Book ' n f ) / 
 
 / 
 
POEMS. 
 
 ^3 
 
 BY ASTATITE 
 
 1^ 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 W. n. KELLEY & BROTHERS, 627 BROADWAY. 
 1865. 
 
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CONTEJSTTS. 
 
 TO A CROCUS, 5 
 
 SPKING SXOW, 7 
 
 THE HEMEROCOLIS, 9 
 
 TO A DAHLIA, 12 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER, 15 
 
 SUWANEE, 17 
 
 TO THE HUDSON, 25 
 
 SOME THOUGHTS ON A CATERPILLAR, ... 27 
 
 TO A GRASSHOPPER IN* OCTOBER, 30 
 
 THE ZANAIDA DOVE, . • . . . . . 34 
 
 TO AN OMNIBUS HORSE, 37 
 
 CINDERELLA, 39 
 
 TO DEATH 41 
 
 CLIO, 43 
 
 THE WRECKED MAN, 45 
 
 GREEGREES, 47 
 
 SCALPS, 50 
 
 THE CRANE, 54 
 
 THE NATION'S APPEAL, ....... 57 
 
 THE WITCH OF ENDOR, 62 
 
 THE BALLAD OF COCKE Y'S FIELDS, . . . .67 
 
 WHO TOLD? 73 
 
 OCTOBER AND NOVEMBER, .... .76 
 
 ON HEARING AN OLD SCOTCH AIR, .... 78 
 
 THE POETS, . 81 
 
TO A CROCUS. 
 
 ^J^EI^L me, little purple Crocus, 
 ^^ Why you came so soon ? 
 All this silky, loose attire. 
 More befltteth June. 
 
 The Lily's sleeping in her bed. 
 
 The Daffodillies too ; 
 The Snow-drop does not stir a bit, 
 
 And, Crocus, here are you! 
 
 " I waited in my little cell. 
 
 Where, in the dark and cold. 
 Our mother Nature makes all new, 
 Out of the worn and old. 
 
6 TO A CKOCUS. 
 
 ^^All in the dark, her unseen hands 
 Were decorating me ; 
 And how these unsoiled robes unfold, 
 No human eye can see. 
 
 ^^And I stood waiting for the sun, 
 The blessed sun, to call ; 
 And found myself the first. 
 If not the fairest flower of all. 
 
 *' The winds of March were blowing cold, 
 The snow was here and there : 
 Why did I come so soon, I thought. 
 Out in this chilly air. 
 
 ^^But I heard the children shouting, 
 ^Here's a crocus! Spring has come!' 
 Then I knew I was a herald. 
 And my little work was done." 
 
SPRING SNOW. 
 
 URPLE, and pink, and amber, 
 Were the hyacinth-bells in the 
 snow, 
 
 That softly kept falling and falling, 
 In the beautiful bed below. 
 
 It was beauty one almost could worship. 
 This purple, and amber, and snow ; 
 
 The incense half chilled, and imprisoned. 
 In the rich little bells, drooping low. 
 
 But by and by, out came the sun. 
 And away went the soft-footed snow ; 
 
 But what has become of the incense ? 
 And where is the hyacinth's glow ? 
 
8 
 
 SPRING SNOW. 
 
 Ah ! who of us cannot remember 
 Some grief, that came cold as the 
 snow, 
 
 Which, taking off something for ever, 
 Left something that never would go ! 
 
THE HEMEROCOLIS. 
 
 P, Ada, up ! and see the lilies, 
 They are blooming but an hour ; 
 
 Nothing but the stars were watching 
 The unfolding of the flower. 
 
 Oh ! so long have Nature's forces 
 Been at work upon her bloom, 
 
 That we wonder why such beauty, 
 So long coming, goes so soon. 
 
 All the winter, frost was busy 
 With the roots, and summer's sun 
 
 Brought its countless impulses. 
 And yet the bloom has just begun. 
 
10 THE HEMEROCOLIS. 
 
 Packed in circles, just like pearls, 
 
 In an emerald circle set ; 
 Oh ! so long, so long unfolding — 
 
 All thy fragrance sealed up yet. 
 
 Now, Avhen summer gathers up 
 All her faded, dusty flowers, 
 
 Giving back to night again 
 
 What she borrowed of her hours, 
 
 They come — their breath is on the night, 
 Morning finds the perfect flower. 
 
 So oppressed with its rich beauty, 
 That it folds up in an hour ; 
 
 Folds up and falls. Oh ! such a story, 
 Of Nature's forces slowly bringing, 
 
 Through patient toil, her perfect work. 
 And then away, so careless flinging ; 
 
THE HEMEROCOLIS. 
 
 11 
 
 As if impatient of the doom, 
 
 That what she makes must fade away. 
 
 Up, Ada, up ! and see the lilies, 
 They've come so far, and cannot stay. 
 
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 TO A DAHLIA. 
 
 STATELY Lady Dahlia ! 
 Coming in the fall, 
 As the flowers are going, 
 Haughtiest of them all. 
 
 With thy heavy velvet, 
 Ample, in each fold 
 
 Of imperial pm^ple. 
 
 Red, and gleaming gold. 
 
 Where's the vat that dyed thee? 
 
 Where's the loom that made 
 All this silky textm'e, 
 
 All this wondrous shade ? 
 
TO A DAHLIA. 13 
 
 Where's the hand so fairy, 
 That plaited up thy dress ? 
 
 Folds so prim and even, 
 Yet not a grace the less. 
 
 Summer must have gathered 
 
 Bach intensest hue, 
 And, just as she was leaving, 
 
 Gave them fresh to you. 
 
 But, stately empress Dahlia, 
 You've been so long a robing, 
 
 And come so late, the guests are gone, 
 And autumn winds are folding 
 
 Her chilling mists around the earth : 
 bride of Frost ! he's coming ! 
 
 He left his polar home at dusk, 
 He'll be here by the morning. 
 
14 
 
 TO A DAHLIA. 
 
 He's hurrying fast to meet you, 
 In the midnight dark and still ; 
 
 He loves you with a mighty love, 
 Yet hugs you but to kill. 
 
Y 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 TO THE KEY. D. B. 
 
 FLEETING, golden summer! 
 You told us ^^ good-by " so soon ; 
 And left the autumn rain and wind, 
 Sweeping away thy bloom. 
 
 And now, all warm and balmy, 
 
 You come a-hurrying back ; 
 Like a guest who has left his jewels. 
 
 And returns by the self-same track. 
 
 And I know, loving summer ! 
 
 The gems you have come to seek ; 
 They border thy trailing garments. 
 
 They tangle thy flying feet. 
 
16 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 You left the Chrysanthemums bursting 
 With orange^ and purple, and gold ; 
 
 Bundles of bloom, with spices, 
 Scenting each feathery fold. 
 
 But take them, take them. Summer, 
 And kiss us ^' good-by " once more ; 
 
 And leave us — it may be for ever — 
 Alone by our desolate door. 
 
S UWAN E E. 
 
 HERE the slow Suwanee lingers, 
 Lingers 'mid its banks of bloom; 
 |t~ Where the Smnmer lingers longest, 
 With the balminess of June : 
 
 Where the pine-trees sing for ever 
 Something very like a hymn ; 
 
 Stopping, as if half-forgotten — 
 Then, with lower note begin. 
 
 What is it that they are telling. 
 In that sad and stately measure ; 
 
 Like a story of some sorrow. 
 They must moan about for ever ? 
 
18 SUWANEE. 
 
 There I rested, warm and weary, 
 When the shadows eastward fell ; 
 
 Fell on beds of water-lilies, 
 Nodding with the river's swell ; 
 
 Fell upon an old log-cabin, 
 
 Where a woman sat and spun ; 
 
 And the whirring of her wheel 
 Mingled with the forest's hum. 
 
 By her door a tree was growing. 
 With great branches, spreading low ; 
 
 Where the tangled moss, in masses, 
 Fitful winds swept to and fro. 
 
 So I said, by way of saying 
 Something, as we often do : 
 "What a splendid tree this is, 
 
 And what a shade it makes for you !" 
 
SUWANEE. 19 
 
 With a puzzled look, she answered, 
 After eyeing me all o'er : 
 ''I have lived here twenty years, 
 And never thought of it before." 
 
 ''Never thought of it!" I said, 
 
 Can any one so thoughtless be ; 
 To spin in such a shade as this. 
 And never think about the tree ? 
 
 Shade is such a blessed thing 
 In an arid, sultrv clime ; 
 
 Sloping eastward, sloping westward. 
 Rough old dial of the time ! 
 
 And I threw myself beneath it. 
 Thinking of a thousand things : 
 
 Oh ! if we could but catch the thoughts 
 That hurry by, on gleaming wings, 
 
20 SUWANEE. 
 
 And look at them with mortal eyes, 
 The form uncrushed, the hue un- 
 soiled ! 
 But oh ! they are like butterflies — 
 We catch them, and they're torn 
 and spoiled. 
 
 Have I not been just as thoughtless, 
 In a smooth and sheltered wav ; 
 
 Blessings, handed down from ages. 
 All around me, every day ! 
 
 All the steps there are between 
 The savage, in his squalid home ; 
 
 And this great age, that's all aflush 
 With glory, like a tropic noon! 
 
 All the world, a stubborn conquest. 
 From the wilderness and fen : 
 
SUWANEE. 21 
 
 Circled now by mighty cities, 
 Busy liaimts of working men ; 
 
 With great thoughts, that isolate them, 
 Dreaming not of gold or fame ; 
 
 Hammering out the hot idea. 
 On the anvil of the brain ; 
 
 Till, starting into earnest life, 
 
 And throbbing with a pulse of fire, 
 
 It makes reluctant powers confess 
 A conquering force, that cannot tire. 
 
 These kings of thought, that rule the 
 world. 
 And leave a track of light through 
 time, 
 In which we bask, and quite forget 
 The darkness of our dismal prime ; 
 
22 SUWANEE. 
 
 That find the hidden soul of things, 
 And set our life to music ; so 
 
 That poorer souls have caught the fire, 
 And find their dulness all aglow. 
 
 And how come these imperial thoughts ? 
 
 Do they steal into bowers of ease, 
 To sluggard souls, that idly dream. 
 
 With no one but themselves to 
 please ? 
 
 Oh ! no. They're jealous even as God. 
 
 With sternest voice they call the 
 true : 
 
 "I want thy heart, thy strength, thy life. 
 
 For aught that I reveal to you." 
 
 '' They died ;" we say, '' they left us this." 
 All onward steps are o'er the dead : 
 
SUWANEE. 23 
 
 And Freedom from a bath of blood 
 Her blessing on the world hatli shed. 
 
 And Creeds that were baptized with 
 fire, 
 
 We say, with hearts so far away, 
 When this old Avorld's most awful page 
 
 Is crowded into what we say. 
 
 We walk as if on common soil, 
 When every grain is sacred dust ; 
 
 When all the highways of the world 
 Are worn by human feet for us. ■ 
 
 The Indian, guessing at his doom. 
 And fearful by his midnight fires, 
 
 Is of a higher type than I, 
 
 A thankless child of martyr-sires. 
 
24 SUWANEE. 
 
 With many thanks, I left the woman, 
 Spinning by her lonesome door; 
 
 The shadows growing longer, darker, 
 And she a pictm-e evermore. 
 
 That faded, as the sunset faded, 
 And the evening winds unrolled 
 
 Violet curtains, golden-bordered. 
 Crimson, barred with dusky gold. 
 
 Linger ever, slow Suwanee, 
 
 Linger 'mid thy musky bloom ! 
 
 Linger in my memory ever. 
 
 Like some wild and mournful tune. 
 
 
TO THE HUDSON. 
 
 BRIMMING, restless river! 
 I know you are aUve : 
 I see your pulses rise and fall, 
 I hear your strong breath over all. 
 Like an imprisoned spirit's call, 
 swift, unresting river ! 
 
 rushing, restless river! 
 
 What have you lost for ever? 
 You are hurrying to the shore. 
 To the ocean evermore : 
 And are calling o'er and o'er. 
 In passionate, wild lore. 
 
 As for something gone for ever 
 
26 TO THE HUDSON. 
 
 You keep asking it, for ever, 
 From the unanswering shore ; 
 From the old rocks bending o'er, 
 From the starlight, cold and high. 
 From all that you float by, 
 
 supplicating river! 
 
 But, whatever it may be, 
 Though but half guessed by me; 
 Yet that perpetual moan. 
 For what's for ever gone. 
 The heart answers, evermore. 
 Something that will come no more : 
 We may call it, o'er and o'er, 
 But it answers us, no more, 
 No more, restless river! 
 

 ii) 
 
 SOME THOUGHTS ON A CATERPILLAR. 
 
 EVER saw thy winged mother, 
 Sleeping on the thistle-bloom ; 
 
 Living all her life on flowers, 
 Smishine, honey, and perfume. 
 
 Can it be that her rich life 
 Moves in thee, on fmiy rings ? 
 
 Is thy low condition lighted. 
 By the hope of future wings ? 
 
 Life has laid no burden on thee. 
 Not an egg — and not a nest : 
 
 All thy business to be gnawing. 
 At the leaf beneath thy breast. 
 
28 SOME THOUGHTS OX A CATERPILLAR. 
 
 And to spin that silky cell, 
 Infold tliyself, and undergo 
 
 That transforming — how it is, 
 None of us will ever know. 
 
 None can see how is it with thee, 
 
 In that silky cell alone ; 
 Is the thought of thy winged glory, 
 
 All thou hast to feed upon? 
 
 'Tis a process full of wonders, 
 
 And nature seals it from our eyes; 
 
 We only see the empty cell — 
 
 The soaring wings with lustrous dyes. 
 
 There is comfort in thy presence. 
 Creeping thing we brush aside ; 
 
 Lives that seem to liave no purpose, 
 Clasp the purpose they divide. 
 
SOME THOUGHTS ON A CATERPILLAR. 
 
 29 
 
 Come to me when Eeason's asking, 
 ^^ How can it be the dead shall rise ?" 
 
 Come when my faith is faint and 
 falters, 
 Bring thy close-folded mysteries. 
 
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 TO A GRASSHOPPER IN OCTOBER. 
 
 OVNCE a young and lovely mortal* 
 Sought the Goddess of the morning, 
 Asking for immortal life, 
 But asked it not, for his adorning. 
 
 And when he grew old and ugly, 
 Wearied with the lonesome years. 
 
 And dreading life far more than death. 
 He begged for death to end his fears. 
 
 But immortal life once a:iven. 
 She herself could not recall, 
 
 But put that life in lower form. 
 And kept him conscious of his fall. 
 
 * Tithonus. 
 
TO A GRASSHOPPER IN OCTOBER. 31 
 
 Now burdened by a mighty sorrow, 
 That will leave him nevermore, 
 
 Hope, that loves to lie and linger, 
 Lingered round his fate no more. 
 
 So through Summer's changing glory, 
 Sounds thy screaming protest far, 
 
 With thy unrelenting fate 
 Everlastingly at war. 
 
 Do you know that you are telling 
 All the day, and all night long, 
 
 That the selfish and the grasping 
 Have within a lower form ? 
 
 And if lower, so a higher. 
 If our deeds deserve acclaim : 
 
 Our before and our hereafter 
 Clasped in one unbroken chain. 
 
32 TO A GRASSHOPPER IN OCTOBER. 
 
 Though the outward keep its sem- 
 blance, 
 Yet within, the lowest range 
 Of life that crawls and stings may 
 dwell, 
 And be self-conscious of the change. 
 
 And we may see the thing we are, 
 Infolded in the thing we seem ; 
 
 The impulse of a lower life. 
 
 Still mastering with a power su- 
 preme. 
 
 Every look and tone betraying. 
 How far off from its first glory; 
 
 So it may not all be fable, 
 This metempsychosis story. 
 
TO A GRASSHOPPER IN OCTOBER. 
 
 33 
 
 NoAV all wearied out, and dying, 
 Fate, to mortals still akin, 
 
 Never losing all the impress 
 Of the old ancestral sin. 
 
 2* 
 
THE ZANAIDA DOVE. 
 
 t 
 
 LONE Zanaida dove 
 Sat in a wild lime-tree, 
 
 And sung until the cold bright moon 
 Sank down beneath the sea. 
 
 And thus she sang: Where is he? 
 What keeps him thus away ? 
 
 I've watched through all the lustrous 
 night, 
 And through the fiery day. 
 
 I sang and then I listened, 
 But the dashing of the sea, 
 
 And the rustling of the summer leaves 
 Were all that answered me. 
 
THE ZAXAIDA DOVE. 35 
 
 So in the brooding twilight, 
 
 I sat with folded wing ; 
 And the red birds asked me, flying 
 home, 
 
 Why could I not still sing. 
 
 But when the stars came out, 
 I sang so loud and clear, 
 
 The whole night-air was melody — 
 And yet he did not hear. 
 
 And then so loud I sang, 
 That the hunter passing on, 
 
 And the Indian in his swift canoe, 
 Both lingered for the song. 
 
 But yet he comes not, and the dawn 
 Is stealing o'er the sky — 
 
 My wings are heavy, and my heart. 
 And there's dimness in my eye. 
 
36 THE ZANAIDA DOVE. 
 
 And then, so soft and low, her notes 
 Filled all the morning air, 
 
 With few to listen, and those few 
 Knew not that Death was there. 
 
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 TO AN OMNIBUS-HORSE. 
 
 §Cl 
 
 look into thine eye, 
 Something seems to ask of me, 
 '^Why am I so all forgot, 
 
 In the Avorld-wide sympathy ? " 
 
 Something sad, which says, ^^ Fm 
 weary. 
 
 Weary of the dusty road ; 
 Weary of the whip and wheel, 
 
 Weary of the over-load." 
 
 With thy dreamy gaze afar. 
 As if ungrazed pastures lay. 
 
 Heavy with the fragrant grass, 
 Waiting thee, in some far day. 
 
38 TO AN OMXIBUS-HORSE. 
 
 Pilled with all the perfect patience, 
 Which the saints have won through 
 prayers, 
 
 Self-will, muscle, strength subcUied, 
 To another will than theirs. 
 
 Would that we had larger Creeds, 
 More unselfish, and could feel, 
 
 Not alone for our poor selves. 
 Is the great hereafter's weal. 
 
 If the chariots of Elijah, 
 
 Had not phantom horses to — 
 
 May you not find fields of rest. 
 Somewhere in the endless blue ? 
 
CINDERELLA. 
 
 INDERELLA ! Cinderella ! 
 
 See, the hour is on the chime : 
 Hurry, ere the golden glamour 
 
 Falleth from these rags of thine. 
 
 Candles have a sickly shimmer, 
 
 Silk and lace are limp and trailing ; 
 
 And the music of the waltz 
 Has an undertone of wailing. 
 
 Eyes, adoring, bid thee linger ; 
 
 Hurry by each murmured tone; 
 Let the disenchantment find thee 
 
 In the sacredness of home. 
 
40 CINDERELLA. 
 
 Cinderella ! darling fiction ! 
 
 Sternest truth, in fairy guise ; 
 Shams and skeletons of life, 
 
 Wrapped about with golden lies ; 
 
 Golden lies, whose sweet delusion 
 Vanishes at Truth's assize ; 
 
 Brings us sackcloth, brings us ashes, 
 Conquered, desolate, but wise. 
 
 Cinderella ! hurry home ! 
 
 Sit down by the ashes cold, 
 Symbol of what's waiting us. 
 
 Whether we are young or old. 
 
 Art thou but a fairy story. 
 
 Brought to us on fancy's wings ? 
 
 Or a glittering summing up. 
 Of tlie real state of things ? 
 
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 TO DEATH. 
 
 KNOW that thou wilt come, 
 ^^ When far away from home, 
 % My thoughts are idling amidst earth- 
 ly things ; 
 While hurrying to and fro, 
 My soul will rise and go, 
 I know not how, on her resplendent 
 wings : 
 
 And lulled upon thy breast, 
 In that transition rest, 
 That other world Avill break, as breaks 
 the dawn : 
 Its splendor veiled at first. 
 We could not hear the burst, 
 But for thy sleep, of that refulgent 
 morn. 
 
42 TO DEATH. 
 
 sight! that angels see, 
 Free as the air is free ! 
 Where is the guide to that unseen 
 abode ? 
 death ! thou wert the key, 
 That set my spirit free — 
 Thou'lt never know the mysteries of 
 the road. 
 
 We make no day of rest, 
 Nor call a single guest, 
 Nor strew our house with flowers when 
 thou art coming: 
 Our doors are dark with thee. 
 Our souls too faint to see, 
 That close behind thee is the eternal 
 morning. 
 
CLIO. 
 
 ^^SE Muse of History sleeps, 
 
 When the wheat and corn are 
 
 vr growing, 
 
 When the men are all a-field, 
 When the mills are all a-going ; 
 When the marriage-bells are ringing, 
 
 When the grapes have time to grow ; 
 When we talk of harvest-home, 
 
 When the ships sail to and fro. 
 She's been a sleeping long. 
 
 And the old, old names, are dim ; 
 And the sw^ords are rusted deep, 
 
 And we sing no martial liymn. 
 
44 CLIO. 
 
 But now the drum's long roll, 
 
 And the cannon's heavy roar, 
 And the solemn martial music, 
 
 Have stirred her soul once more ; 
 And a host of names are waiting, 
 
 An army of the dead. 
 That were suddenly immortal. 
 
 With half their lives unsaid — 
 Great names, all steeped in glory; 
 
 Let her take them, one by one, 
 And crown herself with jewels. 
 
 As dazzling as the sun. 
 
THE WRECKED MAN. 
 
 ATTERED ruin of a man, 
 
 Wreck of many a mastering 
 storm, 
 
 Every thing is shrinking from thee, 
 Even the mud upon thy form. 
 
 Thou hast been through all the by-ways, 
 Sloping from the ways of God: 
 
 None need care to know the abysses, 
 Which thy sinful feet have trod. 
 
 Nothing left of thy high lineage. 
 Nothing left in heart or brain, 
 
46 THE WRECKED MAN. 
 
 That answers to the electric chord, 
 Which stretches back from whence 
 you came. 
 
 Nothing of the spark immortal, 
 Smouldering in the ashes low, 
 That will answer when the roll-call 
 
 Startles all the hosts below. 
 
 Will nature take these worthless atoms. 
 And make them up anew once more ? 
 
 Or leave them, in her utter loathing, 
 Unto this world's death-doomed shore ? 
 
GREEGREES. 
 
 HAT are Greegrees ? Tell me 
 quick/' 
 Said a curious child one day. 
 ^'Greegrees, child, are ugly idols 
 Made of wood and stone and 
 clay.' 
 
 ^^Tell me where there is a Greegree, 
 Tell me quick, I want to see." 
 
 ^^ Child, there are no Greegrees here, 
 Heathens have them o'er the sea." 
 
 Then I heard a demon laughing. 
 Low, derisive, in my ear: 
 ^^ Let us have a Greegree hunt — 
 Child, there's lots of Greegrees here. 
 
48 GREEGREES. 
 
 ^^ Honest Grebo takes his Greegree, 
 Puts him up where all may see : 
 But the Christian keeps his hid, 
 And pays him tithes in secresy. 
 
 '' See them hoarding year by year, 
 Striving fiercely with each other; 
 Is it not to have a Greegree, 
 Somewhat finer than his brother ? 
 
 ^^Some are hid in crypts all mouldy, 
 Some with jewels all ablaze : 
 They call them by a thousand names. 
 They worship in a thousand ways. 
 
 ^^They turn to them for consolation, 
 When disheartened and alone ; 
 Many a man his soul has given, 
 
 For the Greegree in his home. 
 
GREEGREES. 49 
 
 ^^ But tliey never call them Greegrees ; 
 Oh! nOj child^ for that Avoiild be 
 Confessing, that they are no better 
 Than honest heathens o'er the sea. 
 
 ^'But if you could see their likeness, 
 Like the heathen's, cast in clay, 
 Grappling with a hundred hands, 
 You would flee in fright away. 
 
 ^'But their moral likeness hiding, 
 Underneath some specious guise, 
 Woos you, wins you, holds you fast. 
 With a thousand tangled ties. 
 
 ^^ Child, they have so many Greegrees, 
 That they beat their heathen brother 
 Just as much in this one thing. 
 As they have in every other.'^ 
 
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 SCALPS. 
 
 tLL the glory of October, 
 ^_^ Lighted up Nebraska's gloom : 
 Dreary hills, and swamps, and for- 
 ests, 
 Flushed Avith red and golden bloontJI 
 
 Not a sail upon her rivers, 
 Not a fmTow on her plains : 
 
 One vast waste, where busy Nature 
 In undisturbed defiance reigns. 
 
 Nature, in supreme dominion, 
 Weighs oppressively on man ; 
 
 And her silence, and her thunder, 
 Say : ^^ Eternally I am. 
 
« 
 
 SCALPS. 51 
 
 ^^ Eternal am — and you are nothing — 
 Countless millions come and go : 
 I live in unmolested laws, 
 
 And in my youth's unfaded glow." 
 
 All the splendor of a sunset 
 Was a-hurrying, like a fire, 
 
 O'er the trembling prairie-grasses, 
 Up the cedar's heavy spire : 
 
 Through the stormy piles of clouds, 
 Rolling westward, with the day, 
 
 Till they looked like hills of fire. 
 That slowly burned themselves away. 
 
 Wandering in the crimson darkness, 
 Till it deepened into night, 
 
 I came upon an Indian wigwam. 
 With its watch-fire blazing bright. 
 
52 SCALPS. 
 
 Fierce and painted, sat a Pawnee, 
 With a scalp beside him hung ; 
 
 Fresli from some unequal contest, 
 With the trophy he had won. 
 
 Should I go on, in the darkness, 
 Trust the hungry wolves till dawn ; 
 
 Or, like a guest that comes unbidden. 
 Have no right to see the wrong ? 
 
 Reason's vassal to our wishes ; 
 
 We are used to men veneered — 
 Here was nature in the rough, 
 
 Not a bit more to be feared. 
 
 What are scalps ? they are but trophies, 
 In a different state of things. 
 
 Talked of under different names. 
 They bedeck the courts of kimrs. 
 
SCALPS. 53 
 
 Old, ancestral blood, that glories 
 In a date of coarser times, 
 
 Has a scalp for its escutcheon. 
 Hid beneath heraldic lines ; 
 
 Heraldic lines, that take the triumph, 
 And tell it, in such mazy dies, 
 
 As make a nimbus round the wrong, 
 And hides it from incurious eyes. 
 
 Every deadly hate which rankles 
 ' All the wickedness we wish. 
 To its ultimate unfolded. 
 
 Might be symbolized by this. 
 
 No! dusky brother, you and I 
 Are not so far apart, but we. 
 
 By this watch-fire blazing high. 
 May pass the night in harmony. 
 
m^-^^'^mm 
 
 
 THE CRANE. 
 
 E had a young white crane, 
 An ugly, unfledged thing; 
 
 All legs, and bill, with just a tuft, 
 A little tuft, of wing. 
 
 He stretched his bill, no mother filled, 
 And swallowed fish all raw ; 
 
 He crouched alone, the whole day long, 
 And bit at all he saw. 
 
 And we had half a mind to kill, 
 
 The cross and ugly thing : 
 His long legs trod down all the flowers, 
 
 And fish were hard to bring. 
 
THE CRANE. 55 
 
 But, by and by, the ugly bird 
 
 Grew wonderfully fair ; 
 So white, that rich, and heavy white. 
 
 Which only feathers are. 
 
 His snowy wings grew strong and wide, 
 He stretched them now and then ; 
 
 No mother taught him how to fly. 
 So he folded them again. 
 
 He stood one morn, in the cool gray dawn. 
 
 Upon the cistern's side. 
 And eyed the heavens, so blue and far. 
 
 And the gulf so blue and wide. 
 
 Then stretched his wings and soared away, 
 
 With a loud, exultant cry. 
 Till the lonely, swampy, mangrove keys 
 
 Were all 'twixt him and I. 
 
56 
 
 THE CRANE. 
 
 We too, have that within us, 
 Which wings will one day be, 
 
 And we shall soar, in some gray dawn, 
 From life's captivity. 
 
 We think not while we're chafing, 
 
 In fetters here below, 
 That our unthought-of pinions 
 
 Are gathering strength to go. 
 
 Key "West, Florida. 
 
THE MTION^S APPEAL. 
 
 E Sons of Sires ! with deathless 
 
 names, 
 
 The stars around our freedom's 
 
 brow ; 
 
 Te Sons of Sires, who died to save 
 
 Our Country, rally round her now. 
 
 The polar snows are on her head. 
 Her feet are in the summer seas ; 
 
 On East and West her oceans roll : 
 She's set in crystal. Gifts like these, 
 
 Of length, and breadth, and varied clime. 
 No nation ever had for dower : 
 
58 THE NATION'S APPEAL. 
 
 God kept this gift^ to see how man 
 
 Would use such trusty could bear such 
 power. 
 She was not born when all was night, 
 
 'Mid myths and fables, lost in gloom ; 
 But all the world was at her birth, 
 
 And Art had almost reached its noon. 
 One spacious home — a thousand gates — 
 
 To poor, oppressed, wide open flung ; 
 They came, for o'er three hundred years. 
 
 In ships whose flags spoke every 
 tongue ! 
 They left old homes beyond the seas. 
 
 Old longings for accustomed things ; 
 Old ways of life, that pulled them back. 
 
 And held them by a thousand strings ! 
 But Freedom strikes a deeper chord, 
 
 That stirs, as thunder stirs the sky. 
 
THE NATION'S APPEAL. 59 
 
 And startles all the power that's hid 
 Deep down, where all the pulses lie ! 
 
 Freedom, and peace, and home they 
 sought, 
 And found : were any turned away ? 
 
 Oh ! answer with your million tongues, 
 For Heaven will echo what you say. 
 
 Sons of Sires ! with glorious names, 
 
 They left this land in trust to thee ; 
 Remember all the price it cost — 
 
 No cowards there, to shrink or flee ! 
 "We do not count it up in gold ; 
 
 We count the precious loss we bore. 
 In fathers, sons, who left their homes. 
 
 To conquer, but returned no more ! 
 If any foreign foe should come. 
 
 You'd rise, as rises ocean's wave, 
 
60 THE NATION'S APPEAL. 
 
 That sweeps with its resistless force, 
 
 All down to an unfathomed grave. 
 And if an impious hand should dare, 
 
 To lay her virgin glory low, 
 Shall we shrink back with coward fear. 
 
 Because a brother strikes the blow ? 
 There's something dearer than your kin. 
 
 There's something holier than your 
 home ; 
 It is a Nation's bugle call, 
 
 That startles millions with its tone ! 
 And answered by as many hearts, 
 
 From lordly homes, from homesteads 
 low ; 
 From where the trade-winds fan the 
 cane. 
 
 To where the wheat is hid in snow ! 
 All met with one heart beatino: time ! 
 
THE NATION'S APPEAL. 61 
 
 One holy purpose^ stern and grand. 
 
 Take life, and gold, and home, and kin, 
 
 But touch not this GoD-given land. 
 
 They say our Country's race is run. 
 
 That Patriot fire is burning low. 
 That Freedom has lain down to die. 
 
 And Peace has spread her wings to go. 
 sons of such a land as this ! 
 
 Vast, undivided, rich, and free, 
 Count all things dust and ashes now. 
 
 But this great trust they left to thee. 
 
THE WITCH OF ENDOR. 
 
 ^^HE night-wind stirs the cedar-trees, 
 
 It parts them^ and we see a home ; 
 
 The shimmering stars are faint and 
 
 far, 
 
 They hardly Hght the purple dome. 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 We catch a glimpse of woman's form ; 
 
 If old or young, we cannot see : 
 She comes mixed up with all that's old ; 
 
 Evil and old, all seems to be. 
 
 She lives a life that's set apart. 
 Suspected, as if hid in sin : 
 
 We see her dimly, in the dark — 
 We cannot see the soul within. 
 
THE WITCH OF ENDOR. 63 
 
 If dealing in forbidden things, 
 She's sullied all the life behind, 
 
 And dwells apart, because she is 
 The hated, hunted, of her kind. 
 
 Or swept the chambers of her soul. 
 And taken earthly idols down, 
 
 A higher Power hath so absorbed. 
 She hath no impulse of her own. 
 
 We do not know. A few short hours. 
 Between the dusks of night and day, 
 
 In which she does so many things. 
 And brings so many powers in play. 
 
 We see a royal form disguised, 
 
 That comes to her, in starlight dim — 
 
 A regal form, a coward heart. 
 
 All coward, from its weight of sin ; 
 
64 THE WITCH OF EXDOR. 
 
 That seeks from lier forbidden art, 
 To know the worst that can befall: 
 
 Such anguish crowns that heavy night, 
 He'll face the dead, to know it all. 
 
 We know not how — if seen, or felt, 
 So dim the light by which we see. 
 
 That ^^ old man with the mantle on :" 
 A phantom form, or was it he? 
 
 He wears the garb of priests and kings. 
 He tells the doom he told before — 
 
 The words of God, and not his own ; 
 He says no less, he knows no more. 
 
 But all is lost — crown, country, life ; 
 
 The words grow sterner, hurrying by : 
 He feels them true, or what could make 
 
 That haughty form so prostrate lie? 
 
THE WITCH OF ENDOR. 65 
 
 Two mighty guests Avithin her doors ! 
 
 An instant, and she knows it all : 
 And what was she, with hunted life, 
 
 Before that ghost, and kingly Saul ? 
 
 The Witch of Endor fades away — 
 We see the woman more and more. 
 
 Now busy in so many ways. 
 The stricken monarch to restore. 
 
 The lowly household work, we see 
 All kindest feelings called in play ; 
 
 Heart finding voice in homely toil. 
 That awe, forbid a word to say. 
 
 And bread and meat she humbly brings. 
 To strengthen him upon his road. 
 
 The weary road he travels back, 
 So long, so dark, so far from God. 
 
66 
 
 THE WITCH OF EXDOR. 
 
 Time hides some things in dusty crypts ; 
 
 But take the torch-light of to-day 
 And light them up, and they will give 
 
 Their meaning, to its searching ray. 
 
 But Endor's witch ! three thousand years 
 Are sleeping on this old cartoon ; 
 
 Its mistiness is not from time, 
 And time will ne'er one point illume. 
 

 dG (O.G c>G dG c).G dG (D.G tlG dG dG dG dG dG dG cD.G dG tL, ^. v 
 
 THE BALLAD OF COCKEY'S FIELDS. 
 
 )T was on Sunday's holy day, 
 
 There came a fearful sound ; 
 Five thousand hostile, armed men, 
 Were marching on the town. 
 
 They were as far as Cockeysville, 
 Five thousand in the van ; 
 
 And with ten thousand more behind, 
 For so the rumor ran. 
 
 The cliildren cried, the Avomen screamed — 
 For scream they always will — 
 
 And did you ever know a fright, 
 Enough to keep them still? 
 
68 THE BALLAD OF COCKE Y'S FIELDS. 
 
 And good folks in the cliurclies met, 
 
 Arose and went away, 
 As if in siicli a din as this, 
 
 It was no use to pray. 
 
 And sober folks had lost their wits, 
 And running up and down, 
 
 To see if they could buy or beg 
 Some arms besides their own. 
 
 Until at last some wiser head 
 
 Suggested he would go. 
 And see how many men there were, 
 
 Or if it could be so. 
 
 And started off, in hottest haste ; 
 
 The horse had caught the fire, 
 And flew along the old York road, 
 
 As if he could not tire ! 
 
THE BALLAD OF COCKEY'S FIELDS. 69 
 
 And there lie found two thousand men, 
 Unarmed, in helpless plight, 
 
 They did not have a thing to eat — 
 Had slept out doors all night. 
 
 And so he rode up brave, and said, 
 ^^ What are you doing here ? 
 
 Why did you come ? What do you want ? 
 How many in the rear ? 
 
 And then the Captain he replied, 
 Most courteously to him : 
 
 ^/We stopped — because the bridge was 
 burnt. 
 We had to stop — or swim. 
 
 ^^ We're going on to Washington, 
 Because we have been sent : 
 We are unarmed, we have no food, 
 ISTor any base intent. 
 
70 THE BALLAD OF COCKEY'S FIELDS. 
 
 " But when Old Abe, the war-note sounds, 
 From East and West, Ave come ! 
 Armed and unarmed, the young, the old, 
 The Vandal and the Hun. 
 
 ^^ Hurrah for our old Stars and Stripes, 
 Afloat on ship or shore ! 
 It never waved o'er coward heads — 
 God guard it evermore ! " 
 
 And so came back the messenger, 
 As fleet as comes the wind : 
 
 The very horse half-understood 
 The load he left behind ! 
 
 And so they called the Fathers out, 
 
 The Fathers of the town. 
 Wisdom has always dwelt with them, 
 
 From Pagan Eomans, down. 
 
THE BALLAD OF COCKEY'S FIELDS. 71 
 
 And they resolved, no ^'hostile foot 
 Shall ever cross our soil ; 
 
 That all should arm themselves, and 
 keep 
 Our fields and towns from spoil. 
 
 '' We'll tear our railroads up a space, 
 We'll burn our bridges doAvn ; 
 That no invading foe may harm, 
 Our old and stately town." 
 
 And when defence was all arranged, 
 All warlike plans were laid. 
 
 The softer counsels of the heart 
 Stole upward to the head ! 
 
 '^ We'll send them something up to eat, 
 Or all these famished men. 
 Will not have strength enough to go, 
 Back to their homes again ! " 
 
72 
 
 THE BALLAD OF COCKEY'S FIELDS. 
 
 And SO great loads of all good things, 
 Went creaking up the road — 
 
 A sort of music in the wheels, 
 A moral in the load ! 
 
 Hurrah for South ! Hurrah for North ! 
 
 Hurrah for om' great land ! 
 Three cheers for this old brotherhood ! 
 
 This brotherhood of man! 
 
 Baltimore, April, 1861. 
 
^k)M 
 
 "^ 
 
 f bI^SSl JS^^WL J^^^^Il 15 
 
 HOW THE CAT GOT OUT OF THE BAG. 
 
 OW, Neddy, come teH me what is it 
 you said, 
 About Sissy's wedding ? You 
 know I desired 
 To keep it aU quiet, and have a surprise, 
 And not have it taHved of tiU people 
 were tired." 
 
 ^^ I never said wedding ; I said. Sissy 
 bought 
 A lot of nice things, and a white 
 satin gown, 
 With a veil that hung trailing way 
 down to the floor, 
 And white satin shoes, and a wreath 
 like a crown. 
 
74 HOW THE CAT GOT OUT OF THE BAG. 
 
 ^^Tliat cook made a cake quite as big 
 as a tub, 
 With flowers on the top, all as 
 Avliite as the snow, 
 With turkey, and chickens, and bottles 
 of wine ; 
 But I never said luedding^ or mar- 
 Tied J I knoivJ^ 
 
 '^ Now, Neddy, my darling, come tell me 
 what else ; 
 For the gown and the cake for a 
 party might be ; 
 And we always have chickens, and tur- 
 keys, and wine ; 
 So don't be afraid — tell the whole 
 
 thing to me. 
 
 )» 
 
HOW THE CAT GOT OUT OF THE BAG. 
 
 16 
 
 " Well, I said how Tom Caton was com- 
 ing to-night, 
 And that Sissy would be off to-mor- 
 row at four; 
 And they made all the rest right out 
 of whole cloth ; 
 For I never said wedding, or any 
 thing more." 
 
OCTOBER AND NOVEMBER. 
 
 CTOBER came in like a queen, 
 
 With royal robes of gold, and red. 
 And painted leaves of every tint. 
 Beneath her lingering feet were 
 spread. 
 Her lap was full of brilliant flowers, 
 
 And purple grapes, and golden corn ; 
 Her sunsets blazed like altar-fires. 
 And half the world seemed rolled 
 thereon. 
 She waited till the fields were bare. 
 
 The fruit was picked from every tree. 
 Then went away one crimson eve, 
 
 And met the storm, upon the sea. 
 
OCTOBER AND NOVEMBER. ^'^ 
 
 thoughtful, gray November ! 
 
 You come to a banquet o'er ; 
 And the summer's dithyrambics 
 
 Are heard on the breeze no more. 
 
 Then come, let us sit together, 
 On this cold and windy hill, 
 
 And hear the measured cadence. 
 Which field, and forest fill ; 
 
 The long and low complaining. 
 
 Which comes from each forest tree, 
 
 Like the inconsolable murmur. 
 
 That sounds from the distant sea : 
 
 And hear the dead leaves telling. 
 The story so sad, and so old — 
 
 They tell it each year, November ! 
 We forget it, as soon as it's told. 
 

 ^^^^^^i/ 
 
 ON HEARING AN OLD SCOTCH AIR. 
 
 TO 
 
 >E know who sung that song when 
 we were children, 
 "^ In the long twilight of the sum- 
 mer days ; 
 Low, precious music, when the Avood 
 and river 
 Lav in the solemn red of sunset's 
 blaze. 
 
 That home, how fair it stood, by that 
 swift river ; 
 Cool grass^ old trees, all fragrant 
 things, were there ; 
 
ON HEARING AX OLD SCOTCH AIR. 79 
 
 Sweet walks wound all about through 
 shady places, 
 And thick, old pines made music on 
 the air. 
 
 We sang that song alone^ when we were 
 older. 
 All mournful things were in it ; faint- 
 er fell 
 Our voices, when the twilight deepened 
 o'er us. 
 And old, sad memories hushed us like 
 a spell. 
 
 We were alone^ yet hope had spread be- 
 fore us 
 Those visions fair, which cheat us all 
 in turn. 
 Which bend like rainbows on the glad 
 to-morrow, 
 But yesterday become a pall and urn. 
 
80 ox HEARLVG AN OLD SCOTCH AIR. 
 
 And now alone, afar, with sunset . shed- 
 ding 
 All the rich hues of this delicious 
 clime. 
 That song goes floating by — a voice 
 which startles 
 Forth from their graves that home, 
 those hopes of mine. 
 
 Where is that home ? Within it dwell- 
 eth others. 
 Where are those hopes ? For others 
 still they glow. 
 But for those hopes, that home, afar, 
 eternal. 
 How insupportable were human woe ! 
 
vPJC^V^ vPJv^^ *VfvO^^ aCr)ifo)y« 
 
 TO THE POETS. 
 
 ^^^HE poets have done this for us, 
 5|E) have given us utterance : 
 
 For half of us are dumb, and 
 have no word, 
 And what we feel struggles and dies 
 untold, 
 When joy or sorrow to its depths is 
 stirred. 
 
 They have been up, to where we could 
 not breathe ; 
 And down, to Nature's sacred depth 
 of tears ; 
 
82 TO THE POETS. 
 
 And brought the rich, lost language of 
 the soul, 
 
 To soothe the discord of our sinful 
 years. 
 
 They call us ever from the Olden Ages, 
 Over the wreck of Empires, and we 
 glow, 
 
 Beneath the unworn splendor of their 
 thoughts. 
 
 And feel akin to all that's great below. 
 
 The Poets have done this; their touch 
 immortal. 
 Falls here and there, Earth ! on 
 things of thine. 
 
 And sends them, all imperishable, on- 
 ward, 
 
 As long as human hearts beat 
 human time. 
 
TO THE POETS. 83 
 
 It may be dear, to have the bay-leaves 
 bound 
 Around our brows, by cold and cau- 
 tious Fame, 
 That, as the centuries go rolling by, 
 Picks, now and then, reluctantly, a 
 name. 
 
 But to have said some words, which 
 will be dear 
 To human hearts, while human hearts 
 beat high — 
 Name, race, and clime forgotten — 'tis 
 to be 
 Lost, in sweet Nature's language, not 
 to die. 
 
/y 
 
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