still October days. 
 
 Rich-hued, in crimson, gold and green 
 
 The frosted forest shows 
 An aspect bright of shifting sheen 
 
 With every breeze that blows; 
 For more in gladness than in grief 
 
 The wind of autumn plays 
 With fading flower and dying leaf 
 In mild October days. 
 
 The sun, the golden god of day, 
 
 The dew of morning dries, 
 As one might kiss the tears away. 
 
 From love's sweet weeping eyes, 
 And leaves along the meadow-field 
 
 And on the bronzing wold. 
 As on the woodlands leafy shield, 
 
 A gleaming smile of gold. 
 
 The briefer days that sooner bring 
 
 The sunset with its dyes 
 Of matchless hue that take the blue 
 
 From out the Western skies. 
 
OCTOBER DA YS 37 
 
 Have something in them soft and mild 
 That weaves the heart a maze 
 
 Of mem'ries sweet and fancies wild 
 Of youth's October days. 
 
 And though each old and idle dream 
 
 And castle-built-in-air, 
 That to the mind of youth did seem 
 
 So wondrous and so fair, 
 Have long since vanished into naught 
 
 There yet with memory stays 
 The halo of the joys they brought 
 
 In old October days. 
 
 For as a soul devoid of fear 
 
 Goes boldly to the night 
 Of death, it seems the dying year 
 
 Assumes a smile of light. 
 In tender skies that bend above 
 
 The mountain's misty haze, 
 That ever prompts the heart to love 
 
 The sweet October days. 
 
38 AFTER THE FROST 
 
 AFTER THE FROST. 
 
 TNTO the dusky fold of night, 
 
 When all the world is sleeping, 
 A wizard foe to beauty bright 
 
 On silent wings comes sweeping. 
 The doom of leaf and flower, the frost. 
 
 And when the dawn is lighting 
 The world, and all the stars are lost 
 
 In day, is seen his blighting. 
 
 The melancholy breezes croon 
 
 As if the earth were grieving. 
 And morning glides to meet the noon 
 
 Of rainbow colors weaving 
 Bright figures on the landscape's face. 
 
 Where dying leaf and flower 
 In changing hue reveal apace 
 
 The silent frost king's power. 
 
 As some magician with his wand 
 
 Had changed the blooming meadow 
 From green to gray, so, too, beyond 
 
 The forest with its shadow. 
 That yesterday was living green. 
 
 Today in gaudy glory 
 Of purple sheen or gold is seen — 
 
 As varied as life's story. 
 
 The trees are drest in scarlet cloaks 
 Or robes of golden splendor 
 
 Where, from the branches of the oaks 
 And willows lithe and slender, 
 
AFTER THE FROST 39 
 
 Like tangled locks of yellow hair, 
 The pendant vines are trailing; 
 
 While over seas of mellow air 
 The loosened leaves go sailing. 
 
 The lorn wild bird, with eerie strain, 
 
 Within the wood is calling, 
 Where, like the patter of the rain. 
 
 The ripened nuts are falling. 
 The mountains melt into the sky 
 
 Above the woodland mazes. 
 Where mist-wove veils of vapor lie 
 
 In blue and tender hazes. 
 
 A wondrous scene of lovely kind, 
 
 Whose beauty so entrances 
 It charms the eye, and fills the mind 
 
 With vague and dreamy fancies 
 Whose true import no one might tell. 
 
 So vast the number thronging. 
 For air and sunbeam weave a spell 
 
 Of deep intensest longing. 
 
40 DREAMS OF YOU 
 
 DREAMS OF YOU. 
 
 ' np WAS dreams of you 
 
 That waked in me the slumbering fires; 
 And all the fervid, mad desires 
 To do and dare that love inspires 
 Are dreams of you. 
 
 'Twas dreams of you 
 Made sweet the golden, gladsome days 
 Of youth. The world with blame nor praise 
 Could gloom nor gleam life's sunny ways 
 In dreams of you. 
 
 'Tis dreams of you 
 
 Makes music through the shadow'd night, 
 While morning dawns in gladder light, 
 And fancy floats its farthest flight 
 In dreams of you. 
 
 Still dreams of yovL\ 
 And if when life's last day is o'er, 
 And looms the distant darkling shore, 
 I pass, nor fear the night before — 
 'Twere dreams of you. 
 
SONG OF THE SOUTH 41 
 
 SONG OF THK SOUTH. 
 
 T IKK a garden in the splendor, 
 Of the summer is the South, 
 With its beauty bright and tender, 
 
 And its story from the mouth 
 Of some master minstrel singer. 
 
 Were its love and valor told. 
 In the minds of men would linger 
 
 Like the classic lore of old. 
 
 Land of bayou, brake and river. 
 
 Of palmetto and of pine. 
 And of lilied lakes a-quiver, 
 
 In the shifting shade and shine. 
 Where the vine festoons are swinging 
 
 From the willows by the stream, 
 And the mocking-birds are singing 
 
 I/ike the music of a dream. 
 
 Land of sun whose beauty brightens 
 
 In the summer's afterglow. 
 When the cotton fiber whitens 
 
 To a filmy floss of snow; 
 And the breeze sings in the mountains. 
 
 With a song of mystery. 
 Like the croon of unseen fountains 
 
 Or the moaning of the sea. 
 
 Land for which a band of brothers. 
 Gallant sons and noble sires, 
 
 Urged by spartan wives and mothers, 
 Faced the flames of war's wild fires— 
 
42 SONG OF THE SOUTH 
 
 When its history is written 
 
 And the tale's on every tongue, 
 
 Or some Homer's lyre is smitten 
 And its deeds in epic sung — 
 
 Then with mighty men of olden 
 
 On the scroll of Time and Fame's, 
 Written large in letters golden 
 
 Were her galaxy of names — 
 I/ike the star- writ page of glory 
 
 Of a moonless midnight sky — 
 For the South in song and story 
 
 Is a theme to never die. 
 
NIGHTFALL 48 
 
 NIGHTFAIvL. 
 
 ' I 'HROUGH mist red as a funeral pyre, 
 
 A blood-tint disk of paling fire, 
 That purple tips the mountain crest, 
 The sun drops slowly down the west 
 Unto the ocean dark and vast, 
 Its tinge of amber fading fast. 
 From wooded heights that longer cast 
 Their shadows o'er the meadows. 
 
 Then clouds, a crimson mountain range, 
 In form grotesque, of beauty strange, 
 Dissolve in air and leave in view 
 The sky a vault of stainless blue 
 With countless stars refulgent set, 
 As earth and heav'n were rivals met 
 In beauty such as never yet 
 
 Were sweeter nor completer. 
 
 And down the lane a music swells 
 As lowing kine with jingling bells 
 Come trooping home; and from the fields. 
 Whose new turned sod a perfume yields. 
 The ploughman calling to his team. 
 So vague and shadowy, they seem 
 The airy people of a dream 
 
 Home-coming in the gloaming. 
 
 Then dusk, a dim and dewy haze 
 Of shadow, falls and veils the face 
 Of earth that dreaming seems to lie 
 Beneath the jewelled arch of sky, 
 
44 IN WINTER 
 
 Till softly up the east and bright, 
 Above the cedar-crested height 
 Moonrise with rays of silver light 
 That quiver on the river. 
 
 IN WINTER. 
 
 TN winter, with its blighting frost, 
 
 We think of summer as we might 
 Of beauty we had loved and lost. 
 Or of some golden, sweet delight 
 In days of long ago; 
 For then the fireside's cheerful gleams 
 
 Becomes a place of charm that brings, 
 In reveries, the sweetest dreams, 
 And fancy flies on fleeter wings 
 Than winds that speed the snow. 
 
 And memories of other days. 
 
 When life was love, and loving truth. 
 Come glimmering across the ways 
 
 That lie in shadow, where in youth 
 We walked with nimble feet; 
 For though the tender flowers are dead. 
 
 And all the singing, feathered throng 
 Is from the leafless forest fled, 
 
 We dream of summertime and song — 
 And oh, the dream is sweet! 
 
TO THE POWERS THAT BE 45 
 
 TO THE POWERS THAT BE. 
 
 l^EEP ontalkin' and a-messin' 
 
 In our little scrap with Spain, 
 Thus your enmity confessin' 
 
 In a sort of braggart vein. 
 Just insist the Yankee nation 
 
 Isn't actin' in the right, 
 And you'll get an invitation 
 
 For to help your neighbor fight. 
 
 Keep on plottin' in communion 
 
 In that underhanded way 
 'Gainst the Anglo-Saxon Union, 
 
 And you'll hear an Eagle bray. 
 Keep on joinin' by the dozens, 
 
 And threatenin' by the score, 
 Till you ride our English cousins. 
 
 And you'll hear a lyion roar. 
 
 Better take a spell of poutin' , 
 
 And be silent as a clam, 
 Than be shoutin' and a-spoutin' 
 
 Of your lickin' Uncle Sam. 
 For he'll don his fightin' breeches, 
 
 While you're knittin' on the clue; 
 So be mindful of your stitches; 
 
 Or there'll be a how-de-do. 
 
 Keep on carpin' and a-harpin'. 
 And a-fiddlin' on that string — 
 
 How the English-speakin' people 
 Want to gobble ev'rything — 
 
46 DAWN LIGHTS 
 
 Of the Keep-shops and the Cobblers, 
 And I tell you what they'll do; 
 
 They are moguls of the gobblers, 
 And, begob, they'll gobble you. 
 
 DAWN lylGHTS. 
 
 T SAW the light break through the pale 
 Of darkness at the dawn, and sweep 
 Across the mist enshrouded vale, 
 Asleep in shadow deep. 
 
 Then as the gleaming glory spread. 
 Swift as a startled thief, the night, 
 
 With all her sable minions, fled 
 Before the fleet- winged light. 
 
 Oft times a ceaseless sorrow lies, 
 Life's discontenting shadow, on 
 
 The heart a-wearj'^ while the eyes 
 Weep, watching for the dawn. 
 
 And swiftly, as the darkness drifts 
 Before the light's unfolding scroll. 
 
 The gracious dawn of love uplifts 
 The sorrows from the soul. 
 
A MORNING THOUGHT 47 
 
 A MORNING THOUGHT. 
 
 T SAW the sun at morning rise, 
 
 And watched its golden glints, 
 In splendor spread across the skies, 
 
 With many colored tints 
 Of amber, gold and purple bright 
 
 That decked the pallid blue 
 Of starless sky with plumes of light, 
 And then I thought of you — 
 Of you, sweetheart, of you. 
 
 I thought of mountains green and gray, 
 
 Whose grandeur is sublime 
 In beauty where the fountains play 
 
 Sweet music like the chime 
 Of fairy bells in far-off dells, 
 
 Where, all the summer through, 
 The shadows sleep in woodlands deep, 
 
 And then I thought of you — 
 Of you, sweetheart, of you. 
 
 In fancy, too, I seemed to see. 
 
 In youth's far faded morn. 
 The olden scenes so dear to me 
 
 Where fields of waving corn, 
 And blossom, bush and meadow lush. 
 
 Were wet with fragrant dew. 
 That glimmered bright in glad sunlight 
 
 And then I thought of you — 
 Of you, sweetheart, of you. 
 
48 METRICAL WAIFS 
 
 Thus often with the brilliant sheen 
 
 Of dawn that heralds day, 
 I think of some familiar scene 
 Of home, though far away 
 Amid the hills by rippling rills, 
 Where skies are bright and blue, 
 And then my heart enraptured thrills 
 Because I think of you — 
 Of you, sweetheart, of you. 
 
 METRICAL WAIFS. 
 
 A SUNBEAM through the leaden cloud 
 
 I've seen in winter peep. 
 And gild a snow world's fleecy shroud, 
 
 And o'er the landscape sweep 
 In floods of mellow light that crowns 
 
 With gold the hills illume, 
 lyike smiles of love that follow frowns 
 The brighter for the gloom. 
 
 When sin first marred primeval earth. 
 
 And moved the master-mind 
 To make of beauty, death and dearth 
 
 Two things remained behind 
 Amid the blight of Eden's bow'rs, 
 
 Accurst because of sin, 
 The music of bird song and flow'rs 
 
 To prove what might have been . 
 
MY OLD SCRAP BOOK 49 
 
 MY OI.D SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 COMEWHKRE from the litter and dust of my den, 
 
 I have carefully hidden away 
 A treasured old volume the work of my pen 
 
 In recording my life in its May. 
 A whimsical jumble of fable and truth, 
 
 Of the trifles as light as the air. 
 That vary the mind of a light-hearted youth 
 
 With a smile and a tear here and there. 
 
 'Tis an old scrap-book that is yellow with age. 
 
 And is falling to pieces with time, 
 But it shadows forth my life's brightest stage, 
 
 Its hopes and dreams recorded in rhyme. 
 Too foolish, I know, for the eyes of the world, 
 
 Yet too sacred to me for the flames, 
 I hide it away from the light of the day. 
 
 With its rhyme- written treasure of names. 
 
 The names of my friends and the tokens so dear 
 
 That in friendship were given to me; 
 Mementoes of love I behold with a tear. 
 
 And of follies I smile but to see. 
 The trace of a face in a dark silhouette. 
 
 Or in the shadowy art of Daguerre's; 
 Of cedar a sprig and some dried mignonette 
 
 That is crumbling to dust with the years. 
 
 A ribbon of blue in rememberance of Sue, 
 
 And a book-mark from fair Caroline; 
 A dead, faded rose and a sweet billet-doux. 
 
 With curl of her hair, silken fine, 
 
50 MY OLD SCRAP BOOK 
 
 From Nellie, of whom, in her beauty and bloom, 
 I believed in my heart's inner core 
 
 It better the gloom of the cold silent tomb 
 Than to live when she loved me no more. 
 
 So I find it a part of memory's chain, 
 
 With its links of the leaden and gold, 
 Connecting the life of today with its pain 
 
 To the glory and gladness of old; 
 A boquet of bloom from the garden of dreams. 
 
 In the freshness and fragrance of dawn. 
 All redolent bright with the roseate gleams 
 
 Of the light of the days that are gone. 
 
THE LITTLE HAND OF YOU 51 
 
 THE LiTTIvB HAND OF YOU. 
 {Li7ies to E. L.) 
 
 ' I ^HE sweetest I have ever known, 
 
 The little hand of you, 
 Conjoined so often with my own 
 
 In friendship fond and true — 
 Dear, little hand — sweet little hand! 
 
 No tongue might ever tell 
 Its tender touch so glad and grand — 
 
 The hand I love so well ! 
 
 So soft and dainty, yet so strong. 
 
 By magic might it seems 
 To lead me, helpless thrall, along 
 
 The rosy road of dreams — 
 Dear little hand — sweet little hand! 
 
 Its gentle clasp a spell 
 That thrills the heart with rapture grand- 
 
 The hand I love so well. 
 
 To memory so dear always! 
 
 Remembered through the years. 
 In all the ways and all the days. 
 
 In laughter and in tears — 
 Dear little hand — sweet little hand! 
 
 In thought I love to dwell 
 Forever where my heart is, and — 
 
 The hand I love so well. 
 
 The shapely hand of you afar. 
 
 So beautiful, so slight, 
 As tender as the roses are, 
 
 And like the lilies white. 
 
52 THE BETTER DAYS 
 
 The bravest knight of any land 
 Would kiss — and never tell — 
 
 The little hand — the comely hand, 
 The hand I love so well! 
 
 THE BETTER DAYS. 
 
 A S down the shadowed vale of life, 
 
 Through doubts we blindly grope, 
 In all of sorrow and of strife 
 
 The heart will cling to hope — 
 Will cling to hope when health is gone, 
 
 For through life's gloomy ways 
 It leads us on to meet the dawn 
 Of brighter, better days. 
 
 When friends forsake us and our cups 
 
 Of sorrow overflow, 
 'Tis hope alone that cheers us up 
 
 And bids us onward go — 
 That bids us onward, upward strive; 
 
 Through grief's bewildering haze, 
 Until our weary feet arrive 
 
 Where dawn the better days. 
 
 When sweetest love has proved unkind, 
 
 And all seems dark and sad, 
 The light of hope alone we find 
 
 Can ever make us glad. 
 In loss or gain, in joy or pain. 
 
 Sweet hope forever stays 
 The heart that struggles on to gain. 
 
 The brighter, better days. 
 
A SHADOW ON THE WALL 53, 
 
 A SHADOW ON THE WAI,!.. 
 
 "D BFORE a friendly fire aglow 
 
 For all within around, 
 Reminded by the falling snow 
 
 And storm-winds eerie sound, 
 I conjure visions up that tell 
 
 Of youth's glad winter nights, 
 And, rapt in recollections spell, 
 
 Recall their sweet delights. 
 
 For winter nights were free from care 
 
 In youth's glad, golden time, 
 When by the fireside gathered were 
 
 A father in his prime, 
 A sweet faced mother smiling, bland 
 
 And, merry at their play, 
 A group of happy children — and 
 
 A grandsire, old and gray. 
 
 The father read, the mother knit. 
 
 And while the woodfire gleamed 
 The youngsters laughed with merry wit 
 
 As grandsire smoked and dreamed — 
 Ah, me! but there come pictures rare. 
 
 Yet best of all the train 
 Is grandsire with his snow-white hair 
 
 And pipe of cob and cane. 
 
 If toasting chestnuts where the heat 
 
 Fell on the broad hearthstone, 
 Or mellow apples ripe and sweet. 
 As red-cheeked as our own. 
 
54 A SHADOW ON THE WALL 
 
 Then grandser sat with silent tongue, 
 
 But smiling on us all 
 The while the jQtful firelight flung 
 
 His shadow on the wall. 
 
 In silhouette, the figure seemed, 
 
 Grotesque in constant change. 
 As if of something one had dreamed, 
 
 Phantasmal quaint and strange, 
 But joining in with jolly glee. 
 
 He loudest cheered of all. 
 Not knowing we rejoiced to see 
 
 His shadow on the wall. 
 
 As grandser' s nose was large and long 
 
 And pipe stem thin and short, 
 The contrast was in profile strong 
 
 And we in childish sport 
 Would peep in through the open door. 
 
 While huddled in the hall, 
 To watch it grow a yard or more 
 
 In shadow on the wall. 
 
 With anecdote or counsel sage, 
 
 He gave us oft at night 
 The wisdom of his ripe old age 
 
 To guide our lives aright. 
 But though as true as gospel law 
 
 His homilies would fall 
 On ears unheeding if we saw 
 
 The shadow on the wall. 
 
 If merry tales the good man told. 
 
 Brimful of spice and fun 
 About the things "in days of old" 
 
 That he had seen or done, 
 
A SHADOW ON THE WALL 55 
 
 We listened then with gleeful soul 
 And on the floor would sprawl, 
 
 Convulsed with laughter for so droll— 
 The shadow on the wall. 
 
 We loved him for his noble heart 
 
 And when the shadow fell, 
 Of death that told us we apart 
 
 From him through life must dwell, 
 Reflecting on the mischief that 
 
 Was then beyond recall 
 We wept, who'd smiled so often at 
 
 His shadow on the wall. 
 
 He's sleeping now where ivy grows. 
 
 And summer roses bloom 
 And where in winter time the snows 
 
 Lie cold upon the tomb; 
 But on my heart, as time swift flies, 
 
 In pleasure, pain and all. 
 My dear old grandser's shadow lies 
 
 As once upon the wall. 
 
56 BOLUS 
 
 BOLUS. 
 
 l^OIyUS dwells among the groves, 
 A restless sprite that ever roves 
 On viewless wings around; 
 And in the day of shining light, 
 Or in the sombre gloom of night, 
 His vibrant songs resound. 
 
 Low, wordless songs, divinely soft. 
 His harp of needle plays aloft 
 
 The spicy pines, a-tune 
 To pathos, as a lover sighs, — 
 Sweet as the sleepy lullabys 
 
 A mother loves to croon. 
 
 When south winds blow in balmy spring 
 Where blossoms on the branches swing. 
 
 And all the woods around 
 Are tuneful with the singing bird, 
 Eolus' eerie harp is heard 
 
 In drowsy, dreamful sound. 
 
 When summer fragrance fills the air, 
 And nature all is green and fair. 
 
 His gentle voice awakes 
 A murmur in the tender leaves 
 That for the spirit tho' it grieves 
 
 The sweetest music makes. 
 
BOLUS 57 
 
 When autumn nights are growing chill, 
 With hints of frost upon the hill, 
 
 Where cold the mist-wraith flies, 
 An augury of death that grieves, 
 Eolus in the crisping leaves 
 
 A wailing banshee cries. 
 
 When winter raves with angry shout 
 Till winds have blown their fury out, 
 
 Eolus flutes again 
 Among the needles and the cones 
 Of pine in wierd unearthly tones 
 
 A melancholy strain. 
 
68 HOW FLOWS THE BROOK 
 
 HOW FLOWS THE BROOK. 
 
 r^ROM the tiniest of fountains, 
 
 Up among the misty mountains, 
 
 To a rivulet it swells; 
 Winding down among the mosses 
 Till a pebbly shoal it crosses 
 
 'Twixt the woody slopes and dells 
 Where it ripples as the meter 
 Of a measured song and sweeter 
 
 Than a chime of silver bells. 
 
 Over sunken boulders swirling, 
 By the ferny places purling 
 
 Where the lazy turtles dream; 
 Like a serpent in the grasses 
 Thro' the reedy marsh it passes 
 
 To a stiller, broader stream. 
 Where the great mill-wheel is turning 
 To a spray the waters churning, 
 
 Flashing with a rainbow gleam. 
 
 Then by corn fields softly gliding, 
 In the alder copses hiding 
 
 Its slender silver thread; 
 Thro' the meadows slowly creeping. 
 From the tangled grasses peeping 
 
 At the blue sky overhead; 
 Then a lake that lies a-dreaming, 
 With its bosom white and gleaming, 
 
 Where the snowy lilies spread. 
 
THE QUERY 59 
 
 Thence it onward flows forever 
 To the broad and shining river, 
 
 With a joyful song of glee; 
 Thro' the tufts of wiry rushes 
 And the drooping willow bushes, 
 
 Flowing softly, flowing free — 
 If we're waking or we're sleeping, 
 If we're smiling or we're weeping. 
 
 Fares it to the gray old sea. 
 
 THE QUERY. 
 
 \7^HAT would you say. 
 If some sweet day, 
 I should kneel down at your feet 
 
 And there confess 
 
 I loved you best 
 Of all the world, my sweet? 
 
 (what she said.) 
 
 If you should kneel 
 
 So low, I'd feel 
 That you were never the one 
 
 To win my heart. 
 
 By any art, 
 Were it ever so lightly done. 
 
60 KEPT HIS WORD 
 
 KEPT HIS WORD. 
 
 A STOKER on the steamer "Swan" 
 Was Windy Pete or Peter Vaughn 
 A lover, too, of whiskey 
 This fireman had a wordy way 
 
 Of having out his little say. 
 But on the boat the standing joke 
 
 Was " Windy 's" words went up in smoke 
 That trusting him was risky. 
 His vaunting vows were sure to be 
 The subjects for a smile but he 
 Was wont to say: "You fellows 
 Have got an idy here aboard 
 
 That I could never keep my word; 
 That I'm a stranger to the truth; 
 A wayback liar from my youth, 
 A bag of wind, a bellows. 
 ' ' But by the gods of holy smoke 
 
 Some day I'll turn about the joke 
 And then you'll see your error." 
 So thus from time to time he swore 
 
 He'd do some dreadful deed before 
 The day was over, something mad. 
 
 But Windy 's empt)'^ vauntings had 
 In them for us no terror. 
 
 Once having had an extra cup 
 
 He swore; "I'll blow this cussed steamboat up 
 The hull caboodle in it," 
 But not a man among the crew 
 
 Who paid the least attention to 
 
KEPT HIS WORD 61 
 
 The threat, but smiling, winked and said 
 
 Old Pete is blowing off his head 
 
 To ease his mind a minute. 
 
 And yet he tied the "pop valves" down 
 
 And raised the steam five hundred pounds. 
 When crash! without a warning, 
 The steam escaped with thunder-boom. 
 
 The boilers blown to "Kingdom Come," 
 And then the remnant of that crew 
 
 Alive though shocked and shaken knew 
 He'd kept his word that morning. 
 
62 SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 f-I ARK, the whip-poor-will is calling 
 
 ■*■ On the hill; 
 
 And the dewy mists are falling 
 
 'Round the rill; 
 Downward drop the dusky shadows, 
 
 Gray the gloom 
 Of the twilight on the meadows, 
 
 Bright in bloom. 
 
 Filmy, as if fairy fingers 
 
 Limned the light 
 On the sky, the sunset lingers, 
 
 Brilliant, bright 
 Pencilings that fading slowly 
 
 Melt and mark 
 Marge of earth and sky as lowly 
 
 Drops the dark. 
 
 In the gloaming booms the river 
 
 Faint and far; 
 With a light that seems to quiver, 
 
 Shines a star 
 To the westward, while the clover 
 
 Spirit steals 
 In a matchless odor, over 
 
 From the fields. 
 
 For the tale of day is ended; 
 
 Ever ends 
 Thus the book so bright and splendid, 
 
 Summer sends; 
 
ALONE BY THE SEA 63 
 
 And the night of marv'lous mystery, 
 
 Dark and deep, 
 Then — that none may read — her history 
 
 Seals in sleep. 
 
 ALONE BY THE SEA. 
 
 A I/ONE on the sands by the sea one night 
 
 I lay looking up at the sky, 
 And the cold star- worlds, so far and so bright, 
 Gleaming down from their spheres on high. 
 With a ripple and plash the old, old sea 
 
 Rolled restless and troubled, I thought, 
 And its voice, the voice of eternity. 
 Spoke not of rest my sad soul sought. 
 
 A dread crept in on my heart, there alone. 
 
 In the gloom on the sounding shore. 
 And my conscience spoke, in a thunder tone. 
 
 At thoughts of my life gone before; 
 For all came back in a moment of time — 
 
 The past, the rights and wrongs of years; 
 And I felt to my soul a warning sublime 
 
 Was that feeling of hopes and fears. 
 
 I thought of the times in the by-gone days 
 
 When I feared not judgment nor doom — 
 When tired of the world and its sorrowful ways 
 
 I had longed for the quiet tomb. ' 
 But there came to me then a warning deep. 
 
 Out there with the stars and the sea, 
 And I felt the rest of eternal sleep. 
 
 Were now never enough for me. 
 
84 ALONE BY THE SEA 
 
 I thought of the universe, great and small, 
 
 And of its weak atom called man — 
 Of the heights and depths and glory of all 
 
 As compared with a life's short span; 
 And I prayed in that consecrated place 
 
 That the will of the great Unknown 
 Would give to me more than this life's brief space — 
 
 Would grant immortality's boon. 
 
LINES TO ONE THA T DIED 65 
 
 UNES TO ONE THAT DIED. 
 
 T STAND upon the bridge today- 
 Alone, and lost in weeping, 
 I watch the waters glide away 
 
 Adown the valley, sleeping 
 Beneath the blue and cloudless sky 
 
 Of sunny summer weather, 
 As when in happy daj'S gone by 
 
 We wandered here together. 
 
 The maples whisper overhead. 
 
 Below the waters quiver, 
 While living green the meadows spread 
 
 Beside the shining river. 
 The trailing vines, that fringe the trees 
 
 With garlands green, are blooming. 
 Their flowers fair the passing breeze 
 
 With fragrance sweet perfuming. 
 
 The landscape near, afar and fair. 
 
 Presents a scene of gladness 
 Enrobed in beauty everywhere. 
 
 And yet my heart with sadness 
 Recalls the happy days of old 
 
 That passed in love laughter. 
 Not dreaming in the sunshine's gold 
 
 Of shadows coming after. 
 
 For we, when sweethearts, often here 
 
 Retold the old, old story. 
 And planned a future bright and clear • 
 
 With naught to gloom its glory. 
 
66 LINES TO ONE THA T DIED 
 
 And then the murmur of the stream 
 That meet our laughter ringing 
 
 Was like the music of a dream 
 When youth of love is singing. 
 
 But thinking here today alone, 
 
 So hopeless seems the morrow, 
 In threnodies it seems to moan 
 
 As if it shared my sorrow ; 
 And as I watch the ripples play 
 
 Across the tide in motion 
 It bears my falling tears away 
 
 A tribute to the ocean. 
 
A MID-WINTER DREAM 67 
 
 A MID- WINTER DREAM. 
 
 'T'HO' it's winter I dream 
 
 Of a serpentine stream, 
 With its wimple and gleam, 
 
 By the hill ; 
 And the low humming sound 
 Of the wheels whirling round 
 Where the corn's being ground 
 
 At the mill. 
 
 Of the ferns by the pond, 
 With their feathery frond ; 
 And the meadows beyond 
 
 Purple drest, 
 Where the water flows by 
 With a glimpse of the sky 
 In a picture awry 
 
 On its breast. 
 
 Of the shadowy pall 
 That is thrown over all 
 By the forest trees tall 
 
 On its brink. 
 Till the ford cleaves a breach 
 Through the birches and beech 
 That the cattle must reach 
 
 Ere they drink. 
 
 Of the grass green and rank, 
 Where I dream on the bank 
 Of the pool dark and dank. 
 While I look 
 
68 A MID-WINTER DREAM 
 
 At my rod with a wish 
 For the tremulous swish 
 Of the line when a fish 
 Takes the hook. 
 
 Of the old rustic bridge 
 And the hazelly hedge 
 Drooping over the edge 
 
 Of the road — 
 And the long winding lane, 
 With a slow moving train, 
 Where the country bred swain, 
 
 With his goad, 
 Drives the oxen by twain. 
 In a hay-laden wain, 
 Or the yellow-sheaved grain 
 
 For a load. 
 
 O'er the wide stubble land 
 
 To that bridge, wooden-spanned, 
 
 Where a-d reaming I stand, 
 
 Softly sweet. 
 On the breeze from the vale. 
 Sounds the call of the quail 
 And the fall of the flail 
 
 On the wheat. 
 
 But the sounds die away 
 At the close of the day. 
 And the purple turns gray 
 
 In the west, 
 For the fields lying white 
 In the silvery light 
 Of the moon shining bright 
 
 Seem to rest. 
 
THE PLAINT OF THE WORLD 66 
 
 Yet the stream, gliding slow 
 With a murmuring low, 
 In a shimmering bow 
 
 By the hill. 
 Flows to the far sea coast 
 While I look from my post 
 At the moonshiny ghost 
 
 Of the mill. 
 
 THE PI.AINT OF THK WORIvD. 
 
 /^H, sing us a song, happy singer! 
 
 A song of lightsomeness and glad, 
 To cheer up the grieved and the weary. 
 
 For the heart of the world is sad. 
 Give us a strain of martial music; 
 
 A strain replete of life and fire, 
 That throbs with a joy through the senses 
 
 Ivike the quivering strings of the lyre. 
 
 Thus the plaint of the world, unthinking. 
 
 Cries up in selfishness of woe. 
 While hid in the breast of the singer 
 
 Are griefs that the world may never know. 
 For it dreams not the bard could sorrow 
 
 And bear in silence his part — 
 Or could know in the grave low lieth, 
 
 With his own, the glad singer's heart. 
 
70 A SONG BY 'SEPHUS 
 
 A SONG BY 'SEPHUS. 
 
 ^^H, de white man alius singin' 
 
 Ob de fiel's ob growin' wheat, 
 An' de mocker's songs a-ringin' 
 
 Wen de woodlan's smellin' sweet; 
 Ob de blossom's on de clover, 
 
 An' de dewdrap on de rose, 
 Wid a sweetness brimmin' over, 
 
 Whar de bee fer honey goes. 
 
 An' he chune de lyre — he call it — 
 
 Fer to sing about de cha'm 
 Ob a country life an' all at 
 
 Is belong about a fa'm; 
 An' he says de poet's duty 
 
 Is to sing a song in praise 
 Ob de springtime wid its buty, 
 
 Or de sunny summer days. 
 
 In de spring a niggah's lazy, 
 
 An' de appertite is po' , 
 While in summer hot an' blazy, 
 
 He is nebber got no show 
 To enjoy hese'f a-sleepin'; 
 
 Fer de skeeters, flies an' t'ings 
 Cum a-bitin' an' a-creepin. 
 
 Or a-buzzin wid de wings. 
 
 So ole 'Sephus chune de fiddle, 
 An' he rawzum up de bow, 
 
 Fer to frolic 'roun' a liddle 
 
 Wen de summer time's no mo'; 
 
A SONG BY 'SEPHUS 71 
 
 An' he sing a song ob falltime, 
 An' de sog'um-makin' days, 
 
 Dat am sweetes' , best ob all time 
 Wid de candy-puUin' plays. 
 
 I ain't care fer bee ner blossom 
 Wen de wheat is at de mill, 
 Nur fer birds at all we'n possum 
 Is a-fittin' fer to kill— 
 We'n de pumpkin's gittin yeller. 
 An' de nuts am turnin' brown, 
 Wid de apples ripe an' meller 
 An a-fallin' to de grown'. 
 
 W'en de fros' mek sweet de 'simmon, 
 
 Dat is hangin' high an' ripe, 
 Or de yam pertater's swimmin' 
 
 In de gravy wid de tripe — 
 Cose I wants my sins fergibbin' 
 
 Des bekase salvation's free, 
 But to eat an' dream of hebbin 
 
 Is glory ernuff fer me. 
 
7? PALL DA YS ON THE FARM 
 
 FALL DAYS ON THE FARM. 
 
 T LOVE the mellow days of fall, 
 
 When apples and the peach 
 Are rosy ripe, and o'er the wall 
 
 The grape fruit hangs in reach. 
 'Tis then the ripened nuts drop down. 
 
 And then I long to be 
 On sunny days, out from the town 
 
 To rove the forest free. 
 
 I love the sombre woodland scenes 
 
 Of quietness and shade, 
 The fern and moss-emborder'd streams 
 
 That sap the flower'd glade. 
 I love the hills where wind-whip't spray 
 
 In blue wreathes curl and rise, 
 And lofty mountains grim and gray, 
 
 Whose summits kiss the skies. 
 
 I love the merry haying days, 
 
 When the jolly farmer mows, 
 And low the fragrant clover lays 
 
 Beside the brook that flows 
 It's way with gentle murmur through 
 
 The copse of alder wood, 
 And steals way down the meadow view 
 
 To swell the river's flood. 
 
 I love the farm of fertile fields, 
 
 With golden grain replete; 
 The soften'd charm the gloaming wields 
 
 When cow bells jingle sweet — 
 
PALL DA YS ON THE FARM 73 
 
 The moon on high, the starry sky, 
 When by the winding lane. 
 
 On frosty nights when breezes sigh, 
 The rustics grind the cane. 
 
 I love to see the sorghum mill 
 
 Pour out the nectar sluice, 
 Or slyly loiter at my will 
 
 Around the boiling juice; 
 To watch the red-lipp'd country maid, 
 
 With blue and laughing eyes. 
 Who deftly wields a wooden spade 
 
 When amber bubbles rise 
 
 I love such scenes and love them well, 
 
 Because they fill my heart 
 With memories, the which to tell 
 
 Make happy tear drops start — 
 Because far down by vanished life. 
 
 Safe shelter' d from all harm, 
 I see myself and little wife 
 
 When sweethearts on the farm. 
 
74 THE FAIR MUSICIAN 
 
 THE FAIR MUSICIAN. 
 
 T WATCH her as she plays alone 
 
 A girl of gentle grace — 
 The light, thro' filmy curtains thrown, 
 
 Falls on her faultless face; 
 And half in shadow, half in gleam, 
 
 She seems a thing divine. 
 As might a master painter's dream 
 
 An angel form design. 
 
 She sings — her voice is low and sweet. 
 
 As from the mock-bird's throat; 
 And from her fingers falling fleet 
 
 The music seems to float, 
 In melodies of love or grief. 
 
 That sets the heart of woe 
 A-tremble like the pendant leaf 
 
 When summer breezes blow. 
 
 I<ow, dreamful, with a cadence soft, 
 
 A minor strain is done, 
 And then her fingers held aloft 
 
 A moment ere they run 
 A gleeful score, in rapt accord, 
 
 I/ike flights of snowy bees 
 That flit and flash along the board 
 
 To kiss responsive keys. 
 
 At last a song of sacred lore 
 Her lips breathe forth a spell, 
 
 Like music from that sinless shore 
 Where saints immortal dwell; 
 
LIFES PROBLEM 75 
 
 Then I forget my earthly dole 
 Of sorrow and of wrong 
 
 For up to heaven's height my soul 
 Is lifted with the song. 
 
 I^IFE'S PROBLEM. 
 
 T N working simple problems out, 
 
 Whereof I knew the rule, 
 I often got my answers wrong 
 
 When I was in the school; 
 The master then would kindly say: 
 
 "To make the matter plain. 
 We'll rub the figures out, my lad. 
 
 And do the sum again." 
 
 So reckoning our words and deeds, 
 
 The sum of life to state, 
 We often find the problems wrong 
 
 As on the school-boy's slate, 
 And therefore in the sum of life. 
 
 It's pleasures and it's pain, 
 We'd gladly blot the figures out 
 
 And cast them up again. 
 
76 SONG 0' MOONLIGHT MEMORIES 
 
 SONG O' MOONI.IGHT MEMORIES. 
 
 HP HE landscape in the dewy night, 
 
 Beneath the pallid moon, 
 Is ghostly, like the specter white 
 
 Of some sweet summer noon; 
 While over all a witching spell 
 
 The mystic dream-light throws. 
 The vagrant breezes pass that tell 
 
 Of having kissed the rose. 
 
 In mono-song, the whip-poor-wills 
 
 Are .singing by the stream, 
 Where in the shadow of the hills 
 
 The twinkling fireflies gleam; 
 And like a tented field at night, 
 
 Wan, spectral in the gloom. 
 The dark wildwood is dappled white 
 
 With dots of dogwood bloom. 
 
 And flowing slow the river moans 
 
 Afar off, faint and low, 
 As if in weird, unearthly tones. 
 
 The bells of long ago; 
 And then the moonlight scenes of yore. 
 
 Phantasmal in their train. 
 Return to thrill me as before 
 
 With pleasure half a pain. 
 
 For as with current deep and strong, 
 By tangled copse and brake, 
 
 The singing water sweeps along. 
 Strange, solemn thoughts awake. 
 
THE VOICE A T MANILA 77 
 
 As if the bells of memory 
 Were tolling sad and slow 
 
 The death of happy dreams for me 
 In loves of long ago. 
 
 THE VOICE AT MANII.A. 
 
 A T far Manila by the sea, 
 
 The sleeping Spaniard lay, 
 And dreamed his foe was cowardly, 
 
 And still was far away. 
 What sound was it that came at morn, 
 
 What voice their slumbers broke? 
 Nor crack-o-doom, nor judgment horn — 
 'Twas Dewey's cannon spoke. 
 
 "Thus we remember Cuba's wrongs. 
 
 Her unoffending slain; 
 Her ruined homes, her starving throngs. 
 
 Our seamen of the Maine. 
 Thus we avenge defenseless ones 
 
 To death untimely hurled," 
 Said Dewey's guns, in thunder tones, 
 
 That echoed 'round the world. 
 
78 A SONG OF AUTUMN 
 
 A SONG OF AUTUMN. 
 
 TT is fall time and I'm dreaming, 
 
 Of the forest with its dyes, 
 Many colored brightly gleaming, 
 
 In the sunlight from the skies; 
 And I see no signs of sadness 
 
 Through the tender autumn haze, 
 For it fills my heart with gladness 
 
 As in childhoods happy days. 
 
 And my fancy goes a rover , 
 
 From the busy marts of town 
 Through the dreamy hazes over 
 
 All the woods and meadows brown. 
 Where the yellow leaves are shining. 
 
 In the sunlight and the trees 
 With the slender vines entwining 
 
 Wave as banners in the trees. 
 
 By the charms of autumn bidden. 
 
 In a careless walk and slow, 
 Down a pathway that is hidden 
 
 By the fallen leaves I go; 
 And the breezes seem to whisper 
 
 In a gentle loving talk. 
 Making every leaf a lisper 
 
 To me on my lonely walk. 
 
 Sounds are heard as voices calling, 
 And as feet that lightly tread. 
 
 Where the ripened nuts are falling. 
 And the frosted leaves are dead, 
 
A SONG OF AUTUMN 79 
 
 As if Spirits from the goodlands 
 Of the Red men passed away. 
 
 Haunted yet their native woodlands 
 In the bright autumnal day. 
 
 And in silent thought I ponder, 
 
 Heedless how the moments fly, 
 For as onward still I wander 
 
 Where the denser shadows lie. 
 Something seems abroad that fills me 
 
 With a nameless, sweet delight, 
 For the autumn's beauty thrills me 
 
 As no other season's might. 
 
80 COLUMBIA WEEPS 
 
 COI.UMBIA WEEPS. 
 
 T^EATH that loves a shining target, 
 
 Through the traitor-demon's hands 
 Often strikes the best and greatest 
 
 Men of this and other lands; 
 And alas ! by deeds resulting 
 
 From the foul assassin's plan, 
 Thrice we've mourned a murdered Chieftain 
 
 In the memory of man. 
 
 Late in palace and in hovel. 
 
 Where that prince or pauper dwell. 
 There was universal praj^er, 
 
 For a man all loved so well. 
 While the Master takes him from us. 
 
 Let it not as cruel seem 
 That a nation's tears and prayers 
 
 May not change the Will supreme. 
 
 Truly great our latest martyr, 
 
 Not in warlike deeds of blood, 
 But the true and best exemplar 
 
 Of a ruler just and good; 
 For the patriot, McKinley, 
 
 Hero true as ever bled 
 In defence of faith or country. 
 
 Now is numbered with the dead. 
 
 « 
 Now the weary watch is over, 
 
 And the Christian spirit flown. 
 Called of heaven to its Maker, 
 
 Full of honors to the Throne; 
 
COLUMBIA WEEPS SI 
 
 Yea, the faithful vigil's ended, 
 And the people weep as one; 
 
 Weep as might a widowed mother 
 For a loved and only son. 
 
 And the widow's heart is breaking 
 
 While her hero husband sleeps — 
 Sleeps the sleep that knows no waking- 
 
 And Columbia with her weeps; 
 For we loved him as a brother. 
 
 He that sleeps in sainted rest, 
 And we mourn him as no other 
 
 Than a friend the truest, best. - 
 
 And in common heartfelt sorrow 
 
 North or South or East or West — 
 Neither feels its loss as greatest — 
 
 One is mourning with the rest; 
 For we all had learned to love him 
 
 For his noble earnest plea 
 That a once divided nation 
 
 In a stronger union be. 
 
 So, our former strife forgotten. 
 
 Out across the vanished years, 
 We extend the hand of friendship. 
 
 All relenting in our tears; 
 All relenting and forgiving 
 
 Love and sympathy we send 
 To our grieving Northern brothers, 
 
 For the South has lost a friend. 
 
82 A SONG OF THE BROOK 
 
 A SONG OF THE BROOK. 
 
 TF you have ever dreamed beside 
 
 A limpid woodland stream, 
 And watched its crystal waters glide, 
 
 A silver flood a-gleam 
 With shifting shafts of trembling light 
 
 That dappled through the trees 
 The shadows on its bosom bright, 
 
 Aquiver with the breeze. 
 
 Or loitered by the dimpled pool 
 
 Where cattle came to drink, 
 And lain within the shadows cool 
 
 Along its grassy brink; 
 Or heard the lullaby it sings 
 
 When there with hook and line, 
 Then you will understand the things 
 
 That prompt this verse of mine. 
 
 For I have spent my sweetest days 
 
 lyone wandering in the woods, 
 Along the winding waterways 
 
 Of sombre solitudes; 
 There heard the tinkling tones it made 
 
 O'er pebble-studded ground. 
 As if a fairy harp were played 
 
 Of dulcet, dreamful sound. 
 
 And on its breast reflected seen 
 
 The sky's unclouded blue. 
 And often in the summer been 
 
 A spell-bound listener to 
 
A SONG OF THE BROOK 83 
 
 Its roaring cataract that rolled 
 O'er beetling steeps of stone 
 
 In brilliant bubbles manifold 
 Whereon the rainbow shone. 
 
 And on its shady banks where bent, 
 
 The willow boughs above, 
 Full many happy hours I've spent 
 
 In dreaming dreams of love, 
 Bright as the meteoric gleam 
 
 The minnows flashed below. 
 As silver darts, athwart the stream, 
 
 Shot from an unseen bow. 
 
 Back to the old familiar brooks 
 
 My fancy fleetly wings, 
 For to their cool and shady nooks 
 
 My memory sweetly clings; 
 And I would feel the charm again 
 
 Of days that fled so fast, 
 For heart was in the future then 
 
 And now it's in the past. 
 
84 DA WN, NOON AND SUNSET 
 
 DAWN, NOON AND SUNSET. 
 
 ' I *HK morning breaks in splendor, 
 
 With brilliant tints and fair, 
 That bright the hazes render, 
 
 As though my sweetheart's hair 
 In silken folds were streaming. 
 
 By gentle breezes blown 
 To tangled gold, and gleaming, 
 
 With sun and star light strewn . 
 
 When all the clouds have drifted, 
 
 At noonday from the skies. 
 My gaze is upward lifted 
 
 As if my sweetheart's eyes 
 Were beaming bright above me 
 
 In blue and tender light. 
 And questioned: "Do you love me, 
 
 With heart and soul aright?' ' 
 
 And when the sunset blushes 
 
 And tints the shining west 
 With rosy light that flushes 
 
 On cloud and mountain crest, 
 'Tis like a red rose blowing 
 
 From which the dew drop drips. 
 Or like, with kisses glowing. 
 
 My sweetheart's tender lips. 
 
 So sunset, noon or morning. 
 
 Though skies may gloom or gleam. 
 With glory all adorning, 
 
 I see and of her dream — 
 
WHEN LOVE WAS KIND 85 
 
 Her beauty's all completeness, 
 Her lips, her eyes, her hair 
 
 And all the untold sweetness 
 That makes her face so fair. 
 
 WHKN I,OVE WAS KIND. 
 
 "^XZHKN love was kind, if you had known 
 
 Dear heart, that bitterness 
 Would come to us when yours had flown 
 
 Would you have loved me less? 
 And if the gloomy veil were rent, 
 
 And all things as before; 
 And happiness again were lent, 
 
 Say, would I love you more? 
 
 When love was kind and youth, dear heart, 
 
 I^ent blessings on your years, 
 Could we have gladder been, apart 
 
 From love's sweet hopes and fears? 
 Nay, nay — ^we'd then love's richest store, 
 
 A love full free and blind, 
 And life, nor death, were less nor more 
 
 Than bliss when love was kind. 
 
86 A FALLEN HERO 
 
 A FALLEN HERO. 
 
 /^LD Soldier Samuel Picklesaurs, 
 
 Would set an' splavigate 
 Of how he faced the leaden hail, 
 From airly morn till late; 
 Through scenes of blood and thunder, 
 'Till flesh 'ud creep with wonder, 
 And one would think 'twas he preserved 
 The Union an' our State. 
 
 He told of how he fit the "Rebs," 
 
 In fur off Dixie Land, 
 An' piled the fields with Southern dead 
 Like leaves upon the strand; 
 An' hours an' hours he rattled 
 Of how he bravely battled, 
 An' , Zounds, the bluff he had on us 
 Wuz jist immensely grand. 
 
 He drawed a monthly pension frum 
 
 The guvernment in "tin," 
 An' loafed around the bar-rooms whar 
 
 He took his nip of gin. 
 One day when he wuz gassin. 
 
 His lady wuz a-passin' 
 An' she heard him to the street, 
 
 An' she boldly sauntered in; 
 
 An' the way she went fur war-hoss Sam 
 I tell you wuz a sin. 
 
A FALLEN HERO 87 
 
 She whacked him on the noddle hard, 
 
 She bumped him with a brick; 
 She tript and rolled him on the floor 
 A sort of double-quick — 
 She riled him and she spiled him 
 She tore his clothes an' siled 'em, 
 An' when that female quit old Sam 
 Wuz looking purty sick. 
 
 His glory now is flukered out, 
 
 Jist like a fallen star, 
 An' fightin' stock o' Sam has dropt 
 To zero pint frum par, 
 Fur people's got to knowin' 
 Old Sam has been a-blowin' , 
 An' they call him "Windy Sam" 
 When he mentions of the war. 
 
PICKIN' DE GEESE IN DE SKY 
 
 PICKIN' DE GEESE IN DE SKY. 
 
 ^X/^'EN snow-fleeks is fallin', an' kibbrin de groun', 
 
 An' de win' is a-whistlin' a chune 
 De shingles is dance, wid a wing-flappin' soun', 
 
 On de roof in de dark o' de moon, 
 Us chilluns remembah de story wbat's tol' 
 
 O' de 'oman dat lib up'n high, 
 Who lazy aroun' twell de weathah is col' 
 
 Fur a-pickin' her geese in de sky. 
 
 Aunt Judy-IvOU telled us a long time ago, 
 
 Dat a 'oman waz lib in a cloud 
 Who feeded her geese on de ice stid o' dough, 
 
 An' de snow wuz de3^r fedders she 'lowed; 
 An' nobody know what her name is I guess, 
 
 But dey say w'en de snow 'gins ter fly 
 'De little ol' 'oman who's lazy is dess 
 
 Went ter pickin' her geese in de sky. 
 
 De Jack-rabbit crawls in a big hollah log, 
 
 An' de kittypuss stay by de fire. 
 An' chickenses walk lak a ol' yollah dog 
 
 W'en he's hurted his foot wid a bri'r. 
 De pattidges hunt fur a wa'm stack o' straw. 
 
 An' "potter-rack" de ginny-hens cry, 
 Wile li'l pigs huddle an' squeel fur deyr ma 
 
 W'n she's pickin' her geese in de sky. 
 
 De clouds is a kin' o' a crinkled black. 
 
 As dey rolics an' frolics erbout, 
 De win' w'ispers low down de ol' chimly stack, 
 
 Den he scamper away wid a shout. 
 
THE WIND AMONG THE PINES 89 
 
 De ceda' trees w'eeze lak a w'eel wantin' greased, 
 An' de pine-needles mo'n an' dey sigh, 
 
 But de pickanimy tickled fur he's pleased 
 We'n she's pickin' her geese in de sky. 
 
 THE WIND AMONG THE PINES. 
 
 A IX, through the bright autumnal day, 
 By reed and fern along the way, 
 The waters gently flow; 
 While lisping in an unknown tongue 
 
 The breezes come and go. 
 And as a lullaby were sung, 
 The pines croon soft and low. 
 
 Than autumn winds the pines among, 
 No sweeter songs were ever sung 
 
 By mocking birds that wing 
 About the groves — nor by the streams 
 
 That babble by the spring. 
 For like the songs a lover dreams 
 
 In plaintive tones they sing. 
 
 Imagination ! call it so, 
 
 But loving songs of long ago, 
 
 In sweetest cadence ring — 
 As music slips from lovers' lips. 
 
 Or tender caroling 
 Of wild birds when the wind is heard 
 
 Among the pines to sing. 
 
90 THE LAST KISS 
 
 THE I.AST KISS. 
 {A Parody.) 
 
 T PUT by tlie half written challenge 
 
 While the pen feebly held in my grip 
 Writes on: "Had I courage to send it 
 
 Who would read it or who care a flip' ' 
 But the bustle of hastening footsteps 
 
 At the parting of lips in the hall, 
 And the scramble and scrap in the darkness 
 
 Cry up to me over it all. 
 
 So I leave it alone, and, forsaking 
 
 The sad, tangled skein of my scheme, 
 Tell of how as one night I was courting 
 
 When something broke in on my dream — 
 An ugly, suspicious, old meddler. 
 
 My darling's own dad with the cold 
 Of the snow in his heart, and the bulky 
 
 Big boots of the bandits of old. 
 
 A big-fisted man and I shuddered, 
 
 "For was it a moment like this," 
 I thought when he knew I was taking 
 
 My leave and — and a good night kiss, 
 To come thundering in unexpected, 
 
 And putting my prowess to scorn, 
 Go swearing away like a fury 
 
 To the art of profanity born. 
 
 Lord pity the state of my feelings 
 From the hurts I received in the fray, 
 
 And take from my bad battered visage 
 The numberless bruises away — 
 
THE LAST KISS 91 
 
 Take, L,ord, from memory forever 
 The thought of his powerful feet — , 
 
 And the twist-o'-neck that he gave me 
 When he hustled me out on the street. 
 
 So I put by the half written challenge, 
 
 While the pen, feebly held in my grip, 
 Writes on: "Had I courage to send it 
 
 Who would read it or who care a flip?' ' 
 But the bustle of hastening footsteps. 
 
 At the parting of lips in the hall. 
 And the scramble and scrap in the darkness 
 
 Cry up to me over it all. 
 
92 WHEN NELLIE SINGS 
 
 WHEN NBIylylE SINGS. 
 
 \X7HEN Nellie smiles her matchless eyes 
 
 I/ight up as gleaming through 
 A rift of cloud, the summer skies 
 
 Illumed in tender blue. 
 But lovely smiles and eyes that beam, 
 
 And lips that vie with spring's 
 Red roses vanish in a dream 
 
 Of sound when Nellie sings. 
 
 For Nellie's tones in gladness rise 
 
 And dulcet rondels ring 
 As 'twere a strain from paradise 
 
 When choirs seraphic sing. 
 In quavering, quaint sweet psalmody 
 
 Her witching notes they float 
 As songs of matchless melody 
 
 From out an angel throat. 
 
 When songs of sorrow Nellie sings, 
 
 Her threnodies remind 
 One of the sweep of unseen wings 
 
 Or of the moaning wind. 
 Weird as the genii of despair 
 
 In anguished wail and sob. 
 Her eerie strains float on the air, 
 
 A tear in every throb. 
 
 But songs of love sweet Nellie sings, 
 
 In low and liquid trills. 
 So like a lyre whose trembling strings 
 
 At every quaver thrills, 
 
FA TE 93 
 
 She breathes a wave of mellow tones, 
 
 So silvery sweet and fine, 
 No rapt and listening ear but owns 
 
 Her monodies divine. 
 
 FATE. 
 
 'HP WAS years ago — not yester nor today 
 
 That youth, my sweet, was yours and mine, 
 And yet your memory's thrilling, dear, for aye, 
 Oh, vanished days of lost sunshine! 
 
 We met, and drifting calmly down life's stream. 
 
 So glad for one brief day were we, 
 As over the tide, in a blissful dream, 
 
 We sailed on to a troubled sea. 
 
 We loved. In happy hours I kissed your lips 
 As south winds touch the rose tree's child; 
 
 Or as from honied flow'rs the wild bee sips; 
 And bathed in beauty when you smiled. 
 
 We parted then in anger; -nay in pain, 
 
 ' Twas fate — ' 'God' s will and well, ' ' you said — 
 
 And never will blossom for us again 
 I^ove's stricken flow'r, faded and dead. 
 
94 MY DREAMS OF THE SOUTH 
 
 MY DREAMS OF THE SOUTH. 
 ( To F. S. W. ) 
 
 "TOURING boyhood in the mountains, 
 
 Of the South I often dreamed, 
 And the willow leaves a-quiver 
 
 Where the moonlit waters gleamed; 
 Of the live oaks and the cypress 
 
 B}^ the lonely, dark lagoons, 
 And the Spanish mosses trailing 
 
 Down in silvery festoons. 
 
 Dreamed of fields of cane and cotton, 
 
 Where the darkies sang by day. 
 And the tinkle of their banjos 
 
 In the gloaming shadows gray; 
 Of the planter's stately mansion 
 
 In an Eden full of bloom. 
 Where the breezes rolled in billows 
 
 Like a sea of sweet perfume. 
 
 And I dreamed of lovely women 
 
 Dark of eye with raven hair. 
 Hedged about with fount and flower, 
 
 And with all that's sweet and fair. 
 Dreamed their voices were as gentle 
 
 As the murmur of a stream, 
 While their lives in love and laughter 
 
 Passed as sweetly as a dream. 
 
 While I grew apace to manhood, 
 Warring oft with want and care. 
 
 Still my dreams were ever with me 
 Of the Sunny South so fair; 
 
MY DREAMS OF THE SOUTH 95 
 
 So I drifted with my fancies, 
 Ere my heart was old and cold, 
 
 To that dreamed-of land of beauty, 
 As a miser might for gold. 
 
 I have seen the fields of cotton 
 
 At the harvest and in bloom, 
 And I've heard the darkies crooning 
 
 In the morning and at noon. 
 I have heard the breezes murmur 
 
 In the fragrant groves of pine. 
 And the mocking bird a-singing 
 
 With a heart a-tune to mine. 
 
 While my heart remains yet loyal 
 
 To the country of my youth, 
 I am deeper still enchanted 
 
 With the Sunny South, in truth, 
 For the olden dreams and golden 
 
 That of it my boyhood knew, 
 Charm me with the all-completeness 
 
 Of my sweetest dream come true. 
 
THE BADGE OF THE BRA VE 
 
 THE BADGE OF THE BRAVE 
 {Lines to a Confederate Veteran Wearing the Cross of Honor.) 
 
 T MEET him and note that the cross that he wears 
 
 On his breast is the badge of the brave, 
 And mark that a sleeve of his coat empty bears 
 
 Witness, too, of the price that he gave; 
 An arm, in defense of the place of his birth — 
 
 Dixie Land— and the old "Rebel Yell" 
 Again seems to startle the powers of earth 
 
 With the deeds of a nation that fell. 
 
 That emblem recalls me a vision toda)"^ 
 
 Of a host in a struggle sublime 
 When courage was proved by the carnage and fray 
 
 In the cause of our sweet sunny clime. 
 For all gallant sons of the war- god Mars 
 
 None has better fought, and few so well 
 As the soldier who followed the Stars and Bars 
 
 "Of the storm-cradled nation that fell." 
 
 I see in his visage the type of his race, 
 
 And as sadly his features I scan, 
 I read in the pride-written look on his face 
 
 That he's worthy the cross of his clan — 
 That honor is ever alive in his breast 
 
 For the battle-scarred veteran may tell 
 The tale of the heroes, the bravest and best, 
 
 "Of the storm-cradled nation that fell." 
 
 But I see in the man a remnant, alas! 
 
 Of the troopers who fought for the right 
 In legions of honor whose glory shall pass 
 
 Not, but ever in lustre more bright 
 
LIFBS DAY 97 
 
 Illumine the pages where valor is told, 
 For no story of deeds is to tell 
 
 More brave than is told of the patriot bold 
 "Of the storm-cradled nation that fell." 
 
 LIFE'S DAY. 
 
 A T morning when the heart was young, 
 
 And life's long day before me lay, 
 Ambition sung with siren tongue 
 
 To lure me on the way. 
 Though swiftly fled the morning beams, 
 
 No fleeting moment passed too soon 
 That sped me onward in my dreams 
 Toward the shining noon. 
 
 The ardent light of midday bright 
 
 That seemed so far yet fair came by, 
 And then its beauty palled as might 
 
 False love and with a sigh, 
 I with the shadows turned my face 
 
 And looked toward the vanished dawn, 
 But fate,' with stern, relentless pace, 
 
 Still led me on and on. 
 
 Then swiftly as the swallows fleet 
 
 Before the scudding blast, 
 My feet were hurried on to meet 
 
 The frowning eve at last — 
 The sunset charmed me for awhile, 
 
 With splendid gleams of rainbow light, 
 But while it mocked me with a smile 
 
 Day faded into night. 
 
DREAMS 0' SUMMER 
 
 DREAMS O' SUMMER. 
 
 'X' HOUGH it's winter I'm dreaming 
 
 Of the summertime today, 
 With its stubblefields a-gleaming, 
 
 And the perfume of the hay; 
 Where the wind, a restless rover, 
 
 lyisping, whispers to the bees 
 In the tangled tufts of clover 
 
 And the blossoms on the trees. 
 
 Dreaming of the musky meadows, 
 
 And the bobwhite's eerie call; 
 Of the woodland's dusky shadows, 
 
 And the dapples where they fall 
 From the leafy branches swinging, 
 
 O'er the lazy old mill stream, 
 As it flows, forever singing. 
 
 Like a lover half a-dream. 
 
 Dream of dewy twilight falling, 
 
 Or the moonlight calm and still, 
 Where the whip-poor-will is calling 
 
 From the shadows on the hill; 
 And the drowsy, dreamlike tinkle 
 
 Of the cowbells in the lane. 
 Where the firefly tapers twinkle 
 
 Like a "jack-o'-lantern" rain. 
 
 Dream of breeze -blown roses swaying 
 By the garden walks at home, 
 
 Where the dear old folks are praying 
 For their wayward own that roam; . 
 
GOOD NIGHT 99 
 
 And are watching for their coming 
 From the early dawn till late, 
 
 As they listen in the gloaming 
 For the clicking of the gate. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 r^ OOD NIGHT the stars are beaming 
 
 A-down in dreamful light, 
 A-twinkle and a-gleaming 
 
 Good night, my love, good night! 
 
 Go seek thy peaceful pillow, 
 
 And angels guard till light 
 While thy true heart beats calmy — 
 
 My dear, good night, good night! 
 
 Close thy brown eyes in slumber 
 That smiled by day so bright — 
 
 In dreams of beauty smiling 
 
 Sleep, sweet — Good night, good night! 
 
 LOFa 
 
100 WHERE MY LOVE SLEEPS 
 
 WHERE MY LOVE SLEEPS. 
 
 TV/IY love is sleeping where the grass 
 
 In summer time is green, 
 Low bending when the breezes pass 
 
 In silence and unseen — 
 She who was young and dutiful, 
 
 And sweet surpassing fair, 
 Of soul as blithe and beautiful 
 
 As spirits of the air. 
 
 My love is sleeping where the rose 
 
 With fragrance blooms in spring, 
 Where lily and the ivy grows. 
 
 And birds low carols sing, 
 From willow branches drooping slenderly, 
 
 For she was young and gay 
 Of heart and loved as tenderly 
 
 The glad sunshine as they. 
 
 My love is sleeping where the dew 
 
 Gleams brightly when the moon, 
 The myrtle leaves is shining through 
 
 From star-strewn skies of June, 
 To deck the pall like gloom of night 
 
 That veils the mound above 
 Her ashes with a bloom of light 
 
 That seems a smile of love. 
 
 My love is sleeping where the sod. 
 
 Beneath which all must go, 
 Is mantled in a shroud of God, 
 
 The winter's gift of snow; 
 
THE DIFFERENCE 101 
 
 For her young life was gifted bright, 
 And pure of heart and mind 
 
 As are the snowflakes drifted white, 
 Or borne upon the wind. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 T N watch-tower lone and searching 
 
 The heaven's starry deeps, 
 A student worn with watching 
 
 His midnight vigil keeps. 
 This sage, half mad with learning, 
 
 Essays the sum to find 
 Of miles between the planets 
 
 And time their lights have shined. 
 
 Were I some hermit scholar, 
 
 In quiet thought alone, 
 I'd find a better problem, 
 
 Though deeper yet I own. 
 For I would try to reckon 
 
 The blissful kisses score 
 That on two lips of ruby 
 
 Find place forevermore. 
 
102 WHEN FIELDS AND WOODS ARE GREEN 
 
 WHEN FIELDS AND WOODS ARE GREEN. 
 
 \X7 HEN earth and heaven smile together 
 
 In gladsome days of spring, 
 With shine of sun and witching weather 
 
 That birds and blossom bring, 
 'Tis then alone I love to wander 
 
 By wood and field and stream 
 While over love and life I ponder 
 
 In thought that's half a dream. 
 
 Where lost in fancy, I in chancing 
 
 To scan the plain behold 
 The lazy mist-wraith Lawrence dancing 
 
 Along the sunny wold; 
 And flag and reed and rushes quiver, 
 
 And to the breezes lean 
 That run in ripples on the river 
 
 When woods and fields are green. 
 
 Where lately slept the forest leafless, 
 
 In solemn silence bound. 
 Awakes a laughter gay and griefless, 
 
 Of merry, mirthful sound. 
 Save when the turtle-dove is moaning — 
 
 Tho' not because it grieves — 
 Or sounds the dull and drowsy droning 
 
 Of bees among the leaves. 
 
 And where the woodland bud is springing 
 
 Soft strains of music float. 
 For there the mocking-bird is singing, 
 
 With sweet and melting note; 
 
WHEN FIELDS AND WOODS ARE GREEN 103 
 
 And, too, the sky is blue above me, 
 
 In cloudless beauty seen, 
 And breezes whisper that they love me 
 
 When woods and fields are green. 
 
 And on the treeless field and meadow 
 
 The golden sunlight shines, 
 While half a light and half a shadow 
 
 The greening wood combines; 
 And down the dingle bright and bloomy. 
 
 With smiles of silver sheen. 
 The babbling brooks come talking to me 
 
 When woods and fields are green. 
 
104 MOUNTAIN SONG 
 
 MOUNTAIN SONG. 
 
 tj^EAR not the mountain's lofty height, 
 
 Tho' seeming grim and hoary, 
 For there eternal Heaven's light 
 
 Is throned in deathless glory. 
 Naught breaks the dreamful silence there 
 
 Save some bold eagle's cry, 
 High-sailing graceful, far and fair 
 
 The blue attainless sky. 
 
 In every age and every clime 
 
 Great spirits seek the mountains, 
 And on their sacred heights sublime 
 
 Drink deep of wisdom's fountains. 
 There bribeless freedom stands on guard, 
 
 The sentinel of time : 
 There nature's virgin soil's unmarred 
 
 By toil or stained with crime. 
 
 The Saviour taught on Olive's crest, 
 
 There wept in holy pity, 
 For lost Jerusalem, his best 
 
 Beloved and chosen city. 
 Then up and leave the lowlands where 
 
 The murky mist enshrouds 
 The vale and drink diviner air 
 
 With seraphs o'er the clouds. 
 
 As Abram, who would sacrificed 
 
 His son upon the altar; 
 Elijah, Moses and the Christ, 
 
 Or Jeptha's martyred daughter, 
 
SONG OF A DEAD DREAM 105 
 
 lycave, leave the shadows grim below, 
 Where sinful mortals plod, 
 
 And climb the rosy heights to know 
 A kinship with the gods! 
 
 SONG OF A DEAD DREAM. 
 
 T WILL sing you a song, like the swan that is said 
 
 To sing sweetest and best as it dies; 
 A song of a dreaming of love that is dead 
 
 In the light of your beautiful eyes. 
 A song with a theme as pathetic as old, 
 
 For a song born of love that is past, 
 That comes from a heart that is careless and cold 
 
 With its dreams and its hopes fading fast. 
 
 A song for the smiles that will brighten the ways. 
 
 Through the gloom of the sad coming years, 
 When age with its toil, in the dark after days. 
 
 Shall be burdened with trouble and tears — 
 A song for the gladness revived long at rest 
 
 That awoke with a happy surprise 
 And a song for the hope renewed in my breast 
 
 By the light of your beautiful eyes. 
 
 The song and the singer may pass out of mind, 
 
 But the dream of the dreamer will live 
 As long as a lover in love is so blind 
 
 As a life for his passion to give; 
 So kindly accept; for this song, as I've said, 
 
 Is like that of the swan as it dies. 
 Inspired by a dream of a love that is dead 
 
 In the light of your beautiful eyes. 
 
.106 IN SUMMER WOODS 
 
 IN SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 TN summer time I love to roam 
 
 The dark, dream-haunted woods, 
 Where sombre shadows have their home, 
 
 And mystic silence broods 
 Unbroken, save when nature's heard 
 
 In whispers of the breeze 
 And flapping wing of flying birds 
 
 Or hum of roving bees. 
 
 In lappings of the limpid streams 
 
 That fret the flowered dells, 
 Whose soft and silver tinkle seems 
 
 As weird, unearthly bells; 
 Or when the brawling crows aloft, 
 
 In noisy quarrels wail, 
 Or coos the dove in accents soft, 
 
 Or flutes the piper quail. 
 
 Or when on hollow tree-trunks felled, 
 
 The tufted red-head pounds, 
 A woodman-wraith of elfin eld 
 
 Whose pigmy axe resounds; 
 Or rumble of the waterfall 
 
 That tumbles down the steep. 
 With quaking thunder sounds that call 
 
 The echoes from their sleep. 
 
 Therefore I love the summer wood, 
 
 Its cool and dreamy gloom. 
 Its brooks and trees and birds and bees 
 
 And flowers' faint perfume — 
 
SONG OF THE HILLS ' 107 
 
 Unmarred by human hands, it seems 
 
 As consecrated ground 
 And fit for thought and hallowed dreams 
 
 In silence or in sound. 
 
 SONG OF THE HII.LS. 
 
 A WEARY of the world I fain 
 
 Would often feel forsooth 
 The same sweet, gladsome charm again 
 
 That lured me in my youth 
 To wander o'er the hills so grand, 
 
 And by the babbling streams, 
 A rover and in fairyland 
 A dreamer of sweet dreams. 
 
 And longings come to see the hills — 
 
 The hills of memory — 
 Whose beauty with a rapture thrills 
 
 The spirit bound or free. 
 The azure hills, the hills of home, 
 
 And fields of golden gleams, 
 In fancy where I often roam 
 
 A dreamer of sweet dreams. 
 
 Sweet hills of woodland where the leaves, 
 
 By summer breezes stirred 
 With music soothe the soul that grieves, 
 
 And where the mocking bird 
 
108 SONG OF THE HILLS 
 
 A song of love in gladness trills — 
 Where earth an Eden seemed, 
 
 When in the shadow of the hills 
 In other days I dreamed. 
 
 How sweet, in deathless memories 
 
 The beauty of the hills. 
 The weird-toned wind-harp in the trees, 
 
 The rondel of the rills, 
 And slumbertune the river plays — 
 
 Like dream-song sweet and low — 
 Of olden days and golden days. 
 
 And loves of long ago. 
 
BY THE RIVER 106 
 
 BY THE RIVER. 
 
 "D Y the river let me loiter 
 
 In the blooming days of spring, 
 When the gleam is on the water 
 
 And the birds are on the wing; 
 Let me from the world's intrusion 
 
 In the pleasant shadows lie, 
 Dreaming in a sweet seclusion 
 
 While the moments swiftly fiy. 
 
 In the summer by the river 
 
 Let me wander at my will, 
 Where the weeping willows quiver 
 
 In the breezes never still, 
 While I weave a dreamy story 
 
 Of the fabled long ago 
 When the red man in his glory 
 
 Saw its silver currents flow. 
 
 When the autumn leaf is yellow, 
 
 And a freight of luscious wines, 
 In the wild grape, ripe and .mellow. 
 
 Weights the woodlands trailing vines. 
 By the river let me wander. 
 
 Drifting with the winding stream — 
 By the river let me ponder. 
 
 By the river let me dream. 
 
 For the river through the hazy 
 Days of autumn softly glides, 
 
 With a movement slow and lazy 
 While the dreamy spell abides; 
 
110 BY THE RIVER 
 
 And its water chanting ever 
 In a lyric sweet and low, 
 
 Sings a song that leaves me never 
 Though the seasons come and go. 
 
 With a melancholy shiver 
 
 And a fleeting glance I go, 
 In the winter from the river 
 
 To the fireside's friendly glow, 
 But its shimmer seems to haunt me 
 
 In the solemn snowy night, 
 And its murmur seems to taunt me 
 
 With a song of past delight. 
 
WHEN THE HILLS ARE WHITE 111 
 
 WHEN THE HILLS ARE WHITE. 
 
 \X7HEN the earth is white and gleaming, 
 
 Where the shining snowflakes lie, 
 And the morning sun is beaming 
 
 From the azure of the sky, 
 Like a loving smile and tender 
 
 Falls the gentle winter light 
 In a golden glow of splendor 
 
 On the wide expanse of white. 
 
 And beyond the fields and meadows 
 
 Where the misty river lies, 
 Sloping up above the shadows, 
 
 Loom the hills against the skies, 
 Where at sunset one beholds them 
 
 In a blush of rosy light, 
 Ere the twilight gloom enfolds them 
 
 In the bosom of the night. 
 
 Then if skies are opalescent. 
 
 Star be-jeweled, cloudless bright, 
 And the moon is full or crescent 
 
 Shining with a ghostly light. 
 Fainter far they gleam and glisten, 
 
 While the breezes from them seem 
 Spirit whispers and I listen 
 
 In a weird enchanted dream. 
 
 In a dream of vanished pleasure 
 
 In the sunny years gone by, 
 And of love as life's best treasure, 
 
 Knowing neither tear nor sigh; 
 
112 THE LOVE ENDURING 
 
 Love than which is nothing sweeter 
 To the wild heart that it thrills, 
 
 Though a passion fleeing fleeter 
 Than the snowflakes from the hills. 
 
 THE LOVE ENDURING. 
 
 'T*HE love that endureth forever 
 
 Is founded on virtue and truth, 
 All others are false fleeting passions 
 That fail with the fading of youth. 
 
THE OLD DINNER HORN 1 13 
 
 THE OLD DINNER HORN. 
 
 4 4 HP HE old oaken bucket that hangs in the well" 
 
 Is the theme of a beautiful song, 
 ' 'The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell' ' 
 
 And the streamlet that "zig zags along" 
 Yet dearer than these are a full many more 
 
 Of the beauties of home that I sing; 
 A loft full of hay, and the old creaking door 
 
 To the barn that I used for a swing. 
 
 The cool swimming pool and the vine-tangled hill, 
 
 The low brown cottage where I was born; 
 The murmuring rill, by the old watermill — 
 
 But the toot of the old dinner horn 
 Was dearer to me with its far-reaching sound 
 
 As it floated and echoed and rolled. 
 Encircling the farm to its uttermost bound 
 
 And so promptly the dinner hour told. 
 
 Oh, the old dinner horn! I hailed it a boon, 
 With its welcome so cheerful, and true 
 
 To the hour it called me to dinner at noon 
 With its "toot" and a "too-doodle-doo." 
 
 I've listened to songs of the sea all alone, 
 
 To chimes of bells in echoing aisles, 
 And to organs that shook with thundering tone 
 
 The walls of the vast cathedral piles — 
 More welcome to me in the hot summer time, 
 
 Of that horn, was its loud rolling roar 
 Than the organ's sweet swells, than a chime of bells, 
 
 Or the murmuring sea on the shore, 
 
114 THE OLD DINNER HORN 
 
 At the first faiut note of that horn on the air, 
 
 Was the harrow, the scythe or the hoe 
 Abandoned at once, and the plow with its gear 
 
 Was left standing alone by the row; 
 And quickly, with appetite often denied 
 
 To the wishes of kings and their queens, 
 I mounted my steed, with a hunger-born speed, 
 
 For a ride to my bacon and beans. 
 
 The minstrel may sing of the bugles that call 
 
 To the patriot soldier to arm, 
 But I sing of that trump, while I sing at all, 
 
 That called me home at noon on the farm. 
 Oh, I hailed it a boon, in the month of June, 
 
 When I toiled 'mid the green, growing corn. 
 For beautiful music to herald the noon 
 
 Was the "toot" of that old dinner horn. 
 
 If the judgment trump is no harsher in sound 
 
 On that day when it wakes up the dead 
 From their last deep sleep in the dark charnel ground. 
 
 And I sleep with a grave for a bed. 
 When Gabriel shall call with his trumpet some morn 
 
 Me to wake at the crack of the doom, 
 Perhaps I shall think that the old dinner horn 
 
 Calls me home from the fields at noon. 
 
 Shall think it the horn that is sounding at the noon 
 With its "toot" and a "too-doodle-doo,"— 
 
 Not the Archangel's trump that heralds the Doom 
 And the judgment to me and to you. » 
 
THE VANQUISHED SUMMER 115 
 
 THE VANQUISHED SUMMER. 
 
 I^^OW sings the weird September wind, 
 
 Sad herald of the fall, 
 While blue the after summer haze 
 
 Drops like a spirit pall 
 To wrap the far-off mountain scene 
 
 In mystery and gloom, 
 And throw a misty pallor o'er 
 
 The meadow's face abloom. 
 
 And now the vanquished summer flees, 
 
 As flees a frightened thief, 
 And faint the autumn's waning sun 
 
 lyies on the trembling leaf; 
 And homeward flies the drunken bee 
 
 When day and darkness meet 
 To revel o'er his hoarded store 
 
 In wealth of well-earned sweet. 
 
 The luscious grape is ripe, the nuts 
 
 Are browning one by one, 
 And high above the orchard wall, 
 
 A- gleam in autumn's sun, 
 Pawn broker-like, the apple hangs 
 
 A branch of gilded ball, 
 For summer's wealth of hoarded gold 
 
 Is squandered on the fall. 
 
 There's mystic music in the night 
 
 O'er forest, field and flood, 
 And marvelous beauty in the light 
 
 Across the changing wood; 
 
116 THE VANQUISHED SUMMER 
 
 And yet a pathos strangely sweet 
 
 In everytMng appears, 
 As one a deeper pity feels 
 
 At beauty moved to tears. 
 
 Not now I love the jostling crowd, 
 
 The struggling mass of self, 
 The eager throng that sweeps along 
 
 In greedy race for pelf; 
 For I would fain the truant play 
 
 And roam from city's street 
 Where nature spreads her arms to me 
 
 So lovingly and sweet. 
 
IN AUTUMN DAYS 117 
 
 IN AUTUMN DAYS. 
 
 HP HERE'S music in the tangled wood 
 
 Where spirit pipers blow, 
 With every breeze, a faint prelude 
 
 To songs of long ago — 
 That makes a fadeless memory 
 
 The glory of the days, 
 When childhood's heart beat glad and free, 
 
 In childhood's happy ways. 
 
 The frosted fields are scrolls of gold, 
 
 Unrolled before the view, 
 Where summer's tale of toil is told 
 
 In harvests old and new; 
 Of filmy form as fairy boats. 
 
 Outsailing far and fair, 
 The downy thistle-blossom floats 
 
 Its fleet along the air. 
 
 Where goldenrod illumes the glade. 
 
 With arcs of shining blooms, 
 The iron-weeds are knights arrayed 
 
 With silken, purple plumes; 
 And mist-wraiths, "I^azy Lawrence" named 
 
 In folklore quaint and old. 
 Are dancing where the daisies flamed 
 
 Of late a plain of gold. 
 
 Beyond the sunlit plain agleam, 
 Green-fringed with fragrant pines, 
 
 The mountains loom above the stream 
 That like a serpent winds 
 
118 IN A UTUMN DA YS 
 
 A silver trail, by meadows lush 
 And reedy brake and pool 
 
 Till lost within the solemn hush 
 Of shadowed woods and cool. 
 
 For autumn with its dreamy haze 
 
 On wings of sweet delight, 
 Is passing by in glory days 
 
 To meet the winter's blight, 
 And memory is bright with gleams 
 
 That lit the days of yore — 
 The days of loving and of dreams, 
 
 The day of nevermore! 
 
SPRINGTIME 119 
 
 SPRINGTIME. 
 
 \X7HEN sunny skies of springtime smile 
 
 The cold and senseless sod 
 Teems with a myriad forms of life 
 
 As at a smile of God. 
 For quickened by the crystal tears 
 
 That weeping April sheds, 
 The snowdrop and the violet 
 
 Lift up their dainty heads. 
 
 The dogwood blossoms on the hill 
 
 Swing bleaching in the sun, 
 And crimson buds of orchards swell 
 
 And open one by one. 
 A-field the velvet grasses weave 
 
 The meadow's carpet green, 
 And gentle spring prepares the way 
 
 For summer's bolder queen. 
 
 Red rosebuds by the garden wall 
 
 Purse up their lips and pout, 
 Anon to smile and blooming breathe 
 
 Their fragrant sweetness out. 
 The spring floods fall in flashing rills 
 
 A-down the tangled steeps, 
 Or gleam and glisten in the pool 
 
 That in the valley sleeps. 
 
 In spring the river wanders on 
 
 In fuller flood and fleet 
 That in the summer loiters by 
 
 With slow, reluctant feet. 
 
120 SPRINGTIME 
 
 The snowy lily by her brink 
 
 Is dreaming o'er the tide, 
 And lolly pops and buttercups 
 
 Are nodding by her side. 
 
 The blue bird calls, the robin sings, 
 
 The sparrows faintly cry, 
 And o'er the house in wheeling flight 
 
 The twitt'ring swallows fly. 
 The mock bird o'er the gurgling stream 
 
 Pours out his liquid note 
 Where willows bend and lilacs gleam 
 
 With purple flags afloat. 
 
 With birds and bees the trees among 
 
 In some soft Southern clime 
 I would my faltering feet might go 
 
 With spring in blossom time, 
 To lie upon the greening sward. 
 
 Or loiter by the stream, 
 To list the music of its flow 
 
 And dream that life's a dream. 
 
A SPRING IDYL 121 
 
 A SPRING IDYL. 
 
 \X7HHN spring has crowned the world in bloom, 
 
 And breezes float a sweet perfume, 
 I long to leave the city street. 
 And where the earth and sunshine meet 
 In smiles of beauty bright and warm 
 
 There play the truant rover 
 By flashing water, wood and farm, 
 
 And dream the old dreams over. 
 
 Where on the lakes reflected sky. 
 In snowy stars, the lillies lie. 
 While 'round its rim a girdle green, 
 The grasses to the water lean. 
 And flag and fern and rushes lave, 
 
 With plume and tassel streaming, 
 Their tresses in the crystal wave 
 
 Of limpid rimples gleaming. 
 
 Where birds are singing in the trees, 
 
 And lightly sways the gentle breeze, 
 
 The woodbine o'er the brushwood strung, 
 
 With lilliputian bugles hung, 
 
 Such as the fairies might have blown 
 
 To summon to their floral throne 
 
 The courts of Mab in days of old, 
 
 When all the land was wild wood, 
 Or revels in the age of gold. 
 
 When time was in its childhood. 
 
122 A SPRING IDYL 
 
 Out where the peach or redbud shows 
 A patch of purple, and where blows 
 Like clouds of snow the dogwood trees 
 Above the wild anemones, 
 And other nameless milkwhite gems, 
 Supported by the frailest stems. 
 That, void of color and perfume. 
 
 With every zephyr swaying, 
 Seem only as if ghosts of bloom 
 
 From fairy Eden straying. 
 
MORNING ON THE FARM 128 
 
 MORNING ON THE FARM 
 
 jD EYOND the mist of by-gone years 
 
 My failing eyes can see, 
 Despite the blight of time and tears, 
 
 My happy youth so free, 
 And reappears the olden scenes, 
 
 With all the olden charm, 
 When I'm a boy again in dreams 
 
 Of morning on the farm. 
 
 The eastern sky is all aglow 
 
 With bars of ruddy light, 
 Where jocund day, a-smiling gay, 
 
 Drives forth the gloomy night. 
 The hunters horn is heard afar 
 
 Across the flow'ry wold, 
 And up on high the morning star 
 
 Is growing pale and cold. 
 
 With odor sweet the breath of morn 
 
 Is laden full and flows 
 Swift rippling by the rustling corn. 
 
 But lingers with the rose; 
 And dewy beads are gleaming bright, 
 
 On blossoms bush and vines, 
 Scintillant as the brilliant light 
 
 That from the diamond shines. 
 
 With matin song of birds the trees 
 
 Are tunefully alive. 
 While a drowsy drone of waking bees 
 
 Is heard within the hive; 
 
124 MORNING ON THE FARM 
 
 Then through the open window way 
 
 The spirit of the dawn 
 Peeps in, and smiling seems to say, 
 "Awake and hail the morn!" 
 
 And from the drowsy slumberland, 
 
 I startle up to find 
 The whisp'ring sprite, so smiling bland, 
 
 Was but a creaking blind; 
 The rustling corn, the hunter's horn, 
 
 And morning's rosy beams, 
 Were only myths of fancy born 
 
 That vanished with my dreams. 
 
 Oh, mem'ries of the golden past, 
 
 lyUll me again to sleep, 
 And round my life a halo cast 
 
 Where I forget to weep — 
 Then dreaming heart awaken not, 
 
 With joyful youth remain. 
 As in the careless days that brought 
 
 No waking hours of pain. 
 
WHEN WINTERS OVER 125 
 
 WHEN WINTER'S OVER 
 
 \X7HEN the winter wild is over, 
 
 And the fields are fresh and green 
 With the growing grass and clover, 
 
 And the bursting bud is seen 
 Where the orchard boughs are swaying 
 
 With the blowing of the breeze, 
 In a madcap frolic playing 
 
 With the blossoms on the trees; 
 Or an idle vagrant straying 
 
 O'er the morning's misty leas. 
 
 When the bright sunlight is lying 
 
 Over all, a film of gold. 
 And the mellow breeze is sighing 
 
 Where the tender buds unfold 
 Out in garlands green and plumy 
 
 On the trailing wreaths of vine, 
 And the meadow lands are bloomy 
 
 Where the brook of silver shine, 
 In a song is calling to me. 
 
 Then a world of dreams is mine. 
 
 For the spell of springtime fills me 
 
 With a vague and sweet unrest, 
 And its wondrous beauty thrills me 
 
 Till the heart within my breast, 
 Beats anew with olden pleasure, 
 
 Like the music glad and free, 
 Of the songs of soothing measure 
 
 l^hat the season sings to me — 
 Sweeter than the honey treasure 
 
 Of the flowers to the bee. 
 
126 THE DREAM HE A YEN 
 
 THE DREAM HEAVEN. 
 
 /^FT I let my spirit wander 
 
 Where the lights of fancy shine 
 For as Riley aptly tells us 
 
 In his "Old Sweetheart of Mine," 
 "I feel no twinge of conscience 
 To deny me any theme 
 When care has cast her anchor 
 In the harbor of a dream." 
 
 lyife has neither cross nor sorrow 
 
 Sweetest visions fill the mind, 
 For our friends are ever faithful 
 
 And our foes are even kind, 
 So we bear mankind no malice 
 
 As it greets us with esteem — 
 "When care has cast her anchor 
 
 In the harbor of a dream." 
 
 Smoothly flows true love forever, 
 
 And the heart forgets its pain, 
 While the eyes leave off their weeping 
 
 And the roses bloom again 
 On the cheeks that paled with grieving 
 
 Where the smiles of pleasure beam — 
 "When care has cast her anchor 
 
 In the harbor of a dream." 
 
 So unmindful of the errors 
 
 And the trials of today — 
 Heeding neither toil nor troubles, 
 
 That await us on the way, 
 
LONGING FOR AUTUMN 127 
 
 Let us envy none their honors 
 Howsoever bright they seem- 
 "When care has cast her anchor 
 In the harbor of a dream." 
 
 LONGING FOR AUTUMN. 
 
 TN these ardent days of summer, 
 
 With the world aglow with heat, 
 When the flowers wilt and wither 
 
 That in springtime were so sweet, 
 I am longing for the autumn 
 
 With its cooling atmosphere 
 When the days are dream-like hazy, 
 
 And the nights are crisp and clear — 
 
 For the milder sun of fall time, 
 
 And the beauty that it weaves, 
 With a woof and weft of rainbow 
 
 In the frosted forest leaves — 
 When the gentle breeze is singing. 
 
 With a dulcet, low refrain, 
 Songs of harvest and its plenty 
 
 Of the ripened fruit and grain — 
 
 For the musky days of fragrance 
 
 With the odor of the wine 
 Spreads, a subtle scented incense. 
 
 From the grapes that freight the vine; 
 
128 LONGING FOR AUTUMN 
 
 And the orchard in its fruitage 
 Then presents a picture bold, 
 
 With a glimmering of crimson 
 Through a spangle-work of gold. 
 
 All the year is blessed with beauty, 
 
 From the springtime with its rose, 
 Through the summer gleam of splendor, 
 
 And in winter when it snows, 
 But the glory days of autumn. 
 
 Ere the ripe leaves fade and fall. 
 To the beauty loving dreamer, 
 
 Are the dearest days of all. 
 
IN FANCY'S FAIR DOMAIN 129 
 
 IN FANCY'S FAIR DOMAIN. 
 
 npHE springtime lures the heart astray 
 
 In fancy's fair domain, 
 For when the sunlight's ardent ray 
 
 Emblossoms hill and plain, 
 Of bowered lanes and crystal rills, 
 
 The shadow haunted streams, 
 By mountain walls and wooded hills, 
 
 The city dweller dreams. 
 
 Of nightfall in the fragrant June, 
 
 The beauty of the sky 
 With stars a-twinkle and the moon 
 
 A silver bow on high, 
 When cowbells tinkle by the stream 
 
 That murmurs in its flow, 
 As sounds the music of a dream 
 
 Afar off sweet and low. 
 
 He lives the days of nevermore 
 
 In visions far and fair, 
 With heart untroubled as of yore, 
 
 Amid the beauties where 
 Vine tangles drape the stony ledge 
 
 That to the highway dips 
 And roses glimmer through the hedge, 
 
 As red as lovers lips. 
 
 Beyond the meadow lush and cool, 
 
 In shadowed woodland, lies 
 The tryst of youth, a fern fringed pool. 
 
 That mirrors for his eyes 
 
130 IN FANCY'S FAIR DOMAIN 
 
 Love's faultless form and fairy face, 
 
 As if a magic spell, 
 Transfiguring the lowly place. 
 
 Made it the naiads well. 
 
 As waiting by the pasture bars, 
 
 He thinks of other days, 
 And harvest noons when love's twin stars, 
 
 Bright smiling met his gaze — 
 The eyes of some mild mannered maid, 
 
 As innocent and sweet 
 As morning's misty breeze that plays 
 
 In ripples o'er the wheat. 
 
 Oh! now to play the truant free 
 
 From duties that demand 
 The toiler's time, and oh, to be 
 
 The dreamer glad and grand. 
 Who under heaven's mystic blue, 
 
 Forgets the city's grind, 
 Fair forms of beauty floating through 
 
 The vista of his mind! 
 
KA THLEEN 131 
 
 KATHLEEN. 
 
 l^ATHLEEN, a happy world around me, 
 
 No signs of sadness mar the scene, 
 For tender love and true has found me 
 
 A dreamer glad of you, Kathleen — 
 And every leaf and blossom whispers, 
 
 Your gentle graces in my ear, 
 And all the brooks are loving lispers 
 
 Of you, Kathleen — Kathleen so dear. 
 
 Kathleen, the bees are bloomward winging. 
 
 And dulcet music fills the air. 
 For all the birds, Kathleen, are singing, 
 
 In rondels sweet, your beauties rare. 
 Kathleen, your name the breeze is sighing; 
 
 Kathleen, the grass is waving greeny 
 In meadows where the light is lying 
 
 In smiles of glory bright, Kathleen. 
 
 Kathleen, your face is like the morning, 
 
 When shadows flee before the light; 
 The blushes sw^eet, your cheeks adorning. 
 
 In beauty bloom as roses might. 
 Kathleen, the stars were never, 
 
 In splendor brighter than your eyes. 
 Whose laughter lights mj' life forever 
 
 As sunshine from the summer skies. 
 
 The modest lily blooms in whiteness, 
 
 The dainty violet in blue; 
 The shining marigold in brightness. 
 
 But neither one so sweet as you, 
 
132 SONG OF THE SEASONS 
 
 For you of flowers though the rarest, 
 Are sweetest mortal eyes have seen- 
 
 A blushing maiden rose the fairest, 
 And loved as loveliest, Kathleen. 
 
 SONG OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 T N spring, I love in greening fields, 
 
 To walk amid the clover, 
 Or woodlands clothed in leafy shields 
 
 When wintry winds are over; 
 Go where is heard the singing bird 
 
 And babble of the water. 
 Where lithely lean the grasses green 
 
 And in the sunshine loiter. 
 
 In summertime I long to be 
 
 Foot-loose among the mountains 
 To roam the forest fancy-free 
 
 And drink at cooling fountains; 
 Or idler by the salt sea-side 
 
 To watch the foaming billows, 
 Or drowse and dream beside the stream 
 
 Beneath the weeping willows. 
 
 In autumn's mild and musky days, 
 When softly blow the breezes, 
 
 And shines the sun through dreamy haze 
 A wealth of beauty pleases, 
 
SONG OF THE SEASONS 133 
 
 For then the leaf and harvest sheaf 
 Are ripe and golden yellow, 
 
 And fruit with wine on tree and vine 
 Is bursting sweet and mellow. 
 
 In winter-tide when falls the snow 
 
 My feet care not to wander, 
 But by the fireside's friendly glow 
 
 I love to sit and ponder, 
 And idly dream while sparkles gleam, 
 
 Or read me some old story 
 Of wild romance as upward glance 
 
 The flames in glints of glory. 
 
134 bo GOOD TODAY 
 
 DO GOOD TODAY. 
 
 npOO LATE, alas, too late; for love! 
 
 When life's brief dream is o'er; 
 The flower wreaths we place above 
 
 The heart that beats no more, 
 No joy can give, no smile awake, 
 
 Nor storms of grief allay 
 When death has put beyond recall 
 
 The loved of yesterday. 
 
 The only time for doing good 
 
 Is in the living now, 
 The past is dead, no future sure, 
 
 And fate will not allow 
 Atonement for the past neglect, 
 
 Nor blot mistakes away. 
 When Time has set his seal upon 
 
 The scroll of yesterday. 
 
 Then make the most of each to-day, 
 
 Contented with your lot — 
 The glorious future is a dream, 
 
 The morrow cometh not. 
 Nor silent sit with folded hands. 
 
 To act an idle part 
 Amid the ghosts of other years 
 
 That haunt the human heart. 
 
 There's worthy work for willing hands 
 
 To do of many kinds, 
 To offer council and direct, 
 
 There's need of able minds. 
 
LOVE SONG 135 
 
 There's weeping eyes and longing hearts 
 
 For sympathy and love, 
 Then up and act a noble part 
 
 Your worthiness to prove. 
 
 LOVK SONG. 
 
 A S there is sweet love, complete love, 
 
 lyove that lives beyond the tomb, 
 There is fading, frail and fleet love 
 
 As the morning glory's bloom. 
 Daughters love their mothers kindly, 
 
 And a father loves his son; 
 Sweethearts love each other blindly 
 Till their lives become as one. 
 
 Some love is mad love and glad love, 
 
 Bright in hope and happiness, 
 While another love is sad love, 
 
 Dark in doubtings and distress. 
 Ivove that sisters bear their brothers 
 
 Is possessed of many charms, 
 But is cold beside a mother's 
 
 For the infant in her arms. 
 
 And after child love — a mild love — 
 As the sunlight follows morn, 
 
 Comes the fanciful and wild love 
 Of the sweetest passion born. 
 
136 LOVE SONG 
 
 Though a happy love is wife love, 
 There's another love as bright, 
 
 For a mother's love is life love 
 And a crown of earthly light. 
 
 'Tis said that old love is cold love, 
 
 And a passive twilight rest 
 From the ardent noon of bold love, 
 
 But a mother's love is best; 
 For a mother's love is true love, 
 
 As it changes not nor fails 
 Like the passion light of new love 
 
 When the bloom of beauty pales. 
 
OF A MOUNTAIN RIVER l37 
 
 OF A MOUNTAIN RIVER. 
 
 \X7HEN I feel the breeze of autumn 
 
 Then my heart with rapture thrills, 
 Thinking of a mountain river 
 
 Where it winds among the hills, 
 Like a silver serpent, trailing 
 
 By the vine-clad steps of stone, 
 And the fallen bole and boulder 
 
 With the mosses overgrown. 
 
 Where I've breathed the musky fragrance 
 
 Of the mellow muscadines. 
 As if incense from a censer 
 
 In the swinging wreathes of vines; 
 Where the wind's wild harp was playing, 
 
 With a cadence sweet and low, 
 lyike the half forgotten music 
 
 Of the songs of long ago. 
 
 In the dappled days of fall time 
 
 With the shadow and the gleam 
 Oft I've wandered by the waters 
 
 Of that wild romantic stream, 
 lyone, a lover lost in dreaming, 
 
 With the heart of youth attuned 
 To the melancholy murmur 
 
 That the rippling river crooned. 
 
 With the splendor of the autumn, 
 And the thoughts that fill my breast 
 
 With a hope of joy unending. 
 Comes again the same unrest 
 
138 TO MAUDE-LILLIAN 
 
 That I felt of old a dreamer 
 Of a life with love replete, 
 
 Where that mountain river ripples 
 With the balsam breezes sweet. 
 
 TO MAUDE-LILLIAN. 
 
 TV/TAUDE-LILLIAN, love, the world is wide. 
 
 With beauty everywhere, 
 In many forms, of many charms. 
 
 For women sweet and rare 
 In ev'ry clime of earth abide, 
 
 But none than you more fair. 
 
 Maude-Lillian, love, the brightest star 
 
 That ever gemmed by night 
 The distant sky with golden eye. 
 
 Of soft but lustrous light. 
 More brilliant never was than are 
 
 Your eyes, love-beaming bright. 
 
 Maude- Lillian, love, the rarest flow'r 
 
 That ever bloomed in spring. 
 The lily white, or red rose bright, 
 
 Of which the poets sing. 
 Was never in its fairest hour 
 
 Than you a sweeter thing. 
 
TO MAUDE-LILLIAN 139 
 
 Maude-Lillian, love, the sweetest dream 
 
 That ever mortal knew, 
 However fair of beauty rare, 
 
 To nature false or true, 
 Could never quite so lovely seem 
 
 As what I dream of you. 
 
 Maude- Lillian, love, the world is not 
 
 A paradise of joy, 
 For every heart must have its part 
 
 Of grieving and annoy; 
 But you might bless the humblest spot 
 
 With love without alloy. 
 
140 LOLA WAYNE 
 
 \,0\,K WAYNK. 
 
 CTlIvL, after many years have flown, 
 
 Of pleasure and of pain, 
 Returns the sweetest dream I've known 
 In life, sweet Lola Wayne. 
 
 A dream of apple blossoms where. 
 
 With flute-like, low refrain, 
 The mocking bird a dreamy air 
 
 Is lilting, lyola Wayne. 
 
 And to a springtime morning goes 
 My thoughts, when down the lane 
 
 I met you blushing like a rose. 
 But sweeter, Lola Wayne. 
 
 The spirit of the spring you seemed, 
 The queen of beauty's train, 
 
 And fairest I had ever dreamed 
 Might love me, Lola Wayne. 
 
 About your hair a wreath of bloom, 
 
 A fragrant flower chain, 
 Breathed of a subtle, sweet perfume, 
 
 Like incense, Lola Wayne. 
 
 Love lighted up your laughing eyes, 
 As brightly beamed the twain 
 
 As might twin stars of moonless skies 
 At midnight, Lola Wayne. 
 
 Sweet eyes ! around my heart they cast, 
 
 Love's halo, to remain 
 Alight as long as life might last, 
 
 For me, sweet Lola Wayne. 
 
LOLA WAYNE 141 
 
 And all bewildered with your charms, 
 
 As one with joy insane 
 I longed to take you in my arms 
 
 And kiss you, lyola Wayne. 
 
 In other loves I'll never meet, 
 
 In all the world again, 
 With one so beautiful and sweet 
 
 As you were, L,ola Wayne. 
 
 But apple blossoms bright with dew. 
 
 Or gleaming in the rain, 
 Still bring me tender dreams of you, 
 
 My lost love — lyola Wayne. 
 
142 LIFE'S LANE 0' DREAMS 
 
 LIFE'S LANK O' DREAMS. 
 
 T N youth a life is like a day 
 
 Of summer when the bloom 
 Of roses spread along the way 
 
 The sweetest of perfume. 
 The road before us when we start 
 
 Is lit with glory gleams, 
 And fleet of foot and glad of heart 
 
 We walk Life's lane o' dreams. 
 
 The birds that warble in the trees 
 
 Sings songs of joy to be 
 And in the lisping of the breeze 
 
 Is heard a song of glee. 
 And driven by ambition's goad, 
 
 The spirit young and bold 
 Goes ever dreaming on life's road 
 
 Of future, fame or gold. 
 
 But when we fare unto the noon, 
 
 All radiant with the smile, 
 Of cloudless skies of fragrant June, 
 
 We walk with love awhile, 
 Unmindful of the faded dawn 
 
 Of youth — so happy seems 
 The rosy road we journey on 
 
 Along Life's lane o' dreams. 
 
 Love leaves us and a shadow falls 
 Across the way, so bright 
 
 At noontime, and the heart recalls 
 The vanished morning light, 
 
THE A UTUMN ' 5 PA THOS 143 
 
 But through the gathering gloom we view, 
 
 Afar with fading beams, 
 The sun of hope we followed to 
 
 The end of I^ife's lane o' dreams. 
 
 THE AUTUMN'S PATHOS. 
 
 'T' HERE'S pathos in each autumn scene 
 
 Of crimson show or yellow sheen. 
 Of tangled copse of bush and brier, 
 By sylvan lakes, the naiad's well. 
 Where swings the goldenrod's pale fire, 
 Flambeaux that gleam the dusky dell 
 "When earth hath lost its green. 
 
 Along the fallow fields, dead eyes 
 Of daisies stare up at the skies; 
 A tuft of blood-red plumage seems 
 The ruby-beaded sumach's crest, 
 And gold the bois-d'arc orange gleams 
 Out through the hedge in yellow drest, 
 When vanquished summer flies. 
 
 Of some dark deed of some bold Kate 
 By night the green cicalas prate. 
 And weifdly shrill the cricket's call 
 Across the bronzing fields is heard, 
 While perched upon a poplar tall 
 Lone pipes a melancholy bird 
 A requiem for its mate. 
 
144 THE A U TUMN ' S FA THOS 
 
 The frost-king steals the roses' blush, 
 And lends the leaf a livid flush 
 That trembling to the osier clings, 
 And over height and over dale 
 On silent, soft and airy wings, 
 The blue haze broods, an azure veil. 
 In melancholy hush. 
 
 The frost-smit flowers fade and fall 
 In silence by the garden wall; 
 The river chants with solemn croon, 
 A hectic flush is on the vines; 
 In minor tones, a mournful tune, 
 The wailing wind sings in the pines, 
 For death is over all. 
 
WHEN SUMMER CALLS ME HOME 145 
 
 WHEN SUMMER CAI.I.S ME HOME. 
 
 ^X/HEN the winter skies are leaden hued, 
 
 And the rain is dropping down, 
 I make beUeve that I'm satisfied 
 
 With living in the town; 
 Or when the country roads are filled 
 
 With a slush of muddy sleet, 
 I find I'm fairly well content 
 
 To use the city street. 
 
 But when the summer time is come 
 
 With blossom, bird and bee 
 And sunny skies are bright and blue. 
 
 And smiling down to me, 
 I feel a God- forsaken kind 
 
 Of gloom and loneliness, 
 Remaining in the crowded town 
 
 Of business and distress. 
 
 For then the zephyrs whisper low. 
 
 To bid me welcome where 
 They wrinkle the river's solemn face, 
 
 And tangle the meadow's hair — 
 Where sunshine reds the cherry's cheek. 
 
 And the wanton winds are bold 
 That tousle the fields of bronzing wheat 
 
 Till they smile in a gleam of gold. 
 
 Where the turf ted jay is whistling gay, 
 
 And the crow- freebooters prate 
 Of pirate deeds, and the speckled quail 
 
 Is calling to his mate — 
 
146 WHEN SUMMER CALLS ME HOME 
 
 Where the gentle dove croons of his love, 
 
 Lone in some sylvan nook, 
 And the swallow laves his tawny breast 
 
 In the waters of the brook. 
 
 Out where the richest fragrancy 
 
 Is borne upon the breeze 
 That comes from clover fields abloom 
 
 And fennel-studded leas — 
 Out where the tender grasses wave 
 
 And where I long to roam 
 With Nature smiling sweet to me, 
 
 For Summer calls me home. 
 
 And it lifts a burden from my heart 
 
 To view such scenes again, 
 To smell the clover and the rose 
 
 That blossoms by the lane — 
 To hear the river's murmuring flood 
 
 That flows by meadows green — 
 Out where each lad's of royal blood 
 
 And every lass a queen. 
 
THE PIN-GHOST HI 
 
 THE PIN-GHOST. 
 
 T'VE read or I've dreamed of a wrinkled old hag, 
 
 With a figure all crimped to a crook — 
 That canters at night on a broom for a nag, 
 
 With the goblin, the ghoul and the spook — 
 Her mission? Ah, well be you patient a wee 
 
 While I tell, though you laugh it to vscorn, 
 And something, perhaps, in the story you'll see 
 
 To amuse you and something to warn. 
 
 This weazened old hag, with a broom for a nag, 
 
 Is a witch, and she gathers up pins, 
 And stores them away, in a cushion-like bag 
 
 Till she wishes to puncture the skins 
 Of people who shirk in the duties of life, 
 
 Or the merciless woman or man 
 The spreaders of scandal, the breeders of strife. 
 
 And the scoffer at God's holy plan. 
 
 You've noticed, no doubt, that a pin disappears 
 
 In a rather mysterious way; 
 That something at night with your rest interferes 
 
 If you tumble to sleep ere you pray — 
 She gathers the pins that you lose through the day 
 
 And she stores them away, as I've said. 
 Till night, when the witch or the devil's to pay 
 
 If you carry a conscience to bed . 
 
 I awake at night from my dreams in affright. 
 With a nettle-like sting on my spine, 
 
 And tumble and toss, while I swear by the Joss, 
 In my bed is a mad porcupine; 
 
148 THE PIN-GHOST 
 
 And I hunt in vain for a flee or a tick 
 
 When the broom-riding ghost with her pins 
 
 Is prodding away with a stab and a stick 
 To the tally in full of my sins. 
 
 She'll find you asleep, she will find you awake, 
 
 She will haunt you in life's every place 
 The sweetest of dreams from your mind she will take, 
 
 And the smile, when she comes, from your face. 
 You'll meet her quite often, this sprite of the air, 
 
 This old hag with the broom for a horse, 
 Whose name is familiar to men everywhere 
 
 For she's called in our language remorse. 
 
CHRISTMAS SONG 149 
 
 CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 npHBRK'S a time of hallowed glory 
 
 That in gladness is sublime, 
 And a theme of song and story 
 
 For the folk of every clime — 
 Time of memories undying 
 
 As the stars of fadeless glow, 
 Each with each in splendor vieing, 
 
 Through the nights of long ago. 
 
 With the sun the sky adorning, 
 
 Fancy paints the scenes of earth 
 All resplendent in the morning 
 
 Of the day that knew the birth 
 Of the Christ-Child, Prince of ages, 
 
 lyoved of mankind, high or low. 
 More than all the saints and sages 
 
 Of the lands of long ago. 
 
 Not alone the'homage given 
 
 To the Savior of mankind 
 Makes the time a touch of Heaven 
 
 To the glad, contented mind. 
 For it matters little whether 
 
 Blooms the rose or falls the snow, 
 Christmas calls again together 
 
 Friends who left us long ago. 
 
 lyovers true, in anger parting, 
 Children from the old home nest, 
 
 Gone to seek their fortunes, starting 
 Ever hopeful on the quest, 
 
150 CHRISTMAS SONG 
 
 Make again a loving visit 
 
 And with welcome home they know 
 In their hearts the joy exquisite 
 
 Of the Christmas long ago. 
 
 So we hail the day's returning 
 
 With a heart love unconfined, 
 For the objects of its yearning 
 
 Meet with greetings glad and kind — 
 And the world as one in gladness 
 
 Makes the day a time of cheer, 
 For the mind is freed from sadness 
 
 When the Christmas-tide is here. 
 
MY HOUR TO DREAM 151 
 
 MY HOUR TO DREAM. 
 
 \X7HEN purple dyes of sunset fade, 
 
 And stars of beauty gleam 
 In summer twilight's drowsy shade 
 
 I love to sit and dream, 
 While shadows fall on vale and hill, 
 - And hide them from my sight, 
 Where nature slumbers soft and still 
 
 Wrapped in the dewy night. 
 
 With lighted pipe I tilt my chair 
 
 And gently close my eyes, 
 When in a picture wondrous fair 
 
 The past before me lies; 
 The orchard where I played a child 
 
 And house where I was born. 
 The sloping hills of woodland wild 
 
 And fields of waving corn. 
 
 The undulating blooms of sedge 
 
 That purple-plume the plain. 
 And vine-entwined mock- orange hedge 
 
 That overhung the lane 
 Where rosy youth of faces sweet. 
 
 In sunny days of yore. 
 Have left the prints of nimble feet 
 
 That walk therein no more. 
 
 The hemlocks by the mountain streams. 
 
 So dusky, green and tall, 
 And flashing sunlit spray that gleams 
 
 Around the waterfall, 
 
152 MY HOUR TO DREAM 
 
 The elder copse and bramble nooks 
 Where luscious berries grew, 
 
 And silver sheen of meadow brooks 
 So pleasing to the view. 
 
 My happy youth can be no more, 
 
 My brightest hopes have fled, 
 And many friends I loved of yore 
 
 Are numbered with the dead, 
 But when the toil of day is done, 
 
 And stars at nightfall gleam, 
 The past I love to muse upon 
 
 And of its pleasures dream. 
 
MY SWEETHEART 153 
 
 I 
 
 MY SWEETHEART. 
 
 N the blue of the sky 
 
 When the clouds drift by 
 
 Is the hue of my sweetheart's eyes; 
 
 And her hair is the sheen 
 
 Of a sun-set scene 
 
 On a cloud when the daylight dies. 
 
 There's a sound of her voice 
 
 When the winds rejoice 
 In the tops of the murmuring pine; 
 
 In the coo of the dove 
 
 That tells of its love, 
 And the plaint of the lowing kine. 
 
 For her lips is the rose, 
 
 But the lily shows 
 As her brow and her cheek so sweet; 
 
 And her smile is the gleam 
 
 Of the sun's bright beam 
 On the fields of the golden wheat. 
 
 And her laugh is the trill 
 
 Of the rippling rill 
 In the shadow}' woodland dells, 
 
 And the song that she sings 
 
 From the steeple rings 
 In harmonious chimes of the bells. 
 
 And her breath is the breeze 
 
 From the blooming leas 
 As her home is the hill and plain, 
 
 Where she smiles in the light, 
 
 Or weeps in the night 
 For her tears are the dew and the rain. 
 
154 MY SWEETHEART 
 
 And I love her in spring, 
 When the glad birds sing; 
 
 In the summer with sky that glows, 
 And I woo her in fall, 
 When beauty's o'er all, 
 
 Or with her I dream when it snows. 
 
 In the gloom or the glow 
 
 Of the skies I know 
 I love her, in rain or in shine, 
 
 For the beauty of change 
 
 In nature so strange 
 Alone is that sweetheart of mine. 
 
APR 10 1907