WML, SI. 
 
 :5R00KS 
 
 lor. X 
 
 rTLY 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 -- ^mFW f 0- 
 
 Shelf TS.5V<V 
 
 UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 
 

 ""^"■^ ^- 
 
 
 
 ri r^ -^"^ 
 
 - --aL-^,' 
 
 i 
 
 ■ 'i^--^* 
 
 
WHERE BROOKS GO SOFTLY 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES EUGENE BANKS 
 
 CHICAGO ^^ilk\ eTj 
 
 CHARLES H. KERR AND COMPANY 
 1893 
 
^^;:.'^^ 
 ^%.<^ 
 
 Copyright 1893 by 
 Charles Eugene Banks. 
 
'JO 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 "The wee cot and the cricket's chirr, 
 Love, and the glad sweet face of her." 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley, 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Where Brookr Go Softly— 
 
 I^isteiiin^ 
 
 The Spirit of Silence .... 
 
 The Gospel of RcKt 
 
 The Singer Whom Nobody KnowH 
 
 The Better Birth 
 
 The Soul of Life is Love 
 
 Sweet Rock-a-By 
 
 Long Years Ago 
 
 Hymn to Columbus 
 
 The Dead Crcesus 
 
 The New Parson 
 
 The Jvocky Mountain Anemone 
 
 Who ShallJudge? 
 
 Strength oi Simi)licity 
 
 October 
 
 Alone 
 
 Ab Extra 
 
 11 
 12 
 
 14 
 17 
 
 10 
 20 
 21 
 22 
 24 
 25 
 2() 
 28 
 30 
 33 
 34 
 36 
 38 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 l)M,wn and DuHk 
 
 . 40 
 
 IlMwniinj) Love Soiij;- 
 
 42 
 
 (), ('OHIO With Mo 
 
 . 44 
 
 TlioSlloMl; I.and 
 
 40 
 
 Ill DilToroiil MoaHiiro . . . . 
 
 4S 
 
 Poor Old World 
 
 f)!) 
 
 Jmic 
 
 . r»i 
 
 Tho l-\ill('n Leaf 
 
 52 
 
 Liborty IW'll a( (lie World's Fair . 
 
 . 5:1 
 
 Uiirowardrd 
 
 f)!; 
 
 Tho(^)iiiiii<; Day 
 
 . r.7 
 
 ('lollies Worship 
 
 r.i) 
 
 The (lood in I0v(M\n'1 liiii>;- 
 
 . i\{) 
 
 Tho I'oKsiniisl 
 
 (;r> 
 
 A SiiiniiKM- richirc 
 
 (k; 
 
 Hiidor Mio Hlossoms .... 
 
 (;s 
 
 Tho llaiul thai Holds llu- I'lou . 
 
 . 71 
 
 Kcl riluilioii 
 
 74 
 
 lOaslcr IjUIos 
 
 77 
 
 To a, Woiiiidod lUrd .... 
 
 7S 
 
 Koll<>r Ihaii (iold 
 
 . S() 
 
 Ilo Wrotolor All 
 
 K\ 
 
 SlHlcrs of IMorcy 
 
 . Sf) 
 
 Lovo'h ('oiiii>loloiiosH .... 
 
 S() 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 ForHakeii 
 
 The Better Year . 
 
 The OuteawtH . • • • 
 
 Sii<nv VioletH 
 
 The FalHe Note 
 
 Sill) RoHa 
 
 lOternity . • • • • 
 
 Al)ril-KveiniiA" 
 
 Th(^ Poet . • • • • 
 
 On Mil Ohl Door-Htoiie at Yale 
 
 'TiH No»)le to Labor 
 
 I Know • • • • 
 
 An AutnninTraj'-edy . • • • 
 
 lloix^ ••••'■ 
 
 A Le^ox' ol" ICs(iiiiina,u I'.a,v . 
 
 May •••■■' 
 March .■•••* 
 Wisdom • • • • ' 
 Only 
 
 POIOMK OK FUIKNUSlIir ANW A I^rKCTION- 
 
 IlMndsoineHt ol' All • • • ' 
 Epistle to Opie R<'ad 
 
 Look Up •••••* 
 
 90 
 02 
 
 \n 
 
 *)(> 
 <.)7 
 
 m) 
 
 101 
 
 io:i 
 
 104 
 lOf) 
 
 107 
 100 
 
 111 
 
 115 
 IK) 
 IIH 
 
 12:; 
 12G 
 131 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Koclc.v lini^uc HadAc . . . .132 
 
 Whillicr V\4 
 
 (Jrnnt — m KcquiciM 13G 
 
 Solitude 138 
 
 ThoSiiTof lOi^ht 141 
 
 To.Iohn Alhro 143 
 
 (liriHtnuiH Eve at the Old lloinoHtoad . 144 
 
 The Martyr PricHt 148 
 
 .lolin McCullouKh's Vir^iiiiiis . . . 151 
 
 ThoTrav('l(M-'H Ni^ht atllonic . . 152 
 
 JaiucK 159 
 
 Lcslio 10. K(>('l(>y 1G3 
 
 The Hattcivd Old (Irip 1G4 
 
 The Oldest o' Them All . . . . 1(58 
 
Where brooks go softly under trees 
 That shadow grasses pale 
 And temper every gale, 
 Come sit zvith me, my love; 
 I hear the turtledove 
 
 Cooing his ynodest mate to please — 
 So soft fuy tones shall be 
 In wooing thee. 
 
LISTENING 
 
 If faith and hope and charity wait 
 The word of the MaHter to open the gate 
 That the River of Love may flow- 
 Dear Lord, let the word be said, 
 That the River of Love may thread 
 
 And leap and tumble 
 
 Where homes are humble, 
 
 May plead and chide 
 
 Ry the liall of pride, 
 And croon and droon where the wear3^ keep 
 Wide-eyed and wan and know not sleep— 
 
 Ere the waiting die, 
 
 And the halting cry 
 
 "Too late! too late! 
 
 We knock at the gate 
 
 Without reply!"— 
 
 O thou Most High,— 
 The brown w(Jod kneels by the sin-dry bed 
 Of the River of Love! Let the word be said. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF SILENCE 
 
 From a niaiiHion window in careless way 
 Wei'e tossed the roses of yesterdiiy. 
 
 But a, breatli of their fi-a;;ranee drifted in 
 Where a sielv man lay — worn, pale, and tliin. 
 
 And tlie Spirit tliat bnilded, so lon^' afto, 
 The wise Ivln^'s temple awoke, and k)! 
 
 With never a sound would have stirred the thread 
 That ^rows in the; wake of a spider's tread, 
 
 Stone, brick, and mortar were swept aside, 
 And the sick man strolled by a meadow wide. 
 
 O'er a low-hung' ridge where the blue-joint tips 
 Reach up till they beat at th(^ passer's hips. 
 
 A bhn^bird liopp(Ml on the toi)most rail 
 Of a zigzag fence, and a distant quail 
 
 Called silvery clear: "More wet, more green!" 
 Though never a cloud in the sky is seen. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF SILENCE 13 
 
 A drunken bobolink swayed and reeled 
 O'er the yellow sea of a barley-field ; 
 
 Rang sweet the song of a joy-mad thrush ; 
 And a wild rose turned, with a modest blush, 
 
 From the wooing bold of the cat-bird's drawl ; 
 The air was stilled with the cricket's call ; 
 
 And the man passed into the greenwood sliade 
 While the Spirit of Silence the town re-made. 
 
 The tide of commerce roared over the bloom, 
 And they covered the face in the darkened room 
 
 Where the watchers wept, for the world is Ijliiid, 
 But the Spirit of Silence is wise and kind. 
 
THE GOSPEL OF REST 
 
 I watched them jostling in eager strife— 
 (Locks of auburn and locks of gray) 
 
 Faces grown old with the cares of a life, 
 Faces grown old with a day. 
 
 And I paused to question, What better, O slave, 
 Fast chained to the loom, when the web is spun 
 
 And the cloth of your weaving scarce covers a 
 grave — 
 What better when all is done? 
 
 Is it better to delve in the dust of trade, 
 Close hugging its gold with a miser's greed? 
 
 Or roam a barbarian free in the shade, 
 Unfettered by law or creed ? 
 
 To plunge in the sea where the breakers roar. 
 Or sit on the sand where the wave sings low? 
 
 To trouble the river with noisy oar — 
 Or drift with its quiet flow? 
 
THE GOSPEL OF REST 15 
 
 Is it better to labor the long day through — 
 
 (The hope, elusive, is ne'er fulfilled) 
 Or loiter in shadow as dumb kine do, 
 
 Let the field be fallow or tilled? 
 
 The ark of wisdom may sometime keep 
 From the flood of sorrow, the man of care, 
 
 But Noahs will lie in the sun asleep, 
 And only the few be fair. 
 
 What better to burden the sportive brain 
 With subtle reasoning — dim the eyes 
 
 With constant seeking? Lo ! yonder plain 
 Breathes joy to the smiling skies. 
 
 Go roam where the nightingale sings to its mate ! 
 
 Where the moon spills silver in dusky pool ! 
 The heart of the wanderer laughs at fate 
 
 If his feet with the dews be cool. 
 
 The beautiful butterfly, leaving its cell, 
 Leaps up to the sun from the sun-baked wall; 
 
 Get wings ! If the worm may despise the shell, 
 What need for the man to crawl? 
 
 Is living a lesson so hard to learn 
 That we still are writing the task in tears? 
 
16 THE GOSPEL OF REST 
 
 Let the gray dove mourn and the lone owl yearn, 
 What are these to the song of the spheres ? 
 
 I watched them jostling in eager strife— 
 (Locks of auburn and locks of gray) 
 
 Faces grown old with the cares of a life, 
 Faces grown old with a day, 
 
 And I paused to question, What better, O slave. 
 Fast chained to the loom, when the web is spun 
 
 And the cloth of your weaving scarce covers a 
 grave — 
 What better when all is done? 
 
THE SINGER WHOM NOBODY KN0W8 
 
 There's a dear little singer come out of the 
 West, 
 
 A singer whom nobody knows; 
 The weary have only to listen and rest :— 
 
 If biting old Boreas blows 
 She pictures the gladness that Summer-time 
 brings — 
 
 The violets under the snows, 
 Till the air is alive with the rustle of wings— 
 
 The singer Avhom nobody knows. 
 
 She lightens the burden of toiler opprest, 
 
 The singer whom nobody knows; 
 She coaxes despair from the wanderer's breast. 
 
 Her verse so melodious flows 
 It sweetens the speech of the slanderous tongue. 
 
 It chastens the prodigal's woes. 
 And soothes the poor bosom by perfidy wrung— 
 
 The singer whom nobody knows. 
 
IS THE SINGER PVHOM NOBODY KNOIVS 
 
 I Avoiild I might liiid her, this lyrical bee, 
 
 This siiij^er whom nobody knows ; 
 'Though plain a>s a sparrow, as charming to me 
 
 As the delicate breath of a rose. 
 Oh, precious her harvest, if so it be true 
 
 That the Spirit shall reap as it sows, 
 For she's bringing in lilies and casting out rue — 
 
 The singer whom nobody knows. 
 
'riii: lurr^n^K uiirrii 
 
 Two cajiic (() (li('S('\'((Hi ,'i( <'.'ii-ly nioiMi, 
 
 A ix'aHMiil and sci'vaiil, ol" I lie kiii.L;'. 
 The: sci'vaiil : "Itiii;;-, sexloii, a ^lad acclaim: 
 
 A Hon is born to his Majcsly, rin^!" 
 Tlu; pca.Kanl : "()s<'x(on I jn-ay ,von loll, 
 
 My boy is dead." An<l I he nr-iA •><'»> i'<l Hniilcd, 
 While \w. ranj^- a, chinu' loi- (he cafe-freed Honl, 
 
 And tolled fur the kin^-burn child. 
 
'nii: soi'L {}F LI I'l-: is lovio 
 
 'V\\v woihl is MS ,"1 slri-iic ciill" ; 
 
 I 'ill Ion (' is like 1 lie drw 
 Tlinl r.-ilis ii|Miii il, niiil Mm- iiiohs, 
 lAkv lilV, s|H'iiifAS lioiii (lie (wo. 
 1 1 < r«M '!»('( h o'er ( lir h;in-(>ii si oiic 
 Till all (lie place hr vcrdaiil ^rowii. 
 
 'VUr world is as a hlaslcd oak. 
 
 Hii( N)V(' is like (lie vine 
 Thai (rails i( o'er; ils siiidil Icaxcs, 
 IJkc IIIV, (lie (wo (Mil wliKv 
 The trunk Is ^nuMJ dial crsl was hare 
 And hlossoius kiss i( cvcrv wImm'c. 
 
 'hr world is as a cloialcd sea, 
 Itnt. I(»V(' is Iik(' ( Ii4' SUM 
 Mia( sicals alon;^' (Ik* iimik.v waAcs 
 Am<1 l»ri,L;h(«Mis cn «'r,v one. 
 ()'(M- ;;looin Is ^•oldcM kNx'.V Huiik 
 While HiiidM'ains spor( (he waves ninon;;-. 
 
s\v 
 
 :()('K-A-I?Y 
 
 Iv(K'k-;i-l>.v bah.N', iii.v piiiU .'iiid while clicnil), 
 hroop li( (Ic li<ls o'er (lie <|ii('s( i«niiii^' (\\«'H, 
 Aii^cls will ^;,Mi.'ir(l (licc^a.nd swcclcii lli.v sIiiiiiImm-, 
 Kock-a-b.v, inllahy, pink and while pii/c. 
 iaio I he land olsoil llowinj; walcr, 
 I*\'iiri('S and Ilowcrs and kIow wa\ In^' iMtiij^h, 
 Steal away hab.v, ni.v |>ink and while I'os.v , 
 Mamma, is roekin;; I hee, sleep l»al».N', now. 
 
 Mamma is i-ockin;;' I hee, joxin^l.s roekinfj;' I hee, 
 lioek-a-hy hahy, my sweel, rock a-hy. 
 
 Where will yon wan<lei-, my pink and \\ liilc heaiily ? 
 Is 11. to liea\-en in di-eams yon will stray? 
 "Pwas oidy yesterday, i)iid< and while rosy. 
 Only hnl, \'<'sler-da.\' yttw eameaway; 
 Now eonid I loUow where soid-win^s are wall in;;- — 
 Follow thy dreaming-, () what slnndd I se<'? 
 Sleej), darlin^j,-, sleep, and thy slnnd»er over, 
 I'rin^' Itark thy visions, my baby, lo me. 
 
 Mamma, is roekin;;- lliee, loving- roekin;i,ly thee, 
 Uock-a-by ba,by, my svvec^t-, rock-a-by. 
 
LONG YEARS AGO 
 
 Long years ago, on arid ground, 
 Beside a rocky ledge, I found 
 
 A tiny flower in bloom ; 
 The desert, bleak and bare and gray. 
 All verdureless about us lay, 
 
 Curled as the hand of doom 
 Had touched and shriveled it ; alone 
 The flower bloomed above the stone— 
 
 A star above a tomb. 
 
 To-night, inquisitiA^e of mood, 
 
 I wandered where the demon brood 
 
 Of want and hunger wait ; 
 Where worth is sacrificed to might. 
 And wanton creatures curse the Light 
 
 In hovels desolate ; 
 Where ribald song and mocking jest, 
 And shifting gaze and sunken chest 
 
 Proclaim the Fiend's estate. 
 
LOr^G YEARS AGO 23 
 
 And there in that discordant din, 
 The heavy air red-ribbed with sin, 
 
 I found a toddling child 
 With face as pure and sweet and fair 
 As e'er was fanned by Heaven's air, 
 
 As angel's undefiled. 
 *'Lo ! Thou art everywhere," I cried ; 
 And love will bloom where love hath died. 
 
 To cheer the bleakest wild. 
 
HYMN TO COLUMBUS 
 
 Hail! hail! hail! Mighty navigator! 
 Hail ! hail ! hail ! Prophet of the free ! 
 Creed and kingdom crumbling fall, 
 Liberty enlightens all 
 
 Now because of thee — 
 Columbus! Columbus! 
 
 All because of thee. 
 
 Hail ! hail ! hail ! Messenger of wisdom ! 
 Hail! hail! hail! Worthy child of Fame! 
 Blare of trumpet, roll of drum— 
 Ho, the Nations crowding come 
 
 Chorusing thy name, 
 Columbus ! Columbus I 
 
 Chorusing thy name. 
 
THE DEAD CRCESUS 
 
 He knew the scientific name 
 
 Of every hot-house flow'r 
 And in their glass-walled company 
 
 Would linger by the hour. 
 But where the lowly violet 
 
 Bloomed bravely in the snow 
 He never came ; its humble ways 
 
 He did not care to know. 
 
 And now he's dead ; of all his gold 
 
 (So well he loved it, too,) 
 Not one poor penny's worth enclasp 
 
 The fingers cold and blue. 
 The violet, sweet heaven's charge, 
 
 Fills all the world beyond— 
 But not one hybrid blossoms there 
 
 Of which he was so fond. 
 
Til 10 NVAV PA I : SON 
 
 \'('H, pMi'Hon, .N oii'rc h( iKlird in ImoliM, no doiihl , 
 Hii( w luMi (he licMi-l Im M-l(Mij;lir (o pni.v, 
 \N'(> (loii'l ronsidri- wIijiI'h Im'sI (o hi\\ ; 
 
 'riicrc'H n IV«>lin' brhiiid jnsi n-('r(>\\ din' i( <)n(. 
 
 \ <uii' prcnriiln' lins ^ol ns sonicliow nnsl iMin^" ; 
 An' jnsl \N Immi onr IVclin'H lu'^inin' (o wakr, 
 Sonio I'uirln llnj^o rrrcpH in (' bi'cnU 
 
 Tlu' Hp(>ll ; iiY /W/ \u our nioHuM- lon^iic. 
 
 W'r MJn'l n Ininj^'rin' lor Latin nn' (Jrcrlv, 
 Wli.'il \\ «' wnnl. pnrs(»n, is rcnstni an' Irnlli 
 The ^ood ol<l l<in<l ( hal \vr lai-ncd in yout li ; 
 
 An' a. Mlm|)I(' lan^na;;^ \v<' all can sptMiU. 
 
 Vonr in I (Ml I Ions is ^ood. hnl vonr In^li llown (crnis 
 An' loK'it' — !»«» donid o' I he v(m\v hesl — 
 Don't H«MMn to lull us to p<»nt'(*fnl rest. 
 
 We liMt(»n and l'<'el \V(» an* l^iH)i*anl woiins. 
 
Tnr. Ni:iv r/tRSON 
 
 27 
 
 TIm' I roiil HwiiiiH <l('('|> wIm'Ii I In- lislih.iwk callH ; 
 
 Tlir (liniHli \h oI'IciichI I'niiiMl ill 1 lu' 1 horn ; 
 
 Tlir HCiirccrosv'H Ix'llcr'ii n roHc in 1 lie cnrii ; 
 y\ir (lie r;iinl)<)\v hImih'H vvImt*' IIic wji Irr inllH. 
 
 A Hlni-JH hri^lilcr Hccn (IiimmikIi ( Ik' ii-«'<'H, 
 An' (ilod \h ncnrcr in Htorni llinii hiiii ; 
 it l('ii(l('i-H llic licnrl, nn' il hoIIciih Mic (one 
 
 '\\\ IVcl lli;il, llr Willi II iH own aKiccH; 
 
 Tlial- h;icU of all l,roiil»l(' a, ( JloriouH Tower 
 
 Slill IravcH an' hloHHoniH I lie hlcaU, hare ^rovc; 
 'V\\{\ viiH^ cliinhH lii^;h(>r'ii I lie I ice lor I IIh love; 
 
 'V\\{' Hniiic a,H vv<^ niorlalH in 1 lyin' lioiir. 
 
 An' HO hi'lirvin' you can 'I, I liink si ran>;<5 
 ir w(^ plod alon^ in our Hiniplc way 
 The IK, lie l-iinc I lial. we have lo Hlay, 
 
 An' (lon'l, ^o liiiiilin' aboiil. lor <'lla,nK■(^ 
 
 Now (lon'l l»«' an^cn-d a I, wlial I've Kaid. 
 (lo ri^lil, on, pai-Hon, an' pray an' pi-cach 
 In a, naliira-l way an' a, natural Hpcccli, 
 
 An' let, Uk; i\vm\ lan^^iia^cH rcHt with the dead. 
 
Til 10 KOCKY MOUNTAIN ANEMONE 
 
 (VVi itUMi ill till! Canli'ii ul' tlu' Cioiis near Maiiitoii, Colorado, April 12, 
 
 Sw'ccl silvcr-stcMiiiiiod anemone, 
 I'.iir (Iclicatc tnmspai'cnc.v, 
 Tliy pnlo ('inpnri)UMl cup iw lillod 
 With neclar Ilcbc's h'(Mnl)lin^" hand 
 I'roni her now nscU'ss cnp has spilled. 
 I'oor Hebe, standing- all a;;hast 
 Upon th(* saci-ed mountain side. 
 To see (he ^ods eonlempi nous east 
 l^'roni I Ill-one ma<;iiiHeen( , 
 
 Swunj;- wide 
 The j;at,eH, so lonj;- theii- grandeur kept 
 Close shut from eycH in-olane: 
 
 The Mde 
 or pi'o^ress to oblivion swept 
 'I'hy people, Manilou, and thou, 
 O Spirit (J rent, must shriidving- liee 
 
THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN ANEMONE 21) 
 
 From (Nivo to viivv of Hum) uwii IiIUk, 
 Tlicn^'K Tiono so poor to iiniiio tlioo now — 
 Tli.'it iiMinc, nlMs, lias coiik* to be 
 The Sficrile^ious si^n of 1 i-adc. 
 What woiidei- frighted llche spills 
 This nectar that I (lualT Iroiu thee, 
 Anemone, Anemone. 
 
WHO SHALL .HIIXHO 
 
 (lod ninth' i\w l'iiiv(>rM(' nixl lini-|<Ml 
 
 H foi'di lo Ik'Iii^j;:, world oii \v»>rl(l. 
 
 As li(»|K>riill\ (lie iii\(Mili\(' ho.N 
 
 SriH Hpiiniliij; liis new InshloiKMl toy — 
 
 Itiil wKli Hiis (lilT(M-('MC(> NmIiii-c wrought 
 
 rci-lVcl h)ii I'rom a ikmIccI (hoii;;hl. 
 
 And MS 'Hh I imic Hi(> s| (inn Jul;- 1o|» 
 
 Must. Ti-om lis imiKM-rcclions. slop. 
 
 So (rue llu' woild, ol" pcrlccl pl.'m. 
 
 Will on r«)n>v<'r. DrcMiidii^ nuiii 
 
 S(H\s only by hnpiM-l'ccl ll^ht — 
 
 Clear nil (hin.i;s (<» (he lMlini((>. 
 
 I'oor, blind hnninnHy innsi I'eel 
 
 lis wny Ihron^h IIIV; nnd woennd weni, 
 
 K'vv winding pn(hwn\s. nenr nllled, 
 
 Ivunninj;' lort^x (M- side l)y side. 
 
 W hnl wonder innn so ol'len sirnys 
 
 I'l-oni /'/.// (o //us nironi;hon( his dnvs! 
 
^VllO SlIAU. juin,li 
 
 'M 
 
 To-dn.y vvcilccin ourHclvrH Hiii [MooI', 
 And from Um^ \vM.y\vni(l hold nlool" - 
 'rn-iiiorrow lloimdcr (1«'<'|» in woch 
 While Ik' \v<' HimiiK'd h( rni^hl onwani ^^och. 
 The h(;nrl, \h (rucHl, iiohlcKl, hcKt , 
 Thnl, mji,k<'H n Ih-oIIici-'h Ki'i*'*" '!« ^ik'hI ; 
 Tluit ^ivcH lo l.iniiHiicd houIh a, I'cnKt 
 And jiid^clh of ilH n«'i;j,nl)or Ic.thI,. 
 
 'V\\v. hund)l(' (oih'i- li-ilJH nlon^" 
 And li;4;hl('nH labor wilh a Hon^' — 
 The vvorHhIpcrH of Mammon nnrcr 
 IWu-aiiHc, ma.yhap, Ww poc^l-'H car 
 Ilalh can^hl lli<! imi-monicH I ha I roll 
 In ryllnnic cadence roun<l Ihh houI, 
 I<'orj;('lful of Ihe pen and hrain 
 Thai, j^ave lh<^ toiler hin refrain. 
 And po<'t , penile Klill of hearl, 
 Si^hw I'hoii^hl-ful, an he hirnH apaiM — 
 "I'd i-alher be a, lark and Kin^' 
 My Hon;;- on free, enipyi-eal wln^, 
 O'er-happy if, in Soi-rovv'H l,hron;j;' 
 One heaiM, he lighter for (he Hon;;;', 
 Than InnelcHH lord of hoaslfnl hirlh 
 To haJiiHh I*<!a,ce and Mirol (l<* Mirl h. 
 
32 ^VHO SHALL JUDGE 
 
 And if at eve my pulsing breast 
 To damp and ciiilly heath be prest, 
 And frowning skies my comfort blight, 
 I'll spring as gay at morning's light 
 And pour my rippling melody 
 Out o'er the field as full and free 
 As though a thousand fairies strove 
 To make my couch as warm as love." 
 
 Thus minds, as planets, circle 'round. 
 And truth 'twixt opposites is found- 
 Thus every being bears a part 
 To stir the blood in Nature's heart. 
 And, when at last this worldly guise 
 Shall vanish in the light of eyes 
 True, perfect, clear as He shall give, 
 'Twill be our destiny to live 
 Where heart by heart is clearly read, 
 And, howsoe'er our paths we tread, 
 So shall we sup of woe or bliss 
 In that world, as we love in this. 
 And He, of all the life and soul, 
 Must view His product onward roll 
 Forever. For the worlds that be 
 Swim in an everlasting sea. 
 
STRENGTH OF SIMPLICITY 
 
 *'Blow!" cried a lordly oak. "I bravo 
 
 The winds from everywhere!" 
 A wood-floAver in its shadow gave 
 
 A shiver of despair. 
 The tempest woke. The forest kings 
 Tost in the clouds their locks, 
 And through the skies, on wings of flame, 
 The thunder-gods contending came :— 
 
 The tempest slept. The flower looked up, 
 
 A rain drop shining in its cup— 
 The oak lay on the rocks. 
 
OCTOBER 
 
 All day I have been in the woods alone, 
 
 A day so quiet my soul could hear 
 The soul of the forest in pensive moan— 
 The soul of the forest in undertone, 
 
 Bewailing the dying year. 
 
 In dim, soft shadow I roamed at will 
 
 Where brooks, leaf-muffled and languid, flow. 
 So tensely tuned was the time, and still, 
 I could feel the heart of the forest thrill 
 With th' presage of coming woe. 
 
 I could feel the heart of the forest beat 
 In sorrow at loss of its beautiful crown ; 
 
 While up from the grasses an odor sweet— 
 
 A faint, sweet odor arose to meet 
 The leaves that were drifting down. 
 
 The bright green leaves of the summer, alas ! 
 Now brown, and amber, and red, and gold— 
 
OCTOBER 35 
 
 I fell with my face in the dying mass, 
 For I felt the Avings of a spirit jjass, 
 And the touch of a hand was cold — 
 
 The gruesome touch of a ghostly hand 
 
 And the sigh of a soul's despair! 
 For the foes of Life were abroad in the land, 
 The wings of Destruction tlie forest fann'd, 
 
 And Beauty w^as dying there. 
 
 With my face in the crimson leaves I wept, 
 
 (Dear leaves, so gay in the warm June weather!) 
 
 And into my bosom a longing crept. 
 
 That my soul with the soul of the leaves had kept 
 On into the great Forever. 
 
 For dear to me was the summer's bloom — 
 But the world cares little to understand ; 
 To-night I sit in my lonely room, 
 With my lonely life, in the deepening gloom, 
 A withered leaf in my hand. 
 
ALONE 
 
 The moon is waning- in tlio sky 
 
 (My steps are feeble ^rown and slow) 
 
 I see the lazy dragon-fly 
 
 On gaudy wing go sailing by — 
 How chill the evening zephyrs grow. 
 
 I watch the brown leaves twii'l and fall — 
 
 Fall down and tlee on Autumn's breath; 
 I hear the mournful ring-dove's call, 
 The plover's cry, and each and all 
 Bear solemn prophecies of death. 
 
 Oh could my lieart have drunk the draught 
 Vouchsafed to some while shone the day, 
 Death's cup I then had willing (piaffed, 
 Aye, drank the very dregs and laughed 
 To see him cheated of his prey. 
 
 Could I have had assurance sweet 
 From but one soul in all the throng, 
 
ALOhlE 37 
 
 Tliat in the future, weary feet, 
 Heavy with labor, should grow fleet 
 Because my muse had sung one song! 
 
 But no, not mine this joy. My days 
 
 (Some buds there are which never ope) 
 Have borne me in such darkened ways 
 That, though I ever strain my gaze 
 For light, I still in darkness grope. 
 
 O Thou to whom I bend the knee. 
 The stars and birds alike Thy care; 
 
 Touch Thou mine eyes that I may see. 
 
 Alone 'tis ever night, with Thee 
 'Tis glorious morning everywhere. 
 
AB EXTRA 
 
 "Thereareno poor— thank God!" I cried and turned 
 
 To see a burdened woman trembling fare,— 
 The strands of trouble silvering her hair- 
 Slow from the shop close hugging what she'd earned ; 
 I saw the bundle that had been her task, 
 A million stitches pearled with anxious tears. 
 And all her pay, 
 
 Food for a day. 
 The putting forward just so far her fears,— 
 "Let us give thanks. He answereth all who ask!" 
 
 "Thanksgiving for Thy blessings manifold!" 
 So rang the anthem and the righteous bow'd 
 Within the church. Without, a blue-lipped crowd, 
 
 Half-clad, half-fed, stood shivering with cold. 
 "Give us to do your drudgery," they plead, 
 
 "That we may eat." "There is a store of bread." 
 
 The parson cried, "Give thanks, and prayer and 
 praise, 
 
AB EXTRA 39 
 
 His sheep have come into their own at last, 
 Have fallen on the full, delightful days — " 
 "Give us to eat!" again the rabble cried. 
 The parson, softly— "For the poor He died." 
 
 "Thanksgiving!" cry the favored, "God is good!" 
 The hovels tremble with the groans for food. 
 
DAWN AND DUSK 
 
 Where all-year skies are blue and bright, 
 
 And pour the moonbeams golden 
 O'er floAv'ring fields in floods of light — 
 
 Where rambling houses olden 
 Throw wide their doors on spacious halls 
 
 And roomy chimneys brighten, 
 In autumn days, the picturcMl walls, 
 
 Where songs harmonious lighten 
 The dusky toiler's burden ; Avhere 
 
 The mocking bird makes cheery 
 With every vagrant warbler's air, 
 
 'Twas there I met my dearie. 
 
 The zephyrs through the nodding pines 
 
 Were musically stealing, 
 The blossoms drifted from the vines 
 
 That up the oaks were reeling ; 
 There, while the thrush sang overhead, 
 
D/llVN AND DUSK 41 
 
 Our tender vows we plighted — 
 And solemn words were softly said, 
 That our young- lives united. 
 
 Long years we've journeyed side by side, 
 
 And all the hours are g-olden 
 As moonbeams that through portals wide. • 
 All beautiful and silent glide 
 
 Into the mansion olden. 
 
HAWAIIAN LOVE SONG 
 
 [The phrase upon which this poem turns is the most tender and elo- 
 quent expression of love and affection In the Hawaiian language.] 
 
 Our Northern tongue for battle, 
 
 For argument and trade, 
 But not for wooing looks of love 
 
 From eyes of doubting maid, 
 More sweet the story's uttered 
 
 In far away Hawaii, 
 
 Aloha nui loa 
 
 Aloha nui oe. 
 
 The Dane, the Celt, the Saxon, 
 
 Are lovers quite as true 
 As any e'er the tropic sun 
 
 To dreamy roundness drew ; 
 But none can voice so sweetly 
 
 Love's glad triumphant joy, 
 As this untaught Hawaiian, 
 
 Aloha nui oe. 
 
HAIVAIIAI^ LOVE SONG 43 
 
 Pale autumn pensive lingers 
 
 Along the crimson wood, 
 Or bends to weep above the spot 
 
 Where late the poppy stood, 
 And sighs as sighs the lover 
 
 For one in far Hawaii, 
 
 Aloha mii loa. 
 
 Aloha ntii oe. 
 
 The mother rocking softly 
 
 Her first-born, crooning low 
 The quaint, unwritten song of love 
 
 That babes and mothers know, 
 Drifts where the palms are sighing, 
 
 In far away Hawaii, 
 
 Aloha nui loa^ 
 
 Aloha nui oe. 
 
 Sweet phrase, all unacquainted 
 
 With sound of care or strife, 
 Like love untutored come to speech 
 
 You bubble into life ! 
 O, dusky-eyed Koolele, 
 
 O lithe-limbed blue-eyed boy. 
 
 Aloha nui loa. 
 
 Aloha nui oe. 
 
O, COME WITH ME 
 
 O come with me to the wild-wood free 
 
 Where the south wind fetterless blows; 
 Where the nymphs peep out with a saucy pout 
 
 From the tips of the budding- rose. 
 Where the zephyrs play on their scented w^ay, 
 
 And the boughs with their tones are rife, 
 Where voices I know will whisper us low 
 
 From the soul of their secret life. 
 
 O come with me Avhere the thrush goes mad 
 
 With joy of the summer's glow, 
 And the squirrel calls from the orchard walls, 
 
 And the time has never a no. 
 
 Where the brook leaps up to the leaf-formed cup, 
 And the mandrake nods in the shade. 
 
 Where the blackberries peep from the coverts deep, 
 And the wild bees' hoard is made. 
 
 From the mad town come where the partridge drum 
 
O, COME IVITH ME 45 
 
 Goes echoing down the glen. 
 Let the crowd go by — it in moan and sigh 
 And curse in the liaunts of men. 
 
 Then come witli me where the tlirusli goes mad 
 
 With joy of the summer's gh)w, 
 Where the squirrel calls from the orchard walls, 
 
 And the time has never a no. 
 
THE SILENT LAND 
 
 God's language tells us we are One, 
 
 And somewhere, 'twixt the stars and sun, 
 
 The Vale of Peace in quiet lies, 
 
 Where human hearts grow truly wise; 
 
 Where gliding spirits feed the mind 
 
 With truth ; Avhere souls are not confined 
 
 To narrow paths, but roam at will 
 
 O'er mead and mountain, heath and hill; 
 
 In fair Tacita's waters lave, 
 
 And, living, rest as in the grave. 
 
 A land wherein the woeful word 
 
 That blinds the thought is never heard, 
 
 But soul with soul hath converse sweet. 
 
 In language soundless, full, complete. 
 
 Who enters there leaves words behind. 
 
 For mind, illumined, reads the mind. 
 
 The gleaming walls that skirt it round 
 
 Have never heard the voice of sound ; 
 
THE SILENT LAND 47 
 
 Yet peeans swell and anthems roll 
 Harmonious — music of the soul. 
 To live will be to understand 
 When we have gained the Silent Land. 
 
IN DIFFERENT MEASURE 
 
 'Laugh and the world laughs with yon."— Ella. Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 O, sing to tlie priestess of unrestrained pleasure, 
 
 Laugh till the walls of the palace resound ! 
 Dainty shoon beat out the rhythmical measure, 
 
 Wine glasses tinkle and leap at the sound ! 
 Crown her with roses, voluptuous red ones, 
 
 Bring in the bacchanals, slaughter the calf — 
 Poverty's wailing its dying and dead ones? 
 
 Teach it, dear poetess, teach it to laugh. 
 
 Long have we waited her muse to enroll us 
 
 Angels of mercy the foremost and best: 
 Others for ages refused to extol us— 
 
 Singing forever the poor and oppressed. 
 Homer to Burns ! They did naught but abuse us, 
 
 Flailing with wit our pretentions to chaff. 
 She is the first to redeem us and choose us 
 
 The theme for a song — to delight in our laugh. 
 
IN DIFFERENT MEASURE 49 
 
 Laugh and the world will laugh with you! Be 
 cheery ; 
 
 Thrust back that sob on your womanish heart! 
 Others have hov^els as empty and dreary, 
 
 Others have babes 'neath the Juggernaut cart- 
 There is no treachery, knavery, sorrow, 
 
 Throw down the crutches and discard the staff, 
 Put by your hunger, 'twill keep till to-morrow, 
 
 Be deaf to the wailing of others and laugh. 
 
POOR OLD WORLD 
 
 Poor old world, thy sun's declining ; 
 
 'Twixt thy two extremes a door 
 Darkling shuts— within the dining, 
 
 And without the starving poor. 
 Bankrupt all ! We've banished pleasure, 
 
 Passion rules the hearts of men— 
 In the palace hoarding treasure 
 
 Cursing treasure in the den. 
 
 Fled the saintly triple Graces, 
 
 Fled their gentle sister Peace ; 
 Gold has flattened human faces 
 
 By the weight of its increase. 
 Every lofty thought is smothered, 
 
 Dead is Friendship's generous glow- 
 See the race by Freedom mothered 
 
 Unto Mammon bowing low. 
 
JUNE 
 
 Most welcome, thou of lavish hand ! 
 A subtle fragrance fills the land ; 
 The sea is silver, and the strand 
 
 A wave of gold ; 
 The fruit peeps forth on every hand, 
 
 And flowers unfold. 
 
 The verdant hills are proud to wear 
 Thy blushing favors, and declare 
 Thy purpled richness. Everywhere 
 
 Is glory spread, 
 And tree and shrub and earth and air 
 
 To beauty wed. 
 
THE FALLEN LEAF 
 
 From its brothers gay ou the boughs at play — 
 
 Like tlie tear of a hidden grief 
 O'er the cheek of care— through the lambent air 
 
 Slow-drifted an idle leaf. 
 
 To be caught at last by the brook that passed 
 
 And sang to the boughs above, 
 Where it rose and fell with the dip and swell, 
 
 Like a brooch at the throat of love. 
 
 Then out on the stream, with a saucy gleam, 
 It was swept by the current down 
 
 Where the mists of gray from the rapids' play 
 Are pied with the rocks of brown. 
 
 Oh ! the leaves that fall at the frost-king's call. 
 They are mourned as the dead may be. 
 
 But the one astray — how the home-hearts pray 
 For that one on the Somewhere Sea. 
 
LIBERTY BELL AT THE WORLD'S FAIR 
 
 Grand old bell, thy earlier mission but to voice on 
 
 Sabbath morning- — 
 As an angel's fingers pressed thee, 
 As an angel's wings caressed thee. 
 Softly chiming from the steeple, 
 "Rest ye, rest ye, O my people!" 
 In mellifluous tones and tender with an undertone 
 
 of warning, — 
 Changed thy speech, as all men know, 
 On that morning long ago, 
 When thy stern majestic ring 
 Bade defiance to a king. 
 
 In the streets are gathered thousands waiting for 
 
 the message grand 
 That shall loose their bonds and make them freemen 
 in a freeman's land,— 
 That shall by a single motion 
 Send defiance o'er the ocean, 
 Signal ships are outward pointed, 
 
54 LIBERTY BELL AT THE IVORLD'S FAIR 
 
 Signal ships tliat homeward run, 
 That a i)rince by priest anointed 
 Is but man wlien all is done. 
 
 Brave men breathless stand below thee, pale of 
 
 cheek but stern of brow, 
 Praying for th' proclamation — moments are as 
 hours now, 
 See ! the hand uplifted wavers, 
 
 Falls— the bellman straining there, 
 Sends the song in rhythmic quavers 
 
 Out upon the dancing air, 
 "Tlie3' have signed it, O my people!" 
 Cries the bell from out the steeple, 
 * 'Independence! Independence! Liberty is newly 
 
 crowned!" 
 Chorus all the waiting thousands till the old bell's 
 voice is drowned. 
 
 But that glorious proclamation, 
 
 Swiftly everywhere it ran 
 And demanded of each nation 
 
 Equal rights for every man. 
 
 How the spirit of Columbia into every heart has 
 grown 
 
LIBERTY BELL AT THE WORLD'S FAIR 55 
 
 Best is told by yon White City— symbolizing all 
 that's good. 
 East and West are come together— there is neither 
 pole nor zone, 
 
 There is neither slave nor monarch ; but where late 
 the willow stood, 
 Stands the wonder of the ages. Stroke the old bell's 
 rusty side, 
 
 Right has triumphed and before her cowers Tyr- 
 anny and Pride. 
 
UNREWARDED 
 
 To sing, that seemed his one delight, 
 
 Betrayed of man, he sang for men, 
 O'erfilled with gladness if he might 
 
 But win the sad to smile again ; 
 Poor in those things the mean adore, 
 
 Rich in those things the gods revere, 
 He scattered largess from his store — 
 
 The world repaid him with a sneer. 
 
 Ah, bright the face of Hope appears 
 
 To those by sad mischance distrest — 
 A sun that rainbows falling tears, 
 
 A moon that swims in Trouble's breast. 
 But cruel fortune left him blind- 
 She gave the cross, but kept the crown- 
 He wrote his name upon the wind 
 And weighted it with thistledown. 
 
THE COMING DAY 
 
 You do not see the tears fall, 
 O scoffers 
 With coffers 
 In which you lock your hearts ; 
 You do not see the mists that lie 
 Before the ever-yearning eye 
 
 When peace from life departs. 
 
 You do not see the blood flow 
 O blind ones, 
 Unkind ones. 
 Who hoard the shining dust ; 
 You do not know the grief they feel 
 Who through a night of anguish kneel 
 Praying to keep their trust. 
 
 Yet they are all about you, 
 The falling ones 
 The calling ones. 
 
58 THE COMING DAY 
 
 Here, there, they fainting lie; 
 O when at last your stei)s are stayed 
 And you are low beside them laid, 
 
 Can you for niere^' cry? 
 
 Jf e'er the the burden-bearing 
 Shall cease to pray, 
 Beware the day, 
 Sweet princes, boasting niucli I 
 The lion ravened of her young 
 Is gentler than the human stung 
 
 Beyond Hope's healing touch. 
 
CLOTHES WORSHIP 
 
 The world Avill crack the devil o'er the pate 
 If, dressed in ra^s, he peep above the pate — 
 But let the velvet hide his cloven hoof, 
 He finds a welcome under eveiy roof. 
 
THE GOOD IN EVEUYTHINQ 
 
 I ain't jos'got luyboariirs i)n tlioso Socialistic facts, 
 An' I'm Kununat undecided 'bout the sclienie o' 
 
 Single Tax, 
 But all year round I'm pullin'.strony: with any man 
 
 ur creed 
 'At gits a crowd together lur a feller-hein's need. 
 1 ain't sot on no theury, nur any special i)lau 
 To brinj;- abt)ut redemi)tit)n. T' nie the average 
 
 man 
 Is puz'lin' es a gol' mine* — so many slants an' 
 
 shifts— 
 Ain't lilce to strike it payin' till y've sunk a dozen 
 
 drifts : 
 But one thing- now 1 know es well es any man a- 
 
 talkiu', 
 The bad ain't till in kerriges, nur all the gu'd a- 
 
 walkiii'. 
 
THE GOOD IN El^ERYTHING CI 
 
 Take my olo mare — o' liiiinhlo birth — slie'd never 
 
 captiir' Bonner, 
 But fleet Maud S., i)ert— speedy tew— Avitli all her 
 
 jj;e\vj»awK on her, 
 *(Id never i)ull me half .so safe. I take more eomfort 
 
 with her 
 A j();L;j;in' tlirouj;!! the pastnr' lan'H an' hjn^ the 
 
 shaded river, 
 Than he ean f;it a-flyin' o'er a road o' powdered 
 
 mortar 
 An' feelin' 'at his na;^' don't pass es many es she'd 
 
 <jrter — 
 But both on 'em ha' ^ot their pints thar ain't no 
 
 sidks nur balkin' — 
 The bad ain't all in kerrij^es, nur all the Ru'd n- 
 
 walkin'. 
 
 Thar's few on us '11 ed;;-e t' s(inare, fur Natur' runs 
 
 t' bevels, 
 But if there isa deai'th o' saints Ihar ain't so many 
 
 devils. 
 The truth is, minor strains o'tAu'd run through the 
 
 most o' cre'tur'.s — 
 We ain't all han'sum, but we've all got some re- 
 
 deemin' fe'tur's ; 
 
63 THE GOOD IN EVERYTHING 
 
 An' when y'conio across a nian'ot seems supremely 
 
 bad, 
 Jes' fin' the stone 'et's sluittin' out the sunshine 
 
 fruni tlie lad. 
 An' if you leu' a kin'ly han't' roll that stone away, 
 You'll stx* a shoot come peepin' up t' g:i*eet th' 
 
 eheerin' day, 
 An' spreadin' out its tiny han's, an' by an' by 't'll 
 
 bloom. 
 An' when the cruciliers cum they'll tin' an empty 
 
 tomb. 
 Now Paul was sich a feller, mos' cruel, hard an' 
 
 col'. 
 He'd titles, too, an' honors, an' a cheriot o' g:o\\ 
 But when he turned he giv' his hfe fur Him he'd 
 
 been a mockin' — 
 The bad ain't all in kerriiivs, nur all tlie siu'd a- 
 
 walkin'. 
 
 Las' week I seed a workin'man.es po'r es po'r eu'd 
 
 be. 
 With nothin' to pay taxes on, except 'twas misery. 
 Put down his dinner-pail an' turn to chem-an'mil'ly 
 
 chide 
 A tipsy, broken 'risi-tocrat who talked o' suicide; 
 
THE GOOD IN EVERYTHING 63 
 
 An' yiKtc^May I whmI th(^ iiiaii Micl jkxh* niochanic 
 
 Kaved, 
 All Khiniii' Klcck in broadt'loth, jcs' newly prinip'd 
 
 an' Hliaved, 
 Go down a muddy alleyway wiiar' lay a, Hoddon 
 
 wij?ht, 
 An' bear him tenderly beyon' tlie Khontin' rabble's 
 
 Kij2:ht, 
 An' that Ik why I'm moved t' Hay, for all the gloomy 
 
 lalkin'. 
 The bad ain't all in kerri^es, nur all the; ^n'd a- 
 
 walking. 
 
 So while on one Hide SelfiHhn(>KH is keepin' what it 
 
 getH, 
 An' on the other Envy ravew an' eurHes, fumeH an' 
 
 fretH, 
 Tir (pilet peojjle sweep alon^- 1h' road a-tAveen th' 
 
 two, 
 A g:ettin' j^entlei- all th' time because o' ^ood they 
 
 do, 
 A ft-ettin' nearer, nearer yet t' that delightful time 
 When ev'ry man '11 seek th' true in ev'ry lau' an' 
 
 clime, 
 
64 THE GOOD IN El^ERYTHING 
 
 When Ekal Rights '11 comi)ass all the surface o' th' 
 
 y earth, 
 An' man'll rank fur what he is despite o' wealth nr 
 
 birth— 
 Thar won't be any Ian 'lord then beliin' th' tenant 
 
 stalkin' 
 An' gu'd '11 ride on ev'ry side, with Satan, maybe, 
 
 walkin'. 
 
THE PESSIMIST 
 
 Before him sweeps the cavalcade of Space; 
 Behind him tramps the cavalry of Time ; 
 And 'twixt the two, with hopeless, aging face, 
 He struggles through a chapparral of crime. 
 
A SUMMER PICTURE 
 
 In curving silken lianiniock hung, 
 She Hlowly back and forward swung; 
 Her left hand tost above her head, 
 And in her right the book she read, 
 Or seemed to read ; yet each Avhite lid, 
 Blue-veined and heavy fringed, half hid 
 Her brown-black eyes, whose dreamy light 
 Shone like a half-seen star at night, 
 When veil-like mist o'erhangs the air— 
 And told her thoughts were otherwhere. 
 
 Her wealth of yellow tresses caught— 
 Bj^ silver bangles, Venice- wrought— 
 Back from her brow, full, broad and low 
 And trackless as new-fallen snow, 
 Swept sloping downward, wave on wave, 
 To hide the foam-white shoulders, save 
 Where, 'twixt dividing, golden strands, 
 They gleamed like pearls half hid in sands. 
 
A SUMMER PICTURE 67 
 
 Cue dainty, slippered foot peeped out — 
 Its arching- instep bound about 
 AVith narrow bands of l)lack and ^old — 
 From underneath tlio foani-hke fokl 
 Of Huffy g'own — greensward beneatli, 
 The trees above a giant Avreath ; 
 Slie seemed not born of earthly strife, 
 But marble starting into life. 
 
UNDER THE BLOSSOMS 
 
 A Mid-May evening, calm, serene; 
 
 The stars assembling faintly smiled 
 On nndulating fields of green, 
 
 On woods where plum and apple wild, 
 Their every bough a globe of bloom, 
 
 With fragrant odors filled the air, 
 On stream that in the softened gloom 
 
 Of woodland shade sang sweetly there. 
 
 With figure bent and falt'ring pace, 
 
 Up from the vale a pilgrim came ; 
 Pale Want had pinched and limned his face, 
 
 And Sin, Regret and Passion's flame 
 Had so consumed him that he moved 
 As one who, having Charon proved, 
 
 W^as come again to stroll among 
 The ricli, full beauties of the plain. 
 
 'Twas like a glorious anthem sung, 
 Wherein is one discordant strain. 
 
UhlDER THE BLOSSOMS 69 
 
 Just underneath tlie bluHliing- boiigli 
 
 He knelt beside the brook, to cool 
 His fevered throat and tlirobbinj;' 1>row. 
 
 "Dear spot," lie niurnuired, "worse than fool 
 Was I, to leave so fair a place 
 
 For city's glare and blaze and roar. 
 O Innocence, thy gentle face 
 
 Shall smile upon me nevermore!" 
 
 He paused. Among the tender leaves 
 
 The straying Zephyr sadly sighed. 
 "And is there any heart that grieves 
 
 To-night for me?" he sudden cried. 
 "Ah, (iod !" At that great word he bowed 
 
 His head until the grasses swept 
 His sunken cheek, and sobbed aloud, 
 
 And prayer broke from him while he wept. 
 
 THE PKAYER 
 
 "Sweet Spirit! Universal All! 
 
 Pure source of gentleness and love! 
 Who hearest e'en the sparrow call, 
 
 I, to the verge of madness drove. 
 Hard ridden by a devil horde 
 
 Of Bcourging fiends, at last to Thee, 
 
70 UNDER THE BLOSSOMS 
 
 Though late, I come ; Thou art the Lord — 
 Oh, be Thou merciful to me. 
 
 ''About my head the tempests drive, 
 My feet are set in sinking sands, 
 
 Within me evils live and thrive, 
 To tear the good with cruel hands. 
 
 On Virtue I have shut the door ; 
 My heart is lead, O Galilee! 
 
 Thy love, Thy favor I implore- 
 Dear Lord, be merciful to me." 
 
 He slept. Above him sang a thrush ; 
 
 The twilight deepened into night, 
 And, in the still and holy hush, 
 
 The blossoms, delicately bright. 
 Came slowly down from branch and bough, 
 
 In fragrant clouds came down to hide 
 
 The shame of sin and wreck of pride. 
 
 They found him there at mornings light, 
 All wrapped in robes of pink and white — 
 And peace was on his brow. 
 
THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE PLOW 
 
 All about the corn is waving 
 Emerald green with tips of gold ; 
 Amber wheat-fields sea-like laving 
 Shores of hedge-row round them roll'd. 
 'Neath yon poplars tall and stately, 
 Robed in shimmering silver leaves, 
 From his farm-house door sedately, 
 Counts the lord his coming sheaves. 
 Mark, as evening shadows lengthen, 
 How he sends delighted eye, 
 O'er the upland's wealth of treasure. 
 Where the shaven meadows lie. 
 
 Nature weaves her fairest garlands 
 Round the sunburned reaper's brow, 
 And the Ship of State is guided 
 By the hand that holds the plow. 
 
 See his offspring troop about him, 
 Strong of limb and brown of cheek, 
 
73 THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE PLOIV 
 
 Reared to trust and never doubt him, 
 Labor taught from week to week. 
 Within doors the housewife tripping- 
 Back and forth in thouglitful part, 
 Loving hopes her steps out-stripping, 
 Born within her mother-lieart, 
 Till the snowy cloth is laden 
 With the food her hands prepared — 
 Home-instructed wiiile a maiden — 
 Richer feast was never shared. 
 
 Nature weaves her fairest garlands 
 Round the sunburned reaper's brow 
 And the Ship of State is guided 
 By the hand that holds the plow. 
 
 Can there grow — in city splendor — 
 Walled and sunless, rank with sin, 
 Souls so broad they would defend, or 
 Die, their country's good to win? 
 Hero minds need different feeding — 
 Hills and valleys, sky and sun. 
 Such will rise, their country needing, 
 Rise true patriots every one. 
 Slavery never can enthrall them. 
 Gold is serf to Right the king, 
 
THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE PLOIV 73 
 
 Dragon Greed cannot appal them, 
 
 They have heard the river sing. 
 
 Nature weaves her fairest garlands 
 Hound the sunburned reaper's brow, 
 And the Ship of State is guided 
 By the hand that holds the plow. 
 
RETRIBUTION 
 
 At last you are home from the carnival ? I — 
 By my faith, 'tis a regal head- 
 Have been pondering here, as the hours went by, 
 On the fleshless hand and the rayless eye.— 
 List, madam, our cliild is dead. 
 
 Is dead, I tell you— asleep, asleep. 
 
 Keep silence, and wake her not ! 
 I watched her going, but did not weep, 
 And the devils came out of the shade to peep 
 
 At the one bright crimson spot— 
 
 You would see our darling? 'Twill be as well. 
 
 So, lay the jewels aside. 
 And all these shimmering robes that tell 
 Of the stately measure and cadent swell. 
 
 Of the sinuous sweep and glide 
 
 Of the amorous waltz. Am I harsh? And thou, 
 
 Oh, gentle and loving mind! 
 With thy jeweled throat and thy painted brow— 
 
RETRIBUTION 75 
 
 And have j^oii rciKon to chide me ikjw 
 With cruelty ? I unkind ! 
 
 It likes me better, this Kiiiiple drcK.s; 
 
 What a small, small throat, my love! 
 Do you shrink from my touches of tenderness? 
 Time was you were hungry for each caress. 
 
 And cooed in return like a dove. 
 
 Wc will go together, and you may wecj)— 
 
 Your breath — are my lingers steel? — 
 O'er that silent couch with its snow-white heap 
 Of marble beauty in breathless sleep,— 
 What, Love! you falter and reel! 
 
 So well I loved her, ^//r child, my dear — 
 
 What say you? lielic^ve, you true? 
 And she was so pretty I liad a tear 
 The world might claim her and leave me here 
 
 Alone when she (dder grew. 
 
 And 1 rocked her to sleep in my shielding aruis 
 
 (Did you dance with the count to-night?) 
 I rocked her, and whispered: Th(^ world's alarms 
 Shall never come near you, nor shall your charms 
 Grow pale in a lover's sight. 
 
70 RETRIBUTION 
 
 And I said 1 would keep her, the bloom on her 
 cheeks — 
 
 There, still as the child you've grown. 
 And white as the snow on the mountain peaks, 
 Soft by our little one — ha! who speaks? 
 
 I have had my way with my own. 
 
EASTER LILIES 
 
 What thoiiftli you build cloud-hi^li the vviill, 
 What though the sword you constant wield ! 
 
 All kingdouiH, monarchioK shall fall 
 
 Because of th(;s(; — and over all 
 Shall stand the lilies of the field. 
 
TO A WOITNOEI) BIRD 
 
 Poor little Avnrblor! liariiiloss tliiiijij 
 That late on buoyant, sportive winj::, 
 llij;ii up anionj;- tlio clouds, did'st sinj^ 
 
 Thy lA'lad refrain. 
 Now helpless at my feet you fling*, 
 
 A slave to pain. 
 
 Thy voice, that erst, so full and clear, 
 Was wont my lonely heart to cheer, 
 Now shrill with pain and piteous fear — 
 
 Cheering no more — 
 Wins for itself but Pity's tear, 
 
 And grieves me sore. 
 
 Poor songster! not thy voice alone 
 From troubled breast sends up its moan, 
 Thine not the only pleading tone 
 
 Of breaking heart- 
 So man must ever sigh and groan 
 
 K'en from tlie start. 
 
TO ^ BOUNDED BIRD 79 
 
 'Ti8 tliUH the mortal that haw fouiul 
 Thee, blasted by a cruel Avound, 
 Gropes ever darkly 'round and 'round, 
 
 With mind untau^lit, 
 Striving with many a useless bound 
 
 A llight of thought. 
 
 So must he ever panting lie, 
 
 Far, far below Hope's glowing sky, 
 
 To which he fain would (piickly Ily 
 
 In loving trust. 
 But ever with a feeble cry 
 
 Falls in the dust. 
 
BETTER THAN GOLD 
 
 Cast your bread upon the water. 
 Pleading, hungry at your feet ; 
 High or humble, king or cotter, — 
 
 Charity's returns are sweet. 
 By a word that's tiUy spoken, 
 
 Howe'er simple it may be, 
 Oft a chain of evil's broken 
 And a fettered slave is free. 
 
 Cast your bread upon the waters. 
 Tossing sea or dimpled burn,— 
 These are all His sons and daughters. 
 Give! nor question the return. 
 
 Every tear that's stayed from falling 
 
 Is a diamond for your crown ; 
 O the ceaseless, ceaseless calling 
 
 Of the dear ones trampled down ! 
 But for those whose strength is given 
 
BETTER THAN GOLD 81 
 
 To the shielding of the weak, 
 Storms are still, the clouds are riven, 
 Zephyrs chant and Knnbcams speak. 
 Cast your bread upon the waters. 
 Frowning sea or dimpled burn— 
 These are all His sons and daughters, 
 Give! nor question the return. 
 
 Every stream of kindness flowing 
 
 Stays some feet that sin-ward roam ; 
 Every lamp of mercy glowing 
 
 Guides some wand 'ring brother home; 
 Nature opes her veins to nourish 
 
 Vines of truth where'er tliey run, 
 And a thousand blossoms llourish, 
 Pressing in the track of one. 
 
 Cast your bread upon the waters. 
 Moaning sea or dinii)led burn — 
 These are all His sons and daughters,— 
 Give! nor (piestion the return. 
 
 Every youth that's upward pointed 
 
 By the riper mind of age,— 
 Every age by youth anointed, 
 
 Beautifies a barren page. 
 
83 BETTER THAhl GOLD 
 
 Patient faith has ever wrought her 
 
 Triumphs through the gentle heart- 
 Cast your bread upon the water, 
 Heroism's noblest part. 
 
 Cast your bread upon the Avaters, 
 
 Moaning sea or dimpled burn, 
 These are all His sons and daughters, 
 Give ! nor question the return. 
 
HE WROTE FOR ALL 
 
 •♦The world is cruel, careless, cold," 
 I sighed, "and cares for iiauj;ht but gold! 
 Why should my troubled pages plead 
 A brother's woe— a brother's need!" 
 
 "My song is drowned in Mammon's roar,' 
 (I flung my pen upon the floor) 
 "The hand that Fortune stoops to bless 
 Must crush the buds of tenderness." 
 
 My toddling wee one put the pen 
 Into my trembling hand again. 
 And, clambering upon my knee. 
 Said, archly : "Papa, wite for me." 
 
 I wrote— a homely, childish tale 
 Of hope and love— no pensive wail 
 Of others' wrongs— but what her smile 
 Had wakened in my heart the while. 
 
84 HE IVROTE FOR ALL 
 
 And when the ink had scarcely dried, 
 
 I heard the song on every side ; 
 
 It filled the land from sea to sea, 
 
 While thousands cried, "He wrote for me." 
 
SISTERS OF MERCY 
 
 Theirs is the holy beauty that in the lily dwells, 
 Or sways the purple clover when chime the distant 
 
 bells ; 
 The sweet, unspoken beauty, too delicate to trace, 
 That hideth in the heart to light the plainest 
 
 human face. 
 
LOVE'S COMPLETENESS 
 
 They met 'neath an oak in a sheltered glade, 
 On a fair May morning,— the bright-eyed maid 
 
 And sturdy ploughman— through brown and tan, 
 Her gaze sank into the soul of the man. 
 
 She loved him, and he,— in the fields alone 
 He lingered wherever a flow'r was blown 
 
 To whisper his secret,— the birds all knew, 
 And sang the story so clear and true 
 
 That his great heart thrilled in his bosom grand, 
 Lest others should hear them and understand. 
 
 They met, and there at the maiden's feet, 
 A wild rose nestled secure and sweet. 
 
 He plucked the blossom with tender care, 
 And twining the stem in her golden hair, 
 
LOME'S COMPLETENESS 87 
 
 Low whispered : " 'Tis crowned with a gem of dew, 
 It shall gleam in your tresses, a crown for you. 
 
 The queen of all flow'rs, from the violet 
 That looks from your eyes, to the blooms which 
 fret 
 
 And boughs of the oak where the woodbine clings, 
 And the wild dove nests and the red-bird sings. 
 
 Then down from a branch, as he tremulous spoke, 
 Slow drifted a leaf from the listening oak,— 
 
 Till swaying and shifting, like mystical wand, 
 It rested at last in the maiden's hand. 
 
 Quickly she clasped it, to answer him-"See! 
 The oak of the forest is most like thee. 
 
 From your lips come words, as the leaves that fall, 
 That are rich with comfort and cheer for all. 
 
 The tree to the hurricane offers its breast, 
 
 That the weak in its bosom may shelter and rest, 
 
 It broadens its shade in the noontide heat. 
 And peaceful comfort envelops its feet. 
 
88 LOME'S COMPLETENESS 
 
 The modest blossom that docks my braid 
 ('.'imo fearless forth in its cooling;' shade. 
 
 Nay, look where the trunk by the storm is riven, 
 To the weaker vines is a foothold given, 
 
 And mount they ii;i\\\y in loving' strife, 
 To broader and sweeter and sunnier life. 
 
 Though man may harshly these faults condemn, 
 They are rounds in the ladder of hope to them. 
 
 The flower is fragile, but strong the tree, 
 The oak for you, and the rose for me. 
 
 Spring went and came with its bud and bloom. 
 With sunshine and song and the flash of plume. 
 
 The rich full Autumn turned gold and red 
 
 The great green wreath 'round the old oak's head. 
 
 But ever again when the soft May air 
 
 Is kissing the lips of the roses fair, 
 f 
 
 In the quiet shade of the oak, these twain 
 
 That glad spring morning live over again. 
 
LOVE'S COMPLETENESS 
 
 And youthful faeoH about thcni bend, 
 And youthful voices in harmony blend. 
 
 There are tonguen a-prattle and pattering feet, 
 The oak, the rose with the vines complete. 
 
FORSAKEN 
 
 O KhadowH of Erebus, liide mo ; 
 
 The (lay hath no pleasure for me. 
 Nor human nor anji»:el may guide me ; 
 
 I drift on an under- world sea. 
 Shut in by the mountains of Ileason, 
 
 Storm-beaten by Reason's disdain — 
 A cycle declined to a season, 
 
 An unbroken winter of pain. 
 
 Shut in by a custom unshaken, 
 
 Shut out from the sweetness of home; 
 From visions of joy 1 awaken. 
 
 To battle with demon and j^nome. 
 My soul as a bird of tlie morning, 
 
 Went soaring and singing tliy nain(»; 
 Now, stripped for thy sellish a<h)riiing. 
 
 It creeps back in darkness and slianie. 
 
 The hands that so gently caress thee 
 Hold lashes to scourge me; the lips 
 
FORS/fKEN 01 
 
 That trc)iil)le KW(»pt licavon to blosH the« 
 
 (Tiirso mo to the vcr^c of cclipHO. 
 rjod i)it.v tlicm, (Ican'sl ! (lo<I pity! 
 
 I^'or inyHclf, I shall fiiiiKh the j<'.st 
 Willi a incaningiess laugh thnjiigh the city, 
 
 To Klecp ill t\w, Kivcr of TlcKt. 
 
THE BETTER YEAR 
 
 Two radiant starH in the lon^- aj;o 
 
 Shone fair on a woi Id witli tlie war allanie, 
 
 And nwn ii;vc\\ jicnllcr for Sappho's woo. 
 And nobU'r hecanso of a Roman's fanio. 
 
 Yet bruto-blood lin^orod, and nobU^s heard 
 Tlio shriek of anj'nish Avithont a sij::li, 
 
 And the veins of matron and maitk'n stirred 
 And thrilled with pleasure to see men die. 
 
 How i)ale thy i)assion, () singer sweet ! 
 
 How dim thy ^lory.C) man of i)ride! 
 In the love-li.i;ht born where the two worlds meet, 
 
 At the tond) of the Nazarene, erneilied! 
 
 Are liands still crimson with life's dear bloom? 
 
 Does love still bleed in the press of strife*? 
 Do sun-beams strn^j»le throuj;h elouds of j>loom 
 
 That rise from the furnace of sordid life? 
 
THE BETTER YEAR 1)3 
 
 Behold the selfish turned straiij::ely jiist, 
 Thejnst ^rowii ^(Mitle; tlie kind, sincere! 
 
 While fruit displaces the liardened crust 
 In the softened glow of a better year. 
 
THE OUTCASTS 
 
 High in an attic, grim and scant, 
 A ragged creature lonely sat — 
 
 His face was limned with pain and want ; 
 
 At once he cried, "Begone! Avaunt!" 
 As o'er the threshold crept a cat. 
 
 "Stay, stranger, do not drive me hence? 
 
 I pray thee, list my tale of woe, 
 I am too poor to give offense, 
 And stripped of every finer sense, 
 
 I scarce fear either word or blow. 
 
 "It was not always so ; before 
 
 They turned me out the streets to roam, 
 I always found an open door. 
 Alas, when we grow old and poor. 
 
 That we should be without a home! 
 
 "The children loved to stroke my back, 
 
 When I was sleek, and round, and fat — 
 Watch the sparks fly and hear them crack, 
 
THE OUTCASTS 95 
 
 And call me pretty puss. Alack, 
 I'm now but a neglected cat ! 
 
 "Once, when a bell the children found— 
 
 A tiny, tinkling bell— they tied 
 It with a pretty ribbon round 
 My throat, and at its merry sound 
 
 They laughed and laughed until they cried. 
 
 ♦•But now whene'er my form they spy 
 With ready hand they fling the bat. 
 
 And I am forced for life to fly ; 
 
 I've lost a foot— an ear— an eye: 
 Alas, I am a sorry cat! " 
 
 "Poor creature, you have come at last, 
 To one who feels your woe— like you, 
 
 By all the harsh, cold world outcast, 
 
 To dream of an embittered past 
 
 Tliat proved all false he once deemed true. 
 
 "Come, outcast, ragged as you are. 
 Take half my crust: 'tis hard and dry. 
 
 And all I have— but you shall share; 
 
 And, while I live, so shall you fare 
 Till one or both of us shall die." 
 
SNOW VIOLETS 
 
 O bravely the violets bloom in the snow : 
 The chill \viii<ls of Maivli that are hurrying; so 
 Seem tempted to linj;(^r — reg,retriilly go 
 From the fragrant sweet violets sprung- from the 
 snow. 
 
 Man's work, not his streng^th, but his weakness re- 
 veals: 
 O'er-druuken with knowhMJge humanity reels 
 By the fountains of wisdom. The lowliest flower 
 Surpasses the wonderful: eastle and tower, 
 Carved marble, oiled canvass, how poorly they 
 
 show 
 Where the brave little violets bloom in the snow. 
 
THE FALSE NOTE 
 
 Does a strain of exultation 
 
 Steal, unbidden, to the tone 
 Voicing sympathy and comfort, 
 
 When another's hope is flown? 
 Does regret come slyly plucking 
 
 At the sleeve, while we rejoice 
 When another has succeeded 
 
 By his deed, or pen, or voice? 
 Hail the blemish in the blossom ! 
 
 Hail the discord in the tune! 
 We should come to hate the roses 
 
 Were the year a round of June. 
 
APRIL— EVENING 
 
 The virgin leaves in fi-iendly play, 
 The thrush a-tremble with his lay, 
 The snipe's dull boom, the plover's call, 
 The robin's treble winding through it al 
 
THE POET 
 
 A poet is— why, naught but this: 
 
 A throb'ing instrument, Avhose strain, 
 
 When joyous, is most full of pain. 
 
 When painful, rich in bliss. 
 
 A fettered bird that longs to fly, 
 
 Yet, freed, droops nerveless, idly by. 
 
 Nor spreads its wings till, chain 'd once more, 
 
 It beats its life out in a vain attempt to soar. 
 
 A poet is— why, who can tell? 
 
 Companion of sweet Nature's joy. 
 
 Fate's idle plaything, Passion's toy, 
 
 Combined of lieav'n and hell. 
 
 He pores above the Book of Man, 
 
 Its close-writ pages each to scan. 
 
 Learns every thought to feel and state, 
 
 And rides o'er darkling cares and woes elate. 
 
 This is a poet ; more than this. 
 He knows the grandeur heroes feel 
 
102 THE POET 
 
 When surging on with naked steel 
 Wliere death's hot missiles hiss ; 
 With them he scales the battlements 
 Through battle-smoke and carnage dense, 
 With blood-dyed blade and batter'd shield, 
 Till waves their flag triumphant o'er the field. 
 
 This is the poet, ay ! and more ; 
 
 His fate it is to hold and bound 
 
 A soul that, like a sea of sound. 
 
 Breaks on a farthest shore. 
 
 Through darkness of the length'nd night 
 
 To labor with a Heav'n-born might 
 
 Distilling dewdrops, pure and clear. 
 
 That diamond-like touch up the worldly ear. 
 
ON AN OLD DOOR-STONE AT YALE 
 
 What devious paths they since have trod, 
 The feet that wore this granite thin ; 
 
 But leveled forest, broken sod 
 
 And temples leaping up to God 
 Tell where their ways have been. 
 
'TIS NOBLE TO LABOR 
 
 'Tis noble to labor, but low to slave, 
 We should cleave our task as the ship the wave, 
 Not falter and flounder, as through a wood 
 Grown rank with briars ; half understood 
 The thing appals us ; well learned it seems 
 As smoothly pleasant as childhood's dreams. 
 We joy in the progress each day we make, 
 And labor is sweet for its own dear sake. 
 
 The nigardly miser we may despise. 
 But rational saving is good and wise ; 
 The independent is he w^lio can 
 Grant favors, nor ask them of any man. 
 What pleasure the poor to assist, but when 
 The needy are those whom we love ; ah then 
 The clink of silver and gold's bright shine 
 Bring joy to the giver that's quite divine. 
 
I KNOW 
 
 I know that joy is everywhere, 
 That trooping pleasures fill the earth, 
 
 For all day long before my door 
 The children sport in noisy mirth. 
 
 I know that Charity is queen, 
 And kindness leavens more and more. 
 
 For gates are open in the wall 
 That once divided rich and poor. 
 
 I am not wise to answer those 
 Who call me fool ; but this I know. 
 
 That all Lhe world is leal and true, 
 Because the ones I love are so. 
 
AN AUTUMN TRAGEDY 
 
 Mid-afternoon. All overhead 
 
 A trackless, blue expanse, 
 Along the stream the snmac red 
 
 Defiant rears his lance. 
 The partridge in the hollows drum, 
 
 The bannered maples gleam. 
 And naked cotton-wood and plum 
 
 Hang ghostly o'er the stream. 
 
 The spring brook, through an avenue 
 
 Of yellowed beach and elm, 
 Bears gayly on, with ants for crew— 
 
 A cricket at the helm— 
 A broad, frost-curled, catalpa leaf. 
 
 Its prow with silver crossed— 
 Two pebbles form a deadly reef. 
 
 The shipwrecked crew is lost. 
 
HOPE 
 
 When the weight of sorrow presses on the weary, 
 weary heart ; 
 
 When the future we have trusted fails to do its 
 promised part 
 
 As it sweeps into the present-when we shrink, 
 deceived, betrayed, 
 
 With the fruit of Expectation turning bitter in 
 the shade 
 
 Of the Tree of Knowledge reaching, with its elon- 
 gated bough, 
 
 Through the shadow of the ages to the stern and 
 staring now ; 
 
 When the long-desired fulfillment, clasped at last in 
 
 our embrace, 
 Proves a chill and bloodless nothing with a stolid, 
 
 painted face ; 
 When the sinking sky is darkened with the gloom- 
 
 ings of despair, 
 
108 HOPE 
 
 Not a single star to brighten — only blackness 
 everywhere — 
 
 Comes a breeze so gently blowing, comes a warm 
 and tender light, 
 
 Stealing up the eastern heaven, and Despair and 
 sable Night 
 
 Slowly fade away together — Morning trips along 
 the slope. 
 
 And the spirit's day breaks newly with the dawn- 
 ing light of Hope. 
 
A LEGEND OF ESQUIMAU BAY 
 
 O bright was the morning ! All nature adorning, 
 
 The sunbeams of summer shone free, 
 When Mary came down o'er the sands from the 
 town 
 
 To the damp golden rim o' the sea. 
 
 For her Jamie to-day would go sailing away. 
 
 To a country is strange to her ken, 
 And through a whole year she must sorrow and 
 fear 
 
 And wait for his coming again. 
 
 Now she reaches the dock— in his blue sailor smock 
 
 A gay ribboned cap on his head. 
 With his hands stretchin' out— there be men all 
 about. 
 But she falls in his arms like the dead. 
 
 The fac e no w at rest on his high-heaving breast, 
 It is white as the April day snow ; 
 
no A LEGEND OF ESQUIMAU BAY 
 
 Jamie 8obs out a cry : "Help men, et will die !" 
 As gently he sways to and fro. 
 
 And the twice helpless men mutter over again, 
 ♦'Et will die, pretty lass, thet et will!" 
 
 And down the rough cheeks of each one as he speaks 
 Flows many a heart-touching rill. 
 
 But they stand like a ship that is moored in the 
 slip, 
 
 With hearts, but no knowledge to do. 
 Till at last Mary sighs, slowly opens her eyes. 
 
 And looks round on the pitying crew. 
 
 Then the blood to her face comes in hurrying race, 
 As she hides her wet cheeks on the breast 
 
 Of Jamie, while they to a man turn away 
 And point to the sea's foaming crest. 
 
 The farewells are passed, and the good ship at last 
 
 Has sailed from the sheltering quay. 
 And wringing her hands Mary comes o'er the sands, 
 
 Her face turning still to the sea. 
 
 A year has gone by, and the summer draws nigh. 
 The sunlight is warm on the bay, 
 
A LEGEND OF ESQUIMAU BAY 111 
 
 But no other ship's been where the good ship was 
 seen 
 That bore the brave sailor away. 
 
 The night it was dark and the tempest blew stark 
 With the mad waters pounding the shore, 
 
 "Mither, list !" Mary said, as she turned in her bed, 
 "There's some un wha knocks at the door. 
 
 **Ther's some 'un wha knocks an a ship on the 
 rocks, 
 
 I can hear, mither, breakin' her sides!" 
 "T'sleep, child, na fear, 'tis the winds that y'hcar 
 
 And the high roUin' sweep o' the tides!" 
 
 ''There's some 'un wha calls, mither, some 'un wha 
 calls. 
 
 It is Jamie's voice, mither, I know !" 
 ''Na, child, dinna min', 'tis the gale in the pine 
 
 'Et lifts on the crag there below !" 
 
 The tempest grew still as she spoke, on the sill 
 
 A half-sound of hurrying feet, 
 The barred door swung wide, and with still, ghost- 
 ly stride 
 
 Came Jamie, his Mary to greet. 
 
112 A LEGEND OF ESQUIMAU BAY 
 
 His face was as grave as the curve of a wave, 
 
 The seaweed was wound in his hair, 
 His jaclvet was gray with the sand and the spray. 
 
 And the sea-brine that dripped from it there. 
 
 The mother grew white and still with affright, 
 
 But Mary sighed, ''Jamie, 'tis he!" 
 No word Jamie spake, but her hands he did take 
 
 And pointed away to the sea. 
 
 Her eyes to his own all so trustfully shone, 
 
 While slowly she rose from the bed, 
 And with him she past through the door— holding 
 fast 
 
 To the hand of the wraith of her dead. 
 
 Again the storm grew, louder yet the winds blew. 
 The door slowly swung to its place— 
 
 And in shivering fright the poor mother all night 
 Cowered there with close covered face. 
 
 The morning came fair with a soft gentle air. 
 
 But sorrow was over the town. 
 For the good ship Labrocks on the sharp cruel 
 rocks, 
 
 In the storm of the night had gone down. 
 
A LEGEND OF ESQUIMAU BAY 113 
 
 And there were a score of brave men or more 
 That the waves to the shallows had borne; 
 
 And many a Kate must weep for her mate 
 And many a mother must mourn. 
 
 Where Mary had dwelt the poor mother knelt 
 
 In a corner with meaningless stare, 
 ''Christ, Jesu!" cried she, pointing out to the sea, 
 
 "My Mary and Jamie are there." 
 
 Now by Esquimau Bay, so the village folk say, 
 When at night the storm lashes the sea, 
 
 Their wraiths hand in hand may be seen on the 
 strand 
 As loving as lovers may be. 
 
MAY 
 
 We heard not a sound of their marshaling feet, 
 
 Saw never the gleam of a spear, 
 Till their tents stood sancily fronting each street. 
 
 And the army of blossoms is here. 
 
MARCH 
 
 Pale autumn moves, Avith gentle tread 
 And quiet air, among the dead ; 
 March whips the sullen sky to tears, 
 And lo ! the violet appears. 
 
WISDOM 
 
 Woulflst thou gather Avisdom ? Go 
 Where the gentle waters flow, 
 Where the flowers and the trees 
 SAvay in converse with the breeze ; 
 Where around the mountain's poll 
 Silence thunders to the soul. 
 Mysteries from two concealed 
 Oft to him are clear revealed 
 Who, in solitude, alone. 
 Lingers where a flow'r is blown, 
 Feels the music, as it passes. 
 Of the marshal-hearted grasses 
 Pressing forward out of night 
 Into liberty and light. 
 Forth in evening's calm, to view 
 Heav'n's star-lighted vault of blue; 
 Note the bull-bat's noiseless flight 
 Through the silver gray of night ; 
 
IVISDOM 117 
 
 List the crickets piping slip 
 From the clover ; watch the dip 
 Of the sword of Diaii, prest 
 Slow into the mountain's breast, 
 Where he rears him, stern and grim. 
 On the Occidental rim. 
 Knowledge weaves of earthly things, 
 Wisdom mounts on eagle wings, 
 AVins the Parcae's magic wand, 
 A.nd peers into the world's heyond. 
 
ONLY 
 
 Free from all care in his boyish play, 
 A face as the sunlight, cheering and gay ; 
 The pride of a mother whose arms entwine — 
 Only a sip of his father's wine. 
 
 A growing knowledge with manhood's strength, 
 A mind far-reaching in wisdom's length ; 
 A smile for the merry, for the grieving a tear — 
 Only a glass of the foaming beer. 
 
 Shining in circles of mirth and song, 
 A love of the right, and a hatred of wrong ; 
 A friend to be sought for whose friendship is gain- 
 Only a toast in the bright champagne. 
 
 In the manly face a line of care. 
 Some silver threads in the dark-brown hair ; 
 A cloud on the brow, in the eye, alas ! 
 Only an occasional social glass. 
 
OhILY 119 
 
 A figure bent in the noon of life, 
 A weeping mother, a pleading wife ; 
 A weakened brain, and a mind grown numb- 
 Only a drink of the fi'ry rum. 
 
 A squalid room in an attic high, 
 A pain-wrought moan, a pitiful cry; 
 A bundle of rags 'neath the rafter's gloom- 
 Only a dying drunkard's home. 
 
 A coffin of pine, unfinished and rude, 
 A widowed mother with starving brood; 
 A lonely ride o'er the rattling pave- 
 Only a pauper's nameless grave. 
 
POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP AND AFFECTION 
 
HANDSOMEST OF ALL 
 
 True, you may not call her handsome — 
 
 May not even deem her fair ; 
 In her cheeks no roses blossom ; 
 
 Gold-gleams flash not in her hair ; 
 Smoother brows there are, and whiter, 
 
 Eyes that hold a gayer light — 
 Neither are her fingers taper 
 
 Nor her hands as lilies white ; 
 In her step there's nothing fawn-like. 
 
 Low and tremulous her tones — 
 But far dearer her possessions, 
 
 Sweeter still the charm she owns. 
 There are others worth admiring, 
 
 Handsome if you will — but she 
 Is my mother, tender, loving, 
 
 Handsomest of all to me. 
 
 'Round her brow there winds a garland 
 Of a thousand answered prayers ; 
 
124 HANDSOMEST OF ALL 
 
 In her hand she bears the lilies 
 
 Of a thousand lightened cares ; 
 Every tress that Time has silvered 
 
 By an angel's kiss is blest ; 
 And her cheeks have burned their roses 
 
 On the love-fires in her breast. 
 With the strength her toils have wasted 
 
 Manly hearts beat high to-day, 
 Storing for her future comfort, 
 
 Pouring gladness in her way. 
 There are others worth admiring, 
 
 Handsome if you will — but she 
 Is my mother — tender, loving, 
 
 Handsomest of all to me. 
 
 In this gentle, trustful clinging 
 
 I can read the far-off past- 
 See myself as timid, falt'ring, 
 
 To her firmness anchored fast. 
 How she soothed each childish sorrow, 
 
 Smoothed each wrinkle from my brow, 
 Kissed away the tears and cheered me, 
 
 Even as I cheer her now. 
 Life is but a half-spelled sentence 
 
 Scattered o'er a blotted page, 
 
HANDSOMEST OF ALL 125 
 
 But the heart that's true remembers 
 
 Age is youth and youth is age. 
 There are others worth admiring, 
 
 Handsome if you will — but she 
 Is my mother— tender, loving, 
 
 Handsomest of all to me. 
 
EPISTLE TO OPIE READ 
 
 Hail! goddess of the yellow braid! 
 
 Tlie Queen of press and measure! 
 Now are the rural toils repaid 
 
 With heaps of shining treasure. 
 
 Ye desk-worn ! throw your pens aside, 
 
 Discard the puzzling book, 
 And come where skies are blue and wide, 
 
 And thought is like the brook 
 That sings along the hazel slope 
 
 And leaps among the rocks. 
 The Avoods ! The fields ! Renew your hope, 
 
 And the luster in your locks ! 
 
 Come where the salmon graceful glide, 
 
 Their golden sides a-quiver — 
 Or where the stubborn pike divide 
 
 The swiftly flowing river. 
 Come where the partridge-thunder peals. 
 
EPISTLE TO OPIE READ 127 
 
 And mallards part the rushes 
 As o'er the bridge, with creaking wheels, 
 The loaded wagon crushes. 
 
 Come where the quail prophetic speaks, 
 
 And where the saffron boughs 
 The playtul jay with sapphire streaks; 
 
 Come where the hungry plows 
 Devour the stubble, flashing bright 
 
 At every turn ; and swains 
 Who strip the golden ears delight 
 
 The fieHs with jocund strains. 
 
 Along the stream the peaceful kine 
 
 Industrious crop the heath, 
 Their full distended bellies shine. 
 
 Their glossy sides beneath. 
 While round the sullen monarch glow'rs, 
 
 His front all sable curled. 
 With mutt'rings fierce proclaims his pow'rs. 
 
 Then challenges the world. 
 
 My friend, to your creative mind 
 
 These scenes I know are dear. 
 For them your converse I resigned, 
 
128 EPISTLE TO OP IE READ 
 
 For you I sing them here ; 
 Nor do all rural subjects bear 
 
 The rude untutored part, 
 Full oft the shy reserve they wear 
 
 Conceals a trusty heart. 
 
 Where blossoms 'broider every path, 
 
 And climbing roses grace 
 The cottage doorwaj'-, spite and wrath 
 
 Find thorny resting-place. 
 Here e'en the ever-boding crow 
 
 Croaks in a smoother way. 
 And blackbirds seem each noon to know 
 
 A still more tuneful lay. 
 
 At early morn to meet the sun 
 
 My joyful way I take- 
 How musical the brooks that run 
 
 To leap into the lake ! 
 The timid plovers veering rise 
 
 With supplicating cry — 
 The pointed pinion swiftly plies 
 
 Along the purpling sky. 
 
 Now fair amidst his shining force 
 
EPISTLE TO OPIE RE/ID 129 
 
 The god of Day appears. 
 Swift up the sky he holds his course ; 
 
 Speed forth the gleaming spears, 
 Till every dusky shape is slain 
 
 That steads the course of night, 
 And swims the woodland, hill and plain, 
 
 In warm, refulgent light. 
 
 When midway in the tender blue 
 
 The sun all shadows cheer, 
 I seek the wood and there review 
 
 The books of Hope and Fear, 
 The hoarding squirrel shrilly calls, 
 
 "The Avinter comes ; lay by !" 
 "Enjoy," cries every leaf that falls, 
 
 "Decay and death are nigh." 
 
 The gray dove now, forsaken bird, 
 
 Bemoans its absent mate ; 
 Now winds the heavy-uddered herd 
 
 Slow through the pasture gate. 
 The careful herdsman stands to count. 
 
 And ere his task be done. 
 High up a rocky ledge I mount 
 
 To view the setting sun. 
 
130 EPISTLE TO OPIE READ 
 
 The budding Spring is gay with song. 
 
 The summer boasts her charms, 
 And when old Winter roars along 
 
 How grand are his alarms ! 
 But Autumn ! Life's dividing line— 
 
 The round year's richest part ! 
 You've many an abler pen than mine, 
 
 But no more faithful heart. 
 
LOOK UP 
 
 [To Mrs. Lou M. Wilson.] 
 
 Art weary, love, despondent, weak ? 
 
 Look up ! the skies are thine ; 
 What though to-day be cold and bleak. 
 
 The morrow's sun will shine. 
 Come, take my hand, 'tis firm and strong, 
 
 'T\yill give you hope and cheer — 
 What if the way be dark and long. 
 
 If so that Love be near? 
 
 Look forward — never backward — heart; 
 
 The past comes not again. 
 The sunbeams on the mountain dart 
 
 Though clouds o'erhang the plain. 
 Up higher yet ! The risk is great ? 
 
 The prize is what you will ; 
 The faithful sing at Heaven's gate, 
 
 The indolent are still. 
 
THE KEELEY LEAGUE BADGE 
 
 [Respectfully dedicated to Samuel E. Moore of Pittsburg, Pa., 
 father of the Keeley League, The club met first in the blacksmith 
 shop of Wm. Wesse of Dwight, hence the emblem of the horseshoe in 
 the badge.] 
 
 How pleasing the strains of the harp or piano, 
 How stirring tlie call of the bugle or drum ; 
 And hopeful the song of tne robin in spring-time, 
 AVhen trees are a-bud and the violets come; 
 How dreamful the sound of the rain on the clover, 
 In stillness that follows Jove's threatening roll ; 
 But the music that hurries my blood and awakens 
 The SAveetest and holiest chords in my soul, 
 
 Is the chink, chink, chink. 
 
 And the clink, clink, clink. 
 Where the forge-flame ebbs and flows, 
 
 And I pause whene'er 
 
 On the air I hear 
 The ring of the blacksmith's blows, 
 As he turns the shoe in whose form I see 
 The symbol of all that is dear to me. 
 
THE KEELEY LEAGUE BADGE 133 
 
 Now firmly the links of affection are welded, 
 I know those again I had not thought to know ; 
 O, peace of the soul and a constant sweet quiet, 
 Beyond all the power of the craftiest foe 
 To darken or trouble or hinder or ruffle ; 
 Not sighing of Sappho, or piping of Pan, 
 Hold half so sweet measure to stir me or thrill me. 
 As the strokes of this brawny-armed, soot-pow- 
 dered man, 
 
 With his chink, chink, chink, 
 And his clink, clink, clink. 
 Where the forge-flame ebbs and flows. 
 And I pause whene'er 
 On the air I hear 
 The ring of the blacksmiths blows. 
 As he turns the shoe in whose form I see 
 The symbol of all that is dear to me. 
 
WHITTIER 
 
 I saw the moaning ocean turn 
 To leave the weeping land, 
 
 And then come laughing back again, 
 A white wreath in its hand. 
 
 I saw the full moon creep behind 
 
 A cloud that hid its light, 
 To re-appear high up above, 
 
 A hundred-fold more bright. 
 
 I saw a herdsman lead afar 
 His panting, thirsty flocks, 
 
 I saw the waters burst for him 
 In fullness from the rocks. 
 
 I saw the negro scourged and bound, 
 
 I heard the hammer fall, 
 And then the Nation's mighty voice: 
 
 "Be free, my children, all !" 
 
U^'HITTIER 135 
 
 He trod where only prophets tread ; 
 
 Put these sad symbols by, 
 And bring them forth when one is dead — 
 
 Our Whittier cannot die. 
 
GRANT— A REQUIEM 
 
 Though Sierra's crags enfold me 
 
 Where to-night T sit alone ; 
 Though no human tongue hath told me, 
 
 Yet I know that he is gone. 
 
 For the winds that erst were sighing 
 In the swaying boughs o'erliead, 
 
 "He is dying! He is dying!" 
 Now are moaning, "He is dead!" 
 
 Till the clouds, symphonious roaring, 
 Clasp the shiv'ring mountain round. 
 
 Deep into the canyons pouring 
 Monodies of mournful sound. 
 
 Quick, recurrent fires go reeling 
 Through the sable skies and light 
 
 Earth's tumultuous breast, revealing 
 All the storm's majestic might. 
 
GRA1^T—/i REQUIEM 137 
 
 And behold ; with aspect solemn, 
 
 High above, the god of war 
 Leading forth an endless column 
 
 Toward th' one unclouded star. 
 
 Soldier spirits long have slumbered. 
 
 Deaf to bugle, fife and drum, 
 Waiting in their graves unnumbered, 
 
 Waiting till the chief should come. 
 
 On they sweep, a line unbroken. 
 
 Through the sky with steady tread- 
 Though no human tongue hath spoken, 
 Thus I know that Grant is dead. 
 
SOLITUDE 
 
 [Respectfully dedicated to Leslie E. Keeley, M. D., LL. D.] 
 
 The black' winged tempest of the night 
 
 Its wrathful course had run, 
 And, like a tired child, the sea 
 
 Slept in the noon-day sun. 
 
 Far shoreward stretched the moor-lands wide, 
 
 Marked by a single oak — 
 The Storm King's fiery saber smote 
 
 And killed it at a stroke. 
 
 A barren beach swept to the right 
 
 In long, low-swirling drifts. 
 While gray and cold upon the left 
 
 Uprose the beetling cliffs. 
 
 Before the sea so hushed and still, 
 It only moved to sigh. 
 
SOLITUDE 139 
 
 And overhead the boundless blue 
 Of an unclouded sky. 
 
 The mellow sunlight on the land, 
 
 The sunlight on the wave. 
 The sea a-beat against the cliff 
 
 Like Love against a grave. 
 
 On jutting crag a fish-hawk plumed 
 
 His steel-blue, glassy coat, 
 Then headlong plunged into the wave, 
 
 The death-cry in his throat,— 
 
 A cry that echoed far and wide ; 
 
 But one who soundly slept 
 Where shelving beach and waters met, 
 
 Unbroken silence kept. 
 
 The sunlight in her clinging robe. 
 
 The sunlight in her hair, 
 The waters lisping at her feet 
 
 Held all of life was there. 
 
 No eye to weep, no voice to mourn, 
 
 No touch of loving hand ; 
 All waxen-white and still she lay 
 
 Alone upon the sand. 
 
140 SOLITUDE 
 
 The timid Zephyr nearer crept, 
 And one, more kind and bold, 
 
 Upraised her hair and veiled her face 
 With half its wealth of gold. 
 
 Alone she lay who yesterday 
 
 Was half a city's pride. 
 The queen of speechless solitude 
 
 And desolation's bride. 
 
THE SIRE OF EIGHT 
 
 [To my friend LeRoy Armstrong] 
 
 A lonely bachelor I came 
 
 AVliere homelike gardens fringe the town, 
 And by a cozy hearthstone flame 
 
 AVith loving friend I sat me down. 
 
 Not forty, and eight times a sire, 
 Not forty, and nine voices sweet 
 
 The blessed morning hymn to choir. 
 The evening coming-home to greet. 
 
 Four clinging girls, four sturdy boys, 
 Each dearer than the Ophir mine, 
 
 Not forty, and prospective joys 
 Already multiplied by nine. 
 
 The rose that bends beside his door, 
 While but a single rose to me, 
 
142 THE SIRE OF EIGHT 
 
 Ten times for him it blooms and fades, 
 Ere drifting to th' Eternal Sea. 
 
 Ten hearts to throb with one's success, 
 Ten heads to bow with grief of one ; 
 
 Oh, blessed wealth of tenderness ! 
 Oh, awful poverty of none! 
 
 Some lives are like a riven drum. 
 Some glad as nesting robbin's mate— 
 
 A lonely bachelor I come. 
 To sit beside the sire of eight. 
 
TO JOHN ALBRO 
 
 He found my muse— a wayward child, 
 
 In pleasure romping where she would : 
 A free-limbed daughter of the- wild, 
 
 Sans ribbon, bodice, shoon or hood, 
 And led her by persuasive art 
 
 To quiet ways and comely gown — 
 Until (the wild-wood in her heart) 
 
 She moves demurely in the town. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD 
 
 From low-hung clouds of leaden gray 
 
 The fluffy flakes came down 
 Till every shrub and bush was gay 
 
 In bridal wreath and gown ; 
 What time the moon, of gibbous form, 
 
 Clear in the heavens stood 
 Above the farm-house, sheltered warm 
 
 By the embow'ring wood. 
 
 About the valley, lily fair, 
 
 The hills voluptuous swell, 
 A lonely poplar here and there 
 
 Keeps jealous sentinel ; 
 The spring brook, with a merry smile, 
 
 Flings in old Winter's face. 
 Then gaily glints beyond the stile 
 
 And skips his cold embrace. 
 
 The old folk by the chimney nook 
 Think on the ones who roam, 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD 145 
 
 And lamps from every window look 
 
 To light the absent home ; 
 Home! where they first, wee toddlers, crept 
 
 Along the oaken floor. 
 Where childhood laughed till manhood wept 
 
 A parting at the door. 
 
 Of all the brood but one remains 
 
 To cheer the parent nest, 
 Support their age and soothe their pains— 
 
 The youngest, dearest, best 
 Of all the precious, treasured seven 
 
 Who in their hearts abide- 
 Though some are here and some in heaven — 
 
 God keep him by their side. 
 
 They come ! The venerable pair, 
 
 With kisses, tears and smiles, 
 Give welcome to the strong and fair 
 
 Who've scorned dividing miles 
 To meet beneath the homestead roof; 
 
 Grandchildren trooping round 
 In noisy play, without reproof. 
 
 Make all the house resound. 
 
146 CHRISTMAS E^E AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD 
 
 Now sinks the memory of care 
 
 In Pleasure's golden sea ; 
 If Ned and Bess their favors share 
 
 In shadow, where can be 
 The harm ? Shall cousins never kiss ? 
 
 The g-ame of forfeits, ho ! 
 Decorum ! such an hour as this 
 
 Rules her its mortal foe. 
 
 Five-summer Edna fairy tales 
 
 With cousin Ralph would share ; 
 Maturely eight, his soul regales 
 
 Itself on giant fare, 
 Which Dick and Bird, ancients of ten, 
 
 Demurely smile to hear. 
 Half wishing they were young again 
 
 To hold such trifles dear. 
 
 But when the sturdy Welshman Ben, 
 
 By 3'^ears of service proved. 
 Brings in a log two modern men 
 
 Not easily had moved, 
 And casts it crashing to the flames. 
 
 Each to the chimney hies 
 And hastily an ember names 
 
 To watch it till it dies. 
 
CHRISTMAS EWE AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD 147 
 
 Thus Yuletide hours all gaily fly 
 
 Away on swallow wings, 
 The merry laughter, swelling high, 
 
 Is hushed as midnight rings ; 
 And round the fire, in varied groups, 
 
 Are hung the chubby hose ; 
 Good-night ! and hopeful childhood troops 
 
 To innocent repose. 
 
 O childhood ! sinless as the flakes 
 
 That kiss the clouds good-by ! 
 The memory of thee awakes 
 
 The suppliant's dearest sigh ; 
 And Tvore I here a monarch's crown 
 
 Above these thinning locks, 
 How gladly would I cast it down 
 
 To be a child in frocks. 
 
THE MARTYR PRIEST 
 
 [In memory of Father Damien.l 
 
 I stand uncovered by a grave 
 
 Wherein a hero molds ; 
 Yet never battle-ax nor stave 
 His hand embraced, nor weapon, save 
 
 The touch that kindness holds. 
 
 No sculptured column marks the place, 
 
 But here by weeds o'ergrown, 
 With patient care I faintly trace, 
 "The savior of our stricken race." 
 Carved in a cross of stone. 
 
 What loving fingers held the knife 
 
 That spelled this ragged line? 
 Though they had every soil to wife 
 I'd give a twelvemonth of my life 
 To clasp them once in mine. 
 
THE MARTYR PRIEST 149 
 
 For one beneath this ivy sleeps 
 
 The world shall longer know 
 Than any name the New World keeps, 
 Than any e'er from Alpine steeps 
 
 Rang o'er a conquered foe. 
 
 His act pales all heroic deeds 
 
 Though twenty Homers sung them; 
 The isle Unclean ! Alas the needs 
 Of those on whom that vampire feeds! 
 Serene he moved among them, 
 
 And braved a death which e'en in thought 
 
 Appalls our every sense ; 
 Day after day in patience wrought 
 For those whose slightest touch is fraught 
 
 With woful pestilence. 
 
 The blue-rimmed ocean shut him in 
 
 From all his nobler kind ; 
 Abandoned in that Isle of Sin, 
 By horrors haunted, there to win 
 
 To hope the hopeless mind. 
 
 The ships that sailed in silence by 
 Must e'er anew have stirred 
 
150 THE MARTYR PRIEST 
 
 The memories which could not die, 
 The joys of home, love's tender sigh, 
 The greeting smile and word. 
 
 There could he sit with trusty friends 
 
 At close of winter day. 
 And join the cheer that converse lends 
 To social mirth when wisdom bends 
 
 To wit's delightful play— 
 
 If so he dreamed none ever knew ; 
 
 The ties of earth were riven- 
 Priest, brother, nurse, he loved and drew 
 His charge to love him and renew 
 
 Their faith and hope in Heaven. 
 
 No marble marks his resting place, 
 
 By ivy overgrown ; 
 But here with patient care I trace, 
 "The savior of our stricken race," 
 
 Cut in a cross of stone. 
 
JOHN M'CULLOUGH'S VIRGINIUS 
 
 Grand as the eagle in soaring flight 
 Sweeping the mountain's brow; 
 Grand as Ocean when storm-mad night 
 Hurls wave on wave till they're cuslied and white 
 Grand as the prairie whose boundless sweep 
 Is giant rhythm, or still as sleep 
 
 On the brow of death. What pow^'r liadst thou 
 To wake our frenzy or win our tears ! 
 
 ^'Virginia! Virginia!" I hear thee now% 
 Though still thy voice as the Roman years. 
 
THE TRAVELER'S NIGHT AT HOME 
 
 [Dedicated to the Commercial Travelers of America.] 
 
 Gray twilight draws her curtains adown the win- 
 dowed west, 
 
 Each object, shadow mantled, half seen is, half is 
 guessed, 
 
 The stars o'erhead are blinking, as newly waked 
 from sleep. 
 
 And drowsily regretting the vigil they must keep ; 
 
 Sounds have a sharp distinctness the sun-hours 
 never know, 
 
 And seem upon the senses to riper fullness grow, 
 
 While trembles through the valley, like thunder 
 after rain. 
 
 The steady, solemn rumble of the near approaching 
 train. 
 
 The over-crowded pavement, where lamps un-lidded 
 glare, 
 
THE TRAl^ELER'S NIGHT AT HOME 153 
 
 Presents the old-time picture— Joy walking with 
 
 Despair ; 
 But where the suburbs nestle beyond the city gates, 
 The people quiet gather about their cheerful grates, 
 In neat and cosy parlors which breathe a restful air 
 That wakes the heart to rapture is felt no other 
 
 where. 
 Ah! fortune-favored mortals, with never need to 
 
 roam, 
 You may not know how fondly the traveler loves 
 
 his home. 
 
 The wife is tripping, tripping with anxious, thought- 
 ful haste, 
 To see the many knick-knacks in pleasing order 
 
 placed ; 
 Here dressing-gown and slippers rest, with inviting 
 
 look, 
 Beside the favored arm-chair rolled into pleasant 
 
 nook 
 Before the polished hearth-stone — the foot-stool 
 
 ready stands— 
 The very air seems softened by touch of loving 
 
 hands. 
 
154 THE TRAyELER'S NIGHT AT HOME 
 
 And mother-eyes are beaming with an expectant 
 
 light 
 Which says, "O time the sweetest, my traveler 
 
 comes tonight!" 
 
 Within the curtained window his cherished offspring 
 
 twain. 
 Their eager, hopeful faces close pressed against the 
 
 pane, 
 Peer out into the darkness, their swelling hearts 
 
 abeat 
 With keen anticipation, each anxious first to greet 
 The music of his foot-fall— At once he's at the door, 
 And joyful cries are ringing, while kisses by the score 
 His bearded face o'ershower as he enclasps their 
 
 forms 
 And lifts them to his bosom with strong but gentle 
 
 arms. 
 
 She, shunning demonstration, which oft proclaims 
 
 deceit. 
 Her eyes like melting jewels, gives welcome true and 
 
 sweet. 
 Takes down the clinging children, his wrappings 
 
 lays aside, 
 
THE TRAVELER'S NIGHT AT HOME 155 
 
 Then modestly precedes him, with pardonable 
 pride. 
 
 To where his comforts wait him — beguiles him of 
 his trip — 
 
 Removes the laid-off garments, sets by the "bat- 
 tered grip," 
 
 Till ere he scarce perceives it, so deft and dextrous 
 she. 
 
 He's slippered, gowned and seated, a child upon 
 each knee. 
 
 With merry w^ord she leaves them, by household 
 
 duties pressed ; 
 The curly heads confidingly are pillowed on his 
 
 breast ; 
 Their silken tresses stroking, he, in the blazing 
 
 grate, 
 Sees botii his darlings growing to man and maid's 
 
 estate ; 
 The mystic veil is lifted that hides the futuT-e years, 
 And on his pensive vision a fair To Be appears. 
 Swift up the mount of progress advancing they are 
 
 seen. 
 And white-browed Honor leads them and Virtue 
 
 walks between. 
 
156 THE TRAyELEWS NIGHT AT HOME 
 
 About the table gathered, each lowly bows the 
 
 head, 
 While humbly and devoutly the homely grace is 
 
 said; 
 No long-drawn invocation to tire the Throne of 
 
 Grace, 
 Nor abject self-abasement with pride writ on its 
 
 face; 
 But praise and service rendered for life and health 
 
 preserved ; 
 This plain thanksgiving over, the waiting meal is 
 
 served ; 
 No feast, however costly, by lords and ladies shared. 
 E'er gave more grateful pleasure than this by love 
 
 prepared. 
 
 The little heads are nodding, the bright eyes strive 
 
 in vain 
 To look "I am not sleepy"yet close and close again, 
 Till sweet goodnights are tendered and mamma 
 
 leads away. 
 But drifting down the stillness, he hears his Robbie 
 
 say, 
 "Forever and Forever," then halt before amen, 
 "Dear Jesus don't let papa go awaj^ from us again." 
 
THE TRAVELER'S NIGHT AT HOME 157 
 
 His face is calm and tranquil again she has ap- 
 peared, 
 
 But she can note the diamonds that glisten in his 
 beard. 
 
 Their eyes liave sudden meeting, no need for further 
 
 speech, 
 She nestles close beside him, each takes the hand of 
 
 each, 
 Against his rugged shoulder, she lays her golden 
 
 tresses, 
 And theyarelost in dreaming of timid, first caresses, 
 When she a bashful maiden and he an awkward 
 
 youth- 
 She glances shyly upward, both catch the pleasant 
 
 truth 
 And laugh in awkward chorus— but still the rich 
 
 perfume 
 Of dcAvy summer evening is floating through the 
 
 room. 
 
 God's blessing on the fireside, whatever lot sur- 
 rounds. 
 
 That to the holy music of wedlock still resounds! 
 
 Where confidence unbounded and love communion 
 hold. 
 
158 THE TRAl^ELER'S NIGHT AT HOME 
 
 Where children's voices mingle; — let misers hoard 
 their gold, 
 
 Ambitious statesmen wrangle; within this hal- 
 lowed light 
 
 Dissension never wanders and greed can never 
 blight. 
 
 Oh! picture all the raptures beneath yon starry 
 dome, 
 
 The holiest are clustered around the Night at 
 Home. 
 
JAMES 
 
 [Respectfully dedicated to Mr. P. W. Snowhook whose unostentatious 
 kindness has cheered so many despairing men to honest endeavor.] 
 
 Name's Jim, Jim Burke. 
 Am I lookiii' fur work? 
 Can't say 'et I am, 
 Ain't much uv a lamb — 
 Got any employ ? 
 Don't want it, old boy, 
 Leastwise not now— 
 How? 
 
 Sit down, ye shall hear— 
 Ho, waiter, s'm beer- 
 Can ye see in the shade 
 The mark 'et uz made 
 By the ball an' chain ?— 
 The Gov'ment rein 
 'S been drawed on me 
 An' ye must agree 
 
160 JAMES 
 
 'T thar's reason enough 
 
 Why I should be tough 
 
 But none et all 
 
 Why I should crawl 
 
 In the wake uv a clown, 
 
 My back bowed down 
 
 By a load o' brick,— 
 
 I'd do et 'an quick 
 
 But whar's the use ; 
 
 I kin Stan, abuse 
 
 A durned sight better when 
 
 et's deserved. 
 Uv course, I hev served 
 Time, 
 
 Not in this clime. 
 But the mark is here. 
 Burned deep. Mebbe queer, 
 But you are the fust- 
 Here waiter's your dust,— 
 What'll ye have? Don't drink! 
 Well, here's what I think 
 O' you 'ristocrat bloods 
 With yer trim-cut duds 
 An' yer milk-sop ways, 
 
JAMES 161 
 
 I would smash y' all 
 As I smash this glass— 
 H'm, let that pass. 
 Good? away back thar— 
 If y' knew o' the load 
 'Et a man must bear 
 Who starts in the world 
 Like a sail half furled, 
 'Thout perfession ur trade :— 
 Hev ye heard the sound that 
 
 is sometimes made 
 By the wind in the trees 
 
 when the leases is wet? 
 If ye have, I'll bet 
 The whole o' my kit ^ 
 That ye can't fergit 
 How it kind o' softened yer heart 
 
 an' set 
 Yer mind on the days o' the 
 
 apple bloom 
 An' the woods an' the brook an' 
 
 the partridge boom, 
 An' the wild strawberry hid deep in 
 
 the grass,— 
 
162 J/tMES 
 
 What's that ! did my elbow push 
 
 that glass 
 To the floor? 
 Let it lie 
 I 
 
 Ain't iisin' the stuff no more. 
 D'ye hear! 
 No, keep your talk. 
 Let's walk, 
 An' you may introduce me to your 
 
 work, 
 Me, Jim Burke. 
 The same's 
 From this time for'ard t' be called James. 
 
LESLIE E. KEELEY. 
 
 Close reef that name, each added title trim, 
 What matter titles to a man like him ! 
 The thing he did and not the words he said 
 Will move a world to weep him when he's dead. 
 
THE BATTERED OLD GRIP 
 
 [Respectfully dedicated to Mr. Brenton R. Wells.] 
 
 Dear comrade, once bright as the silk of the corn, 
 Now shrunken and wrinkled, a subject of scorn. 
 Its trappings, once brilliant, now tarnished and 
 
 scaled, 
 The key long since lost and every clasp failed. 
 Its sides fallen inward in gaunt hungr^^ way. 
 Its rich russet color, dull, faded and gray ; 
 Yet down through the aisles of my memory trip 
 A troop of bright fancies at sight of my "grip." 
 
 Preparing to start on a journey, how oft 
 I have taken it down from its place in the loft, 
 Spread it wide at my feet with its back to the floor. 
 With the thought— Will it hold all my things as be- 
 fore ? 
 Friends tried often prove quite as cruel as kind. 
 For words like to thistle-down drift with the wind; 
 
THE BATTERED OLD GRIP JG5 
 
 But here's a companion ne'er gave me the slip — 
 Always faithful and willing, my battered old 
 "grip." 
 
 First a half-dozen shirts seem to fill up each side, 
 Yet kerchiefs a dozen, scarfs tied and untied, 
 Pipe, razor and strop, cuffs, collars and gloves. 
 With a score of small knick-knacks tossed into the 
 
 grooves ; 
 A clothes brush, pomade, a picture or two 
 Of a dear little lassie to look at when blue, 
 And mayhap a small phial containing a "nip." 
 All snugly pack into the battered old grip. 
 
 The great ocean steamer, with cabin and hold, 
 Hangs thesign out at last "no more here enrolled," 
 The street-car capacity's something immense — 
 May sometime refuse you a place for your pence ; 
 E'en the venerable stage, despite legend and lore. 
 Not always can proffer the "room for one more," 
 Yet truth has deserted the heart and the lip 
 Of him who should say, "no more room in the 
 'grip'." 
 
 And down, as I grasp it, sweet memories drift 
 
166 THE BATTERED OLD GRIP 
 
 Through th' channels of thought— and its worn 
 
 form I lift 
 With a reverent touch while I think, with a sigh, 
 Of the many dear treasures, in days are gone by, 
 That have lain in its pockets and hid in its depths— 
 A mother's admonishings, father's precepts. 
 And others with token from maiden's pure lip, 
 Read over and over,— held place in the **grip." 
 
 Though my hair is beginning to silver, I feel 
 
 A rapturous youthfulness over me steal 
 
 As I gaze at these dingy old covers and think, 
 
 In my first manhood days, how I stood on the 
 
 brink 
 Of life's speeding river, and dreamed of and plann'd 
 A home just the neatest and best in the land. 
 Where a sweet face should greet me, returned from 
 
 each trip. 
 With a welcoming smile for myself and the ''grip." 
 
 God bless every stitch in the shrunken old leather 
 That's borne me in safety through all kinds of 
 
 weather 
 To this island of peace which I now so enjoy, 
 With my dear little wife, my girl and my boy ! 
 
THE BATTERED OLD GRIP 107 
 
 God bless it, I say, and in palace or cot, 
 In wealth or in poverty— whate'er my lot- 
 Though Fate from my savings all other things 
 
 strip, 
 I'll cling to you ever, dear battered old **grip." 
 
THE OLDEST O' THEM ALL 
 
 You may see him any evening sitting just outside 
 the door 
 
 Of a pretty rural cottage that the vines have clam- 
 bered o'er, 
 
 And the pink and cherry blossoms slyly peep about 
 him there, 
 
 Like so many fairies playing hide-and-seek behind 
 his chair. 
 
 He's a lean and slippered figure and his step is far 
 from light. 
 
 There are furrows in his forehead and his hair is 
 snowy white 
 
 And his cheeks, like aged parchment, yellow, wrink- 
 led, worn and grim — 
 
 Yet not a drummer of them all but doffs the hat to 
 him. 
 
 He can sing (his voice will quaver) songs forgotten 
 long ago 
 
THE OLDEST O' THEM ALL 169 
 
 By the present generation, songs our fathers used 
 
 to know. 
 And their rhythm quaint reminds you of a brook 
 
 and falling leaves, 
 And a maple-shadowed cottage with the swallows 
 
 'neath the eaves. 
 Then he'll tell you of adventures that will thrill 
 
 your heart with fear, 
 Or recount a world of stories you will laugh for 
 
 hours to hear, 
 While his eyes anew will sparkle 'neath his hat's 
 
 extended rim— 
 There's not a drummer in the land but yields the 
 
 palm to him. 
 
 How his withered form will straighten as he "reck- 
 ons" in his day 
 
 "Thar wusn't many ov um," when he felt inclin'd 
 that way, 
 
 "Wi' the peart and smilin' lassies" that, he met 
 along the "raout," 
 
 If he chose to show his samples "as could lay th' 
 old man aout." 
 
 He will call to mind the stage-coach with its flyers, 
 six or more, 
 
170 THE OLDEST O' THEM ALL 
 
 "Faster than y're modern engines wi' their smoke 
 
 an' dust an' roar 
 Sweepin' roun' the yawnin' canyons faster than the 
 
 swallows skim" — 
 Oh ! not a drummer in the land but doffs the hat to 
 
 him. 
 
 As evening shadows lengthen, if the breeze is blow- 
 ing fair, 
 From beneath his faded jacket he will take with 
 
 tender care, 
 A locket, worn and dented, wherein, framed in curls 
 
 of gold. 
 Is a face that to the "oldest" never, never will be 
 
 old. 
 And his aged eyes grow softer and more tremulous 
 
 his tone 
 While he tells you how since Anna died he's made 
 
 the trip alone, — 
 And ere the tale's concluded other eyes than his are 
 
 dim — 
 There's not a drummer but is proud to doff the hat 
 
 to him. 
 
 Half the sayings of a century, safe hidden in his 
 breast, 
 
THE OLDEST O THEM ALL 171 
 
 Come forward at his bidding, in tlie quaintest lan- 
 guage drest ; 
 And he takes such pleasure in them that 'twould 
 
 really be a crime, 
 Not to listen and applaud them, though 'tis for the 
 
 hundredth time. 
 He's afloat upon life's ocean like a ship without a 
 
 mast, 
 All his blessings in the future, all his pleasure in 
 
 the past, 
 Let us thank him for this lesson, 'tis not strength of 
 
 mind or limb. 
 But a cheerful sunny spirit wins the hearts of all to 
 
 him. 
 
 The sun of life is sinking on the evening of his day, 
 And his gentle spirit will ere long from earth have 
 
 passed away ; 
 We shall miss the well-known figure from its seat 
 
 beside the door, 
 And the oldest trav'ler of them all will cheer our 
 
 hearts no more; 
 But a hundred thousand brothers still his memory 
 
 will keep, 
 
172 THE OLDEST O' THEM ALL 
 
 While children laugh, or manhood strives, or 
 broken households weep ; 
 
 And oft on blustering winter nights, about the 
 cheering flame. 
 
 Will heads be bowed and speech be hushed at men- 
 tion of his name. 
 
 THE END. 
 
QUIET MUSIC. 
 
 BY CHARLES EUGENE BANKS. 
 
 Chicago Herald:— The poems of this author appeal to humanity in its 
 gentler moods and arouse the sentiments of love, hope, patience 
 and reflection. 
 
 Chicago Evening Journal:— These poems are musical to a rare degree 
 From first to last they are redolent of the woods, and musical 
 with bird-notes and the lowing of herds. They display a knowl- 
 edge of human nature no less than of inanimate nature. 
 
 Chicago F/garo:—One of the truest types of the Western poet. 
 
 Monireal Sundaj' News:— His poetry is the message of a gentle, wise 
 and noble man to hearts that are heavy and brains that are quick. 
 We are surprised at the beauty and strength of his work. 
 
 Bes Moines [la.) National Traveler :—^\exy page contains a gem that 
 sparkles till it would turn the darkest shadows into sunbeams. 
 
 New York National Advertiser:— The de^ih of feeling and delicacy 
 of expression shown in the work cannot but win admiration. 
 
 Pittsburg Commercial Gazette .-—There is much in this handsome 
 little volume that is pleasing and restful, and nothing that tires or 
 displeases. 
 
 The Chicago Mail:— His verse is delicate yet at the same time spirited, 
 and lovers of the poetry which hides in forest nooks rather than 
 in overheated conservatories and hot-houses will welcome this col- 
 lection. 
 
 Toronto [Canada) Globe :— He sings of love and joy and hope as the 
 young and glad sing of these things: and of sorrow and vain regret 
 as one who has lived through a day of bitterness. 
 The Chicago Evening Lamp;— l^ sweet, modest singer. He has the 
 true spirit of poetry. 
 Cloth, 12 mo., gilt top, loo pages, $i.oo post paid. 
 
 CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY, Publishers. Chicago. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 785 452 5 
 
 --m 
 
 '.^'^*'