PS 1234 1883 L^^ . » • o *^ .0 .0^'"^-. «> POEMS A2Z BY CLARA BUSH WITH A MEMOIR xl " Whoever thinks a faultless piece to sec, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall beP -0 ' JACKSON- TENN.: CISCO & HA-^WKINS. 1S8?>. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by Clara Bush, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. A TO MY SISTER, MRS. EMMA NORTHERN, THIS VOLUME IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. - CONTENTS. PAGE Memoir 9-18 Poems — A Wish 19-20 Dreams of Childhood 20-24 Every Day 24-27 Peace 27-30 A Dream of Heaven 80-33 Hope 33-3G Gentle Words 86-38 To My Mother— Written at the age of Fourteen 39-40 Friends 41-43 Memories of Cliildhood 44-46 Think of Me — My first poem, written when 13 years old 47-48 Myrtle and Florence 48-51 An Infant's Hand 51-54 Earl and Pearl 54-56 Footsteps at the Door 56-58 Reverie 58-62 Life 62-64 Wait and Trust : 64-66 Peace — A Vision ; 66-70 The Grave by the Wayside..: , 70-73 Verses— On seeing a Dying Bird 73-74 Lament for Summer 74-75 Call Me Not Beautiful .'. 76 , Going Away , 76-78 Let Me Weep 78-79 A Request .' 79-81 Moments of Joy i 82-84 vi CONTENTS. Poems— page Fragments of Thought 84 The Skeptic 85 Man 85-86 Thoughts — After reading Milton's Paradise Lost 86-87 Lines — Written in the Album of a Friend 87 Thoughts— Suggested by a sea-shell 88-91 Album Verses 91-92 Friendship 93 One Year Ago 93-95 The Winds of the Seasons 96-97 Music 97-101 A Letter— to Miss Alice O'Daniel.. 101-105 Reflections— On New Year's Day 1882 106-108 Stanzas — Inscribed to the Rutherford Cornet Band 109-112 Touch Not 112-117 Flowers 118-119 The Blighted Bud 119-122 Thoughts — Occasioned by a cluster of Flowers 123-128 Lines— To Miss Jessie Holmes 128-131 Lines— To Miss Callie O'Daniel 131-133 Friendship's Dower 133-135 Invocation 136-138 Lines on receiving a Bouquet 138-140 Lines— To Mrs, S. E, Thomas 140-141 Stanzas — Addressed to M. P 141-143 Verses — Suggested by receiving flowers in a nowsaper 143-144 Lines— To Mrs. S. E. Debow..... '. 144-145 Lines— To Mr. J. W. Hollomon 145-147 Magnolia Blossoms 148-150 Love, False and True 150-161 Lines— Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. Claude J. Bell 102-104 Stanzas— Dedicated to J. R. T. and L, W...; 165-166 Musings..- 166-168 Mrs. Fowler, nee Miss McCrory 168-170 Lines — Inscribed to My Brother 171-172 Lines— Inscribed to My Sister after her marriage 173-176 CONTENTS. vii Poems— page "Oh, Carry Me Home to Die" ' 214-217 "To Die is Gain" 217-219 Silent Voices 237-250 The Poet's Lyre 250-255 Reflections on the twenty-sixth anniversary of my birth 255-257 Questionings 257-259 Death and Immortality 259-262 Even-Tide 262-266 The Hour of Death 266-269 Eternal Rest 270-271 Lines — Written on my twenty-seventh Birthday 272-275 Acrostics— Rev. T. E. Scott 177 Capt. A. J. F. Day 177 Mr. T. M. Karnes 178 Mr. Claude J. Bell 178-9 Miss Daisy Pratt 179 Miss Addie Foote 180 Myrtle Alston 180-181 Florence Alston 181 Mara Washtella Rosson 182 Minnie Clara Rosson 183 Miss Colie Boyett 183-184 Miss Birdie Boyett 184-185 Miss Clara Bell Baldridge 185-186 Miss Elnora PoAvell 186-187 Miss Mattie Thomas 187 Miss Anna Thomas , 188 Miss Mary Gid Porter 188-189 Dr. R. W. Powell 189-190 To an Infant 190-191 Mrs. Augusta J. Evans Wilson 191-192 A Double Acrostic^ Mr. Robert Bowen and Mrs. Clara Bowen 192-193 viii CONTENTS. Sonnet— pagk To my Mother, on her' Birthday ; 193-104 To my Sister on her Birthday lOJ To my Brother on liis Birtliday , 195 ToLidaS 195-196 To an Infant '■ 196-197 To Leonora J ■ r 197 To Daisy E. P., an nnlinown friend 198 On my iittle friend, Lena Taylor 198-199 Inscribed to C. J. B., on the twenty-fourth anniversary of his birth 199 To Miss Anna B ^ 200 To my little friend Myrtle A., on her Birthday 200-201 On seeing the portrait of a friend 201 To W. A. M-, oh his twenty-fourth Birthday, 202 To my Sister-in-law 202-203 To C. J. B • 203-204 Suggested by a visit from Mrs. S. P.James 204 Dedication — Sacred to the Memory of Capt. A. J. F. Day 205-207 "Gone Before" 207-210 In Memoriam — Martin O'Daniel • 210-211 Burney Reinej^ 211-214 Lines— To the Memory of Mrs. Mary F. Lewis 219-221 Brinnie Simmons 221-224 Mattie Thomas 225-227 MissBettie Fullerton 227-229 Ella Sweets 229-231 Lines— To the Memory of Mary G. Porter 231-234 Epitaphs 234-23G MEMOIR. Miss Clara Bush, the invalid Poetess — a brief sketch "of whose sad yet beautiful life I will attempt to give — was born in Gibson County, Tennessee, October 21st, 1S53. Her pleasant home, " The Willows," is situated in the country, four miles Southwest of Kenton, and five miles Northwest of Rutherford, two prosperous towns located on the Mobile and Ohio railroad. Her father is a native of North Carolina, but in early manhood moved to West Tennessee and settled on his present home when' the whole region from there to the Mississippi river was a vast, dreary wilderness that had scarcely been trodden by the foot of the white man. At that early day, even in the loyal old State of North Carolina, good schools were very rare, and Mr. Bush had an opportunity of at- tending school but little when a boy, and when he had reached manhood it was necessary for him to go into the world and battle for a living, hence, he acquired little knowledge from books. His occupation is that of a farmer. He is an energetic laborer and honored citizen. Her mother also is a native of North Carolina, but moved with her parents to West Tennessee, when nine years of age. Her maiden name was Glisson. Her grandfather, Daniel Giisson, was a man of some note, and filled a public office twenty-two vears without intermission. She was well acquainted with the ceiebra- lo MEMOIR. ted Col. David Crockett. He and her parents lived near each other, and his little daughters were her playmates. About five miles from her present home are still to be seen the little log cabin in which Crockett lived and a tree on which he carved his name. Mrs. Bush has seen the fertile county of Gibson transformed from a comparative wilderness to one of the finest agricultural counties in the State, and the rude huts of the pioneers give place to beau- tiful structures of modern architecture. In her childhood the country afforded but few schools and poor teachers, consequently her education is limited, but she is a woman of bright intellect, deep feeling, and extraordinary talent, with unsurpassed energy and perseverance ; and in girlhood was possessed of a voice won- derfully sweet in song, for which she become quite noted. Both Mr. and Mrs. Bush are of the pioneer cast, and were en- dowed vv^ith powerful constitutions, but are now feeble with age and toil. Four children blessed their union, the youngest of which is the subject of this sketch. The eldest, when a gentle, lovely girl of eighteen summers, was laid to sleep in the churchyard, much lamented. The second, an amiable and intelligent woman, was recently wedded to a worthy gentleman of her own State, and now resides at a pretty cottage home not far from "The Willows." The third, a son, was also recently married, and at present is living in another State. At the age of six little Clara entered school, a bright, light- hearted, healthful child. She was a diligent student and "rapid learner. At this early age her fondness for poetry became appa- rent. Everything in rhyme had a charm for her, and all verses found on old detached book-leaves and scraps of newspaper were carefully stowed away as precious jewels. She enjoyed perfect health until she had entered her ninth year, when she became MEMOIR. II afflicted with a lingering disease, of the nature of which physicians were entirely ignorant. The first marked symptoms were loss of appetite, sense of suffocation, pain in her left side and limbs, ac- companied by a feeling of great depression and lassitude. She possessed such a thirst for knowledge that she continued going to school even when unable to sit up all day. The house where she went to school was constructed of logs and furnished with rude seats. At one end stood an old-fashioned box pulpit — for the house served the double purpose of church and school-house- Often, during hours of recreation, this weary child would lie down in the old pulpit, too sick to join her little playmates in their happy sports. Before she was nine she became too weak to walk to school. About this time her physician prescribed a medicine which, after awhile, seemed to give relief. This was temporary, however, and all the old symptoms soon returned with increased vigor. Another physician was summoned, who administered some very potent drug which only caused greater prostration, and she rapidly grew worse ; and from then to the present time has never been able to walk or even turn herself in bed. That was about 1862. She had attended school altogether only about fiifteen or eighteen months. Had just begun the study of geography and arithmetic, but had not taken up grammar, and could scarcely write legibly. Since .then she has never studied a text-book, nor been taught in any department of literature. After becoming confined to her bed her suffei'ing was so great that for months she wept almost constantly and could not be quiet- ed — narcotics having not the least effect. To one so sensitive and so keenly alive to all that was bright and beautiful, the gradual settling down on her young life of this fearful gloom of despair was terrible. The birds, trees, streams, and all the lovely out-door 13 MEMOIR. scenes so dear to her, were, too evidently never again to gladden her e3-es. When she fully realized her true condition every hope sank within her, and she prayed most earnestly to die. For months she slept only about two hours a day and took scarcely any nourishment. For three years she suffered so much and her spirits ^vere so crushed, that she could neither read nor write. When twelve 3'ears of age she improved a little, slept four or five hours in the twenty-four, and somewhat regained her appetite. Her broken spirits began to revive and she spent an hour or two each day in reading or, making little pencil sketches on bits of writing paper. She displayed great talent for drawing, and with such crude materials as straws for brushes and the juice of berries for paints, executed the portrait of a little child so life-like as to be recognized at sight. In her thirteenth year she commenced read- ing various kinds of books, among which were Bunyan's Pil- grints Progi'ess and Milton's Paradise Lost. Even at this date sixteen 3^ears later, although having never reviewed the latter work, she still has a very clear conception of it, and can repeat many passages from memory. At this age she liked fiction best, but of late years history, biography, and poetry comprise her favorite literature. When fifteen she began drawing with crayons and painting in water colors, and, entirely without instruction or the aid of models, executed a variety of pictures, which now adorn her room, and are the admiration and wonder of all visitors. Yet, perhaps a still greater "wonder are her specimens of artificial flower-work. Of almost every conceivable material she has beautifully and artisti- cally fashioned trailing vines, wreaths, bouquets, crosses, &c. Gf only three specimens of this species of work w^ill I make special mention. The first is a tiny wreath made with a pen-knife, of the MEMOIR. 13 hulls and kernels of three chestnuts — the leaves being cut from the hulls and the flowers carved from the kernels of the nuts. It contains twenty-six flowers and forty-seven leaves. Some of the flowers are not larger than the heads of pins, yet with petals per- fect and distinct, and the circumference of the wreath is but little greater than that of a watch- crystal. The second is also a wreath, diminutive and exquisitely beautiful. It is made of the bright feathers of a ruby-throated humming-bird, and comprises sixty leaves and thirty-two buds and flowers, all so perfectly formed as to be surpassed only by nature itself. The wreath, entii'e, is scarcely larger than a bracelet. The third is an exceedingly minute and delicate piece of workmanship — a cluster of flowers made of the tips of her own finger-nails. Bits of nails are artisti- cally shaped, and veined in exact imitation of flowers and leaves, and tv/o tiny butterflies, form.ed of the same material nestle among the pearly blossom.s. These are objects so unique and display such exquisite taste, ingenuity and skill, that a mental picture of them cannot be drawn without having previously seen them. Several specimens of her fancy-work were on exhibition at the Nashville Centennial Exposition in iSSo, of which many compli- mentary notices appeared, both in the A77ierica7t and Banner. Her woi'k has been extensively exhibited at fairs, and is always awarded first premium. When Miss Bush was twelve years of age, as previously stated, her suflering became less violent and her appetite was somewhat I'egained. vShe remained in about the same condition until her twenty-fii^st year ; at which time her digestive organs became very weak and refused to perform their iisual functions, and for the last eight years she has ate only once a day, and then partakes of but a small quantity of some very delicate food, and frequently for H MEMOIR. weeks together subsists solely on fruit, of which she is specially fond, and which at all times forms her chief sustenance. Also, for the last eight years she has been compelled to totally abstain from drinking. The smallest portion of water, milk, tea, or liquid of any kind taken, will not assimilate with her system, and produces severe paroxysms. The juice contained in the fruit she eats is her only substitute for drink. She suffers intensely from thirst, and her throat and tongue are always parched and burning. Various celebrated mineral waters have been tried, but all have proved futile. Her average hour's for sleep now are three in the twenty - four. Many eminent physicians have visited her and prescribed treatment, but her disease has baffled the skill of all. They say her malady is an anomaly in pathology, and think her condition hope- less. From day to day and from year to year she lies in the same position. The least exertion produces intense pain and hemor- rhage, and she never sits up even for a moment, but occasionally is tenderly moved from one couch to another. Fortunately, she has not been deprived of the use of her hands, but otherwise is as helpless as an infant. All her writing is done in a lying position by holding the paper on a piece of card -board. As before stated she could scarcely write legibly when she left school, but now her chirography is elegant. A most remarkable feature in connection with Miss Bush's affliction is, that her mind continues bi'ight and active while her body is so frail and diseased. There seems to exist no sympathy whatever between the brain and diseased organs. Suffering and prostration cannot keep her thoughts from roaming in the beauti- ful realms of j^oesy. One of her early poems — "Reverie," com- prising eighteen stanzas, was composed at night between one and five o'clock, at a time when her physicians and friends thought her MEMOIR. 15 in a d3dng condition. She composes all her poems, of whatever length, from beginning to close, before writing a line, and some- times, when too sick to write, keeps them in memory for weeks before committing them to paper. Her poems are usually heart- utterings, for she seldom attempts to write until some inward feel- ing prompts her to do so. She composes quickly and with little effort, and rarely ever revises anything when once written. She commenced writing at thirteen, but her latest efforts are of course best, for her mind is constantly expanding, and her thoughts flow from a deeper, purer fountain of beauty. Prizes were once offered by the publishers of a Knoxville paper for the best poems on " Peace" and " Eternal Rest," for both of which she was a success- ful competitor. Some of her poems have been given to the public through the columns of the Ladies' Pearl, Nashville, Farjji a?td Fireside^ Louisville, and Kansas City Times, and various county publications. Editors frequently insert complimentary notices of her in their papers. One calls her the "Sweet Child of Song," another " hopes to be often favored with gentle thoughts from her diamond pen," and all who know anything of her life's history are anxious for her productions. Although she knows nothing of the rules of grammar and rhetoric, we doubt if even a graduate of Yale or Vassar could write with greater accuracy. She seems to write intuitively. Most of her poems have an undertone of sadness but nothing of dark despair. Though a sorrowful gloom may overshadow the first part of a poem, the darkness gradually passes away until rays of heavenly light seem to illume the closing stanzas. In that exquisite lyric, " Hope," she concludes by saying : O sweet Hope, be thou ever my guide, Wave aloft thy wand ! Not a fear can my faint heart iDetide, With thine own strona; hand 1 6 MEMOIR. To lead me on in life's darkened way, Thy glad voice telling ever and aye Of that eternal and perfect day, Dawning just beyond. Doubtless it would interest the reader to know something of Miss Bush's disposition and personal appearance. She lies in a shaded room on an invalid's couch with curtains drawn around. She is apparently of medium height, but quite delicately consti- tuted, and is kept neatly attired — always wearing white apparel. Her complexion is of pearly whiteness, but fever often gives her cheeks a faint roseate tin-ge. Her hair is of a dark chestnut color, luxuriant and beautiful, and her mild, brown eyes, instantly give one a clear insight into the soul of heavenly purity beneath. Her face vvears a thoughtful and rather sad expression, yet is of a rare, peculiar beauty. A noted man in speaking of her once said : " If she does not look like an angel, I think an angel ought to look like her," and such are the thoughts "of all her-visitors. Her voice is n very low and soft, as is the rarest, sweetest music. No one has ever looked upon her angelic face and heard her voice — seemingly music from heaven — but was made nobler and better by it. Un- like most invalids, she is not peevish and cross, but always pre- serves a sweet temper, and bears her affliction v/ith unexampled patience. Though apparently so helpless yet her life has been a useful one. The lilies " do not spin," yet they perform their im- portant part in life's drama. They please the senses of those who love the beautiful. Her presence has laden the moral atmosphere of her home with the rich fragrance of love and purity, and to be in her society makes one think of heaven and angels. She is of a very affectionate nature and wins the love and sympathy of all. She has written much about her friends, both the dead and the living ; and " Lines to My Mother," " Footsteps at the Door," and MEMOIR. 17 sonnets to her mother, brother and sister, show how tenderly she regards the little family band. She loves flowers almost to adora- tion, and should you enter her room any day from the time the first timid blossoms of spring appear till the latest blooms of autumn fade, you would always see some of Flora's gems on a little table by her bedside. Her passion for flowers is widely known and loving friends bestow on her numerous floral tributes, for many of which she has invoked the Muses to express her gratitude and appreciation. Fragrant, white flowers are her favorites, but even the wild violets and daisies — so eagerly sought when a child — are still dearly prized, and each spring the neighboring children never fail to bring her the earliest blown. That sweet little poem to " Myrtle and Florence" is a real life-picture, and in reading it one almost seems to " hear their childish voices" and " their light steps coming," and in fancy sees them glide gently to the bed-side of their invaHd friend- and place in her dehcate white hand their dainty love-tokens — violets, buttercups and daisies " that by the roadside grew." In childhood she loved to ramble in the leafy woods, and listen to the carol of birds and murmuring rills ; and even yet, as she lies on her weary couch, her thoughts sometimes roam back to those fairy haunts and rural scenes, and as memory lingers sadly but sweetly over the past, is prompted to write in tender, pensive numbers, of the joy and beauty which has so long been lost to her. Music, as well as flowers, has a charm for this afflicted child of song, and of all instruments the soft low notes of the guitar are sweetest to her ear. She has a talent for music, and once had a guitar procured on which to practice, but her strength proved in- sufficient and the attempt was soon abandoned. However, she is not deprived the pleasure of sometimes hstening to her favorite i8 MEMOIR. oiusic. On many e - : r e \r : e r " ered in her room a I:t:"t ' ;: : e / - cans. a.n~- :. t :" sflver strains, :^t .-".r.:r . r -; .: r; .landing?. r esence of the gentle, patient invalid, irre-israblv 1- scire :"e with thoughts of £den or UtofMa. Miss Bosh is regard e . prodigy. . :. . r many visitors from vaiioas States ani cities. Words of praise £dl £rom every tongne, but have t.~' -—-z :: :---re the pure ampliaty of her nature to ferfing^ : She has not written with :J:;\;r--S :z : ::~ : r i t raath. yet. nnfxtnscioosly. it is 7" '. :'.r :et.: t. The name of Clara Bush is fast z- r _ : t : : r ; r Mav the sweet melodv of her Tt - r r : . e : . t-tzT _-_ t ; : ue. and be wafted over seas ;:: i.t.iicitv of this sketch ri — but if the -„c ----„_ of the invalid had not been told." CI-Al~3Z T. BzI-L- POEMS. A WISH. I often wish I might Some little poem wTite. Worthy to live And grace an honored page \\ ithin the coming age. And ser\"e to give Unto some troubled breast A peaceful sense of rest. And aid some heart. Burdened with grief and care. To faint not, nor despair. And hope impart To the despondent soul, That fain would reach its goal. Yet still must A\-ait Till kindl}- Heaven please The spirit to release. Though it be late. 20 POEMS BY Oh, if I only could Write words of so much good ! It would but show My life not wholly vain, Though but a scene of pain. And, when laid low. All then would realize That God's decree is wise, And though He send Afflictions that oppress, They may the greater bless. And in the end Work out a rich reward. And treasure to the Lord A precious store Of jewels, that will shine And deck His throne divine, For evermore. DREAMS OF CHILDHOOD. The fairest scenes oft come before me In happy dreams; Youth's early morn reflects back o'er me, Its rosy beams. CLARA BUSH. 21 Wrapt in the gentle folds of slumber, I seem to be A little child, whose glad years number Scarce three times three. Sometimes in the flowery wildwood Alone I roam, — The place so well beloved in childhood - The fairies' home. The days of womanhood and sadness Are all forgot; There comes no feeling save of gladness, In that bright spot. With infant hands I pluck the flowers, So sweet and fair, And twine beneath the leafy bowers, Wreaths for my hair. I listen to the wild birds trilling Their blithe notes free, — The breezes and the woodland filling With melody. 22 POEMS BY There echoes in those regions fairy, A mystic strain — Entrancing music, faint and airy, With low refrain. The httle brooklet, onward flowing, Repeats a song ; As if to greet the flow'rets growing. Its. banks along. Sometimes I watch its waters flashing. In ripples free, — Far out some leaf or pebble dashing. In childish s-lee. The bright-hued butterflies flit near me. Or rest the wing; The little birds seem not to fear me, As sweet they sing. The old brown school-house, gemmed with mosses, Rises to view; Within whose walls life's cares and crosses I never knew. CLARA BUSH. ■ 23 The play-ground, by the elm-trees shaded, The same appears ; Not a leaf or floweret faded. In all these years. I see the faces — hear the voices — Of playmates dear; And again my heart rejoices, To have them near. A happy band we roam together, Over the hill ; And seek the daisies in the heather, And by the rill. The fleecy clduds, like floating castles. Attract our eyes, — Kings enthroned and waiting vassals. Fancy descries. Gently, silently, onward drifting. Airy and light — Into a thousand weird forms shifting, They pass from sight. 24 POEMS BY In childish awe and adoration, Enrapt I've stood, Watching the wonders of creation, So grand and g-ood. O, those happy dreams Elysian, That come at night ! They fade hke phantoms from my vision, When dawns the light ; Yet still they leave a thrill of gladness, Tho' brief their reign, And take from life some hours of sadness And weary pain. EVERY DAY. We are each one older growing, Every day; Down life's river swift are rowing, Every day; Steered for temples ever standing, We are borne, at God's commanding, Nearer — closer to the landing, Every day. CLARA BUSH. 25 O'er their dead ones some are weeping, Every day; In the church-yard mounds are heaping, Every day ; These but give a pensive token — Ties of love must yet be broken, And the last farewell be spoken, Every day. We can see the sad and dreary, Every day; Meet the burdened ones and weary, Every day; Hear the sound of sorrow quaking — Wrung from hearts with anguish aching ; For the hearts of some are breaking Every day. Let our kindly aid be given, Every day. To those who are tempest driven. Every day; Words of hope for the despairing. And their troubles gladly sharing, Give our souls a higher bearing, Every day. 26 POEMS BY Let us strive to be forgiving, Every day; Let our words be kind and loving, Every day; Let us goodly seeds be sowing, That for Heaven may be growing Fruits, to pay the debt we're owing Every day. Though we see so much of sadness. Every day, Still is heard the voice of gladness. Every day; The winds are tones of joy bringing - Sweet child-laughter glad is ringing — Happy birds their lays are singing — Every day. May we all grow wiser, purer, Every day. And our sacred trust be surer. Every day. If our hearts but faithful prove us. Heaven's King will better love us. And with angels watch above us Every day. CLARA BUSH. 27 May the grace of God attend us, Every day, And His loving hand befriend us Every day; Let our souls renewed hope borrow, We shall, on some happy morrow, Leave this land where cometh sorrow, Every day. PEACE. O blessed Peace — gentle spirit divine ! She abides with the pure in heart: The lowliest lot sweetest joys combine. When touched by her magical art. Not queenly palaces, nor princely halls, Can tempt her one moment to pause With sin-darkened souls, where unheeded falls The sound of God's all-holy laws. 28 POEMS BY She shuns the presence of ungodly men, Who work not in their Maker's cause, But hve, unmindful of life's wiser plan. Seeking wealth and worldly applause. No balm she brings for the wearied brain That covets only things that flee. Heedless that Heaven were far greater gain "Than to own -a whole world would be. But she seeks the cot of the Christian poor, And blesses their humble fare ; While the smiles of her face doth gently allure Their minds from the world's weary care. With Faith and sweet Hope she delights to live, And meekly goes, hand in hand. With Affection pure, and unselfish Love, A congenial sister band. Sad is the home where her name is unknown, But where Strife has entered instead, And over the hearts of the household thrown The blemish Contention doth spread. CLARA BUSH. 29 As a gentle dove, 'neath Religion's wing, She lovingly nestles her head; And soothingly coos of that endless spring Where blossom the souls of the dead. O'er the couch of the dying saint she bows, And smooths down his pillow of rest ; And like a fond mother, tenderly throws Her soft mantle over his breast. She kisses the infant's untarnished lips, And makes them in slumber to smile, As, dreaming, from cup of nectar it sips, In Elysian lands the while. Yet she comes not near the bed of remorse. Where sleepless the guilt-burdened lies ; But soothes to repose the good in her course, With the sound of her low lullabies. O, blest is the province in which she reigns ! With Love's royal diadem crowned, She waves her white banner and sings glad strains Of good-will to nations around. 30 POEJ/S BV Prosperity, 'neath her influence sweet, 0\-erspreads the land of her s\va\' ; W'hile hoi}- Content and Happiness greet The toilers of life's wearx" waw The frosts of Adversit\- ne'er can chill The bosom of heavenly trust. For Peace — blessed Peace — her mission to fill. Will evermore walk with the just. A DREAM OF Ht:AVEX>- ' Twas eventide. Dim shadows of twilight Fell around and fast deepened into night. Vet the gleam of stars and pale moon abo\e Shed their light o'er earth like a smile of love, And the winds seemeci whispering a refrain To the notes of the nighting^ale's sweetest strain. And 'mid distant hills low echo was found, While through the casement there stole a faint sound — A gentle cadence, that seemed to impart A holv calm and sweet rest to mv heart: *This poem is not a inoro oroatiou of the fancy, but is deseiiptive of what was i-eally divsmed. It was written at the ace of sixteen. CLARA BUSH. 31 For I had grown weary of thinking long Of things that to the future day belong — Of things that God will ne'er reveal but keep From human comprehension hidden deep ! But when the melodies of night did fall, And wrap my brain in slumber's gentle thrall, I had a dream, a most wonderful dream. Of crossing over death's mystical stream And entering the beautiful land that lies Beyond its shores — the land of Pa'radise. ' Tis said the pathway leading to the tomb Is through a strange, dismal valley of gloom, That weary wayfarers must, one by one. Pass through its shadows ere the journey's done ; And frail man shrinks from the terrors of dying. Dreading to think of the body lying With the pale throng that rest low under-ground In the strange death-sleep, so long and profound; Yet all those horrors, I fancy, will be Only as phantoms in reality, For methinks the Lord will some angel send, To guide and comfort to the journey's end. I will tell thee something of death's seeming. As it came to me in pleasant dreaming, 32 " POEMS BY Yet language of mine cannot well portray The secret of its coming, or convey To other minds the perfect loveliness Of Heaven's scenes, and its true happiness. There was nothing sad or solemn to me In dreaming of death and eternity. It was like falling, when weary, to sleep^ Happily forgetting in slumber deep All things most sorrowful, — awaking soon In a land far brighter than. summer-noon! An isle so fair mortals never have seen, The tall waving trees remain ever green, The verdure decked hills and flowery vales Have never been swept by the wintry gales; Warm celestial light is there shed around, Casting a radiance o'er all the ground. While through the green plain flows a bright river, Over whose surface shadows fall never; And fadeless blossoms on its margin grow. Just kissing the waters that glide below ; Fairest flowers of earth may not compare For loveliness with those that open there ; The sweetest songs that mortals ever sing. The softest tones that fall from dulcet string Are lost to melody when angels sound Their golden harps the throne of God around ! And music from the holy minstrel band Is borne by soft winds o'er all the land. CLARA BUSH. 33 I have sometimes thought of death with a sigh, But in my dream it was so sweet to die — So joyful to leave earth's bitterness and woe, And to happy, peaceful spirit-land go, That now I shall ne'er think of it again Only as a kindly release from pain. For I know all repining and regret In glad after-life the soul will forget, And weeping and mourning will ever cease In the far-away, sunny home of peace ; And the sweet rest found in that realm of bliss Will recompense for all sorrows of this. HOPE. While o'er life's sea my bark I'm rowing. Storms often lower; And for a time at their fierce blowing. My soul doth cower ; Yet soon, above the billows heaving, I see Hope's banner brightly waving, And then the gales that I've been braving Withhold their power. 34 POEMS BY Though clouds of sorrow o'er me darken, Even might I smile, If to the voice of Hope I'd hearken; ' Tis so short a while That their shadowy mist will tarry, For their dim folds are light and airy, And slightest touch of fingers fairy Might their reign beguile. Sometimes, as pensively I ponder O'er my saddened lot, I question fate, and, weeping wonder If I am forgot By the merciful and great All-wise, Whose home is so far beyond the skies That from the portals of paradise He may heed me not. Then cheeringly I hear Hope calling, ' ' Cast aside thy fear ! Blessings around thee soft are falling. And thine ev'ry tear Will add a brighter luster, even. To the crown that waits thee in Heaven, By the Messiah to be given. On thine exit here. CLARA BUSH. 35 What though grievous now be thy crosses ? Rest is very near; Christ will repay for earthly losses, O, faint heart, have cheer!" ' Tis thus the siren keeps on singing, Till all the air seems gladly ringing With the blest message it is bringing — Message sweet and dear. And then I half forget my sorrow, While the tears I've shed Serve to enliven for the morrow Flowers reckoned dead ; And for a time my burden seems light, And the clouded sky again grows bright, For the drear eclipse of sorrow's night Is a phantom fled. When I sigh, to think this fleeting life Holds but hapless days, Bright Hope rises high above the strife. And lovingly sways Her merciful sceptre o'er despair, Till afar I see God's mansions, where The weary may enter in, and share Holy joys always. 36 POEMS BY O sweet Hope, be thou ever my guide, Wave aloft thy wand ! Not a fear can my faint heart betide, With thine own strong hand To lead me on in life's darkened way, Thy glad voice telling ever and aye Of that eternal and perfect day. Dawning just beyond. GENTLE WORDS. Why not let our words be gentle ? Harsh words rudely jar On the feelings of another, And to kindly greet each other Would be better far. In the plainest words of converse, Music sweet is heard, If in tenderness they're spoken ; But the melody is broken By an angry word. CLARA BUSH. 37 It would show a strength of spirit, To let no hard word Fall petulantly from our tongue, And strike the notes to music strung, Making rude discord. We would find it just as easy, In kind tones to speak ; Hasty, cruel words are grievous, And too sadly, truly, prove us Pitifully weak. Oft a little word, soft spoken. Falling on the ear. Throws a passing ray of gladness O'er the heart, darkened with sadness. And dispels the tear. Gentle words! — they cost so little. And such power hold To impart to others pleasure, Why not greater make their measure Many thousand-fold ? 38 POEMS BY It will make our own hearts richer, If we will but give Lavishly, to our fellow-man, Gentle words whene'er we can. While on earth we live. We are lowly, sinful creatures, Sadly prone to err ; Yet if we've blindly gone astray. And can make amends to-day, Let us not defer. If one kindred heart we've wounded, By a word unkind, O, let us now forgiveness ask, And make it our most willing task The sad wound to bind. There may be less sweet than bitter. In the cup of life; There may be more thorns than flowers, Yet if unbroken love be ours, We can bear the strife. CLARA BUSH. 39 TO MY MOTHER. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. My mother, my darling mother, Thy name is sweet to me. And I have thought that none on earth Have loved as I love thee. - It is a pure, unselfish love, That I've borne thee ever, And day by day it deeper grows, And will live for ever. No form so dear to me as thine. No words so gently bless, No hand can soothe me like thine own. When I am comfortless. Alas ! if it should ever be That I must have to say, "Farewell, sweet mother," I only hope I may not longer stay. 40 POEMS BY And I could not, for now I feel I soon would die of grief; Yet I could welcome death, and think It were a sweet relief. The world would seem a desert then, Nothing the void could fill. The mighty weight of careless woe My cheerless heart would still. I should so miss thy coming step. And thy gentle caress, And troubled would be my slumber, Without thy good-night kiss. Earth would contain no ray of light, All would be deepest gloom. And I would long to close my eyes. And sleep within the tomb. Without a mother's tender care, Without a mother's love, I could not wish a life like this. When there is peace above. CLARA BUSH. 41 FRIENDS. ( A dearer, sweeter word, Mortals have never heard Than that of friend ; No gift of greater worth. To habitants of earth, Could Heaven send. When worldly cares molest The mind's serener rest, And when the tear Of sorrow dims the eye, We wish some loved friend nigh, Our hearts to cheer. Though it may be our fate To bear affliction's weight, ' Tis lighter made With dear friends waiting near, To speak kind words of cheer. And render aid. A pressure of the hand Can closer bind the band Of friendship sweet : 42 POEMS BY There comes a holy thrill, The soul with joy to fill, When true friends meet. In loyal friends we pride In whom we may confide, — When we would lead Where foes have hidden snares, To harjn us unawares, They give us heed. Our happiness depends So much upon our friends. That we should hold The riches of their love, In value, far above Riches of gold. True friends will self deny Of much, without a sigh, That others may Awhile forget their woe, And bask within the glow Of pleasure's ray. The richest hoards of earth Would be of little worth. If not a soul, CLARA BUSH. 43 In all the cold world wide, Cared how we lived or died, Or what our eoal. A lofty sounding name, And loud applause of fame, Wins sunshine friends ; But these will stand afar, If some unlucky star A fall portends. The friend worthy to own Would question not renown ; And still would be Unselfish, kind and just, And loyal to all trust, Should fortune flee. And when our latest breath Is hushed for aye in death, The mound above — ' Tis sweet to think a few. Who proved a friendship true, Our names will love. 44 POEMS BY MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. As I lie on my couch so weary, Where for many years I've lain, Strange thoughts, half sad and half pleasant, Steal softly upon my brain. Fair scenes of happy days long gone, To my memory arise, — Visions that seem celestial bright, Of lovely earth and fairer skies. My thoughts are wont to roam afar, To a woodland spot so fair, I once believed some fairy queen Had enchanted all things there. Methought the flowers were fairer Than those that blossomed elsewhere ; And the songs of birds and rivulet Were sweet, O ! so sweet to hear. I view again the moss-grown hill, Shaded by an aged tree. And through its branches drooping low The sunbeams fall fitfully. CLARA BUSH. 45 Violets are opening there, Like the ones I used to twine With lily-bells and daisies white, All their beauty to combine. I think of a dell 'neath grand old trees, Where first bloomed the sweet wild rose ; The brooklet flowed more softly there, And its eddies found repose. Sometimes in the hush of evening. When the zephyrs gently blow, I fancy I hear the murmur Of that streamlet, soft and low. Then fain would I bid farewell to pain. And go seek its brink once more, To sip again from a leaflet cup Its cool waters, as of yore. When a child of few brief summers, It was there I used to play ; Unconscious that the swift, glad hours, Were hastening a sadder day. 46 POEMS BY Fair was the dawning of my life, It had no shadow of gloom ; Sunbeams of joy gilded my way, And flowers of hope were in bloom. Yet even while life seemed brightest. Sorrow came in dark array ; And disease, with pitiless hand, Rudely seized me for its prey. When I think of the weary years O'er which no sunny rays have beamed I half believe them all not true, But only something sadly dreamed. For oh! it does not seem that one, Who once did not a sorrow know, Could bid adieu to youthful joys And live so long and suffer so. But hush ! there is a voice that says, "The Lord doth all things well ; " Whom He loveth He will chasten, And His mercies none can tell. CLARA BUSH. 47 THINK OF ME. ADDRESSED TO A SCHOOLMATE, WHEN THIRTEEN YEARS OLD. MY FIRST POEM. Dearest, list to the gentle winds As they linger on the lonely tree. And as they moan as one that 's weary. Think of me. Go out in the grove where flowers bloom, And cull the sweetest that you may see ; And as you twine them in a garland Think of me. Look at a rose that was so lovely Ere the vile worm sought it for its prey, And while you view the blighted flower Think of me. Go gem thy brow with pure buds of white, Fit emblems of sadness though they be ; As you cull the fairest of beauty's race Think of me. 48 POEMS BY Remember the home of our school days, Where from sorrow and pain we were free ; If ever you wander where we Ve played Think of me. Think of one with whom you have gathered Sweetest of blossoms from nook and dell ; Forget not those bright and happy days, Now farewell. MYRTLE AND FLORENCE, LITTLE FRIENDS THAT BRING ME WILD FLOWERS. I hear their childish voices Just out the open door, Then hear their light steps coming Along the wide hall floor. They glide into my bedroom, Their faces all aglow. With the rapturous feelings Of blithesome hearts below. CLARA BUSH. 49 They steal close to my bedside, And then it is so sweet, Whene'er their warm lips rosy Mine own with kisses meet. They bring me wildwood flowers, That by the roadside grew. The dainty, meek, white daisies And violets of blue. And buttercups all golden, With sprays of grasses green, That form as fair a cluster As eye hath ever seen. I prize the woodland blossoms,' Because it was of them My unskilled hands first fashioned The artless diadem. When but a lisping infant These simple blooms I sought. And homeward, rapt in transport, A store of treasures brought. 50 ' POEMS B Y My little friends, sweet Myrtle And Florence — sisters twain, Portray anew my own youth, Ere came disease and pain. To them all days are joyous ; Each morn, returning, brings Some newly added blessing Upon its spreading wings. They think that each to-morrow Will be like fair to-day, — Unconscious that time's shadow Will chase its light away. I love these little children. They are so pure and mild ; Their lives of sunny pleasures By sin yet undefiled. I watch their smiling faces, That have become so dear, And always think of angels Whenever they are near. CLARA BUSH. 51 No guile their young brows shadows, Their look is purity, With voice so like my fancies Of what seraphs may be. They each have tresses golden, With eyes of mildest blue, And cheeks with tints like roses That wear a blushing hue. Not even fairy music, That poets dreaming hear. Outrivals their glad laughter. Or holds such power to cheer. O guileless, happy childhood. How swiftly thine hours flee ! Leaving of blissful moments Only the memory. AN INFANT'S HAND. Only an infant's tiny hand, Lily-white and dimpled, too ; Yet many deeds in coming years The pretty wee hand may do. 52 POEMS BY Care-worn furrows it may deepen On the forehead of a father ; And crush the tender, loving heart, Of a kind and gentle mother. It may cluteh the ruby wine-cup. That the soul will surely blast. And press it to lips so guileless When a mother kissed them last. And while the brain is wine-heated. The once stainless little hand In wrath may deadly weapon raise, Swift to slay the truest friend. The wee fingers white may never Be with honest labor soiled, But may take by stealth the riches For which other hands have toiled. Or, it may never do a deed That the pure soul will defile, But of those goodly works partake, On which holy angels smile. CLARA BUSH. 53 To aid the poor it may extend, And their empty coffers fill ; It may guide the blind and aged Till God whispers " Peace, be still." It may gently lift the feeble That have fallen in rough ways; And to thin lips, parched with fever, Cooling, crystal water raise. It may softly smooth the pillow Of some suffering mortal, Who is far from home and loved ones, And passing through death's portal. It may wipe away the death-dew That on the cold forehead stands; And when the heart is stilled forever. Close the eyes and fold the hands. It may gather bright, sweet flowers, • And garland the simple stone That marks the spot where someone lies In a strange land, all alone. 54 POEMS BY It may plant the rose and lily, That they may their fragrance shed O'er the lowly resting-places Of the pale and silent dead. It may clasp the Holy Bible That was in mercy given ; And when the sad heart yearns for rest, Be raised in prayer to Heaven. None can tell, as the years glide by, What the little hand may do ; Yet still we trust that it will prove Ever faithful, ever true. EARL AND PEARL. I know two little winsome babes, A beautiful boy and girl. They 're not yet quite a twelvemonth old, And are christened Earl and Pearl. CLARA BUSH. 55 Elfin Earl has fair, silken hair, And tenderest eyes of blue; White as the lily is his brow. With cheeks of roseate hue. Fairy Pearl has darkened tresses, And eyes like jewels shining, With dimpled cheeks, and lips so sweet They quite defy defining. They each have just begun to take The primitive steps in walking, And to use a mystic language, That scarce might be called talking. Their restless feet and busy hands Are hardly still a minute ; And their rippling, gleesome laugh. Has artless music in it. When first I met their infant charms, . They won me to caressing; And, in the fondness of my heart, I wished on them a blessing. 56 POEMS BY Much I love these dove-like darlings, 'Tis sweet to have them near me, For they hold a magic power To gently soothe and cheer me. Little children — guileless beings! The Savior loved them, even. It was of them He said " Of such - Is the kingdom of Heaven." FOOTSTEPS AT THE DOOR. Footsteps were at the door, A shadow on the floor, — A maiden form stole softly to my side ; The face was pure and fair, the brow untouched by care, The flowing hair like wavelets seemed to glide ; The eyes, so mildly bright, shone with serene love-light. While round the lips a smile of gladness played ; The hands were filled with flowers, fresh from Flora's bowers, And on my bosom all the gems were laid,^ A gentle sister's care, How sweet, how sweet to share. CLARA BUSH. 57 Footsteps were at the door, A shadow on the floor, — Then one in manhood's prime stood by my bed ; How stately rose his form, built strong to brave life's storm. And how majestic looked the well poised head ! The visage, mild, portrayed humility, arrayed In all the valor of a noble heart ; A book of verse he brought, whose pages, he had thought, Would pleasure to my weary hours impart, — A kindly brother's care, How pleased, how pleased to share. Footsteps were at the door, A shadow on the floor, — A matron, feeble and toil-worn, drew near ; Her step had weary grown, sorrow and care had drawn Some added lines upon her brow each year ; And many threads of gray had found their wonted way Among the silken locks of raven hue ; [weak, She bowed and kissed my cheek ; and, though her hands were Still asked if there was aught that she could do,— A loving mother's care, Hov/ blest, how blest to share. Footsteps were at the door, A shadow on the floor, — An aged man approached with solemn tread ; 58 POEMS BY Of sin there was no trace upon his guileless face, But time had shed its snows upon his head, And swept youth's warmer glow from off his cheek and brow. And left some furrows meet for three-score years ; He spake in words most kind, as fain to soothe and bind My stricken heart, and check the falling tears, — A pious father's care, How glad, how glad to share. REVERIE.* ' Tis sweet to think of the long ago, The time when my cares were few. Ere my sunny life was blighted, Ere sorrow and pain I knew. Yet those bright days, long vanished. Seem more like a dream than true. For my years were few and tender When affliction first I knew. * " Reverie" is one of my earliest poems, and has not the undertone of sadness that characterizes many of my later productions, but was true to my sentiments when written. GLARA BUSH. 59 I can just remember faintly When I played among the flowers, And wondered if the angels' home Could be lovelier than ours. Though the scenes of happy childhood I may never view again, I feel not a tinge of sadness, Nor sigh at the thought of pain. Resigned and patient can I suffer, For it seems the will of God ; And, as it pleases Heaven thus. Let me pass under the rod. For angel visitants, I trust. Round my bed are waiting nigh, Soon from sorrow's land to bear me To a blissful home on high. Though many long years I've suffered, Should the angels claim me now, I know that some would fondly kiss My icy lips and peaceful brow ; 6o POEMS BY And on my cheek, so strangely white, A few tears of sorrow shed, To think that they must say ' ' farewell, And lay me in earth's cold bed. Affection, then, may rear a stone. And plant a few flowers there, To make less sad the lowly spot Where I'm- sleeping, free from care. I would not be forgotten quite. For it seems sweet to think My name will be, in memory's chain, A bright and glittering link. And when friends my lone grave visit, I would have them think me blest; Though the tomb seems dark and cheerless, Sweet, O ! sweet will be my rest. Loved ones even should feel thankful That earth has one sufferer less ; For in some distant, happy country. Golden streets my feet will press. CLARA BUSH. And the time may not be distant Ere my spirit's with its God, And my weary body resting, Gently resting, 'neath the sod. Though should Heaven not yet call me, If my race is not yet run. The crown, perhaps, will be brighter And more beautiful when won. Longer yet if I must suffer. Ere the mystic tide is passed, I can bear the cross far better As I hope for rest at last. Yet may the angel. Submission, Ever watch around my bed, And the gentle angel. Patience, A holy influence shed. And when my mission is ended, And Messiah bids me "come!' May a bright seraphic convoy Bear my weary spirit home. 62 POEMS BY O! then will I rejoice ever, When a quiet haven's found; For this side of realms celestial Perfect peace may not abound. LIFE. What has life? Many sad, sad things, With little joy; No happiness to us it brings, Without alloy. Though lovely earth has ever had Such bright array. Its vestment bears the impress sad, " Passing away." All things of terrestrial birth. Will transient prove; Nothing stable is found on earth, Of all we love. CLARA BUSH. 63 The fairest, sweetest flowers may grow, In summer day, But when the chilling north-winds blow, They cannot stay. The rustle of dead leaves we hear. And mark their fall ; They whisper of the waiting bier, And sable pall. We may have friends, our love for whom, Words cannot tell; Soon we must bear them to the tomb. And say ' ' farewell. " Objects most cherished, one by one, Are taken hence; And oft we gain for labor done. No recompense. Although our cross is heavy here, ■ And hard to bear, Let us believe that rest is near, And not despair. 64 POEMS BY For oh ! why should we care, or sigh At pain below? Rehef is found beyond the sky, I From ev'ry woe. The Savior calls in tender tones, ' ' Come, ye who will ;" There yet remains for weary ones, A blessing still. And sorrows that now darken o'er Our dreary lot, Will be forgotten on the shore, Where grief is not. WAIT AND TRUST. It was the holy time of prayer — Calm eventide; A gentle boy of beauty rare Knelt by the side CLARA BUSH. 65 Of widowed mother, who had sought To fill his mind with purest thought, And, to redeem the world, had taught The Savior died. She kissed him when his sunny head The pillow press'd. And that Heaven its blessings shed, Was her request; Thankful, she whispered, ' ' Fate was kind To give this precious tie, to bind My weary heart, that it might find In love a rest. A few glad years on time's swift tide Did onward drift, But soon its current, flowing wide. Its course did shift ; A messenger from God was sent — ** The boon, " he said, * ' was only lent ;" And, for some wise and good intent. Reclaimed the gift. The mother, weeping, turned away, ' Twas sorrow's night ! Into the glow of hope's fair day Had come a blight; 66 POEMS BY " Cruel is fate," was now her moan, ' ' To leave my life bereft and lone, Gone from my heart — forever gone! Its treasure bright." But when her steps drew near their goal There seemed to steal A mild submission o'er her soul. That made her feel God's hidden motives wise and best ; And meek she waited His behest. That soon would give her perfect rest And all reveal. PEACE — A VISION. DESCRIPTIVE OF THE RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE OF A FRIEND. The fair, sweet day was ended ; yet the night Wore not its darkest vesture. Calm and bright The crescent moon shone out the stars among, And o'er the earth a robe of soft light flung. As from my window viewed the scene was fair. But oh, I could but think how much of care — CL4RA BUSH. 67 Of bitter pain and strife — of woe and crime, Man's fallen race had known since first was time ! And to my mind despondent thoughts arose, While troublous feelings stirred my soul of woes. I was a toiler in the field of life ; Sweet peace I sought but witnessed only strife ; The way looked dim before me, and around I heard the rush of angry billows sound ; My life seemed wrapt in shadows, and I sighed To think all gleams of joy were it denied ; As cast in desert place appeared my lot — My form a drooping plant, forlorn, forgot ! At length, o'erpowered by dark despair, I wept; And then, like tempest lulled, I calmly slept. And as I lay in gentle slumbers, dreaming. There came to my sight, in fancy's seeming — The form of an angel in far-off sky ! And nearer, still nearer, it swift did fly, Till I heard the rustle of garments white. And the sweep of pinions in downward flight ; • And then, as a moment it poised in -space, As if pondering first which course to trace, Emblazoned on circlet that bound its head. The blessed word Peace I wondering read. *' Ah ! 'tis God's holy messenger," I cried, " His angel of Peace!" and then I espied 68 POEMS BY That one fair hand an olive-branch bore, The other — God's Word, which is Hfe evermore. Much amazed I watched, till with gentle grace. And a loving smile on the shining face, The soft, snowy wings were again outspread. And lo, to my side the bright seraph sped ! " I have come," said a voice, "at God's behest, He knows the depth of thy soul's unrest. He would calm its tumult and bid it cease. And lead thee kindly into paths of peace ! He would make thee happy, and never did aim To oppress the children that triist His name ; His ways are pleasantness, and guide to a home Where peace ever reigns and griefs never come ; That haven is free to each faithful heart That trusts in Heaven as that better part." The message delivered the angel withdrew. And, pluming its pinions, back heavenward flew. Bewildered, and wondering at the scene. And pondering what its presage could mean, I press'd my temples, and marveled to find Olive-leaves around my forehead entwined ! ' Twas done so softly I failed to perceive When the angel hands did the garland weave. "Sweet emblem of Peace," I moaned, "O Heaven! May yet this boon to my soul be given ? CLARA BUSH. 69 'Twer better than riches, or high renown, The calm, holy feeling of peace to own ; Oh ! where may this comforting balm be found ? Where doth its soothing influence abound?" Then was heard the rustle of book-leaves stirred ; I looked, and behold ! God's own holy Word, With pages unclosed lay open to view, — The gift of an angel — the good, the true. " It enfolds some timely warning," I mused; And then, as page after page I perused, I found that each word a new meaning wore To what it had ever conveyed before ; Thad walked in darkness: God's wise command. My soul, benighted, could not understand, But now shone over me a light divine. And Knowledge stood by to teach and define ; I chose the heavenward — the narrow way. With firmest resolve to go not astray ; Then casting my trust on the Savior's care. Life's cross no longer seemed heavy to bear ; And into my bosom a feeling stole That fell like balm on my wearied soul ! All tumult, all strife, seemed gently to cease, While there came a voice — "God's word giveth peace." I awoke from my sleep, and pondered o'er The wonderful vision. Never before. 70 . . POEMS B Y Awake or dreaming, had so strange a sight Appeared to my view in day-time or night. I thought of all the bright seraph had said, And reviewed the words I had dreaming read, And found, indeed, I had wandered astray — Afar had I roamed from the '* narrow way," — ' Twas this that grieved and troubled my breast. Giving my being no portion of rest. I prayed the dear Lord to pilot me back, To show me anew the heavenward track ; And with faith made firm I trusted His grace. And found in His service that long-sought peace. THE GRAVE BY THE WAY-SIDE. SUGGESTED ON READING IN A BOOK OF TRAVELS AN ACCOUNT OF A LITTLE WAY-SIDE GRAVE UNMARKED AND UNKNOWN. There is a grave by the way-side, A lowly wee grave and lone ; No stone is there with words to tell Who from life has early gone. CLARA BUSH. 71 Yet all who view the spot believe, With many a tear and prayer — Some wayfarers have journeyed past, And left the lone sleeper there. We can but know by the tiny mound ' Twas a child of tender age, Who had life's volume just unclosed, And left unwritten each page. A little babe, perhaps, whose days Had not lengthened into years. Whose eye had never once been dimmed By the flow of sorrow's tears, Whose heart of angel purity Had never been touched by sin, Whose life had borne no cross and yet A heavenly crown did win ! Although no marble marks the spot, There the greenest grasses wave ; And sweetest flowerets have sprung And covered the little grave. 72 POEMS BY While lovely myrtles round the place Their cool shadows gently fling ; And joyous wild-birds ofttimes come, And long and sweetly sing. There travelers a moment pause, Or move with gentler tread, Whene'er they near the resting-place Of the early, unknown dead. Oh, none can tell the pangs that wrung Each kind, loving, parent heart ! When the conquering angel claimed Their dearer and better part. Although their lives may still be cheered By merry child-voices sweet, And still their new-found home resound With the tread of infant feet. Yet when is gathered round the hearth The broken family band. They can but mourn the missing part That lies in a stranger land. CLARA BUSH. 73 And oft and fervent is their prayer, That happily for ever The circle may unite above, Where death it cannot sever. VERSES ON SEEING A DYING BIRD IN THE HANDS OF THE ARCHER. Poor little bird with wounded breast ! We'll hear its glad song no more ; ' Neath sunny skies on free, swift wing, It never again will soar. Never again with happy mate ' Twill pass the halcyon hours ; Nor revel in the golden light, ' Mid summer's sweetest bowers. All soiled and torn its plumage soft, And the beak's agape for breath ; The silent throat, so dulcet once, Grows cold with the chill of death. 74 POEMS BY Naught of sorrow the captor feels For the hfe so nearly slain, But deigns to smile on his victim, Tremulous with fear and pain. Oh ! a pitiful sight it is, And Mercy is prone to sigh, Even to know so frail a thing In cruel, rude hands must die. The meek, bright eyes close gently now, Lower droops the shining head, — A little gasp — and all is still ; The dear pretty bird is dead. LAMENT FOR SUMMER. Summer is dead — lovely Summer! A doleful knell is ringing, And a low, plaintive requiem, Autumn's first gale is singing. CLARA BUSH. 75 Oh brief was thy hfe, sweet Summer ! Too fair didst thou seem to die, "But alas ! the tomb has claimed thee, And there must thy beauty lie. We can but mourn thee, O Summer ! And the tears, unbidden, fall Upon the fast fading flowers That lie scattered o'er thy pall. We shall so miss thee, fair Summer ! Miss thy song-birds and flowers, Miss thy sweet rose-scented breezes. And pleasant, shady bowers. We had learned to love thee. Summer ! But like a dream that was sweet. Thy joys and beauties have vanished. All too early and too fleet. Though thou art gone, gentle Summer ! Fond mem'ry of thee will dwell In our loving hearts, long after We have breathed the sad "farewell." ^e POEMS BY CALL ME NOT BEAUTIFUL. WRITTEN ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER A SKETCH OF MY LIFE UNDER THE CAPTION OF ■ ' ThE BeAUTIFUL INVALID." I would not have them call me fair; I covet not to own A title that will vanish when Life's summer days have flown : Oh, no; I'd wish a higher fame, Than may be found in beauty's name. If in my bosom there might dwell The light of holy love ; And ev'ry thought and feeling be As pure as those above — O, then I'd prize a fame, whose birth Came from a soul of noble worth. GOING AWAY. The following verses were s6flt in a letter to a friend, who had informed me that he soon would leave his native country for foreign lands. Going away — from home and friends Going away! In far-off, untried stranger lands, Lonely to stray. CLARA BUSH. 77 Going away! — these brief words chill The tender heart, And touch it with a pensive thrill In ev'ry part. Going away ! — but thus is life, Friendship's bright band Is severed in the changeful strife, By Fate's rude hand. Going away ! — yet not to be As one unknown; Many will kindly think of thee When thou art srone. Going away! — these words, alas! Are linked with pain; Footsteps must oft the threshold pass, Nor come aeain. Going away ! — O, I would ask That fate be kind; And may you find a pleasant task, With peace combined. 78 . POEMS BY Going away ! going away !• These words foretell The hardest word that mortals say- The sad ' ' farewell. " LET ME WEEP. "Let me weep, oh, let me Aveep ! The darkened, troublous swell, Of feeling's lurid fount of woes, That from my bosom heaves and flows, Can deepest anguish quell ; Then let me weep — let me weep. Let me sigh — in sadness sigh, — To my o'erburdened heart It proves a soothing balm for grief — An anodyne, to lend relief To sorrow's cureless smart; Then let me sigh — let me sigh. Let me mourn — in silence mourn; The doleful death-bell's knoll. That tells of loved ones freed from care, • CLARA BUSH. 79 Is not so dread or hard to bear As troables of the soul ; Then let me mourn — let me mourn. Let me smile — in gladness smile, Even though recent tears Should still my cheeks and eyelids wet, Could I one moment but forget The grief of weary years — Then let me smile — let me smile. Let me sleep life's closing sleep ; Fainly would I repair To that low couch made under-ground, Where in a last repose is found Release from all earth's care, — Then let me sleep — let me sleep. A REQUEST. When my pulses cease their beating. And my lips grow still and cold, Close my eyelids softly, sister, And my hands in silence fold. 8o POEMS B Y Should I die in time of flowers, Bring those that I thought, most fair And hghtly place upon my bosom, And twine a few in my hair. And when the parting moment comes, Ere they hide me from thy sight. Do not weep but gently kiss me As you'd kiss me a good-night. Let them not bear me far away To the city of the dead, But near my childhood's home, sister. Let them make my lowly bed. Perhaps ' tis only a fancy, But it seems my sleep will be Ever more calm, more gently sweet, If lying near home and thee. There sometimes come at summer eve. If it will not give thee pain, And strew bright flowers o'er the mound. And sing some low sweet strain. CLARA BUSH. 8i I would not have my memory Add one sorrow to thy heart; Let all thoughts of me be pleasant When death shall bid us part. Think that I am with the angels, That I've joined the white-robed choir, And that my fingers are sweeping The cords of a sweet-toned lyre. Think that Christ in love has crowned me With a crown of gems and gold; Think that I am tasting pleasures Sweeter than can here unfold. Weep not — yes, I bid thee weep not. When earth wraps me to her breast ; For "I'm weary, oh! 5^ weary, And ' tis there the weary rest. Cold though seems the grave and dreary, Within its gloom repose is found; And methinks none sleep so peaceful As the sleepers under-ground. 82 POEMS BY MOMENTS OF JOY. They came to me in dreams last night — Sweet moments of joy Free from all alloy; I dreamed I was an angel bright, And upward, onward, in eager flight I was wafted on wings of light, Till safely at last Earth's shadows were pass'd, And Heaven's glory beamed in sight. O that beautiful, blissful land ! Oft have I been told Of the streets of gold. Of the pearly gates and temple grand, And of the shining ones that stand Around God's throne, " a happy band,' But a scene so fair As I witnessed there Defies the touch of painter's hand. • Such a radiant lustre lies O'er fount and flowers, And through the bowers Of richest green the soft 'wind sighs ; And fairer than Italian skies, CLARA BUSH. Penciled in a thousand dyes — Is the ether dome Of the spirit-home, Where raging tempests never rise. No harp-tones to our earth belong Like the melody, So perfect and free. Made when the happy angel throng Attune the lyre and join in song, First faint and low then full and strong- Till o'er all the plain The ravishing strain In echo sweet is borne along. Forgotten were all griefs below. When Heaven I gained- And the prize attained, The harp and crown, and robe like snow — And as I walked where brightly flow The living waters, not a woe Marred the perfect bliss No words can express, And which only the blest can know. 84 POEMS BY While thinking o'er my dream to-day Earth seems less dreary, I feel less weary, Life's cross grows lighter and a ray Of joyous light illumes my way, For, by-and-by, I trust I may Gladly realize My dream of the skies, And there abide in peace for aye. FRAGMENTS OF THOUGHT. Meek was the Messiah, the King of kings; Robed in righteousness — love's sceptre bearing Came He to earth on mercy's gentle wings, Life eternal bringing, — content in sharing All tribulation, with death and the grave, Ungodly nations to ransom and save ! Dear was the price of mortal redemption ; Enlisted in the warfare of the Lord, Journeying on to holy exemption — Be the name of Jesus our one pass-word ! Evermore with God will the faithful live. Little is asked — just our poor heart to give. CLARA BUSH. 85 THE SKEPTIC. Cold was the skeptic's heart. He would not trust A wise Creator, merciful and just. Possessed of noble intellect, the mind — Through mystic mazes roaming, sought to find A /till revealing of God's secret will ! Justice and truth were questioned oft, until Fancy could find no resource ; and a gloom, Darker and deeper, veiled his final doom. A dreary void for vain, untrustful thought, Years of profoundest research only brought. MAN. A FRAGMENT. Man, mysterious work of the All-wise, Reigned first a sinless soul in Paradise ; Cast out from thence, when he God's laws transgressed, A vagrant he wandered, forlorn, oppressed. Alas! how sad his doom! — but lo, afar Upon time's dim horizon shone one star ; Dark though the cloud of destiny its ray 86 POEMS BY Effulgent gleamed, to light the mourner's way. Joyous star — hope of immortality, Blest harbinger of life's reality ; Ever may this beacon-light brightly shine, Lighting the way to God's own holy shrine, — Life here but preludes the life that's divine. THOUGHTS After reading Milton's " Paradise Lost ;" written at thirteen yearsjof age. Milton ! the name is immortalized, ' Twill ever shine as bright as now, For the laurels are amaranthine That srenius wreathed around his brow. Modern poets need not aspire To reach the summit of his fame, For none there be that can attain So heavenly, so grand a name. In words majestic and sublime Of the sad fall of man he sung, And how o'er Eden's sunny bower The serpent old a shadow flung. CLARA BUSH. 87 Let those who love true poetry In concord grateful voices raise, And to the gifted, sainted author. Of " Paradise Lost" give praise. LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FRIEND. Dear Friend, while crossing life's great sea May Fate most kindly pilot thee; It is the earnest wish of mine That a happy voyage be thine ; Yet, should clouds gather o'er the deep, And rude winds round thy, frail bark sweep — May sweet Hope shed a golden ray. To light and cheer thee on thy way ! Let courage not thy bosom fail. But bravely battle with the gale ; Shrink not from perils of the main. If thou a rich reward would gain; Ye soon will land : and, glancing back Upon the rocky, storm-beat track, Ecstatic joy will thrill thy soul. For then thou wilt have reached thy goal ! And all the dangers — all the fears. And all the strife of weary years. Will be forgotten in the clime That lies beyond the strands of Time. POEMS BY THOUGHTS. Suggested by a sea-shell, a tribute from Mr. Claude J. Bell. A shell from the deep lay on the strand, Hidden half by the silvery sand : But some passer-by Chanced it there to spy, And now I claim it — a treasure grand. O thou beautiful, pearly shell ! Tell me — tell me what mysteries dwell In the fathomless And fearful abyss Of mighty ocean ! O, prithee, tell. Thy home has been in the inmost sea. And thou hast learned its deep mystery ; All its secrets old To thee have been told By the wild wave's mystic minstrelsy. A whisper of joy — a sigh of pain. From the shell now comes, like the refrain Of a sweet, sad song That is borne along By softest winds o'er a southern main. CLARA BUSH. 89 Listening, I place it close to mine ear, The voice of the distant sea to hear; And each rising wave, As it comes to lave The bright, sandy beach seems rushing near. I've read how passing lovely and grand Is the scene at eve on the ocean's strand ; Yet ' tis not for me Its beauty to see, And from books but little understand. As I lie on my weary couch, and dream. In fancy I catch the golden gleam Of the sun's last ray As it gilds the spray, And throws o'er the surf its rosy beam. I'd love, at the close of summer day, With some dear friend by the sea to stray, And gather a store Of shells from the shore, Till twilight should fade in night away. And I've sometimes thought that sweet 'twould be. Awhile to linger alone by the sea. 90 POEMS BY And list to the tone As the waters moan, And echo a wondrous symphony. When skies are fair at calm of night, And Luna's mild and silvery light Is softly shed O'er the ocean's bed, O, how beautiful must be the sight ! But when bleak storm-clouds lower .o'erhead, And wild raging winds around are spread, And the high waves roar And beat the shore. Oh, then the scene must be weird and dread. Sad echoes tell of the dead who sleep In the ocean's caverns, dark and deep ; Whose tenderest dirge Is sung by the surge Of restless waters that onward sweep. Ah me! I can feel the tear-drops start. As I think how many a noble heart Mid the ocean's gloom Fills a nameless tomb, No more to be of our life a part. CLARA BUSH. 91 Oh treacherous and cruel sea ! Oh beauteous yet inconstant sea ! So joyous at times, With merriest chimes, Then drear is its wail of misery. And such is life's sea — not always bright, But oft its waves are sable as night ; Then vainly I steer Its perils to clear, With no beacon to guide me aright. I shudder to hear the angry gale O'ersweep my bark as I onward sail, And long for the calm When zephyrs of balm Shall bear me gently to Lethe's vale. ALBUM VERSES. Dear Clarabelle, words scarce can tell The good I wish to thee : From all the strife and ills of life I'd leave thee ever free. 92 POEMS BY No tear of woe should ever flow, To dim thy gladsome eye; Grief ne'er should blight one sweet delight, Nor clouds o'ercast thy sky. From harm secure 'mid pleasures pure, In pleasant paths and fair Should tend thy feet, and blessings sweet Await thee ev'rywhere. Upon thy brow, so sinless now, No shade of guile should rest ; And not a thought by love untaught, Find harbor in thy breast. Serene and bright, devoid of night. Like endless summer day. In perfect joy without alloy Should pass thine hours away. May saints above watch thee in love, And guard with tender care, Till called from earth in spirit birth Heaven's own bliss to share. CLARA BUSH. 93 FRIENDSHIP. Pleasure 'twould give, when friendship's list, years hence we reckon o'er. Recorded there to find no name proves false the badge it wore ; O great and loyal is the heart that's true to.ev'ry trust ! Fair laurels well might deck the brows of those to friendship just ; A loving word and kindly aid, for weary ones oppress'd, Joy and hope will oft renew within the troubled breast. Faithfully may we ever strive to lessen others' woe — Deeper may the gentle tide of tenderest feelings flow : Although our praises strangers speak and nations learn our fame. Yet in our hearts a void would be, without sweet friendship's name ONE YEAR AGO. REMINISCENCE OF DEC. 22, 1878 WRITTEN DEC. 22, 1879. Musing alone memory wanders Back to to-day, one year ago ; One year ago ! — how swnftly down Life's course the fleeting moments flow ! The intervening space has seemed So short a lapse, that even yet r see the forms — the voices hear — Of those v\ ho then were round me met. 'Twas in this very room, — without Blew chillingly the wintry air ; Yet love's sunlight as brightly fell, As when the summer-skies were fair. 94 POEMS BY A social band of friends it was, Some old and true and ever dear ; And some were new, but well have proved The test of one departed year. Pondering now, I can recall How passed the pleasant hours away, — Remembrance well portrays the scene, As it was pictured on that day. Congenial all, with thoughts to please, For love and good will held their swa}' ; The graver hearts laid by their griefs, Cheered with a reflex from the gay. Some held converse, or joined in song. And some rehearsed weird legends old ; And others, come from distant climes. Strange, thrilling tales of travel told. And one* a little poem read, While silence reigned that all might hear ; The pleasing rhythm and tone of voice Seem now to fall upon my ear. I think me of this poem oft, — 'Tis that of Poe's about "The Bells," In fancy now a requiem For the dead years their echo knells. *Capt. A. ,1. F. Day. / CLARA BUSH. 95 One year ago ! I note the time : So fast the pleasant moments sped That almost eve I was aware The night was cotjne — the day was fled ! One year ago ! — these little words, Anon, anon, repeats my heart; • Friends that here met one year ago^ Are scattered — sundered far apart. O retrospective thought, how sad And yet how sweet to glance aback ! Though widely severed thus, not yet Have any fallen in the track Not many social bands, I ween. That met to-day, one year agone, Can reck their cherished number o'er And haply find the missing none. Fate has dealt gently, but I sigh To think, perchance, another year Will sadder changes bring, and leave A void made by the laded bier. Another year ! what does it hold ? What is its store of joy and grief? In life's great book what will be traced Upon the new, unwritten leaf.'* We can't divine : there falls a veil Before our view, and we must wait The interlapse of time, to see What weal or woe will portion fate. 96 POEMS BY THE WINDS OF THE SEASONS. Sweet is the spring breeze's whisper ; In the vernal hours, From golden morn unto vesper, Amid the bowers They w ooingly nestle ; and press, With many a tender caress. Nature's children of loveliness — The buds and flowers. Soft is the summer wind's blowing, When closes the day, Like sounds of melody flowing In tenderest lay — They have an influence thrilling. Ever the troubled heart filling With purer, tranquiller feeling, By tl.eir gentle sway. Sad is the autumn gales' sighing ; O'er the land they sweep. Leaving all lovely things lying In death's lowly sleep ! Nor pause they one moment, grieving. But quickly speed onward, leaving Full many a bosom heaving With a sorrow deep. CLARA BUSH. 97 Drear is the winter blasts' wailing ; Like merciless foe, The uplands and vales assailing, They pass to and fro ! With breathings icy and chilling. Of quick decay is their telling ; The mission assigned their filling Is darkened with woe. «- O, sweet spring breezes, how cheering Their whispers to hear ! O, summer winds, how eadearing Their voices anear ! But alas ! the autumn gales', sighing, Tell of the fading — the dying ; And dismal winter blasts, flying, Chant requiems drear. MUSIC. Pleasing music ; — summer's breeze Stealing through the leafy trees ; Mournful music; autumn's gale. Sweeping, sighing o'er the vale. 98 POEMS BY Artless music; — drops of rain Tinkling fast against the pane, — Patter, patter, drops so small. Light but cheery is their fall. Merry music ; — notes that fill All the air when blithe birds trill Matin songs or latest lay, At the trahquil close of day. Mellow music ; — murmurs low Of the rip'ling streams that flow Through the wood or mossy dell, Where, 'tis told, the fairies dwell. Solemn music; — the echo Of the ocean's ebb and flow; Deep and full from shore to shore Sounds its never-ceasins" roar. Cheering music ; the refrain Of the viol's lively strain Rising, falling, in accord With the carol of each word. CLARA BUSH. Happy music ; — children's feet Tripping gay along the street. And their ringing laughs of glee Pealing forth from light hearts free. Holy music ; — words of prayer Rising on the vesper air From the lips of infant young, That has yet a lisping tongue. Saddest music ; — that which flows From the soul of many woes. As it tells in broken strains All its cureless griefs and pains. Welcome music; — voices sweet Of belov'd ones that greet ; Gentle words of friends most dear, How we love their tones to hear ! Sacred music; — songs of praise That God's devotees upraise, — Harmonies that spread and rise, Till they traverse earth and skies. 99 loo POEMS BY Doleful music ; — steeple bells When of death their tolling tells,- Warning to each heedless heart That death holds for it a part. Blissful nnusic ; — bells that call To God's worship great and small ; Far and near their chimes resound, Where the love of Truth is found. Seraph music ; — fancied tones Falling from ethereal zones ; When the soul holds high commune Then is heard this sweet attune. Magic music ; — sounds we feel Faint through airy regions steal, — Strange harp echoes that we hear Even thousfh no minstrel's near. Mystic music : — that which falls On the ear when sleep inthralls Waking thoughts, and with its sway Bears us to dream-realms away. CLARA BUSH. loi Ether music ; — tunes that float Through the air with faintest note — Symphonies, Hke elfin stroke Cords of unseen harp awoke. Fairy music ; — whispers heard When at night the air is stirred By the phantom crowds that glide On the moonlight's silver tide. Music ! ah, Creation's rife With this siren-charm of life ; And its voice is ever near, ^ Had we but the ear to hear. A LETTER to miss alice o daniel, while a member of the m. c. f. institute, jackson, tennessee. Dear Alice : To pleasantly pass the time, I'll write you a letter in simple rhyme ; Yet fear you'll but little interest find In the random thoughts that may come to mind. I lie on the couch where so long I've lain, 102 POEMS BY And gaze through the window again and again " The scene from without is far from fair, Not a leaflet green or floweret is there, — 'Tis a bleak and dreary December day, Storm-clouds have hidden the sun's golden ray, While slowly and softly float the snow-flakes down, Whitening the earth and old trees brown. Chilling winds sweep through the verdureless vale, Over hills and plains they pass with a wail ; From leafless branches the song-birds have flown, To some fairer clime they have long since gone ; How sadly I miss their once joyous lays, That sweetly were trilled on calm summer days ! And O how I long for winter to flee, That again they may come with songs of glee. But enough repining, — within my room Is more of comfort, of beauty and bloom. My vases are yet filled with flowers fair. That have been kept fresh by a sister's care, — A late blown rose and honeysuckle spray Prettily nestle amid the array Of showy chrysanthemums of all hues, And fairest evergreens fancy could choose. And then I have some geraniums, too, Which in the warm summer days. stately grew; A few of their dainty blooms linger yet, As if fain to woo my heart to forget That storm-winds a requiem sing o'er the bed CLARA BUSH. Where ill-fated blossoms lie faded and dead. You know how well I love the bright flowers, They make less gloomy the wearisome hours, And sighs will come that I cannot refrain When icy winds wail o'er Flora's fair train. But such pensive thoughts as these, Alice dear, Will make your happy heart mournful, I fear, And to pleasantly change my theme will say I've had a late call from our friend, Capt. Day. He was in his usual talkative mood, And I entertained him as best I could ; The topics discussed were varied, quite, Some of the logical — some of the trite. His views on theology seem steadfast, And are the same as when you saw him last. He is still professor at Mason Hall, And is doing much for the progress of all. He is to give a lecture on Christmas eve, And concert by the pupils, I believe, I've written an acrostic in his name, And will send you a copy of the same. Have also written a poem this week, And read a nice romance, of which I would speak ; I think you would like it ; the scenes belong To Italy — the land of art and song. The work is simply entitled "Corinne," And fairer heroine never was seen, — A perfect ideal of female grace, 103 104 POEMS BY Symmetrical form and angelic face ; All lovers of beauty might well admire, And quite well written is the work entire. Lately I finished the poems of Scott, Do not know whether you've read them or not ; If not, and you have a fancy for rhyme, Just read his "Lady of the Lake" sometime. Yet some may admire his "Marmion" more. While others his "Rokeby" might adore, But of all his poems — if I may test, The "Lady of the Lake" is far the best. The writings of Shakspeare I'll next peruse, Then those of Milton, so grand and profuse, (Have read the latter, but wish to review,) We have rhymers many, but Miltons few ; A royal library his works would grace, And first among poets might well find a place. dearly I love the bards of the past ; 1 never weary of their volumes vast ; The tenderest pleasures I oft can find In tracing the thoughts of a soul-lit mind ; This sorrowful life I scarce could endure. Deprived of the joys of literature. Dear Alice, I think of the days you were here As among the happiest of the year. CLARA BUSH. 105 All too swiftly seemed the hours to glide, Far too quickly came the dim even-tide ; Memory brings back the words that were said, — We talked of the living and dear ones dead. Of fair scenes vanished to come not again, Of life's many changes, its joys and pain ; Of books and flowers, of music and song, Of what we thought right and what we thought wrong ; And then a blithe little song you sang — How joyous the tra la la's out-rang ! \p. pleasing fancy even now I hear Faint musical echoes fall on my ear. I think of you oft and know that each day Some progress you're making in wisdom's fair way ; But lest I infringe too much on your time. Or weary you with a lengthier rhyme — Will close by asking you early to write ; And Vt^hen you shall have gained your honors bright, And return to your home, from school-days free, Come to see yours lovingly, Clara B. io6 POEMS BY REFLECTIONS. ON NEW year's day, 1 882. Behold ! the Old Year is dead. Time has cast A dark pall over it. No requiem Is sung, save by winter's bleak winds. Dead leaves And withered flowers lie heaped on the tomb, And all is desolation. Ah, who will mourn For the old dead year? Not many, I ween. Will heave one sigh to think it is no more. It held so much crime, and so deeply pierced The nation's warm heart with sorrow's keen spear, That we say "farewell" with little regret. Save for hours misspent — precious hours ever gone From life's numbered years, that might have been filled To some better end. But, lo, the New Year Follows close in the train of the one just flown. How shall we spend it? to ourselves alone? No ; but to the good of others let us fill The golden moments of the glad New Year. Let us sow good seeds in life's harvest field, And do kindly deeds, thus making amends For time illspent. If Ave've needlessly pained The bosoms of any, or failed to aid The weary with burdens more grievous than ours, — If we've harshly spoken, or left unsaid Words that would have gladdened some aching heart, — CLARA BUSH. . 107 If we've buried our talents, or left blank One page in life's book that might have been traced With honors well won — oh, then we have failed In our duty to God, ourselves, and kind. But the present is ours. Let us to-day Ask our Creator the past to forgive. And aid us henceforth in doing His will. We have murmured at fate, wondering why We have been so chastened and oft oppressed; We have had losses ; the cold sod covers Dear friends who loved us and friends that we loved ; Sweet joys have fled, and bright hopes lie buried In the darksome tomb of the old dead year. Most truly has old Eighty-one been called A year of disaster. The wail of woe Has echoed o'er the land, and Sin's dark trace Been stamped on the ruins of ruthless Time. Yet let us trust that the New Year will hold Sorrows not many and joys manifold. May Heaven's blessings be shed o'er our land. And the spirit of Love in triumph reign On the throne of our nation, and sweet Peace \ Entwine the olive the monarch to crown. Let us pause and think. 'Tis a day to spend In solemn meditation. " Growing old, " Is echoed in the heart, and on the brow Indelibly written. Yes, day by day. We all are growing old. No power of earth io8 . POEMS BY Can fetter the sweeping pinions of Time, Nor stay his flight one moment. The rude waves Of Hfe's stormy main swiftly bear us on, And near and nearer our barques drift ever To eternity's landing. We know not How far away lies the unknown shore. Dark And dense are the shadows that intervene. It may be weeks, months, years, ere we anchor, Yet, perhaps, ere to-morrow's dawn we will see The beacon ahead, and the harbor gain. A strange feeling steals o'er me as I think Of the many millions of frail barques afloat On the wild, wide waste of life's troublous deep. Piloted by Fate, and my heart cries out, " O Heaven — kind Heaven — pity and save!" But, hark ! joyous tones ring out on the air, " A happy New Year! a happy New Year!" The steeple bells are merrily chiming, And my heart echoes back ' ' A happy New Year. ' CLARA BUSH. 109 STANZAS. Inscribed to the Rutherford Cornet Band, for the kindly courtesy it dis- played in visiting iny home, October 5, 1879, and performing for my special interest. Having never before heard the sound of the cornets, it proved a pleasing novelty, and those acquainted with my life's sad history, can better understand my feeling of gratitude for the compliment so generovisly conferred. It was in the early autumn, When the Day repose had found, . And Night, in luminous vesture. And starry coronal crowned, Had appeared in all her grandeur. To reign as queen o'er the land ; And Nature lay gently sleeping. Hushed by her tender command. Not a voice was heard, save whispers The wind-caressed leaflets made ; And away to realms ideal Had thought reflectively strayed, When, hark ! strange sounds of music On the breezes came afloat, — While I lent an ear attentive, To catch each faint falling note. At first they seemed but as echoes, AAvaft from the fairy zones, So silently fell the cadence no POEMS BY Of the far-off dulcet tones ; But closer they drew — and closer — Till the notes rose full and clear, And accordant sounds repeated The air to song ever dear. The sweet " Bye-and-Bye" resounded, Till my soul took up the theme, And sang it over, till Heaven Seemed nearer our earth to gleam ; And my heart beat half forgetful Of its weariness and pain, So hopeful, and peace-inspiring. Was the purport of the strain. Then " Home, Sweet Home!" welcome greeting - Was more softly now proclaimed ; The love of nations has made it The spot of all earth most famed ; But when comes the voice of music, Its hallowed praise to tell, 'Tis then, with holy emotions, The revering heart doth swell. To air after air I hearkened, — Some low, som.e lofty and free ; Yet all of a wondrous beauty. CLARA BUSH. iii Not before revealed to me. Too soon each closing melody Revoked its metrical flow; But the thrillings of joy given, Fond memory long will know. When the light wings of the breezes Bore away the last refrain, And Night, in her queenly splendor, Had resumed her quiet reign, — Again my fancies went roaming. As wonted to roam before — Off from the land of the real, The ideal to explore. My heart had been so enraptured By music's soul-cheering thrill, That calmer, happier feelings. In my bosom lingered still. But sleep, asserting its power, Threw a veil o'er waking thought; And wrapt in the folds of slumber, I was thence to dream-realms caught. Yet even in that dominion. Where but phantom scenes appear, The faintest, sweetest attunings. 112 POEMS BY Came filling the airy sphere. The low and symphonious measures, That soothed me still while sleeping, Were but unforgotten echoes, My memxDry o'ersweeping. Oh, music, how great its power ! It comes with blessings and cheer ; While awak^e we gladly hail it, In dreams it is ever dear. ' Tis for earth-tones of melody, Re-echoed in far dreamland — This humble tribute I offer The Rutherford Cornet Band. TOUCH NOT. The following stanzas were written for the Tennessee Good Templar, a Nashville paper devoted to the cause of Temperance, and appeared in its columns dui'ing the year of 1880 under the nom deplume of " Charity." Touch not strong drink! — consummate woe Is hidden in its tinted glow ; Pen cannot trace The mighty multitude of sins, To which its dire influence tends ; While untold misery it sends The human race. CLARA BUSH. 113 Touch not strong drink! — the sparkHng glass Is fraught with perils — onward pass! Dare not to sip The poisoned draught, for it will bring Distress more dread than serpent's sting, Then oh let not the venomed thing Defile thy lip. Touch not strong drink! — by any name It is an evil much the same ; Let not its charm Allure thee even once to stray Into its soul-benighting way, Or it may hold thee in its sway, To fraud and harm. Touch not strong drink! — in deep disguise, It is a fiend that lurking lies, Swift to betray Unwary ones in subtle foil, To take away all precious spoil — As vipers wait in ready coil To smite their prey. Touch not strong drink! — my friends, beware! Lest it decoy thee in its snare ; Oh, turn aside. 114 POEMS BY And seek the paths of virtue bright, Which are illumed with holy light; No evil, if you walk aright, Will e'er betide. Touch not strong drink! — pause not to gaze Upon the lustre of its rays, Lest by device Thy heart, in an unguarded hour, May bow submissive to its power. Like as foe in Eden's bower Did Eve entice. Touch not strong drink! — it will debase- The purest life, and bring disgrace On fairest name, That might, with honor spreading wide, Become a nation's help and pride ; Not even can love's pinions hide Its mark of shame. Touch not strong drink! — it steals away The precious light of reason's ray ; To eyes once bright It gives a blank, unmeaning stare, And horrid makes, beyond compare, The look of man; — spare me, oh spare. The loathsome si^ht. CLARA BUSH. 115 Touch not strong drink! — a burning brand It holds within a latent hand, To put on fire The temple of the mind, when, oh ! The lofty dome is soon brought low,— A mighty wreck — a scene of woe, Doleful and dire. Touch not strong drink! — by crafty stealth It takes the soul's diviner wealth, And stores with crime The coffers of the heart ; the Right It turns to Wrong, and virtue's light Casts in eclipse, and stamps with blight The fruits of Time. Touch not strong drink ! — ills manifold Are kept within its spacious hold ; The seeds of sin Upon the heart's best soil it sows. And nourished by the fount of woes. Penury in abundance grows, To famish men. Touch not strong drink! — it is a foe, Armed well to strike vast empires low ; Flame-pointed darts ii6 POEMS BY With surest aim it hurls around, Its victims writhe in torture bound, And fatal proves the canker wound To stoutest heart. Touch not strong drink ! — 'tis known of proof It harms not those who keep aloof, But, cross its track. And vengeful legions marshalled stand To slay thee at their chief's command; Hardly might an archangel's hand Reclaim thee back. Touch not strong drink ! — when tempted most. Reflect how great may be the cost Of just one glass; Step by step from that first drink. Might lead thee on to ruin's brink. And in the depths of anguish sink Thy soul — alas ! Touch not strong drink! — it metes to man Destruction — meed for his oivn plan In search of pelf; Alas ! that earth's involving ill Should be the force of human will, — How sad to make employ of skill To murder self! CLARA BUSH. 117 Touch not strong drink ! — though seeming pure ' Tis mixed with poison, strict and sure To bring death's doom : To many modes it doth conform To complicate its work of harm ; And with an eager, ruthless arm, Hollows the tomb. Touch not strong drink ! — on blazoned throne, Mocking a vassal's dying groan. The death-king reigns; Though it assumes the guise of wine. Or wears a semblance more divine — To wreck the world is its design, Whate'er it feigns. Touch not strong drink ! — but wield a hand To sweep the curse from off the land ; Be wise — be brave ! Guard most judiciously thy will. Let not the demon of the still Crush down thy god-like form, to fill A drunkard's grave. ii8 POEMS BY FLOWERS. Oft in praise of floral treasures Bards have tuned their harps and sung ; But their true worth cannot be told By dulcet note or gifted tongue. Still we seek to find a language, Tender feelings to express ; Yet words come not at our bidding To unfold our thankfulness. They are indeed a precious gift, A blessing sent from above By the good and kindly Father, To tell us of His great love. Like sunbeams bursting through the clouds, All gloom from earth to banish, The influence of flowers fair 'Has power sad thoughts to vanquish. ' Tis true their fading petals teach A lesson we sigh to learn, — They tell us in silent whispers That to dust we must return. CLARA BUSH. 119 Yet when they bloom again, our land With fresh beauty to kdorn — ' Tis then they whisper hopefully Of the resurrection morn ! Well may we love them though transient, They make life seem less dreary ; They cast a halo round our hearts, And cheer us oft when weary. Of the entire race of flowers Not one should we quite condemn, From the rudest roadside blossom To the florest's richest gem. Even the homeliest flower Has something that we would prize, Did not those that were more fragrant And more lovely meet our eyes. THE BLIGHTED BUD. Simple my theme : yet sages might Volumes in hving language write Even of a budding flower. That perished in untimely hour. 120 POEMS BY Not mine their fame ; I will not soar To scale the heights of knowledge o'er, But condescend to simply tell The fate of flower loved so well. It was a rare, exotic gem — A fair magnolia bud — whose stem Was circled round with leaves of green That seemed wrapt in emerald sheen. A kindly friend placed in my hand The folded bud, brought from a land Of southern beauty where, 'tis told, The fairest flowers of earth unfold. Only to please, the gift was meant, And for a while a joy it lent ; Its spreading fragrance — rich, intense — Perfumed the air like sweet incense. My roving fancy drew a scene Of mildest clime, where intervene No wintry days, but where a balm Is wide diffused at even's calm. CLARA BUSH. ' 121 And where aurora's dawning light Gilds the quivering dew-drops bright, That bedeck the snowy bosoms Of the sweet magnolia blossoms. Methought, indeed, it were a bliss To dwell in such a land as this, — A fragrant, sunny, tranquil clime, Of perpetual summer-time. I watched my treasure day by day, Hoping ere long 'twould fold away Its petals white from off its heart, And all its grace and sweets impart. But ah ! too oft we find that here The smile is banished by the tear ; And what to-day seems only joy, The morrow may with grief alloy. My tender bud, so white and fair, I sought to cherish with all care, Until, alas ! I found one day ' Twas slowly fading to decay. 122 . POEMS BY Then trembled on my lips a sigh, To think 'twas fated thus to die And ne'er unclose its secret seal, Its hidden beauties to reveal. Far from its sunny home away, It pined on natal branch to sway ; Its snowy petals would not ope, But faded — blighting fondest hope. With all its sweetest charms untold, Enwrapt in shroud of softest fold, It dropped into an early tomb — Type of humanity's sure doom ! This fitting type, by Flora taught, Mortals should give most heedful thought, For true it is " the course of man, From life to death, is but a span." Yet when the misty vale we cross. Unmindful of all earthly loss. Triumphant o'er death and the tomb. The soul will live in fadeless bloom. CLARA BUSH. 123 THOUGHTS jOccasioned by a dainty cluster of early spring flowers, presented by my little friend, Annie Thomas, To-day I clasp withm my fingers Some little sprays of early flowers, — Spring's Jirst tribute, so pleasing to view After chill winter's cheerless hours. The loving hands of gentle Annie These floral gems together bound ; The richest hues of rainbow splendor In pleasing contrast here are found. Expressive of a mind aesthetic, Exquisitely their colors blend ; While I gaze a happier feeling To my sorrowing heart they lend. I prize them with a twofold fondness ; First, just for themselves I love them, Next, because they are a token Of the love of her who gave them. Of all beauteous things created, Nothing there is that may compare With the flowerets' modest graces. And their varied tintings rare. 124 POEMS B-Y To me these fragile, fragrant racemes* Drooping low and lightly pressing Against my liand their blushing petals, Seem like things of life caressing. They have a quaint, unwritten language, Words whispered only to the heart. For it alone is comprehensive Of the deep meaning they impart. These open blooms, and buds unfolding, Bear to me a silent message, — Sweet sympathy and fond affection, All of love's attributes they presage. What were dear Annie's thoughts, I wonder, As she culled each little blossom ? Doubtless they were pure and holy. Fit to dwell in angel's bosom. Perhaps she whispered, " May these flowers, With their beauty, hght again Darksome shadows that have gathered O'er my poor friend's couch of pain." CLARA BUSH. 125 And, perchance, the sigh of pity Stirred their dainty petals lightly, As she thought no more I'd wander Where they open, O ! so brightly. For her young heart is very tender, ' And formed to sympathize with grief; She knows my sad life's mournful story — Knows my days of joy how brief Fain would she lessen my afflictions. Fain my sufferings lighter make. And the slumbering love of living Again within my soul awake. Alas ! dear Annie, never, never, Can I feel glad like others feel ; Life's joys to me are but as shadows, And on my heart is sorrow's seal. Others brood o'er the days of childhood, Whose bliss survives the lapse of years ; But ah, those days to me were only Wearisome days of pain and tears, — 126 POEMS BY Wearisome days, save just the fewest That lent a gleam to life's first dawn, Then passed away like pleasing fancies Over the mind in dreamland thrown. My age scarce numbered nine short summers When dire affliction's blighting stroke. Descending with resistless power, Youth's cup of joy untimely broke. ' Twas in the balmy, breezy spring-time, When my steps grew weary and weak ; And while the buds were opening brightest, Health's bloom was fading from my cheek. My feet no longer sought the greensward Neath the elm-trees by the brook. Where I'd so loved to find the daisies Springing fresh from every nook. I could no longer roam at even In leafy wood, and listen long To voice of winds and streamlet's ripple. Mingling with the wild-bird's song. / CLARA BUSH. " 127 No longer watch the sun low sinking, And clouds of crimson, pearl and gold. Encircle round the far horizon, Like drapery of airy fold. Shut in from nature's scenes of beauty. The glorious sunlight, earth and sky, — Suffering pain all skill defying, Oft it has been my prayer to die. Alas ! full many days of mourning Have lengthened into joyless years, And oft aurora's light, returning Has shown my pillow wet with tears. But cease, my heart ! cease thus lamenting. Why this piteous repining? The cloud that hangs so dark above me Has, I know, a silver lining. And just beyond life's troublous scene Lies for storm-tossed barks a haven. And those who pilot there to anchor To them at last will rest be given. 128 POEMS BY O, the sweet voice of hope, how cheering ! It comes hke a strengthening balm Again the drooping mind to liven, And lend to the spirit a calm. A tranquil feeling, akin to joy, Steals soothingly over my soul. As I think each hour bears me nearer To the place of my destined goal. LINES To Miss Jessie Holmes, on receiving from her a lovely floral tribute. My gentle, dear-loved Jessie, I will essay to tell Something of the sensations That o'er my spirits fell When I received your tribute Of flowers, O ! so fair. And caught the rich aroma With which they filled the air. CLARA BUSH. 129 My first thoughts were of Eden, Where once, beyond compare, Bowers of beauty blossomed ' Neath Eve's delighted care ; Even the lulling breezes, That around me waited, Seemed just come from Paradise, All ambrosial freisfhted. Never was sweeter fragrance Than which profusely stole From the tuberose's bosom — It seemed itself a soul ! So full was it of power To thrill and elevate The mind from carnal feelings To etherial state. Geraniums, sweet-scented, A fragrancy exhaled. Which blended with the breathings Of rosebuds just unveiled ; And all the tinted petals Of roses, fuller blown, To my elated fancy Brighter than jewels shone. 130 POEMS BY. Honeysuckles — some golden, And some of snowy white — Gleamed amid the leaflets green, Like changeful rays of light ; The brightness of their presence Fantastically spread A halcyon halo, round, Like beams from Luna shed. I heard the faintest whispers Among the floral throng — A euphony of voices, Like tones of fairy-song ! With listening attentive Their meaning I defined, And most sweet the sentiments Their mystic words combined. Hoarded up in memory, I keep a precious store Of things beloved the dearest Within the days of yore, — But fondest recollection Recalls not to my thought Aught sweeter than the pleasures Those token-flowers brought. CLARA BUSH. 131 So rapt were the emotions With which they filled my heart The joy of their influence Forms of my life a part : Their delightful memory I'll keep brightly ever, Oblivion's dark shadow Shall obscure it never. I ask a benediction For thee, my valued friend, I implore that Hea\^en may Some holy angel send, As thy loving guardian. To guide thy steps alway, Till you enter in the light Of God's eternal day. LINES. To Miss Callie O'Daniel, expressing admiration of her pleasant and cheer- ful disposition. Thoughts suggested on receiving from her a dainty cluster of choice fall flowers. I had felt so sad, dear Callie, So weary and sad all day ; But the coming of your flowers Has made my spirits more gay. 132 ■ POEMS BY A gift of fairy-like dower, They came with magical power ; And, with their pleasant revealings, Charmed away all gloomy feelings. They recall your face in fancy, Unknown to sorrow it seems " The merriest^smiles steal o'er it, Like ripples on sunlit streams. Silken curls of golden tresses Press your brow with soft caresses, And from eyes of heavenly blue The light of innocence shines through. The look of purity that gives Your image a grace divine, Is but the soul's o'erflow of love That no language can define. Though your life may not always be From earth's weary burdens left free. You will bear your cross as lightest. And walk in the pathways brightest. Your heart was not formed to repine, Petty griefs pass idly by. Over things that others lament You give not even a sigh ; CLARA BUSH. 133 Ever kind and patient to wait — Ever blithe and content with fate, The beautiful lessons you give Teach others how better to live. Many thanks to thee, dear Callie, For precepts silently taught ; Again should I grow despondent, To thee will I turn my thought ; For I know, however dreary. However troubled or weary — To think of thy glad, sunny heart, Will some joy to mine own impart. FRIENDSHIP'S DOWER. I have a dainty gift, Kept in a little book, Whose leaves I oft unclose To take a loving look. 'Tis not a work of gold, Inwrought on ribbon fair; Nor bit of lace antique. Nor braided tress of hair. 134 POEMS BY Nor is it the picture Of some beloved face ; Nor a time-dimmed letter That some dear hand did trace. In my jewel casket Many such are hoarded, And no riches dearer Hath the world afforded. The relic of my theme Is no design of art ; 'Twere valueless to you, Though precious to my heart. I wonder could you tell What may be this treasure, Of which I am so proud, And is such a pleasure. Now, if you knew my loves, I think you soon might guess What the snowy pages Seem to so fondly press. CLARA BUSH. i35 But why keep you waiting ? I'll tell you what, in brief, A flower — only one, And a leaf — just one leaf. Withered now the leaflet. The flow'ret pale of hue. Yet the fragrance lingers. That whispers " love is true." Think you 'tis strange I prize Such seeming futile things ? 'Tis not what men call wealth. That sweetest pleasure brings. They 're prized because they are Friendship's token dower, Bestowed with kindest aim, By loved Jennie Brower. 136 POEMS BY INVOCATION ON RECEIVING AN EXQUISTELY BEAUTIFUL BOUQUET. Oh ye Muses! — light-winged Muses! Pause a moment in your flight, Hover close above my pillow, Spread o'er me your pinions bright, And in musical low whispers Teach me -how to best commend This fair gift, this wealth of Flora, Love's dear token from a friend. What shall I say of these rare roses, Fragrant all and rich of hue ? How describe these pinks and pansies, And phlox, the crimson, white and blue ? Where find words of suited power These geraniums to praise ? Some are are robed in pearly lustre, Some rival the ruby's rays. What grand simile is worthy These peonies to apply? Fit would be Orion's splendor Or the sun in zenith high. CLARA BUSH. 137 And the rainbow's brightest colors Seem the iris to imbue, While syringas softly glisten As when star-beams gild the dew. The honeysuckle's deep corollas With verbenas mix and meet, And divinely are their petals, Infused with ambrosia sweet. All the glories of the sunset — All the beauties of the morn — Seem in harmony concentered. Buds and blossoms to adorn. O' er me steals a rapt sensation. And a speechless adoration, As I mark the true perfection Of this work of God's creation ! He, in goodness and great wisdom. Scattered germs with lavish hand, And the lovely race of flowers Sprang and grew at His command. Here are blooms of rare exotics, But their graces I must pass, For I can command no language Half their beauty to express. 138 POEMS BY Thoughts that glow in mental vision. Find not utterance in song ; And my lyre, now touched for Flora, Seems in rudest discord strung. Ah ! the Muses are capricious, And will not draw near to-day — Will not listen to my pleading. Or atturie my grateful lay ; And my soul's enravished feelings, And the thrillings of my heart. Must lie as in a cavern hidden, Since they will not act a part. LINES On receiving a Bouquet of Flowers presented by Mrs. R. A. Tisdale. Come now, O, ye tuneful Muses ! And teach me a language meet To tell the glorious praises Of this floral tribute sweet. The rarest of buds and blossoms Their fragrance and beauty blend, And speak to my heart so gently Of a true and loving friend. CLARA BUSH. 139 A lenient hand did cull them, And with a kindly intent On its gracious, goodly mission, Was the fair love-token sent. Not a gift of gold or rubies Could give such holy delight ; Far above those dazzling jewels I prize the flowerets bright. They fill my soul with a rapture Akin to heavenly bliss ; And lift my thoughts adoring To the God of holiness. My heart o'erflows with thankfulness, To think the same great Power, That rules the mighty universe, Created every flower. Our earth were far less beauteous, Did not the flowerets bloom. To brighten up its shaded spots And light its gathering gloom. I40 POEMS BY They make our lives the happier, And ever sweetly tend To make our hearts the purer, With the pleasures that they lend. LINES To Mrs. S. E. Thomas, for a gift of rare flowers. My dear kind friend, when I received Those flowers, fragrant and bright, There stole o'er my heart a gentle thrill Of mild and tranquil delight. I thought of God's wisdom and power, Thought of His mercy and love, And was glad to view each flower As a p-ift from Him above. And my heart was very grateful To Him, whose lenient hand Gave all the lovely, sweet blossoms. That deck our beauteous land. CLARA BUSH. 141 Yet but for thee, my gentle friend, Those flowers of fairest dyes Would ne'er have lent me their fragrance, Would ne'er have gladdened my eyes. You thought of me, a prisoner, And to brighten up my cell And cheer my heart sent just the gift That you knew would please me well. Many thanks to thee I tender, For thy sweet tribute of love And may richest blessings ever Fall around thee from above. STANZAS Addressed to my friend M. P., who sent me some Beautiful Flowers, artistically arranged. B^oved friend, the flowers you sent Were received with greatest pleasure; Placed in a vase my bedside near — I esteem them quite a treasure. 142 POEMS BY I view them over with delight, O what lovely groups of roses ! And this lily-bud, unfolding, An aroma rich discloses. Syringas white are peering through Their glossy leaves of tender green, And sweet carnations rise above Where pinks and bluebells bright are seen. Verbenas meek on slender stems Their pretty modest heads decline, While lavishly are interspersed The honeysuckle and woodbine. Lovely, priceless gems of Flora! Sure no jewels could be. fairer; Were pearls and sapphires by their side, Still I'd hold the flowers dearer. True their fragrance soon will vanish, For with all love's tenderest care They must droop and fade and wither, And the sad fate of beauty share. CLARA BUSH. 143 Yet their memory will linger. And kindest thoughts of her who gave In my bosom long I'll cherish, Secure from time's devasting wave. VERSES, Suggested by some flowers that fell from the folds of a newspaper, which was sent by post from a distant friend. Lightly upon my bosom fell Gems of such beauty rare It seemed, indeed, like fairy hands Had dropped them gently there. Not sparkling jewels of the mine Nor ocean's wealth were they. But riches fairer — florets sweet, That bloomed in April day. The treasures in my hand I took, And though grief's darkened shade Hung o'er my heart, their presence dear Some gleams of sunlight made. 144 POEMS BY The dainty blooms were fragrant yet, And still bright tintings wore, And unto me in whispered tones A pleasant message bore. They told me of an absent friend Whose kindly thoughts I share, And who would fainly make life's cross Less^ wearisome .to bear. A happy thought it was, to choose Bright buds and verdant leaves. For these have magic power to soothe When most my spirit grieves. LINES To Mrs. S. E. Debow — an unknown friend — on receiving from her a cluster of flowers. My unknown friend, much I thank thee For thy tribute of sweet flowers ; Methinks none lovelier e'er bloomed Even in fair Eden's bowers. CLARA BUSH. 145 Buds and blossoms, brightly tinted, To me their odors sweet impart. And have thrown a ray of gladness Over my sorrow shadowed heart. As I look upon their beauty My thoughts are gently borne above. And each flower seems to whisper — So softly whisper — "God is love." O, the flowens — sweet, sweet flowers ! Shining stars our earth illuming. By the palace — by the cottage — In the field and wildwood blooming. Unadorned by gems of Flora How desolate would be our land ; Then let us our Creator prais'e, Who, all things has so wisely planned. Ah, lives there a soul so senseless, That it feels no rapt elation At the lovely sight of flowers. Fairest things of God's creation ? 146 POEMS BY Life for me holds much of sadness, Yet my precious friends — the flowers, Soothe and cheer me with their presence, And oft beguile the weary hours. I listen to their whisperings, Sweet as an echoed fairy song ; And watch the bright and airy smiles That see~m to play their leaves among. O, grand and glorious their mission ! They come our earth to light and bless ; Feeble words have not the power How much I love them to express. Even when in death I slumber, I wish that flowerets may bloom Upon the bosom of my grave, And shed o'er me their sweet perfume. And may friendship twine a garland. To wreathe the stone that bears my name : If in love I am remembered . I care. not for a higher fame. CLARA BUSH. 147 Now, my friend, again I thank thee For thy beauteous love-token ; And may affection's sacred ties Bind our hearts, and ne'er be broken. LINES To Mr. J. W. Hollomon, for a beautiful floral tribute. Kind Sir, accept my sincers thanks For the sweet flowers you sent ; Their beauty and rare lovehness To my life some pleasure lent. I kept them bright for many days. But, with the tenderest care, At last they faded, as must fade All things of earth, though as fair. Sweet flowers! they filled the mission, For which they so lovely grew, In adding purest pleasures To a heart that has but few. i4cS POEMS BY MAGNOLIA BLOSSOMS. Written oil receiving some of these magnificent blooms, the donation of Mr. Claude J. Bell. In the mild, sunny hours of May, They come forth in snowy array, And scatter to the air Scents deliciously rare. And in pride their glory display. How wonderful, perfect and grand, Is this work of our Father's hand! By infinite power Was modeled each flower, • To brighten arid gladden our land. I wonder if angels behold Flowers of more exquisite mould ? If in glad Paradise Fairer ones may uprise, Oh, how can their beauty be told ? As I gaze on the blossoms white, My soul has a feast of delight; From each cup's balmy brink Sweet elixir I drink, While thought takes a heavenward flight. CLARA BUSH. 149 I cannot forget that above Reigns the. Prince of manifold love ; These magnolias fair Show His prevalent care, And His wisdom and mercy prove. So many blessings from Heaven To life's voyagers are given, That we sometimes can smile, And forget for awhile That our barks are tempest driven. And methinks if we only would Rely on the God of all good, It would give sweet relief; For earth's every grief Is a blessing not yet understood. The world by Divinity planned. Was formed at His mighty command; And these flowers to-day The glad meaning convey. That He rules with lenient hand. Then let our souls abide in praise. And question not God's hidden ways ; ISO POEMS BY For in life's strange compound Some pleasures sweet are found, And all are not dark, sunless days. LOVE, FALSE AND TRUE. A proud millionaire had fallen ! Yet none regretted to see The utter financial ruin Of miserly Joseph Lee. His heart was selfish and stony, He had not,, in station high, Heeded the poor widow's pleading, . Nor the famished orphan's cry. He feared not a God's sure vengeance. And had old and feeble grown In hoarding wealth — his life's great aim, But ah, his idol was flown ! CLARA BUSH. 151 His brain was racked with mental pain, Deep and bitter was his moan As slow he walked the sumptuous halls, That so late had been his own.. "Lost! lost!" in hopeless grief .he sighed, ' ' My long treasured gains all lost ! Oh the care, the strife, the weariness The battle for gold has cost ! ' ' Alas ! that I in want should die, I thought not to lay my head In a pauper's grave — but it is thus, And AlHe must beg for bread." He looked in pity on his child. Who, with pensive, thoughtful air. Stood at the window gazing out On the crowded thoroughfare. She was thinking of the morrow When stranger claimants would come. To turn her helpless on the world And take her once happy home. 152 POEMS BY Poor Allie ! fallen child of wealth ! But yesterday an heiress, — Yet fate, in strange decreeing. To-day left her penniless. Her heart had ever been tender, She had kindly words for all, And at the sorrows of others Would the tears of pity fall. She'd known not a mother's kindness. That dearest and truest friend , Passed from earth with whispered prayer That angels her babe attend. She sighed that none came to comfort Of all the dear ones she knew, But dared not think that Willie, Her Willie, would prove untrue. ' Twas only a fortnight ago That her heart to him she gave. And on her finger now sparkled His pledge of undying love. CLARA BUSH. 153 It was then the autumn weather, And they chose their wedding day To be in the balmy spring-time — In the rosy month of May. Now swift he was saiHng from her, He had only yesterday Embarked a foreign-bound steamer, To come not again till May. With a lover's kiss he left her, Promising a due return, But oh ! how her soul, grief-stricken. For his presence now did yearn. She knelt in the deep'ning twilight, And prayed that no ill-starred day Would take her life's dearest treasure- The gallant young Willie Grey. The night hours passed, and morning's light Showed the form of Joseph Lee Silent and cold, for death had been And set his crushed spirit free. 154 POEMS BY Unloved, unwept by any — save one, They hurried the dead away ; And o'er the grave was reared no stone To mark where the pauper lay. The few who had borne him hither Hastened from a scene so drear; But Allie lingered, and on the sod Shed many "a bitter tear. Long she wept, for at least to her That father had proved most kind ; //"(?;' slightest wish he'd loved to grant, Though to others' wants so blind. The sexton's work was done, and yet He seemed not ready to depart; Never before had mourner's, wail So melted his hardened heart. " Lady!" he said, in softened tones, ' ' I proffer to be your friend. And to shield you from life's tempests My kindliest aid will lend. CLARA BUSH. 155 ' ' Little Bess wants an elder sister, And wife, I know, would be glad To protect a homeless orphan, And comfort a heart so sad. " Our cot is lowly," he added, ' ' But love is an inmate there. And of all our humble blessings I offer to thee a share." "You are kind," Allie answered meekly, "Kinder than others I've known; The many that claimed my friendship. In a day have strangely flown. " With thanks I will share your dwelling Till again spring-time shall come;" And she thought of the day when Wilhe As a bride would take her home. She waited his promised missives. Waited through winter's drear hours, Waited till the rain and sunbeams Brought back the buds and flowers : — 156 POEMS BY And 'twas then the tidings reached her That the long-loved Willie Grey Had wedded in rank and fortune, And thrown her true heart away. She could not battle life's trouble^ Too trusting was she and frail, And 'twas not long till the heart's-tide Ebbed low, and her cheeks grew pale. She drooped with the summer roses, And when dead leaves strewed the ground Jn the burying-place was added To the many another mound. She left her false love a message. It read : ' ' My pardon to thee, And a gift — with which you plighted To be true to Allie Lee." The years passed on, and Bessie Dale, The kind old sexton's daughter — A fair youth met whose wooing soon The bliss of true-love taup-ht her. CLARA BUSH. 157 He was of noble birth — the son Of one Lord Cecil De Ghrame ; Yet still he pleaded to confer On Bessie a titled name. He kissed her ruby-tinted lips, When the wished-for " yes" was told, And on one dainty finger placed A jeweled circlet of gold. She smiled — then sighed — and softly said, " Let us walk among the mounds;" 'Twas summer night and Luna's light Silvered o'er the sacred grounds. She led by many stones that rose Over those from earth-cares free. Then paused beside a moss-grown grave — The grave of poor Allie Lee. A marble slab — the sexton's care. Told the name, the birth the death ; A wounded dove and severed heart Were chastely carved beneath. 158 POEMS BY Around the place white roses grew, With pale lilies of the vale, And evergreens, all planted there By the hand of Bessie Dale. "Let me tell you a story, please," Bessie half tremulous said, "A sad, sad story, but so true — The fate of a fair young maid. "Fortune favored her happy life Till she grew to womanhood ; Not the angels, I ween, can be Scarce more beautiful or good. "So pure, so trusting, with a heart Mild and gentle as the dove ; But ah ! it was a cruel fate That awoke it first to love. "A suitor came of noble form And pleasing, courteous air. With just the face and voice to win The heart of a lady fair. CLARA BUSH. 159 "She granted the boon for which he pled, While he vowed fidelity, And gave the bright betrothal ring As a sweet security. "And then far o'er the deep he sailed, To prepare a home, he said ; And promised quickly to return, His fair affianced to wed. "The lady's mother early died, Her father was proud and cold, — Had love for naught save his only child And his treasured stores of gold. " He sought not the great world's friendship, He cared not its love to share ; And, when the richest in the land, Would to none a penny spare. " But in a day his vast wealth fled ! He was old and could not bear The mighty loss, but sank and died — ' Overpowered by despair. i6o POEMS BY "We gave to his orphaned daughter A place by our own fireside ; And she spoke of one soon coming To make her a happy bride. "Meekly, hopefully, she waited long, But the one she trusted most Proved false, and wedded one of wealth Who dwelt on a foreign coast. "Then came a strange look o'er her face, Of pity — forgiveness — woe ! But no shade of revengeful thought Could that guileness being know. " We saw her fading day by day, Without tke power to save. And much wc mourned when we were called To make her an early grave. ' ' In bridal robes of snowy white Was the lovely form arrayed, With orange blossoms round her brow And upon the bosom laid. CLARA BUSH. i6i " *Twas years ago but seems not long Since they placed her here to rest ; We know her griefs are all forgot In the home of Heaven's blest ; ' ' But not yet have we forgiven That suitor's disloyalty, For the gift of a woman's heart Is worthy all fealty. ' ' " Thanks for the story my darling, The gallant young lord replied, "It unfolds a timely warning Of ills that too oft betide. " 'Tis plain the traitor wooed for wealth, But — pardon me, I implore — My love is poor and it must be Just herself XhdX I adore. "Although the world beside were false, My pledge shall not be broken : " And ere the sun thrice more went down Their wedding vows were spoken. i62 . POEMS BY LINES Dedicated to Mr. Claude J. Bell and Mrs. Alice Bell, nee Miss O'Daniel. Written on their nuptial day, June 19, 1883. A cloudless morn, A summer morn ; Flowers, the fairest of the fair, With scents ambrosial fill the air ; The tuneful Joirds, a joyous throng — Trill o'er and o'er their sweetest song ; Divinely shed there seems to fall , A benediction over all, This lovely day, This bridal day. A happy pair, A noble pair; A maiden with seraphic face. And sylph-like form and airy grace, And one who seems fitted to wear The royal crown, and sceptre bear, Have joined their hearts — have been made one, And life's journey anew begun ; Love's shining light Their path makes bright. Hope leads the way, Where flowers gay CLARA BUSH. 163 Are all abloom 'neath sunny skies ; They pluck the ones of richest dyes, And bind a garland bright, that will Be ever fair — be immortelle ; A sweet memento of the time Spent in that Arcadian clime, Where Cupid's glance Doth hearts entrance. Along life's way, From day to day. They'll find some needful work to do, Plenteous seeds of good to sow, Wounds to bind, burdens to lighten, Darkened hearts and homes to brighten ; It never ceases, never ends — This great life-work, until the hands Can do no more — Life's journey o'er. They're'worth the cost. They're never lost. Acts of kindness, love and duty; Precious gems of rarest beauty They add to heaven's treasury — The soul's wealth for eternity ; An angel will good deeds record. The Lord will mete a rich reward 1 64 POEMS BY To all who fill Their mission well. This wedded pair, To whom seems fair The sky above, the path below, Will find it a delusive show ; Yet, to brave hearts and strong, the strife And barriers that checker life Are stepping-stones — hewn out by Fate ; Earth's conquerors and heroes great Have won by them Fame's diadem. A crown of gold, Of worth untold. May by these stepping-stones be won ; Though weary be life's race to run. Though barriers across the way Rise high and higher day by day. Who would not bravely scale their height, To gain at last this treasure bright. Which pays for all ? — Life's coronal. CLARA BUSH. 165 " STANZAS. Dedicated to my unknown friends, J. R. T. and L. W., on tlie event of their ntiarriage. There comes to my mind the vision Of a happy, wedded pair, Just starting anew Hfe's journey Neath skies propitious and fair. My fancy is wont to paint them, — The one, in manhood's glory, The one, in form as beauteous As sylph in olden story. Not long since to Hymen's altar Cupid victorious led ; And there with hands fondly clasping The marriage vows were said. Their faces reflect the feelings Of rapture that fill each heart. And still are their bright eyes flashing The magic of Cupid's art. Their path to joy's fount seems leading. Around are flowers springing ; While resting on Love's pedestal The siren, Hope, is singing. 1 66 POEMS BY Enrapt they list ! — the goft notes tell, In happy, thrilling measures, Of days and months that number years Of sweetest, purest pleasures. Such be their lives ; and may they glide Onward like some calm river, Unruffled by the touch of strife — Tranquil and peaceful ever ! MUSINGS. After the pleasant and unexpected visit from a gay bridal party on Thurs- day, April 29th, 1880— Mr. A, A. Fleming and Miss Belle Wright being the wedded pair. Have I slept, and in sweet dreaming, A vision of beauty appeared? Were those sylph-like forms but fancied? And those silvery laughs unheard ? Were those nectared kisses that fell On my cheek, like ripples of love — But dropped from some mystic chalice. By phantoms in the air above ? No ; those visitants were real, For lo ! here are tributes they gave, Bridal cake, from the bride's own hand, As white as the foam-crested wave ; CLARA BUSH. 167 And from the bridal attendants, Behold ! here are flowerets bright, How happily they were- chosen ! No treasures give dearer delight. Oh ! how I wish for a language, Their wondrous beauties to tell ; Truly they seem to have blossomed In some fairy- enchanted dell. Never may Lethe's dark shadows Fall over the scenes of to-day. Never may grow dim the lustre Of memory's glad, cheering ray. The sight of those smiling faces. And the sound of those voices gay, Have lent me thrillings of pleasure, And charmed sadder feelings away. For I love to know that all hearts Are not darkened with grief like mine ; And am pleased to see joy's sunlight Over the lives of others shine. And blessings, divinest blessings, I wish on the fair, happy bride ; May the sweetest joys surround her, And never may sorrows betide ; 1 68 POEMS BY And may he to whom she has given The riches of her life in store, Prove a most loyal guardian — Faithful to the trust evermore. MRS. FOWLER, nee MISS McCRORY. To-day I saw her as a bride, So young, and meekly fair ; My fancied dreams of angel forms Scarce more beauteous are. Over her peaceful, sunny brow. There lay no shade of care ; Her happy heart, that spoke in smiles, Told of sweet pleasures there. Shining tresses — tinted golden, Like to the sunlit wave — Her temples swept, and to her face An added beauty gave. CLARA BUSH. 169 Sparkling jewels threw a lustre O'er falls of snowy lace, As subtle in mazy texture As fairy hands might trace. Silken vesture, silvery hued, Rustled in sweeping train ; And all her rich trousseau was worn With quiet, modest mien. Upon one dainty finger gleamed A simple golden band ; Her love's pledge of trust, when she Gave him her heart and hand. Skilled in love's subtle archery, And armed with Cupid's dart, A precious treasure he had won — A maideii s faithful heart ! How joyous must have been the hour. In which he gained his prize, — How sweet to bind it to his life, With hymeneal ties ! I70 POEMS BY O may their burning lamp of love Never withhold its ray ; But ceaseless shed its cheering light, As brightly as to-day. May ever tranquil be the sea On which they late set sail ; And may their bark be unassailed By rude, contending gale. With their loyal banner waving, And Love their course to steer, Of breakers 'mid the ocean's waves They need not have a fear. My kindest wish is that they may. At last their voyage o'er — Safely anchor beyond the shoals, On a celestial shore. CLARA BUSH. 171 LINES Inscribed to my brother on the event of his marriage, February 8th, 1882: A loving heart to thine is bound, With earth's strongest, holiest bands ; Launched upon an untried ocean Fearless you steer for foreign strands. My dear, my proud and noble brother! If I might rule thy destiny, Thine should be a happy voyage, Over an ever tranquil sea. Clouds should never gather o'er thee, Thy sky should be forever fair. Life should mete thee sweetest pleasures. With naught of grief — with naught of care.. But alas ! how vain my wishing. No earthly lot so blest can be, — Always sunny, joyous, gladsome, From strife and sorrow ever free. Out upon life's troublous waters. Out amid dread tempests drear; Though thy barque be lashed by surges, O, let thy brave heart feel no fear! 1/2 POEMS BY Though the wild waves rage around thee, And deeper darkness wraps the sea ; Though rocks may thy way imperil, Let not thy hope and courage flee. Onward pr-ess ! with will defiant To the barriers of the main ; Battle with heroic valor, Until life's final goal you gain. Those that shrink from ev'ry danger Can no famous victory gain ; Those that fail to fight life's battle No precious prize can e'er attain. It is to the truly valiant, Fadeless immortelles are given, When at last they safely anchor In fair Eden's peaceful haven. CLARA BUSH. 173 LINES liOvingly inscrilbed to my sister after her marriage, September 7th, 1882. Alone this eve in the gloaming, there falls a low voice on my ear, A voice that is touched with sadness, yet sweeter than music to hear; In echo 'tis softy wafted from the by-gone aback to me — 'Tis the voice of memory speaking, gently speaking, sister, of thee. It is sad yet sweet to listen, as it tells of happier days, When thy presence made home brighter than the summer sun's brightest rays. The sound of thy voice and footstep has vanished from parlor and hall, And now seems to rest a shadow where a halo once used to- fall ; There swells no tone from the organ in accord with silvery strain, Memory only in echo faintly bears me the low refrain Of sweet songs that ever seemed sweeter, dear sister, when sung by thee, For the voice of none could soothe me like thine own with its melody. But now the home of another you have gone to brighten and bless. And another's heart to gladden, leaving mine own in loneliness. I think me now, as the shadows of dim twilight around are shed. 174 POEMS BY How so oft at this quiet hour you have sat by my little bed, Resting your arm near my pillow and clasping my fingers in thine, As we talked, perchance, of the earthly or of heaven and things divine ; Or sometimes sang to me softly those sv/eet little songs of my choice. Whose words gave me greatest comfort and best suited thy tender voice; While close and closer together love's tendrils did our hearts entwine, And m.y bosom's ev'ry sorrow found a responsive cord in thine. But ah, thy chair is vacant now, and the room, alas ! is strangely- still, And in my heart there is a void the lapse of years can never fill. It seems so hard to be parted — so sad thus our lives to sever. So long had we dwelt together in love and forbearance ever. Yet time may teach me submission, but never, never to forget, And I feel that in my bosom e'er will linger a sad regret. I remember well the morning in which the good-bye kiss you gave — A tender kiss, warm and loving, but it made in my heart a grave CLARA BUSH. 175 Where pleasures that made hfe brighter now He hidden within its gloom ; Yet memory has planted there fairest flowers of fadeless bloom, And evergreens, to mark the spot that to me is so doubly dear, And oft upon the little mound I may drop an unbidden tear. When I heard thy footstep, sister, o'er the threshold of home depart, It seemed I could feel the pressure of an ice-cold hand on my heart ; Yet my prayer for thee was fervent, and I asked that heaven would shed Its blessings along the pathway that in future thy feet should tread. I would that flowers of pleasure, the brightest that on earth e'er bloom — May border the road you travel ; and no clouds in the distance loom. Serene as the summer's azure may the sky of thy day appear, And life's chalice be unmingled with bitterness, and sorrow's tear Never once make dim the lustre of thine eye's own heavenly light, But all be joy and gladness — sunny and unshadowed by night. Yes, fain would I have thee happy, though deeper and denser each day 176 POEMS BY Should the darkness round me gather, till not one faint, glad- dening ray Could break through the clouds upon me, but all be encompass- ed in gloom Even more sombre and cheerless than ever encircled the tomb. Though by Fate's rude hand divided, let our hearts be united still ; I ne'er can give to another the place in my heart that you fill, And though to another you've given thine own first love, I ask of thee To keep for ever and ever a warm place m its depths for me. Others will now learn to knov/ thee and call thee by another name, Yet to m.e, my sweet, sweet sister, you will ever remain the same; And oft as shall be thy coming to the old home back to my side, I wish to think of thee only as before you became a bride; And trust that sometime together we may meet in that "better home," Where the feet of none will ever beyond its pearly threshold roam. CLARA BUSH. 177 ACROSTIC. REV. T. E. SCOTT. Repeat, O loud repeat God's holy Word ! Ear has never so grand a story heard; Voyagers afloat on life's troubled main The Savior need, to pilot and sustain ; Even though billows surge 'mid angry blast, Securely will they rest in port at last. Christ will extend a loving hand, to guide Over the raging sea to Canaan's side The weary mariners, v/ho seek to gain That peaceful shore beyond life's stormy main. ACROSTIC. CAPT. A. J. F. DAY. Creature of God's noblest aim is man ! A work which Deity alone might plan ; Power of intellect nor thought profound The depth of life's deep meaning cannot sound ; A boundless ocean rolls in fancy's realm, — Joined in one throng we sail, while at the helm Fate watchful stands. Ah, whither are we bound ? Dread Eternity ! where thy shores be found ? Alas! 'tis mystic all, — not till we land Yearnings of restless soul we'll understand. 178 POEMS BY ACROSTIC. MR. T. M. KARNES. Many remembered names of friends most kind Resplendent in a fadeless wreath I bind; Twined with the cords of love, this garland fair, Monarch or princess might with honor wear ; Kept in the secret casket of my heart, A lustre to my soul it doth impart. Rarest and dearest treasure that I own ! No other wealth its pleasures could atone, — Earth's richest gems but little joy would lend Should Fate withhold the precious gift of Friend. ACROSTIC. MR. CLAUDE J. BELL. Man's heart enfolds a tablet where to trace Rare gems of thought which Time cannot efface ; Close guarded with an ever-watchful care, Life's latest hours will find its pages fair; A special note of life's eventful way Upon some leaf is chronicled each day; Departed scenes ar^ brightly here portrayed, Earth's cherished things in fadeless light arrayed. CLARA BUSH. 17 g Joy, Hope, and Love successively appear, But Finendshif s peerless page is held most dear ; Engraved in characters of gold each name Life's strange vicissitudes will prove the same — Loyal in low estate, loyal in fame ! ACROSTIC. TO MISS DAISY PRATT, AN UNKNOWN FRIEND. My vision of thee is heavenly fair, I picture a form divinely bright, Shining sunlit waves of soft, silken hair, Sweep the brow where beams intellectual light. Dreaming, thou art near me, and round my heart Affection's tendrils are closely entwined; In fadeless garlands of fairy-like art Sweet flowers of love are deftly combined. Ye cannot know what high, holy feeling. Pervades my soul while thinking of thee ; Round me thy spirit seems softly stealing. And in silence holds communion with me. • 'Tis my heart's fond wish to meet thee in real — To claim thee as friend beyond the ideal. i8o POEMS BY ACROSTIC. TO MISS ADDIE FOOTE, A lady known to me only through an epistolary correspondence. Much I love thee, Addie, my unknown friend; I read thy heart from missives that you send; Sweet is the budding rose and fair to see — Sweeter and fairer is my dream of thee. As pure, almost, as the angels above. Dear friend, I deem thee, in the depth of my love ; Divinely fair is the picture I see ' In fancy's tender portrayal of thee; Ethereal beauty lights up the face — Fair as the Madonna's, and not a trace Of guile is seen on the brow lily-fair, Over which fall tresses of silken soft hair. These outward charms a casket form, where lies Enshrined a precious gem — to deck the skies. ACROSTIC. MYRTLE ALSTON. ^ Modest thou art and lovely ; Youthful innocence and grace Robe, in sweetest harmony. Thy beauteous form and face ; Like a cherub sent from Heaven, Even, seems thy sweet life given. CLARA BUSH. i8i Angels above ! I pray ye, Let thy blessings round her fall ; Securely guide her footsteps Through paths that perils enthrall ; Onward lead to the journey's end — Never forsake my little friend. ACROSTIC. FLORENCE ALSTON. Far away from scenes of sadness, Lies a land celestial bright, Over which will clouds of sorrow Rise never, to dim its light. Eternal are all its glories — Never-ending bliss is there ; Carols of heavenly anthems, Echo in melody rare. Around the throne of Jehovah, Lo! the happy angels stand, — Sounding aloud their golden harps, Till music fills all the land: O, how sweetly they sing and play ' Never to cease through endless day. 1 82 POEMS BY ACROSTIC. MARA WASHTELLA ROSSON. Model of purity thou art ; All that's good of earth, it seems, Rests within thy guileless heart, And lights thine eye with holy gleams. With thy face, angelic fair — Alv/ays near to cheer and bless. Scarce can come a weary care, Hope and gladness to repress. Taught by thee is trustful "love ; Engraven on thy lily brow, Lo ! the mildness of the dove. Linked with faith shed from above, - All fidelity avow. Radiant thy morn of life ; O, may thine every day Sweetly pass, and no sad strife Steal over thy gladsome way ; Our hearts with kind wishes rife Ne'er would have thee go astray. CLARA BUSH. 183 ACROSTIC. MINNIE CLARA ROSSON. 'Mid earth's fairest scenes of gladness I would have thine hours to blend, Neath o'erhanging shades of sadness Never may thy life-course tend. Into paths of joy and brightness Ever may thy footsteps wend. Clime of cloudless sky is fitting Little Hves as pure as thine, — A land of fadeless bloom, emitting Rarest sweets to breezes flitting, And where love-lights always shine. Round the heart, like tendrils twining, O, how sweetly love-ties bind ! Sever not the soul's enshrining, Since in loving we may find Oft a joy beyond defining — Nature's gift to mortal kind. ACROSTIC. MISS CO LIE BOYETT. May there come no sad to-morrow In thy life so bright and gay ; Shadows of earth's gloom and sorrow Seem too dark to cloud thy way. 1 84 PO^MS BY Calm as gentle zephyrs blowing O'er the grasses of the lea, Lovely as the floret growing In the wood by waters flowing, Even may thy young life be. Bring thou no tears or weary sigh, O Fate ! to m.ar youth's gladness ; Year by year as swift they fly Each let them leave no sadness ; The memory of early joys Throws sweetness over life's alloys. ACROSTIC. MISS BIRDIE BOYETT. Methinks there are none lovelier In the realms of earthly bound ; So let us crown her Beauty's queen, Since none fairer may be found. Bind ye the brightest flowerets In a garland for her hair, Radiant gems from the garden Deck fitly a brow so fair ; In royal courts was never seen Enthroned a fairer, sweeter queen. CLARA BUSH. 185 Bow, then, to the shrine of Beauty, O, hither thy trophies bear ! Yet may her pure heart never be Enwrapt in vanity's snare; Though praise ma}'- flow in fluent tide, The soul should not exult in pride. ACROSTIC. MISS CLARA BELL BALDRIDGE. Music, poetry and flowers ; In their praise let nations sing, Since to all weary ones of earth Some sense of joy they can bring. Cold hearts that seem lost to feeling. List to music's glad refrain ; And a faint thrill of rapture feel Round the dead heart softly steal. Awaking it to life again. Bards with songs sweet as the siren's, Enchant us, and with gentle hand Lead us through the fields of beauty Lying in Ideal land. 1 86 POEMS BY Brightest flowers come to cheer us, And contribute to our bHss ; Loving hands of the Creator Designed them for our happiness Round the lowly cot they blossom, In the palace they appear; Delicious fragrance they impart, Giving joy to many a heart ; Ever let us hold them dear. ACROSTIC. MISS ELNORA POWELL. Music's echo, softly sweet, Is not sweeter than thy voice ; Something in its dulcet tone Seems to bid our hearts rejoice. Emblem of purity thy face, Lit up with truth and love, — ^ None more beautifully fair Only in realms above ! Radiant thy brow, from blemish free, A holy mission thine must be. CLARA BUSH. 187 Praises of thy noble deeds Over earth's vast domain Will resound — the echo heard Even where seraphs reign ! — Loving angels rejoice to see ' Little hearts fraught with purity. ACROSTIC. MISS MATTIE THOMAS. Morning, fair sweet morning of life ! It leaves on memory's page Something time can never erase, Something unsullied by age. Many joys that were so transient, Are stored in memory still ; The thought of well-spent, gladsome hours, The heart with strange pleasures fill. It is a noble thing to spend Each moment for some better end. The soul, illumed with love and Truth, Has pure joys that live untold ; O'er earth it sheds a beaming light, More bright than gems or gold ; And its influence that may fall. Sweetest pleasures will lend to all. POEMS BY ACROSTIC. MISS ANNA THOMAS. May some guardian angel, In love that ceases never, Silently, about thy way Scatter blessings ever. And may thy gentle, loving heart, Never in grief nor anguish beat ; Never may clouds of sorrow rise Around thy life so bright and sweet'. Though our earth may oft seem gloomy, Heaven will shed a halo bright O'er thy life, and gently guide thee, Making heaviest burdens light; And the sweet, glad song of an angel band Sometime will greet thee in a fairer land. ACROSTIC. MISS MARY GID PORTER. My little friend is truly noble, Innocence and love and truth Sit enthroned upon her forehead, Sweetest virtues of her youth. CLARA BUSH. 189 May her heart be ever stainless And as free from guile as now, Roses, intertwined with laurel. Yet may be wreathed around her brow ; Garlands by deeds of kindness won. Immortalized when life is done — Dazzle brighter far than now. Proclaim her virtues all ye people ! O, ye nations ! sing her praise ; Rarely has been found in youth Tnith supreme in all her ways ; Earth is gladdened by her presence — Rendered more like Paradise. ACROSTIC To Dr. R. W. Powell, of Kenton, •Tenn.; wi-itten on receiving from him a pair of vases. Dainty gifts I deem my vases,' Royal gems I'd prize not more ; Relics of the past they will be, Waking memories of yore. 190 POEMS BY Picture my surprise and gladness On last merry Christmas night, When I saw my rose-tint vases, Encircled with gold-bands bright; Long will I keep them and tenderly place Loveliest of flowers in each dear vase. .Kind deeds of thine I'll ne'er forget, Enshrined in memory deep No theft of time can steal away The treasures that I keep : Of other days mementoes softly tell — Not music e'er with sweeter cadence fell. 'Tis sadly sweet to ponder o'er Each grief and pleasure that has flown ; No heart but has some sorrow felt, No life but has some joy known. ACROSTIC. TO AN INFANT. Many have maiden's beauty praised /will tell of beauty supreme, — Scarcely can aught of fancy be So fair as the babe of my theme. CLARA BUSH. 191 Most beautiful her hair, her eyes Are matchless in hue and ray ; Upon each pearly, velvet cheek, Dimples often merrily play. Pretty as a bud, unfolding Each crimson petal, are her lips ; Rare her hand's exquisite moulding, Kisses fall from those beholding Its dainty palm and finger tips ; Next, indeed, to angel creature's, Seems the beauty of her features. Perhaps you'd like to know the name Of this babe surpassingly fair. Would you? Yes, I'm very sure Everyone would like to hear. Listen, then, to my avowal: — Little Miss Maud Perkins Powell. ACROSTIC MRS. AUGUSTA J. EVANS WILSON. Mortals have chosen to enroll thy name Radiant to live on the scrolls of fame ! Since first the banner of lore ye unfurled. igz POEMS BY And proudly flourished it over the world — Unto thy shrine nations hither have brought Glowing tributes of praise for each noble thought. Unfading the laurels genious has twined Superbly around thy forehead to bind ; Time cannot shadow thy lofty renown, Amaranthine will be thy well-won crown, Jewels that brightly on queenly brows shine Enshrine not the worth of a crown like thine ; Votaries of fame have never displayed A standard of honor more grandly arrayed ; Never were seen richer gems of the mind — Sublimity, truth, and beauty we find, With harmony sweet, combined with a grace Intellectual power alone can trace. Lost in the maze of thy glorious sphere, Scenes ideally beauteous appear; On thy stately throne in wisdom's attire, None behold thee but only to admire. A DOUBLE ACROSTIC. MR. ROBERT BOWEN AND' MRS. CLARA BOWEN. Dedicated to Clarabel Baldridge. Modesty — that precious, beauteous geM, Rests on thy brow, and like a lovely staR, CLARA BUSH. 193 Robed in ethereal splendor, serenely shedS Over thy soul its lustre. SeraphiC, Bright, as dawning gleams of morn celestiaL — Effulgent from out thine eye's blue vistA Reflects the light of love; may sin ne'er maR Thy heart of purity. O'er life's rough seA, Borne onward by rude winds that oft disturB — Oft tempest-toss — thy ship will sail. But, lO ! When in the quiet harbor you shall roW, Expectant seraphim will greet thee homE, Neath fair skies to dwell iij fields ElysiaN. SONNET. TO MY MOTHER ON HER BIRTHDAY. Low is now sinking the November sun, It is the waning season of the year, And of thy toilsome life, my mother dear; A weary course it has been thine to run Until thy years have numbered sixty-one; O that I could wipe for aye the tear Of sorrow from thine eye, and sweetly cheer Thine oft too mournful heart, for there are none By me so well beloved as thou. I thank The Giver of all good that He has spared 194 POEMS BY Thy life to me thus long ; for oh, how lone Had been my days without thee ! Tho' I've drank The draught of bitterness earth has appeared. Less drear since over me thy love has shone.' SONNET. TO MY SISTER ON HER BIRTHDAY. This is thy natal day, sweet sister mine ; Ah, life's fleeting hours, how quickly they glide Forever past — borne on by Time's swift tide! But thine has been well spent ; if I might twine A garland of thy deeds 'twould brighter shine Than jeweled coronal of regal pride ; Kind acts to others shown, with self denied, Full well disclose a spirit formed divine. I oft have thought how cheerless home would be — How lone my heart — without thee, sister dear; ' Tis sweet to know that I am loved by thee, And sweet to hear thy voice and have thee near ; O, m^ay we meet in blest eternity ! And love as we have loved each other here. CLARA BUSH. 195 SONNET. TO MY BROTHER ON HIS BIRTHDAY. Thy years sweep on ! — spring's rosy morn has past Into life's summer noon. The flowers sweet, Which decked the pathway of thine infant feet, Were all, alas ! too fragile long to last, And withered lie, while clouds have overcast Thy sky's cerulean hue. Hours bnce replete With pleasures unalloyed Time's pinions fleet Have borne forever hence. The chilling blast Of autumn days will soon thy forehead kiss. And whisper sadly of the winter-time Soon coming, when will fall the snows of age. O may thy sun go down in perfect bliss, Again to rise in that celestial clime. Where shadows never fall nor tempests rage. SONNET. TO LIDA S. Among my best — loved friends I number thee; And now some happy wish I fain would make For thee, dear Lida, just for sweet love's sake ; Come, gentle Muses ! say, what shall it be ? 196 POEMS BY I will not wish thy lot from sorrows free, It would be only vain, for all who wake To mortal life of sorrow must partake, For this has ever been Fate's sad decree, — But I will wish that mid the thorns that grow Along thy way some flowers, too, may spring, And o'er the dark, oppressive clouds of woe May pleasure oft a golden halo fling, Until at last thy steps shall pause where flow The living fountains, and bright angels sing. SONNET. TO AN INFANT. Sweet Stella! bonny babe of fairy-like mould, Too lovely you seem for a world of care, Too happy its sorrows ever to share, A beauteous bud more fit to unfold In the summer land of which we are told, Where bloom amaranthine flowers fair Breathing out ambrosial sweets to the air, And where never blow the winter winds cold. Like a pure bright star beaming o'er life's way, Illuming our hearts with its joyous ray, CLARA BUSH. 197 Is thy presence here ; and thine infant tongue, In artless prattle, is like music flung From a harp sweet-toned, — something Hke to thee Methinks the inmates of Heaven must be. SONNET. TO LEONORA J. [Who wished a verse from my pen.] Leonora! "airy, fairy," winsome child, To the dainty daisy I liken thee — Floweret typical of purity. We catch from thy brown eyes, loving and mild, A glimpse of thy soul by sin undefiled ; And thy dulcet voice, in innocent glee. Thrills oujr hearts with its artless melody, As a sweet bird trilling its wood.-notes wild. May thy way be illumed with joy's bright rays. Thy sorrows be few and len'gthened thy days ; May blessings rest on thee and heayen send Guardian angels thy steps to attend ; And may life's eventide bring thee joy, That can never be marred by earth's alloy. 198 POEMS BY SONNET. TO DAISY E. P., AN UNKNOWN FRIEND. I ne'er have seen thy face, and yet I love Thy very name. They tell me thou art fair, And good as beautiful — that all who share Thy friendship here are blest. Mild as the dove Art thou and innocent. Down from above Floats the low echo of an angel's prayer — A holy supplication — that would spare Thy guileless heart all ill and only give Heaven's highest blessings. Meek queen of hearts ! Let me draw near thy throne and humbly place The tribute of my love upon thy shrine ; The thought of thee a sweeter calm imparts Unto my mind, and brighter gleams of grace Fall round my soul with feelings most divine. SONNET. ON MY LITTLE FRIEND LENA TAYLOR. Out of the depths of her tender brown eyes The sweet light of ]f)urity softly glows, While the fount of love in her heart o'erflows, And the sound of its rippling melodies Is heard in the musical symphonies CLARA BUSH. 199 Of her gentle words. Not the blushing rose, Which to the summer breeze its fragrance throws, Has a fairer tint than that which dyes Her lips and cheeks. O, how sweetly enshrined Is the spotless soul of this infant mild ! With the beautiful, true, and good combined, She seems like a seraph all undefiled, And I wonder not that our Lord defined The kingdom of God by a little child. SONNET. Inscribed to C. J. B., on the twenty-fourth anniversary of iiis birth. Years, departed years ! in life's annals vast Time has recorded thine just twenty-four; Just twenty-four ; we count the dead years o'er And know full well they are forever past. Yet the sweet memory of them will last. And though they can return again no more We keep the precious fruitage that they bore, While o'er our lives a fadeless light is cast, Shed from the taper of thine own true love. Hail to thy natal day ! Gladly will we, In honor due, the laurel chaplet weave. To crown thee worthy prince of loyalty ; And beg thou wilt from us to-day receive This guerdon — our best gift of charity. 200 POEMS BY SONNET To Miss Annie B., of Buena Vista, Ark., an unknown friend and corres- pondent. I feel that thou hast given me a place In thy warm heart of spotless purity. O, sweet are nly thoughts of thee ! — I love thee ! Only in fancy have I seen thy face, Yet heavenly fair thy picture I trace, For Love is blind, and — though some faults there be, Can only the good and beautiful see, And love inspires me to portray thy grace. One wish to thee I make, sweet friend unknown, One little wish ; it is that when I'm dead, And can no longer tell thee of my love — You'll wreathe the tender flowers in friendship blown, To crown my memory, — my spirit fled Will wait thy coming to the courts above. SONNET. To my little friend Myrtle A., on her birthday. On rapid wings twelve years have flown away, Twelve happy years, that held no grief or care ; They've left no shadow on thy brow so fair, No sorrow in thy heart so blithe and gay ; Thy life has been like one bright summer day. With cloudless sky, and flov/ers, sweet and rare, CLARA BUSH. 201 Around thy pathway springing everywhere. O, that thy steps might never, never stray In rugged paths, o'erhung with clouds of gloom! Yet if sorrows should come with coming years, Think of that land where grief ne'er enters in, And where unfading flowers brightly bloom ; March bravely on, though blinded oft with tears, — A jeweled crown will be the prize you'll win. SONNET. On seeing the portrait of a friend. I think me of Apollo while I 'view This pictured form in manhood's fairest prime ; The noble brow is yet untraced by Time, The fervent eyes are of a darkened hue And well bespeak a heart most kind and true ; • His mien foretells the mount of lore he'll climb, Till on its summit high shall wave sublime The ensign of his fame ! The garland due, Which heroes all for deeds of glory win — His forehead will adorn. The sweetest strains That minstrels give but faintly can portray The beauties of the soul enshrined within The bosom of my friend, — where meekly reigns Those virtues that will hold unending sway. 202 POEMS BY SONNET. To W. A. M., on his twenty-fourth birthday. Twice twelve rotations Time's swift wheels have made In circuits annual. Thy youthful days Have changed to manhood's years, and in the ways Of life's turmoil thy course is henceforth laid; Perchance thou oft hast seen sweet pleasures fade, And sighed, to wrap in disappointment's fold Long cherished hopes ; and felt the heart grow cold For want of love's reciprocating rays. Life is not what deluded childhood thought — All joy and brightness, but grief and gloom Are interlinked, and man is early taught It is a toilsome jour'ney to the tomb, And Happiness — the fount so vainly sought, Flows only where flowers of Eden bloom. SONNET. To my sister-in-law, Mrs. Bush, nee Miss Bettie Kieser. O let me share thy love ! — freely I give To thee of mine a part. How drear and cold Would seem our world if there were none to fold Us in love's warm embrace. Come from above CLARA BUSH. 20: And most divine is the sweet feeling — love. More precious far than richest hoards of gold, A treasure rare whose worth is all untold, A blessing, heaven-sent, on all that live. O let me share thy love! — it is so sweet To feel that I am loved by those held dear. And would a place in thy affections find; Just tender me 07te link, to help complete The golden chain that binds together here Fond heart to heart, with bonds that sweetly bind. SONNET. TO C. J. B. Methinks I ne'er have found a truer friend; Along life's drear and rocky thorn-grown way You kindly scattered flowers sweet and gay ; And o'er the shadows that my course attend, Such golden gleams of joyous sunlight send I'm oft beguiled by the entrancing ray. Till, seemingly, the gloom is swept away As by the flourish of a fairy's wand. My friends are all held dear ; each name. That I in love have treasured in my heart, 204 POEMS BY Is prized as something precious and divine ; O, may they ever be as now the same ! I'd much regret with any name to part, But none lament more than the loss of thine. SONNET. Suggested by a visit from Mrs. S. P. James, whom I had not seen for sixteen years. How passing sweet it was to meet once more My dear-loved friend and teacher ! Memory Brings back a thousand pleasant thoughts to me. In fancy now, as oft in days of yore, Again I con some little lesson o'er ; My little paymates, too, again I see — Their voices hear and rippling laughs of glee Out on the play-ground, near by the school-room door. Yet one face, to me the dearest of all, On memory's background brightest appears ; And a voice like melody seems to fall On my ear, as of yore, after all these years ; While love binds our hearts — my teacher's and mine. With tendrils that time can never untwine. CLARA BUSH. 205 DEDICATION. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF CAPT. A. J. F. DAY. Fallen — alas ! beneath death's mighty hand A friend has fallen — a most loyal friend! That stately form, which late bespoke command, Lies lowly now. 'Tis only to commend The virtues of his life we fain would speak, And not to name his faults. If he was weak At times and went astray — oh, let the pall Hide every wrong ; and let us but recall The goodly part of his existence here. 'Tis said "for all that die there is a tear," And we have sadly wept, to bid adieu To one who was to us a friend so true. O ruthless death ! relentless victor thou ! The meek or proud, the weak or brave must bow Alike to thee, in life's great battle-field. And at thy dread behest the conquest yield. Deeply we feel our loss ; — the noble heart. That once so warmly beat, and lent a part Of life's best pleasures to our own, is cold And silent now — doomed to the charnel mould. The kindly voice, that gave such willing cheer. Is hushed for aye; and we no more shall hear The pleasant laugh, which hopefully did thrill Our souls whene'er depressed. Only a knell. As faintly sounding from some distant dome — 2o6 POEMS BY Seems now in solemn, doleful tones to come, Knolling departed greatness. Like some grand And princely tower, swept from off the land, He passed away. Death, the conquering foe — In pride of power brought the structure low. The mind's vast treasury was overthrown, Where rarest gems of thought in beauty shone ; The precious jewels of the heart were all Hidden amid the ruins of the fall. O, what a wreck ! the throne of reason's reign Cast rudely down, never on earth again In glorious, imperial pomp to rise ! All — all despoiled ; and wrapt in dust now lies What did but late so royally enshrine Those riches which great wisdom doth combine. We grieve to think an intellect so bright. No more will shed o'er earth meridian light. There is a darkened spot — a void lone — Made in our lives since he from hence has gone. We found him ever generous and kind, Ready to tender aid, or gently bind The bleeding heart, that woes so often rend ; Truly, he was in deed and trust a Friend. Then how could we but mourn? how could we say The long — the last farewell, and turn away With eyes undimmed and bosoms sorrow free? Ah, no ! we would not have it thus to be ; Like senseless adamant would seem the heart CLARA BUSH. . 207 That could, without regret, forever part With one who sought to add sweet drops of joy Unto Hfe's bitter cup of sad alloy. We deem it well, in tender grief, to shed A few sacred tears for our lamented dead. His was a worthy mission here, for he Had labored much for friends and country. Then, in devotion due, let us now hold His memory endeared; and trace in gold - Loyalty on the standard of his fame, And let it wave in honor to his name. And we do humbly ask of God above, In His unbounded mercy and deep love — Since death was pleased his spirit to set free. To let it reign in blest eternity. "GONE BEFORE." REFLECTIONS ON THE DEATH OF MR. A. o' DANIEL. Our hearts are draped in mourning. We have lost A dear and valued friend. A new-made grave Shows the lowly spot where he rests in peace. Though cold and dark the place of his repose He heeds it not, but sweetly slumbers on, Like one that has grown weary from long toil. 2o8 POEMS BY For more than three-score years his pilgrimage Led through earth's dreary vale of pain and grief. Yet ever patiently he traveled on, Helping the weak to bear their tiresome cross, And speaking to the faint, despondent ones Some kindly words of cheer. But now, alas ! The noble heart is stilled — the voice is hushed — And cold and motionless the hands that once So oft administered to others' wants. O that I could record in living words The virtues of his life. He well deserves As bright a crown as ever decked the brow Of bard or hero great. Oft have I gazed Upon his face, and thought, how seraph-like — How near divine it looked. The tender eyes Shone with the light of purity ; no trace Of guile the forehead bore ; but age and care Some furrows there had wrought, and changed his hair To snowy white. Yet still he seemed not old — So hopeful was his spirit, and the love He had for others gave him strength to fill His mission well. We know not why the Lord Has called him hence. We wished to have him dwell A little longer here, but prayers and tears Would not avail. He shrank not from the touch Of Death's cold hand; but when God's messengers Appeared to guide him home, without a sigh. In resignation meek he bade farewell CLARA BUSH. 209 To things of earth, and passed on spirit-wings Into the realms of everlasting day. A gloom has overspread his once glad home ; The shadow of Death's pinions seems to fall Where late was shed the sunny light of joy, Making the place an Eden of delight. The angel. Love, dwelt with the household band, And husband, wife, and children, felt secure Beneath the shelter of her spreading wings. But lo ! the tender ties that bound their hearts Are rent in twain. There is a mighty void Which time can never fill. An echoed tone From the dark sepulcher is wafted back. And loving words resound in memory Like the lingering cadence of a voice That fain would soothe and comfort hearts bereaved. O may the God of love and mercy look In pity down, and shield with His strong arm The widow and the fatherless, and send Some guardian angel to attend their steps And soften down life's rugged path, and make Their burden seem less wearisome to bear.. We cannot understand our Father's ways And though we sometimes find it hard to yield Submissively, and murmur not when most ^ ■ He chastens us, methinks a blessing lies Just out of sight which time will bring to view. 'Tis well that earth is not a place of bliss — 2IO POEMS BY » A sunny spot ever serene and fair ; 'Tis best some clouds should intervene between This world and that which Jesus has prepared For spirits glorified. When shadows fade, And sorrows cease, 'twill then be passing sweet To gain the haven of eternal rest, And meet the loved and lost just "gone before." IN MEMORIAM. MARTIN o' DANIEL. He sleeps in death, he is at rest; How sweet to be thus early blest! How sweet to die in youth, ere strife Has bitter made the cup of life. Had he been given length of years, Time might have brought him many tears ; Through sorrows deep he might have past. But to have slept in death at last. His soul SO: pure sin might have marred, And Heaven's pearly portals barred ; The golden harp and jeweled crown, Mip'ht never have been claimed his own. CLARA BUSH. 211 It was our Father's loving care That called him hence, 'the bliss to share Of that bright home where angels sing, In adoration of their Kine. 'Tis well he had a life so brief; He is beyond the reach of grief; And evermore will dwell above. Where Jesus reigns, and all is love. Let those of earth who held him dear Now wipe away the mournful tear; The Book divine doth truly tell. The good Lord doeth all things well. IN MEMORIAM. BURNEY REINEY. Little Burney 's only sleeping — Only sleeping the sleep of death Angels, at the Savior's bidding, In mercy stole away his breath. 212 POEMS BY Even though of age so tender, He seemed to weary of our earth ; Seenried to long for something higher- Something of a celestial birth. Early his little feet grew tired, He paused and faltered by the way ; His steps were too frail to longer In life's drear, rugged paths to stray. Oh how fair he looked, and peaceful, In untroubled slumber lying ; Not a trace of sorrow lingered, Aught to tell of pain in dying. But the eyes, once warm and loving. Now had lost their tender brightness, While their soft and silken fringes Graced the cheeks of snowy whiteness. Hushed the sound of infant prattle, Silent the guileless lips and cold ; But a smile death could not banish, Whispered of happiness untold. CLARA BUSH. 213 The wee hands were folded lightly, And a few sweet flowers were pressed In the dainty, dimpled fingers, Close to the little heart at rest. Though 'twas hard to place the sleeper Deep in the lowly grave to lie, 'Tis but fragile form there resting — The soul has found a home on high. Oh, bereaved ones ! look above you, Though the heart with grief is riven ; And remember little children Are the best beloved of Heaven. Think that even now your Burney Is a crown of beauty wearing, And, arrayed in spotless vesture. All the bliss of Heaven 's sharine. Harp of dulcet tone was given ; And all around sweet music rings, As, with swift and skillful fingers. Gladly he sweeps its golden strings. 214 POEMS BY List ! can you not almost fancy There softly falls a low refrain, Echoed from the heights of Heaven As he joins in rapturous strain ? Happy, happy little Burney ! Far away from pain and weeping. Far from all that e'er might trouble, Safe within the Savior's keeping. Then, O, cease to mourn your lost one, Since in God's temple he may dwell ; By-and-by you there will meet him, Never again to say farewell. ''OH, CARRY ME HOME TO DIE." Such were among the last words of Mr. J. B. Ward, of Rutherford, Tenn. Being in delicate health, and thinking a change of climate would be benefit cial, he started West, but had only reached St. Louis when stricken down with his last illness. Conscious of death's near approach, he requested a brother, who attended him, to carry him home to die. Accordingly he was conveyed to his native town, and died on I'eaching it, surrounded by sor- rowing friends. He died in life's early summer — In the pride of manhood died, — Fearless, with gloomy voyager, He crossed to the other side. CLARA BUSH. 215 He was off in a distant city, With only a brother near, When the sound of death's drear signal Fell dolefully upon his ear. He deemed this earth-land beautiful. And valued the gift of life; Surrounded with richest blessings, He little knew of its strife. But when a messenger holy Whispered Heaven's bidding low. He meekly resigned all earth-ties And even seemed glad to go. He shuddered not at the gleaming Of Death's sickle, waving there; Nor sighed when his chilling fingers Pressed lightly the forehead fair. But the thought of absent loved ones. As the reaper waited nigh — And said to that brother, faintly, *' Oh, carry me home to die!" 2i6 POEMS BY Mindful of his earnest pleading, And to fill a last request, They bore him tenderly, gently, To the place on earth loved best. Just as they had gained the landing - Just at the sad journey's end — Did the noble heart cease beating. And the spirit to God ascend. Alas ! there were mourners many ; For all, who his virtues knew, Felt a tender, sacred sorrow. At the loss of one so true. They gathered round — those loved ones. And sorrowfully they wept; And faithful watchers all the night, The last solemn vigil kept. In the churchyard on the morrow, Was hollowed a lonely tomb ; And slowly, sadly, they bore him. To sleep in its silent gloom. CLARA BUSH. 217 Around the dark vault stood waiting, A sad, loving throng and vast ; Mournful that a life so noble, From earth had so quickly past. Then was heaped the damp sod gently, Above the untroubled breast; — Turning away they could but feel God 's chosen the greatest blest. Oh, long may those earth-friends cherish The mem'ry of Jimmie Ward ! And may his pure name shine brightly On the record of the Lord. "TO DIE IS GAIN." Written on the death of Curtis Rigsbee, and dedicated to the bereaved parents. Gone from earth, ere sorrow's cup was tasted, Gone, ere sin's withering blight had wasted The heart's sweet purity, and ere the joy Of youthful hours was mixed with sad alloy. 2i8 POEMS BY Though he was young, and seemed too fair to die, 'Twas the Lord who claimed him — question not why, He only gives to quickly take away. And farewell 's but a word we all must say. * When most the heart shall miss its dear, lost treasure, Think of griefs below, of Heaven's pleasure, And strive to feel 'tis well he was taken From gloomy earth, in glory to waken. Lo, when he had gained God's temple afar. The pearly ^ate was gently thrown ajar, And angel voices gladly welcomed in The soul of one so free from ev'ry sin. And Jesus, smiling, gave the crown foretold, A fadeless coronal of purest gold ; Then, with sweet lyre attuned to grateful song, He mingled with the happy seraph throng. No fairer cherub roams o'er Heaven's plain. No sweeter voice joins in the glad new strain ; O what a victory ! to early go Forever there to live, secure from woe. CLARA BUSH. 219 Then grieve no more that he was taken hence, Since he has found so rich a recompense; For while you tarry here, where troubles come, He dwells above in happy spirit-home. Over that land no shadows ever loom, But here we pass through scenes of deepest gloom, Each year to us some added sorrow brings. While former joys go by on fleetest wings. Then why lament the gentle early dead ? " Of such God's kingdom is," the Savior said; And since death frees the pure in heart from pain, Surely, it must be true, " to die is gain." LINES To the memory of Mrs. Mary F, Lewis. Her task is finished, life's journey is o'er. The wearisome cross she will bear no more ; Earth's grief and bitterness, its care and pain, Will sadden her heart, no ! never again. 220 POEMS BY She walks in heavenly beauty now, The crown of righteousness rests on her brow, Her robe is washed in the blood of the Lamb, She bears in proud triumph victory's palm, And the glad new song, in praise of her King, With the angel choir she has joined to sing. She had loved the Lord — loved His holy ways, His name gave solace in life's saddest days, — Trusting His wisdom. His mercy and love, And steadfastly fixing her hopes above, Most valiantly the narrow way she trod Which leads to the princely palace of God; And now doth realize that perfect bliss. Found in the presence of His holiness. We speak of Heaven — the glad spirit-home, Where weary pilgrims rest never to roam, Where, from God's throne, life's pure limpid river, Freely will flow for ever and ever ; We picture a sky unclouded and bright, A clime where fall not the shadows of night, A vast spreading plain, with verdure and trees. And flowers, that make ambrosial the breeze; In fancy we can see the streets of gold. And throngs of rejoicing angels behold ; CLARA BUSH. 221 And the spacious walls of the city fair Are beautiful, beautiful beyond compare. Ah ! what is life, that we should heave one sigh When at last its faint spark flickers to die ? The souls of the just are wafted above To live with the glorified Prince of love. Then why do we weep for our friend so blest? Why grieve that her wearied soul should rest? Why mourn that the cold sod is heaped above The bosom, once warm with tenderest love? To give back the faint, fleeting breath of pain, For life immortal is a glorious gain. We know it, but still a funeral knell Echoes in our hearts ; and the last farewell Lingers in memory, like a sad refrain ; Yet we trust to sometime meet once again. Where the word " farewell" will be unspoken, And love's tender ties remain unbroken. IN MEMORIAM. BRINNIE SIMMONS. Our gentle friend in death reposes, Dreamless her slumber, sweet her rest; Over her grave strew summer roses, And think her blest. 222 POEMS BY She faded like some fair, sweet flower ; Death's mighty hand love could not stay : Her pure young soul at eve's calm hour Was called away. Her fair brow swept by sunny tresses, Is icy now, her sweet voice still ; Her once bright eye the pale lid presses, Yet it is well. Though in the darksome tomb she 's sleeping. Let not many sad tears be shed ; She would not have beloved ones weeping, That she is dead. In love to be remembered ever, She would but ask of friends behind ; Then let not death love's fond ties sever. But closer bind. O, let us keep each link bright shining In love's sweet chain from year to year, With fairest immortelles entwining Her name so dear. CLARA BUSH. 223 Unknown to her were grief and sadness, Her life was like one fair, sweet day ; The rosy Hght of hope and gladness Illumed her way. She left us when the summer flowers Were blooming bright 'neath sunny skies, But now a lovelier world than ours Gladdens her eyes. Fields of beauty and fountains flowing, Portals of pearl and streets of gold, Music and song, and soft winds blowing, And love untold. O, world so perfect ! O, sweet haven ! Where comes not death nor dreary night, But where the crown of life is given, And robe of white. Dimly we see, as in a vision. Our sweet friend with an angel band, Roaming o'er the fields Elysian, With harp in hand. 224 POEMS BY And, listening, in fancy's seeming. We catch the low echoed refrain Of her glad song ; and see, faint gleaming, The shining plain. In that blest land beyond death's river. The land of which God is the light. She will live in bliss forever — A seraph bright. Delightful thought — in bliss foreverj May we, too, land on that fair shore, Whene'er we cross the mystic river. This brief life o'er. To find a home in God's own mansion. To worship at the Savior's feet. To let the soul have full expansion. Were joy complete. When closes life's dark day of sorrow, ' Twould be for grief a sweet reward, To spend the bright eternal morrow With our dear Lord. CLARA BUSH. 225 IN MEMORIAM. MATTIE THOMAS. Our hearts are sad to-day. A sweet friend that we loved is dead; Calmly, gently her spirit fled, From sorrow-land away. On airy pinions bright, Her guileless soul was borne above ; And now she dwells where all is love. And where God is the light. Only a few short years She tarried here, our lives to bless — A higher life of holiness Is now forever hers. Full many, many tears, In grief we've shed ; but well we know, That she is spared the cares and woe, That come with lengthened years. Though death has closed her eyes, And stilled the heart that warmly beat, And hushed the voice so kind and sweet, We know in Paradise 226 POEMS BY With angels bright she stands, And sings the praises of her Lord ; While dulcet harp in sweet accord She sweeps with skillful hands. We feel that she is blest, The shadows of the darksome tomb Fold but the senseless clay in gloom- The soul in light is drest. Yet still our hearts are lone, We did not deem the Lord so soon Would claim again his precious boon. But dear, sweet Mattie 's gone. A shadow seems to fall Around us, since she went away ; A mist of sadness veils the day, As with a dismal pall. Her happy smiles we miss, And miss the light of her lovelit eyes. That wore the tint of azure skies, And look of holiness. CLARA BUSH. 227 She'll come to us no more, With loving words of cheer ; but we Will soon cross over life's dark sea, And gain the other shore. Where we will meet again ; And speak no more the sad farewell, But ever there together dwell, Secure from care and pain. Then why should we deplore Our gentle friend ? — ' tis for the best That God has called her home, to rest With Him for evermore. • IN MEMORIAM. MISS BETTIE FULLERTON. She died in youth when life was sweet, Ere the heart had trouble known ; Ere the brow was furrowed with care Her mission on earth was done. 228 POEMS BY Alas ! 'twas hard to bid adieu To one that we loved so well ; And round her lowly, new-made grave, Many tears of sorrow fell. Though she sleeps in earth's cold bosom. We can forget her never; The cords oi love that bind our hearts Are too stronsf for death to sever. How oft in fancy, even now, We can see her pleasant face. And the vision to us so sweet Time can nevermore erase. We grieve to think death's icy hand Was so soon upon her laid, Yet from memory's brightest page Her dear name will never fade. Her kindly words and gentle tones Will be heard on earth no more. Yet how sweet must be the sound Of her voice on Heaven's shore ! CLARA BUSH. 229 Earth at best is full of sorrow, Then why should we mourn the blest? We should find some consolation In believing she's at rest. IN MEMORIAM. ELLA SWEETS. She died when summer skies were bright, And fragrant flowers, bathed in light. Were all in bloom ; It seemed a fitting time for mirth — So fair a vesture wore the earth — But, ah, the flowers but had birth To deck the tomb. The angel Death with lightest tread. To fill his mission, onward sped Without delay ; He passed the aged, worn with care, And left the weak their cross to bear, But youthful Ella, loved and fair, He took aAvay. 230 POEMS BY Gently he bore her o'er the tide Of dark chill waters flowing wide ; Now, on the shore, Where all the ransomed people dwell. Her songs of rapture rise and swell, The praises of her Lord to tell For evermore. We know that she is doubly blest, — A seraph in white raiment drest, With harp of gold ; But oh, since she from us has gone, Our hearts have felt bereft and lone, And in them dwells an undertone Of grief untold. That face of beauty haunts us yet. And nevermore can we forget That voice so sweet ; Its tender tones we seem to hear In softest echoes sounding near. As wafted down from that bright sphere Where angels meet. Almost our selfish hearts rebel — 'Tis hard, so hard, to say '"Tis well" When love's strong ties CLARA BUSH. 231 At God's behest by death are riven, Though to our well beloved is given The good exchange of earth for Heaven — Home of the skies. The road we travel is so drear We need her kindly words to cheer Us on our way ; Awhile we journeyed hand in hand, But soon she left our little band And passed before into the land Of endless day. But let us faint not nor despond. For Heaven hes not far beyond Life's darkened shore ; But let us lift our hearts in pfayer. And ask in that bright city fair To sometime meet our loved one, where Friends part no more. LINES. TO THE MEMORY OF MARY G. PORTER. Forever gone ! O, words of sadness, They have a dirge-note in their tone ; We speak them now in tender sorrow — A dear, dear friend — -forever gone ! 232 POEMS BY Death placed his seal upon her youthful brow, Closed the bright eye, and stole away The cheek's warm glow, and the lip's glad smile, And bade the heart be still for aye. Only an image of clay was left, Only a form in silence lay With marble-like face, untraced by care, And the pure spirit flown away. Gently they folded the pale, cold hands. And lightly wrapt the shroud around ; And softly lowered the sleeper down To her lowly bed under-ground. Alas ! that earth so soon should cover The form of one so dear to all ; Oh, why so quickly did the Giver Again his gracious gift recall ? Oh, why ? we, in our weakness, question ; We can but feebly understand Why our meek friend, in virgin beauty. Should feel the touch of Death's chill hand. CLARA BUSH. 233 But list ! now comes a spirit whisper, 'Tis saying, "God, in mercy wise, Chose not to longer leave in bondage ■ A soul so fit for Paradise." Even from her childhood's dawning, Pure and unblemished was her life ; There seemed divineness in her being, Unsuited to a world of strife. Early she owned the name of Jesus, Took up His cross, and followed on ; But soon was reached the port of ransom. And the fair crown of promise won. She made our world so much the brighter. Gave our lives so much of pleasure. That now, with hearts bereft and lonely, We can but mourn our sweet lost treasure. Forbearing ever, and forgiving, With loving words and willing aid. Like some ministering angel she The griefs of others lighter made. 234 POEMS BY We shall so sadly, sadly miss her, It was so good to have her dwell Among us, that — though God has ordered- We find it hard to say " 'Tis well." Yet let us not be overselfish, But strive to think our loss for best ; Since it is but the happy gaining Of our beloved one's endless rest. O what a blest and grand transition ! What a glorious thing to rise Above this land of many sorrows. And live in bliss beyond the skies. EPITAPHS. How peacefully she sleeps ; no thought of care Can ever disturb her silent slumber ; One is lost to earth, but in lands more fair Is added one to the angels' number. • CLARA BUSH. 235 Mourn not his early doom, though well beloved By all who knew his kind and noble heart ; 'Tis but a transition — the soul removed Doth realize above life's better part. She was chosen, the loved and good, The Savior claimed her from our band, But ah, we would not if we could Recall her thence from heaven's land. Not age alone in death must sleep, The young and gay must lie as low ; Let the bereaved no longer weep, It is the Lord who wills it so. Behold ! the stately form here lowly lies, The noble heart is cold beneath the sod, But the pure spirit reigns beyond the skies In bright, celestial palaces of God. Death early came at God's all wise command And took a precious link from out our chain ; Yet still we trust our Father's loving hand Will safely guide us to that better land. And re-unite the severed link again. 236 POEMS BY In many hearts a void was made, When in the grave he low was laid, Yet the dear name of him so kind, With fadeless immortelles is twined. He was an only son, In prime of manhood called away; Alas ! we find it hard to say, 't Father, thy will be done." Not only to old age comes death. The youthful, too, must feel his breath ; O, all ye thoughtless ones, beware ! And for life's closing hour prepare. Released from all earth's weary care. It seems it must be sweet to lie With folded hands and gently sleep, Where no disturbance can draw nieh. How sweetly death rescues sorrowing ones From life so toilsome and dreary, No sleep so peaceful, untroubled and deep, As the last long sleep of the weary. CLARA BUSH. 237 SILENT VOICES. I am alone, yet do not lonely feel, Although no living creature now is near ; Each object has a story to reveal, And a thousand voices I seem to hear. My room with pleasant company is rife, In all things round companionship I find ; Myriads of soft tones tell me of life — Of its sorrows and sweetest joys combined. But harken ! what are my guests all saying ? I would interpret their strange whisperings, — Come back, O roving thought ! from thy straying, And listen to the message each one brings. Softer than music's strain, in echo wafted By vesper breezes gently from afar — Unto mine ear, pre-eminent, are drifted Tones — sweeter, dearer than all others are. It is the voices of flowers ringing, As they nestle in dainty vases near ; I am enchanted as by fairy-singing, And first will lend to them attentive ear. 238 POEMS BY Those blossoms — culled by the hand of a friend, Some from the wood, some from garden bowers, All lovingly mingle — the lowly and grand, — The gems of the garden and wild wood flowers. Enfolded they each have a mystic tale, Yet over me waves thought's fairy-like wand, Dispelling the folds of the darksome veil That my heart their language may understand. The daisy looks up with a brow as fair As the pure, unsullied brow of youth ; Its tiny white petals all plainly bear The type of innocence and holy truth. The fair convolvulus rich odors impart. Yet its fleeting beauties in presage tell Of that rare virtue, humility of heart, Befitting frail humanity so well. Change is written on the bright pimpernel. While the hawthorne bids us to hope anew, And the violet's gentle breathings tell The worth of a heart that is always true. CLAJiA BUSH. The tulip — the gayest flower of earth, Seems quite to eclipse the pale mignonette ; Yet its gaudy vesture has not the worth Of this lowly though fragrant floweret. On fragile stems dainty bell-flowers tremble, And as their chimes mingle in concord sweet. In fancy I see the fairies assemble, A story of gratitude to repeat. The meek white lilac, so chaste and so frail, Is of innocent youth an emblem meet; And the pale lily, the queen of the vale. Where sorrow once sat enthrones pleasure sweet. I can from the snow-ball enrobed in white, Pure thoughts elicit of fair spirit-land ; And the Bethlehem star recalls the glad night When a lone star guided the good shepherd band. O Flora! thy beauteous lessons I love. They ennoble the heart and exalt the mind ; Methinks they were writ by the band above, And unto the children of earth assigned. 239 24 o FORMS BY But farewell, Flora, though sweet thy story, Let for awhile thy siren voice be still ; Of lowly things and good, of fame and glory, Yet other guests have many things to tell. II. Here is a book of song, — I turn its leaves, — From ev'ry page soft strains of music float; The tuneful rhelody my heart receives. And echoes back each faintly-sounding note. With unknown minstrelsies I hold commune ; Although I've never heard I seem to hear Soundings of their harpstrings in sweet attune, Like seraph songs, fall on my spirit's ear. Immortal bards ! Time cannot dim thy pages, Nor change nor blight fall on thy soul-lit thought ; A beacon-light for all succeeding ages Will live those words by inspiration wrought. III. An open casket, next, doth kindly greet; 'Tis filled with treasures — not precious stones and gold, But little gifts and dear mementoes sweet, — Jewels whose worth to me is all untold. CLARA BUSH. 241 Here is a message and a faded flower, Love's tender tokens sent from a distant land — Their words are whispered low but have power To closer bind the heart with friendship's band. And hidden half 'mid other relics rare A chain of fairest ivory is gleaming, Each snowy link loved words of friendship bear — Words plain to me if but in fancy seeming. Here I find the pictured forms and faces Of two gentle sisters, drawn in happy youth ; Upon their brows is seen not sin's dark traces, But the mild, holy light of love and truth. Their golden hair falls o'er their shoulders lightly. Like waves of sunlit river softly gliding ; And their eyes, reflecting beams so brightly, Bespeak the mind where noble thoughts are biding. Their cheeks wear just the faintest tint of rose, Their lips have darkened into deeper hue ; I kiss them now, and seeming they unclose And whisper in response, "Our love is true." 242 POEMS BY These little words a pleasant truth impart, I feel that earth no richer boon contains Than the undying love of some true heart, That through all time and change the same, remains. Here is a sacred hymn, oft sung by one Who blessed my youth with all a sister's love ; But fate has parted us, and she has gone To sing the glad new song they sing above. Gone — oh ! what a plaintive, sad-sounding word, And my heart re-echoes forever gone ! Yet her lovely f6rm and words long unheard Come back to me now while musing alone. I think of the night when through darksome space The Death-angel came at the Lord's command. And none could resist his entering pace; Nor stay the sweep of his conquering hand. She was young to die, and 'twas hard to give Even to angel's keeping one so dear ; Yet gladly she went forever to live In the land unknown to a sigh or tear. CLARA BUSH. 243 A comforting spirit doth whisper me That the sainted dead are the greatest blest ; Then let me not murmur at God's decree, His ev'ry bidding must be for the best. IV. There comes now a voice of wisdom and truth From the deep-toned clock to my heart appeaUng, A pensive story of vanishing youth Is the monitor of time revealing. To me its ceaseless click doth plainly tell A solemn tale of frail man's fleeting, life ; It strikes the hours, which but seem the knell Sad tolling when has ceased the weary strife. Yes, it tells me by its ceaseless ticking That quickly will end this life of sorrow, — That Death, for some victim ever seeking. Perchance may claim me ere comes the morrow. Dear old time-piece ! I hail thee as my friend ; Thy gentle warning will I strive to heed ; Oh ! that each day I may for better spend. And fill each moment with some goodly deed. 244 POEMS BY V. Near by the clock a little box is set, Holding a floral wreath of hair composed ; It tells of friends, and bids me not forget Those over whom the grave has long since closed. I love to view each bud and open rose — Some dark, some golden, and some silver gray ; In fancy I can see the brows of those Once over which the shining tresses lay. And even now falls low upon mine ear Their pleasant accents faintly echoing ; I see bright eyes, and merry laughter hear, And music, floating soft from dulcet string. O memory ! thou hast a boundless sway. The heart-strings vibrate to thy gentle touch. Oblivion cannot wrap in dark array The forms of dear ones that I love so much. VI. Upon the wall is hung a solemn picture, A fair, young girl in death has closed her eyes, Yet from earth's gloom, in triumphant rapture, Her joyous spirit rises to the skies. CLARA BUSH. 245 So tranquil looks the brow in sleep unbroken, I almost think in death there is no pain, And the spirit, heaven-bound, doth token "Though we be dead yet shall we live again." I half forget earth's darkness and its woe. While gazing on the white-robed form ascending, And even list to catcK the sounds that flow From angel harps with songs of joy blending. A pleasant solace to my heart so weary Is this sweet presage of the life to come. And my dreary lot seems far less dreary Brightened with the hope of a fairer home. VII. The winds on soft wings glide into my dwelling, They bear a message of Messiah's love, In happy murmurs they are gladly telling Of the great goodness of the God above. They have been roaming o'er fair lands away, Have long traversed the wide domains of earth, And from the nooks where treasures hidden lay Have brought to light rare gems of priceless worth. 246 POEMS BY They found, where leafy shades were deepest cast, Some unseen flowerets of fragrance mild, And stole a sweet aroma as they passed Those obscure blossoms of the woodlands wild. They paused a moment o'er a singing stream. Where happy birds joined in the merry strain ; They caught the spirit of the gladsome theme. And onward glided— chanting a refrain. Over the hills they swept and down the glade. And 'neath the low-hung branches sped along, Till fresh and cool just from the woodland shade They've come to cheer me now with their glad song. They fan my fevered brow as fain to soothe My weary brain and sad, sad heart to rest ; In mild caresses o'er my face they move, And on my lips are odor kisses prest. O gales of melody, their musical flow Throws over my soul a magical spell, As in joyous measures and cadence low A wondrous tale of creation they tell. CLARA BUSH. 247 VIII. The golden sunbeams, through the window steahng, Reflect a halo of congenial light ; The smiling rays are sweetest truths revealing, And on my heart like fairy fingers write. I read the tablet o'er as soft they trace. Their theme is of the All-wise Father's care ; They tell His mercies, His undying grace, And point to blessings sweet that all may share. I love the story that the sunbeams tell, I treasure up each word of glowing hue, With thankfulness they make my bosom swell. And teach my soul to praise the Lord anew. The mission of the sunlight, O how grand! Unnumbered blessings to fair earth it brings ; The great Divinity has nobly planned, And for some sfood tend all created thinsrs. IX. But harken me ! whence comes that voice ? It fills My inmost soul with strange and holy feeling ; It wakes the heart with mild electric thrills. As fall upon the ear its tones appealing. 248 POEMS BY Ah ! it is the voice of the long ago, RecalHng days when all was brightest bloom, - Fair, sunny days, like only youth may know, Ere come the shadows of life's deeper gloom. Fond recollection, queen of thought's high throne, Is roaming now the chambers of my heart ; And memory's gentle fingers wide have drawn Oblivion's dark drapery apart. And through the vista of departed years I see a youthful throng, and hear the chime Of merry tongues, that bid me dry all tears And smile again as oft in former time. They tell me life is full of joy ; that earth Is like an Eden — an elysian land ; Deluded youth ! soon in thy cup of mirth Will fall dark, bitter dregs from sorrow's hand. Lo ! even now their brows have sadder grown ; The victor. Time, has claimed sweet childhood's hour ; He holds each passing moment as his own, And proudly sways the sceptre of his power. CLARA BUSH. 249 X. The scene has changed ; — the spirit of the mind Comes bearing up the records of the past ; The annals of ages gone are all enshrined, And compile a volume wondrous and vast. The book lies open now, and, one by one, A shadow-hand turns o'er each mystic leaf; Some are illumed with deeds of glory done, And some, alas ! are dark with sin and grief. I see the beautiful, the good, the brave, Adown life's road in grandeur march along. Until they reach the dark and lowly grave. And mingle there — one solemn, silent throng. Oh, how with mighty awe my bosom heaves While viewing o'er the checkered scenes of life! Nations arise and fall, and each one leaves Some trace of foot-prints blending in the strife. Strange is the lot of man and strange his doom ; Not power of mortals can e'er dispel The veil that wraps the secrets of the tomb. Nor aught of death's deep, dread mysteries tell. 250 POEMS BY Vainly have I listened and longed to hear Some voice supernal float down, to reveal Eternity's wonders, and banish the fears That over the faint heart gloomily steal. But there comes not even a sigh, to breathe What wonders are vailed in futurity's gloom ; And all is silent as the sleeper beneath, When I ask the mysteries of the tomb. I know the spirit immortal will reign, And a crown to the ransomed be given. Yet death and eternity doth contain Secrets that are sacred alone to heaven. O cease restless heart ! cease thy longing desire, Knowest not thou the great God is all-wise? Then let not a thing so lowly aspire To solve the deep meaning of death ere it dies. THE POET'S LYRE. I hold the poet's lyre, And though the sounds that swell Mingle with rude discords, I love the tones so well CLARA BUSH. 251 That still I keep on trying, My unskilled fingers plying, Hoping — listening — sighing — For some diviner spell To bring forth sweets, which lying Within its cords must dwell. I know rare melody Doth but in silence sleep, For grand is the attune When master fingers sweep ! Oft I listen to the sound, As the mystic cords rebound — Listen with a love profound, Till I forget to weep, So rapturous is the compound Of airs prolonged and deep. Sometimes I can fancy, While playing all alone, That a higher beauty Is blending with the tone ; Yet perhaps the worthy sage, And the critics of our age. Would call it but an idle rage ; And, duly to atone, Wish to blot the cherished page. And leave my song unknown. 252 POEMS BY Or from my unskilled hand Might seek the lyre to take, Because my stroke had failed Such melody to make As which fell when Homer's might, With vying minstrels, gave to light Strains of power, to excite The nations to awake, — s Sounding through Cimmerian night Lethargic thralls to break. Ah, men of lore austere ! The highest touch of skill Doth scarce suffice to please Their too exacting will ; / cannot hope of giving A strain to suit all living. Yet if kind friends and loving, When my best numbers swell — Could speak some words approving, It would repay me well. I do so long to give Some tender, pleasing strain, — Something that still will live In echoing refrain When the fingers that have swept The cords so oft shall be lapped CLARA BUSH. 25 Over the breast the shroud hath wrapt — The breast made free from pain — And the eyes that oft have wept Shall never weep again. Oh ! think not that it is Desire of worldly fame That makes me wish to have A never dying name; Too heavy the cross I bear — Too much of sorrow I share — For a vain renown to care ; To merit naught of blame, And do good everywhere, Has been my life's great aim. Though fate has portioned me So much of bitter woe, 'Twould sweetly recompense, Could I but only sow In life's universal field Some choice seed of goodly yield. Which would prove my love revealed ; And, nourished with the flow Of my heart's deep fount unsealed, In fadeless verdure grow. 254 POEMS BY I sometimes feel that I Have some good mission here ; And though my cheeks are oft Made wet with sorrow's tear, There's pleasure in believing That, even while I 'm grieving — In life's great warp I 'm weaving A weft that will appear A heritage worth leaving My fellow-creatures dear. I love the world, and fain Would tune my harp to give Those themes that best might serve To teach how all should live ; The beauties would I instill Of true friendship and good-will, And would sing of peace until The nations would approve. And all here together live In fellowship and love. O, tuneful lyre ! give back Some thrilling notes of song In tones of sweet accord, To move the worldling throng, — Let the floating echo sound, And no place of rest be found — CLARA BUSH. 255 Till it circles earth around; Ancf, with love's tendrils strong, Let the nation's heart be bound' To mine through ages long. REFLECTIONS ON THE TWENTY-SIXTH ANNIVERSARY OF MY BIRTH. My years are twenty-six to-day; I scarce can think it so, — Can scarce believe that I have seen so many summers go. It is not that they 've been of joy to seem so briefly passed, ' And yet I know not why it is they all have flown so fast ; I only know that not a day has been so sweet to me That I would call one moment back, again its bliss to see. The wings of Time are none too swift; I'd have them onward sweep. And bear me quickly o'er the waste of life's expansive deep ! Looking aback the vista drear of those departed years, Pleasure's/^w sunbeams fall upon full many, many tears. The flowers that were budding fair, when life's first scene I viewed, All faded, and their withered leaves the way have thickly strewed ; And with a shroud of sombre hue have densely overspread The many graves of youthful hopes that have so long been dead. While musing now a vision flits before my mental view — 256 POEMS BY A reflex of those early, hopes, all proven most untrue ; Faint recollection o'er my mind the mirage lightly throws, Like dreams of pleasantness that lend enchantment to repose. I had not thought, in life's fair morn, that e'er a cloud could rise Above the bright horizon, to eclipse the sunny skies; But while I gazed in ecstacy upon the lovely scene, A shadow of the darkest cast did looming intervene. I turned aside, and with regret my vanished pleasures wept ; For close within its gloomy folds my sweetest joys were wrapt. Not yet is it for me to know zvhy fate seemed thus unkind. Yet sometimes I have thought at last when I the meaning find 'Twill be like throwing off a veil, and leaving to the view A world of beauty, inconceived, intrinsic, grand and new! Though mortal reason is too weak to solve God's mighty will, I cannot think His providence will deal me always ill. But list ! there comes a whisper now, 'tis saying "No, dear heart! Through holy wisdom God reveals only a minute part Of His great power, but enough to guide thee to His throne. Where all the hidden will unfold — the secret be made known. And in the happy bye-and-bye, the promised land of peace, Thy spirit will forget all grief and find a sweet surcease." It is the voice of faith divine, coming my hopes to cheer ; The accents fall so soothingly — so softly on mine ear. They make me now to not deplore once cherished sweets of earth, Which were at most but futile things of evanescent birth ; And though the gloom still spreads around, I look beyond and see A beacon light, that leads to where from sorrows all are free ; And even I can fancy that I hear an echoed tone CLARA BUSH. 257 Of angel voices, joined in songs of praise around God's throne ! Then let me wait on patiently the clouds to disappear, For 'twill not be so very long, I trust, till I shall hear The Great Redeemer calling me and bidding me to come. To dwell above through endless day in Heaven's blissful home. QUESTIONINGS. O, when will close life's dreary day. And angels come And bear my weary soul away To their bright home? Shall I soon be safe forever In heaven's fold? - Or be left to cross Death's river When I am old? Or soon or late, where shall I die? With friends most dear ? Or far away 'neath alien sky? — No loved ones near. 2 58 POEMS BY Oh, who will watch with me and pray When like a pall Over my life's declining day The shadows fall? Who will wait till this feeble breath Has passed away, And robe my form, when still in death, In fit array? Who '11 close my eyes and lips so cold, When I 'm at rest. And place my hands in gentle fold Upon my breast ? Who in sorrow for me will weep. When I am dead? And who the last sad vigil keep Around my bed? Who will place the cover of gloom With kindly hands, And bear me to the open tomb. That waiting stands? CLARA BUSH. 259 Who will lower the casket deep In earth's cold bed? And who the damp sod gently heap Above my head? Will many miss me when I 'm gone From earth away ? Will the hearts of any feel lone For one brief day? Will those who say they love me now My grave e'er seek, And leave a tear-drop, to avow The words they speak. But vain, vain is this questioning, For none can tell What the dread, future day will bring,- And it is well. DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. When over earth's bosom the mantle of night Is silently folded, and all things bright Seem sepulchered in one vast tomb, and a pall Over the face of Nature seems to fall, — 26o POEMS BY ' Tis then, mid gloom and solitude, I love To lift my thoughts from earth to things above. Then seems the fittest time to hold converse With the Great Ruler of the Universe — The time with spirits to commune. I feel That airy forms then round me softly steal, And faintly hear strange voices whispering, As if some tiding they had come to bring. Or holy message from the other land. But their language I cannot understand. My mind is filled, at such a time as this, With vague questionings of the land of bliss ; Where is that happy realm? how far away? What form of being is it that mortals say Must live forever? To thee I appeal, Ye sleeping nations ! Canst not thou reveal The great hereafter — the mighty mystery Of man's glorious immortality? No answer from the grave : its bosom cold The secret that I ask will ne'er unfold. Wise men have explored the deep sea of thought, But from out its depths no key have brought That can unlock the mystical portals Of futurity. Yet feeble mortals Keep striving still to draw the veil aside CLARA BUSH. 261 That hovers o'er eternity, to hide It from their vision. We speak of death, but oh, How Httle of its meaning do we know ! We call it the night of a fairer day — The dawn of a new life, to live alway ; We think to arise on airy pinion, And go where death has no more dominion ; We say that beyond the dark, chilling tide. There is a fair region where souls abide, Whose beautiful plains have only been trod By the feet of the holy host of God. There is something strange and mystical in death, Something solemn in giving up the breath, Alone, through untried ways, the freed soul flies. The dread, hidden future to reaHze ! There are some that shudder and grow pale with fear When the shore of life they are drawing near, They dread the power that can ever still The heart's quick beating and the pulse's thrill ; Yet others go down to the river's brink. And from its chill waters do not even shrink. But stand on its margin waiting to hear The signal for sailing, without a fear; The rising billows have not the power To appall the brave at the parting hour, 262 POEMS BY And the boatmen doth their hearts so beguile ■ That the solemn voyage they make with a smile. We may wait with friends on the silent shore, May lovingly watch till they all pass o'er — And resigned may whisper "The Lord knows best," But in our hearts there is a strange unrest, And we sigh, to think only to the blest Are Heaven's mysteries made manifest. Yet what doth it matter? — soon we must sleep The final sleep of death, dreamless and deep ; And when to new life we arise ' twill be To realize the great eternity. EVEN-TIDE. 'Tis sweet to meditate alone, At quiet even-tide ; I give the reins to memory. And let thought range at liberty The realms of fancy wide. The fairest visions come and go, Amid the shades that fall ; CLARA BUSH. 263 Scenes that I viewed in other years, With eyes unused to sorrow's tears, Are mirrored on the wall. I see a little, limpid brook, Half by the shadows hid ; And hear a murmur sweet as song, As it gently glides along Over its pebbly bed. Upon its banks of mossy green. Like gems the daisies gleam ; And sweet wildroses, early blown, Some leaves of pink and pearl have thrown Upon the rippling stream. Of yore I often wandered here. Seeking wildwood flowers, Which gave me such delight, before One shadow was reflected o'er Life's fair auroral hours. Loved voices that have long been still, I hear at even-tide ; And phantom forms of dear friends dead, With an airy, noiseless tread, Before my vision glide. 264 POEMS BY Strange thoughts of the unknown Beyond, Come crowding to my brain ; I think of Christ, the crucified — Think how in sacrifice He died, That man might Hve again. 'Twas eve, when in Gethsemane The Savior was betrayed ; A sorrowful and lonely wail Rose from the gloom-enshrouded vale, Where meek He knelt and prayed. My heart draws near unto the Lord, In prayer, at even-tide; r think of His great love for me, I see the cross on Calvary, By His own life-blood dyed. I ask Him to forgive all sins. Committed through the day, And fold me closer to His breast, And let me there securely rest. Never, never to stray. At eve there steals a sweeter calm, My weary spirit o'er; I feel that with the setting sun. CLARA BUSH. 265 My life-work here is nearer done, And nearer Heaven's shore. When misty shadows fill my room. And perfect stillness reigns, In fancy sweet I sometimes hear A minstrelsy of seraphs near, Singing celestial strains. O may the pale death-angel ceme For me at close of day; When the last sunbeams leave the sky, It seems the fittest time to die. And pass from earth away. Methinks 'twould then be even sweet To quit this weary home, For death's deep sleep will only be The prelude to eternity, Where death no more can come. The dusky veils of evening Are spread by God 's own hand ; He makes His omnipresence known. And rules the world from His high throne, By infinite command. 266 POEMS BY O, weary heart of mine, have cheer, And in God's love confide; So swift the moments onward flow, ' Twill not be very long, I know, Ere comes lifes even-tide. And, then, O may my soul find rest, Where saints in peace abide; I hope, wlien death's repose is o'er. To wake on Heaven's blissful shore, Where 'comes no even-tide. THE HOUR OF DEATH. I think of it so oft — The hour of death; When brightly dawns the day. When fades its latest ray, I think, soon '11 pass away This feeble breath. It is not known what hour Death 's voice will call ; Alike, in summer's bloom. CLARA BUSH. 267 And cheerless winter's gloom, Into the hollow tomb Frail mortals fall. Though sad may throb the heart, Or gladly bound. Its time of joy or grief May end, even more brief Than drops the forest-leaf Upon the ground. Waiting upon the brink Of death 's dark tide, I look far o'er the main, And see the shining plain Where joyfully reign The glorified. The fount of life I see, Whose golden shore Is pressed by eager feet. Of those who gladly meet. To taste its waters sweet. And thirst no more. I would be glad to lay My burden down At any hour, if I 268 POEMS B V On airy wings might fly To that bright home on high, And wear the crown. Life's road to me has been A weary way; Few flowers have I found, But many thorns have bound My dreary path around, From day to day. Few sunny rays have come Lending their cheer ; But clouds have often spread Their dark wings overhead, And on my spirit shed Dim shadows drear. Each night, ere slumber soothes Me to repose, I think how sweet ' twould be If I in sleep could flee Away from earth, and see No more its woes. For I'm weary, weary, And long for rest — Rest like the angels share CLARA BUSH. 269 In Heaven 's city fair ; Oh, may I sometime there Be ever blest. I pray thee, Father, give Me strength to bear My burden longer still, If it is thy dear will ; I know thou rulest well, With loving care. And though I cannot see, Nor understand. Why I am so oppress 'd — So grieved and sore distress 'd, I know all things are best That thou command. O, help me, then, to pass With grace beneath Thy rod that chastens me : Let me confide in thee. And meet triumphantly The hour of death. 2/0 POEMS B Y ETERNAL REST. A little while we '11 tarry here, A little while our crosses bear, With hearts oppress 'd ; A little while the weight of woe Will bow our stricken spirits low, A little while sad tears will flow. But soon comes rest. Life seems a drear, beclouded day. Where seldom falls illuming ray, To break the mist; Yet let us not despairing sigh, Nor, in our weakness, question why Our day has not a fairer sky, — Beyond is rest. Though from the bitter, bitter cup. Of mingled sorrows we must sup, 'Tis but to test Our faith in Christ ; and make us live For higher things than earth can give ; And all that true and faithful prove In Heaven will rest. It matters little, though our lot Be cast in dreary, desert spot ; CLARA BUSH, 271 For life, at best, Has much of sadness, and a gloom Hangs o'er the passage to the tomb ; Yet, in Eden's bowers of bloom, Remaineth rest. A few short moments more of grief. Then death will bring us sweet relief; Within the breast Of peaceful earth we '11 calm repose. Forgetful of our toils and woes ; And where life's holy river flows. Our souls will rest. Although we cannot understand The chastening of God's dear hand, It rules for best. Then let us be resigned to fate, And, with patience, trusting wait, Till He shall open Heaven's gate, And bid us rest. How sweet ' twill be at xlose of life, To leave this weary world of strife ! And with the blest Dwell in the land of Paradise, Where ever cloudless are the skies, And where the soul may realize Eternal rest. 272 POEMS BY LINES WRITTEN ON MY TWENTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY. Hark ! — an echo. It has a solemn tone, Like to the sounding of a distant knell Slowly tolling for some departed soul. Ah, it is drawing near — and nearer still — And now I understand from whence proceeds The melancholy sound. It is a peal Flung from -the ponderous belfry of Time, And borne along the vacant corridor Of all my vanished days. It wakes my heart To realize that from my life is fled Another precious year ! Yes, another year Is numbered with the past: yet, as I fold The sable shroud around and thus consign It with the former dead, I cannot weep To think it is no more. For grief and pain So nearly filled the passing moments up, And left so little room for joy and peace, I could not wish it back — only again To feel the pierce of sorrow's dart, and wipe The burning tears from eyes they oft have dimmed, And mark the tempest gather and the rays Of cheering light disperse. I only wish I could have filled the hours with nobler deeds. CLARA BUSH. 273 And added to my Maker's treasury Something more worthy than the feeble mite That I have given. But He knows my weakness ; And though my work be not well done, and left Half incomplete, I trust He will forbear And spare the chastening rod. And if He Should choose to keep me yet another year A humble laborer in His employ, I'll strive to do the most I can, but fear The harvest-time will mete a poor reward For all my weary toil. I fain would add Many talents to the ones first given, And long to hear the Master say ' ' Well done. Thou good and faithful servant." Oft I feel Like some lorn waif cast all unwelcomely Upon the hospitable care of those Efficient workers in the field of life; Yet there are moments when a soothing sense Steals o'er my soul. — 'Tis when the voice of love Persuades me that my life is not in vain, — That I, unconsciously, ^m filling here A holy mission by teaching silently The wisdom in submitting to our fate, 274 POEMS BY Unmurmuring at aught of high decree, — By sowing goodly seed that may spring forth And yield much fruit to far posterity, And making the exalted heart less proud , By the humiliated fount that flows Ever from mine. O think not thou that I Would choose to take the happy smile from lips Of guilelessness, or dim one beaming ray Of chastened light that fills the joyous eye Of innocence, or add one needless pang To any bosom. Yet it would be well Could I but make the thoughtless ones of vice More heedful of the perils that await The willful and vainglorious, and show The vanity of all that is of earth. We should follow the divine example Of the gentle Savior. Though King of kings. He was meek and lowly in heart. And we. Mere atoms in God's boundless universe — Should look around and contemplate the state Of our existence ! Only a little space ■ In fleeting Time is here allotted us In which to fit our deathless souls for all Eternity. Let us a moment pause And sink the thought deep in our inmost hearts : CLARA BUSH. 2% O, that we could live to the perfection That our Creator, in His wisdom planned ; And travel on unto our journey's close, And lose not by the way one precious gem That might enrich the crown we hope to gain ! ERRATA^. Page 182 — Second word of fourteenth line should be visage. Page 136 — Seventh line of second stanza — an improper repetition of the word are. Page 169 — Second word in third line of third stanza should be lover's. Page 173 — Fourth word of third line should be softly. Page 174 — Sixth word of fourteenth line should be 07i. Page 194 — In 'f Sonnet to my Sister, etc.," the third word of fourth line should be have. Page 203. Third word of third line of "Sonnet to C. J. B." should be scatter. Page 204 — In sixth line of "Sonnet suggested by a visit, etc.," the letter / is omitted from playmate. Page 215 — Second word in first line of fifth stanza should Tie he. Page 216 — Fourth word in second line of fifth stanza should be lowly. Page 260 — Fourth word of eighth line shovild be tidings. Page 262 — Third word of first line should he boatman. Some other slight misprints occur which will be left to the leniency of the reader. C 32 89 i ^/-o^ .^<^^ ._ . « c^^r -i** -^o^ ^ J '^^ ^^--^ <* A «§AK* AY ^ < V *,»' 4 s ' Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process A ^j^; Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide ► Ay *■ y\|l Treatment Date: ,0^ • • • • A^ . -^ OBBKftEEPER PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGI^, LP. 1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive V T Cranberry Township, PA 160Si.Xr 1 (724)779-2111 "^ ^^^ Ao, V % "o CKMAN |si DERY INC. W^\^ "'Wl^*^ ^'''"^. DEC 88 .*'