Class J Book GopyrightN^ S 1%^^ COPYRtGHT DEPOSIT. -^^/ Poems of the Heart Rev. T. F. Hildreth, A. M., D. D. NORWALK. OHIO THE LANING COMPANY 1903 rxHF LIBRARY OF OONORESS, ore. :> n02 CLASH CX ,yxo No. ^ CDPY B. COPYRIGHT REV. T. F. HILDRETH, A. M., D. D. 1903 ^1.^..^..J^^^^ ^ .^vjioL..a^> •• ; .•'«^^^^"^^'f^^ ' ^ ■ ^ SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MY WIFE TO THE READER My reason for offering this volume of poems to the public is neither the love of gain, nor a desire for fame ; but the earnest thought that the hopes it may inspire, and the faith it may increase, will make it a benediction to those who love "The True, the Beautiful, and the Good." Many of these were written years ago when I was engaged in pastoral duties, and were suggested by various scenes and incidents which came under my observation and into my experiences. Some of them were suggested by a careful study of the problems of science, and the progress of scientific inves- tigations in the results of which I have ever felt a profound interest. Others of them originated in a careful observation and an adoring love of Nature, which has ever been to me a gospel of beauty, and a source of spiritual exaltation. Many of them express the most sacred relations and experiences of life, and have been evolved from the lights and shades, the smiles and tears that fall upon the path and make up the history of our years. May the spirit in which my poems have been written be reproduced in all who may read them. The Author. INDEX. PAGE Alone with God 24 Autumn Tints 33 A Sabbath Evening Reverie 42 A Woman's Hate 69 A Living Soul 96 At My Brother's Grave 99 A Living Presence 134 Benediction 176 Crucified Innocence 107 Christmas Greetings 172 Conscience 164 Does Death End All ? 60 Death's Harvest 83 Evolution 159 El-Capitan 52 Earth's New Day 112 Ego Sum 125 From Death to Life 44 Good Bye All 91 Heart Whispers 56 Home Land of the Spirit 86 His Name Shall be Called Wonderful 143 Hope 19 He Toucheth the Hills and They Smoke 80 viii INDEX. Invocation 1 In the Shadows 36 In the Beginning 92 In Potter's Field 98 I Am the Life 136 If I but Whisper Her Name 175 If We but Knew 163 L/Overs to the Last 5 Life' s October J 7 Love's Offering 37 Life's Highlands 67 Lengthening Shadows 84 Love's Tears 87 Light and Shade 110 Midnight W^hispers 13 Memory's vStorehouse 28 Moonlight in Yosemite 30 Morning on the Sierras 34 My Dear Old Clock 38 My Seventy-Fifth Birthday 85 Met in the Windowless Chamber 131 Mystic Borderland 138 My Backwoods Home 152 My Backwoods School 156 Nature's Orchestra 16 Nature's Gospel 41 Niagara 58 Not Far Between 142 Only Tenting 76 Our Dead President 82 Our Dead Heroes 100 O Death! 113 Our Golden W^edding 154 INDEX. ix PAGE On the Birthday of a Friend 155 Our Little Mary 168 Power to Become 128 Rest, Brother 106 Something Touched My Soul 9 Sabbath in Heaven 22 Spring on the Farm 26 Sunshine 45 Silent Forces 50 Silence 55 Sunbeams 141 Spirit Tendrils 173 Spring is Coming 170 Some One is Calling 57 The Poet's Realm 2 TheSculptor 6 The Picture on the Wall 8 The Withered Leaf 14 The Death Land 18 The Life Land 20 The Lost Mate , 23 This Heart of Mine 27 Things not Seen 29 The Dew- Kissed Rose 39 The Other Man with the Hoe 40 The Low Green Tent 43 The Draped Door 46 The Silent City 49 Twilight 63^ The Graveyard by the Bay 6^ The Morning Prayer 68 The Dear Old Flag 74 The Lost Navy 77 X INDEX. PAGE The Changeless Forever 81 The Old Man's Dream 88 The Everlasting Now 94 The Midnight Burial 97 The Twilight Bell 104 The Parted Ways 105 Take Him Down from the Cross Ill Then and Now 114 The Uncaused Cause 124 The First Robin 126 The Old and the New Century 129 Thanksgiving 132 The First Geranium Bud 139 The Old Family Cupboard 174 The Thought World 146 The Risen Christ 147 The Dying Year 151 The Song of the Lark 158 The Old South Woods 160 Thrashing with a Flail 166 The Ides of Spring 169 Voices from the Flowers 35 When the Spirit Steals Away 73 Whispered Greetings 127 When the Sun Goes Down 140 Yosemite's Lone Grave 150 Iiivociitioii. Great Spirit over all Breathe Thou on me — Thou Radiance divine Cause me to see. O Voice that speaks to me Cause me to hear — May every whispered word Fall on my ear. O Thou who art The Way Guide Thou my feet — In purity and love Make me complete. O Thou who art The Truth Be Thou my guide — In all the ways I choose Walk by my side. O Thou who art The Ufe lyive Thou in me — That I in all my ways May honor Thee. (1) 2 — The Poet's Realm. He stands upon the mystic shore that bounds The Now, and mutely gazes on the Limitless Beyond. Its vastness awes his Soul; for well the Poet knows that he who seeks To reign in these grand realms must needs be born Of Royal blood, and bear upon his heart The stamp of greatness. The empires of the Past, that lie beyond the dim outline of All historic scenes, are made as real By the poet's skill, as are the great events Recorded in the Book of Ages. From That eventful time, when, after darkness long Had brooded o'er the earth, its morning dawned, To this auspicious age in which the looms Of Reason in their ceaseless toil weave in The web of thought its golden threads of light — In this vast realm the poet's pen has won Unending fame. Inspired by love of right, His power for good is more than battle ax Or sword ; for he who wins his laurels on This field of strife, deserves a victor's crown Much more than he whose laurels drip with blood. He throws his search-light on the sepulcher Of Kings whose thrones long since have crumbled Into dust; and from the wrappings of the Grave he brings to life the honored dead whose Prowess ruled the world. No flaming sword hangs O'er the gates where trees of knowledge grow, and Yield their luscious fruit; and no avenging Angel drives him from their sheltering shade: Science, with sandaled feet, and searching eye, Has quarried in the rocks where buried forms Long since extinct, have been entombed for ages. Embalmed by Nature's secret art; but By the poet's magic pen these dead of Long ago are wakened into life, and Sea and land and sky, are vital with their Presence. Nor is this all: The Now, that like a Changing shore line marks the ages gone from Ages yet to come — with all its wealth and Woe — its wrongs and noble deeds — the Now that Rises like an island in the sea — then Sinks to never rise again — o'er this vast Realm forever changing in its view, the Poet roams like one inspired. Above The mists that hang upon the noiseless tide Of death that flows unchecked along life's Outer shore on which there ever waits a Weary host, the poet sees a painless. Tearless, deathless world, on which the light of Endless life forever rests; and where the Soul unhalted by the weight of years, will Rise to heights of truth which lie concealed Beyond his earthly vision. He sees the Awful depths where shipwrecked spirits. Amidst the gloom of blighted hopes and ghosts Of wasted years, in sullen silence wait — Sometimes with wail of woe, without one ray Of light to penetrate the fathomless Abyss. Of this dark realm, in fadeless black, Dante and Milton wrote, till fancy sees The lurid glow of quenchless fires, and hears The echo of a ceaseless wail. The pen Of Homer built for Greece a monument More grand than granite piles, and Virgil gave To Rome a fame that shines undimmed by years. When freedom crossed the seas, and planted On New England's rocky shore her flag; here 'Neath Columbia's sunny skies a new and Grander realm, stretched out before the poet's Eye, and from his fruitful pen broke forth a Nation's natal songs. When Treason lifted up Its bloody hands against the Nation's life, And freemen paled with fear; with pens that Flashed like burnished blades, our patriotic Bards inspired the hearts of the heroic men Who, for their country's honor, fought and fell. The poet sees the coming of a day, When swords unused will rust within their sheaths, And hostile armies never more will drench The earth with blood. When that auspicious time Has come — when Right is more than Might — when love Of Truth is more than love of Power, and greed Of wealth — a greater, and a grander realm, Will then unfold before the Poet's Vision. -5 — Lovers to the Last. The old man sat by the coffin, alone; Keeping vigil beside his dead wife. But his thoughts wandered back to the far away past, When in love, they began their long life. He saw the tide of the years gliding by, And the changes that came as it passed; But the love did not change with the years as they came, " We were lovers," he sobbed, " to the last." He stroked her white hair, while on her cold face His tear drops were falling so fast. And he kissed her mute lips, while in whispers he said: " We were lovers, indeed, to the last." The heart that once loves, will love evermore. Nor the years, nor yet death's chilling blast, Can dim nor conceal the pure love of the heart — Having loved, it will love to the last. --6 The Sculptor. He stood before the marble block, and gazed As one entranced upon its rough, Unpolished sides, as if he saw concealed Within its very heart, in clear outline, A form of matchless beauty. No word fell From his lips ; but in his eye there was a Clear, strange light, as if some new-born thought had Thrilled his soul. The artist saw imprisoned Beauty in that snow-white block, and fancied, With her shackled hands she beckoned him to Break her prison door, and set her free. Her Mute appeal fell ou the sculptor's heart like Pleading sorrow from the depths of grief, and From that hour one great, grand thought possessed him ; And in that thought there was contained a New Creation. But Art is born of worship ; And first he sought the Holy Place where Genius has her shrine, and offered as his Sacrifice a life of patient toil. The Artist waited till he heard " a still, small voice," Then seized his chisel with a purpose born Of faith, and care and toil became to him Like daily prayer and praise. As surely As the looms of life weave atoms into Perfect shape, — as grace and beauty In the plans of God may be evolved from Waste and death, — so too, the arti.st saw his / — Grand ideal, by his daily toil, emerging From that shapeless block. Sometimes the thought of Failure threw a gloom upon his heart, as clouds Throw down their shadows on the buds and opening Flowers, but have no power to stay the Noiseless tides of life ; so fear stayed not his hand, Nor chilled the tides of hope that daily had Inspired him. Success at last in triumph Placed her crown upon his brow. The mystic Form he first descried deep buried in the Marble block, now stood before him like a Thing of life. He laid his hand upon Its cold, white brow ; he touched its cheek as Gently as a mother prints a kiss upon Her sleeping baby's lips, — then smiled as if He heard a whispered word of love. Long time The sculptor stood and gazed upon the Faultless form created by his skill. But While in grace he saw it was complete, he Knew it was as lifeless as the quarried Block from which his hands had shaped it. No blush Of life was glowing on its cheek ; no light Of genius kindled in its eyes ; no breath Escaped its parted lips ; but, pulseless. Sightless, breathless, mindless, there it stood (In beauty unsurpassed as tested by the Critic's eye), a silent witness to the Truth, that none but He, who from the dust at First created man, can by his skill, or Word of power, create a Living Soul. The Picture on the Wall. There's a picture on the wall, To me, more beautiful than all The artist's sunset views — All his hills and rocks and trees — More than all his mountain scenes- More than all his boundless plains- Brighter than the morning light That succeeds the glow of night- — Serene and quiet as the glow When the evening sun hangs low : A picture dear to me as life — The picture of my sainted wife — I speak her name ; then bend my ear As if from her mute lips to hear A loving answer to my call ; But as I wait my warm tears fall. For well I know — and oh, the pain 1 She'll never answer me again. I look into her loving eyes As mild and clear as summer skies ; Rut though with love's light once they shone Their love light is forever gone. And yet to me they're all aglow, For from them yet there seems to flow The same pure love whose sacred power I've felt in trouble's darkest hour; For when the world's cold eye would chill And wound my heart, she loved me still. Dear picture hanging on the wall, Though beautiful, you are not all That's left of a devoted wife ; For still I have her noble life, Her simple faith, her love of prayer — A living presence everywhere. Something Touched My Soul. Out in the mists in search for Truth, I felt A something touch my soul — as when a hand Is gently laid upon the cheek to wake You from a dream. It thrilled along the Nerves of thought, and wakened most intense desire That stirred to its profoundest depths my Very being. Soul life is more than just To live — more than a throbbing of the Pulse, a beating of the heart : It is that Conscious inner life that feeds on truth, and In its search unfolds its greatest power. And finds its chief delight. A tiny seed When touched by nature's warming breath, will Soon unwrap its winding sheet, and beauty's Blush will tint the new born flower, while Fragrance sweet as breath of paradise, will Steal from out its parted lips, and fruit as lyUscious as the grapes of Eschol vines Reveals the secret of its hidden life. The touch of truth upon a soul is like a Sunbeam on the diamond's face ; it flashes Not alone upon its polished cheek, but Penetrates its heart from which there seems to Leap electric sparks — like gleams from an Imprisoned light. We grope in tangled webs Of thought amidst the mingled lights and shades Of theories and facts, till on the soul There comes a flash from some secreted truth As sunshine sometimes bursts through rifted clouds. Far out upon the frontier lines of thought, 10 With eager eye upturned, as one who in The night waits for the break of day — so stand Expectant souls amidst the gloom of Superstition's starless sky to catch the Dawning of a day in which the clouds of Error cherished long, shall flee away, And truth's clear light shall flood the world Of thought as noonday floods the hills and vale«. Truth's holy light means freedom to the souls Of men ; nor church, nor priest, nor state may forge And rivet chains with which to bind the Spirit in its searching after God. When Moral darkness, like a pall, hung o'er the world And men in outward form and lifeless creeds Were seeking rest, the light of truth flashed in A cloister where an eager soul was groping In the gloom of night, and stamped in livid Words upon his heart : " The just shall live by Faith," and from that hour the morning of A brighter day broke on the world. One touch Of truth, may in a moment, rouse the Spirit from repose, and stir its nether Depths as tempests stir the caverns of the Sea ; or just one look of love's .soft eye can I^ull it to repose as calm as twilight's Holy hour. The soul's thought depths have never Yet been reached by plummet line ; and Reason In its patient toil deep down in mines of — 11 Truth has never found the limit of its Power ; nor has it yet ascended to Its highest summit. As silent as the Power that holds the needle to the pole — More fleet than is Aurora as she mounts The night sky with her steeds of light — more Subtile than the force secreted in Magnetic steel, is that strange power of Soul, which by expansion, moves the world. Before the artist can discern the secret Forms of beauty hidden in the block, or Can on canvas sketch the tints that charm The eye " in Nature's varied forms," he needs Must feel upon his soul Thought's magic touch To waken unto life his latent powers. The world's great dynamo is Thought : that Mystic something which contains the secret Power from which the revolutions that Have swept the fields of earth have been evolved ; And sets in motion all the engines in The workshops of the world, and grooves the Channels, where in ceaseless ebb and flow the Tides of commerce run. Touched by a new, strange Thought, a watcher turns his eyes up where the Lightnings flash, and from that hour the subtle Spirit of the clouds inspire our steeds of Steel, and fleeter than the sunbeams fly are Sent to do the errands of the world. We Stand with bated breath, and bare our heads in Awe when gazing on the masterworks of 12 — Art ; the wonders genius has performed ; but Eye has never seen, nor ear has ever Heard the muffled touch of thought upon a Human soul. It was the all-inspiring Thought that men, by right of birth are free, that Shook the Old World's thrones (as sometimes Earthquakes shake the hills) and by it crowns and Scepters fell from tyrants' hearts and despots' Hands, while o'er their ruins now the flag of Freedom waves in triumph. From out the world's Long night the morning of a New Day dawns ; For Truth, with lighted torch amidst conflicting And diverging creeds, is opening up Highways of thought, where side by side, and hand In hand she leads the brave and true to grander Heights and richer fields than ever yet have Been explored. The fires upon her altars Never die — though sometimes dimmed by myths Of men, who in her name assume the Holy office of High Priest, and set up gods Whose creeds and worship she abhors. Truth's touch Upon the soul is like the still, small voice Of God, which, though no other ear may catch, To him who hears, is like a Living Presence. — 18 — Midnight Whispers. I thought that I heard in a whisper — A whisper that love only hears — M)' name, from one bending above me, And dropping love words in my ears. I looked, but could see no form bending O'er the pillow on which I had slept; Though I felt there was one close beside me. That in silence, love's vigils had kept — Had watched while alone I was sleeping And knew not that she guarded my bed — That she heard the good night that I whispered, And saw the lone tears that I shed. The name that I called her in girlhood — The name that the heart holds so dear — I softly pronounced, and then listened Her answering whisper to hear. Not by voice nor by word did she answer, Nor with sound from beneath or above; But sweeter and clearer she answered — She answered my heart, by her love. How sacred these whispers at midnight — How blest are these vigils of love ; For they turn the sad heart from its darkness To the dawn of love's mornino; above. 14 — The Withered Leaf. I sat alone beneath the maple boughs And listened to the gentle winds which breathed So soft and low, like sound of voices far Away, both sweet and sad, which sometimes float On evening air when night begins to spread Its curtains o'er the sky and drapes with sombre Hues the hills and vales. I heard them whisper Fainter and fainter still till leaf and bough were Motionless, and silence reigned supreme. A hush fell on my soul, as when good b)^e Is said to one we dearly love, and with Abated breath and moistened eyes we Watch the fading form of friends till distance Hides them from our eager gaze, and we are All alone. A moment more, and then there Came a murmur like the sound of wavelets Playing on the pebbles of a beach when Night has draped the waters for repose. And twilight's sacred hour has turned the Thoughts to God. Each quivering leaf and swaying Bough seemed like a thing of life just waking From a dream when touched by love's soft hand Which gently sings some plaintive strain that floats Out on the air like music of a far Off lute — so softly came this summer breath. I scanned the leafy bower to see If spirit forms were not concealed within The deep, cool shade above, as choirs are Sometimes hid when down from organ loft -there Float the soft clear notes of song. — 15 No angel Forms iu spotless robes arrayed, with golden Harps attuned to song could I descry ; and Yet the music of the winds so charmed My ear and thrilled my soul, that earth and Heaven seemed blended into one. But as I thought and watched and dreamed, a faded Leaf came gently circling down, and fell in Silence by my side — as if its mission Then were done, and rest had come. I looked Upon its shriveled face as if it were The corpse of a familiar friend by who.se Cold form I sat in silence all alone It was but a leaf, I knew ; a tiny leaf, but Still it wore the look of death — as when the Blush of beauty fades from childhood's dimpled Cheek. Dead! Yes 'twas dead! Its mission had been Filled; it helped to beautify the bough from Which it fell, and added to the grateful Shade where I had sought repose. A whi.sper vSeemed to come from out its sapless veins As soft as childhood's breath when sleeping on Its mother's breast: ' ' We all fade as a leaf. ' ' And so I thought all life begins and ends: The birds of spring throw off their winter wraps, And suns and dews will waken into life A thousand forms whose beauty charm the soul; But soon time's withering touch will fade the tints From beauty's cheek, and drooping flowers and Falling leaves will lie on velvet lawns like Corpses on the battle field of human life. 16 Nature's Orchestra. Behind the mystic curtain that divides The unseen from the seen— that shore line where Imagination can transform the soul — Dreams into real things; and change the real Into spirit forms — are Nature's tireless Harpsters. Unceasing music floats from keys And chords no human eye has ever seen; nor Skillful fingers ever touched. But night and Day their melody floats out on ever)^ Breeze, and echoes over mountain, hill, and Vale, till earth and sky are vocal with the Matchless music of Nature's matchless choir. It is no surpliced choir decked out in Tinselled vestments to allure and charm the Eye, whose formal songs and studied chants are But the echoes of a soulless worship; For every note that falls upon the ear From this cathedral loft, from faintest souud Of night wind's muffled sigh, to ocean's deep Toned bass — all leave a hush upon the soul And elevate the thoughts and faith to God. The murmur of the rill that laughingly Glides on through tangled copse, and softly hums Its liquid song — the sound of insect wings That floats like far off music on the air — The birds that sing their matin and their Vesper songs in bush and bower; though Never in discordant notes — the voices Of the sea, whose wavelets play upon the Beach, soft as lullabys with which a Mother rocks her babe to sleep — the roar of Waterfall and cataract to which the — 17 Thunder-drum of heaven responds as Cannon answers cannon in the awful Fray where armies meet in deadly strife — all These are but the changing chords of Nature's Ceaseless hymns. The morning stars joined in earth's Natal song, and through the aisles of time the Music of the spheres still rolls : Nor will the Echo ever die away while from the Organ lofts of stars and suns shall burst in Ceaseless diapasons: " The heavens and All that in them is, declare the glory Of th^ir lyord;" and earth with her ten thousand Tongues repeat, " The hand that formed us is Divine.' Life's October. Dimly falls the golden sunbeams From October's murkj- sky; And around us, thick as snow flakes, Faded leaves of Autumn lie. From the leafless boughs of woodland, Songs and songsters too, have fled ; And the flowers that bloomed in beauty, Lie along our pathway dead. Sometimes, too, life's skies are murky With the thickening mists of care; Blighted hopes and blasted prospects. Lie about us everywhere. Human life has its October, And its paling sunshine, too ; But beyond the mists that shroud it. The Immortal Life shines through. — 18 — The Death Land. The bell is tolling for an ended life, and From its brazen mouth, and iron tongue there Floats upon the air a wail of woe, as If a voice from out the grave were hailing Every passer-by. We're in the Death Land Now, and all about us lie the faded Flowers, and withered leaves of the departing year. All nature speaks in whispers here as When the dew of death falls on the brow of Those we love, and slow and sluggish pulses Tell that death is near. We know full well The meaning of it all, for as the shades of the Receding year grow long we see the night Of Death is stealing on the world. We press Our list'ning ear close down to earth, and in Its feeble pulse we hear the muffled step Of death, and catch the last, faint whisper of The dying months. The tides of life that Coursed through nature's veins and throbbed' in Every swelling bud when Spring threw ofiF its Winter wraps are slow with age, and hazy Skies are like the dimming eyes of Manhood's closing year. Around us lie The faded leaves like corpses on the Field where shot and shell have strewed The earth with dead. The corn shocks stand I^ike tombstones on the very spot that gave Them life, and earth's green carpet spread on Hill and vale, far as the eye can reach, is 19 "Worn and faded by the summer sun. and Droughts and frosts have left a blight where But an hour ago beauty reigned supreme. Around, above, beneath, far as the eye Can reach, the twilight thickens into night, And signs of dying rest on all we see. We hear The night winds sigh amidst the leafless boughs Ivike mourners at the grave of buried love. Nor is this all ; for all about us doors Are draped with signs of woe, and many Eyes are dim with tears. We're in the Death Land Now, but 'midst the gloaming Faith describes a Land of Life beyond the thick' ning mists Whose hill tops are aglow with endless day. Hope. Thou all inspiring spirit Unseen by human eye — Unseen, but ever nigh — In darkest hours we see thy light. We hear thy voice in sorrow's hour, We feel thy all sustaining power Which bids us not to fear. — 20- The Life Laud. "For Death shall be no more ! " So says the Book Of God; and on that word Faith plants its Feet, and through the mists that hang upon the Death Land's shores it sees a Laud of Life on Which the blight of death shall never fall. Its Hill-tops glow with light, as when the morning Sun rolls back the clouds that drape the earth, and Floods the valleys with the golden light of Day. " The former things are passed away " And Death's long reign has ceased forevermore. On Life's celestial hills no grave shall e'er Be dug, and tears shall never dim the eyes That glow with love's soft light and sweep the fields. That bloom with fadeless flowers beneath the Life Land's skies. The Death Land lies between the Now and then, and graves ob.struct our weary Feet, and line the path that leads us to these Verdant shores; but forms of love that braved Death's chilling tide now beckon us away. And Faith and Hope dispel the fear that haunts The soul when Death's dark shadows fall upon The heart, and change earth's groans to songs of praise. But more than this: for Spirit life, that life That hides and yet contains the real life ; Whose highest joy is Truth ; whose greatest power Is love ; unchained by clogs of earth, and freed Henceforth from care and pain, shall roam the fields Of thought and find its chief delight as it Explores the hidden things of God. No bliss So great as that which thrills the spirit when In search of Truth. And though we know in -21 — Part, and evermore shall be but learners, With the vast unknown before the Soul to Lure it out to greater depths, and beckon It to grander heights; yet each new ra)- Of light that flashes on the Soul, and each new Truth disclosed, will learn us more of God. Upon the L,ife Land's sunny hills we soon Shall join our loved and gone, and in the Home not made with hands shall kindred spirits Dwell securely evermore. The graves in Which we laid their fragile forms when beauty's Blush had faded from the cheek, and Death had Sealed the lips of love, do not contain The real life we held so dear. We bring Fresh flowers, and lay them on their pulseless Breasts, but love's soft voice that seems to answer To our falling tears comes not from out The new-made grave, but from the Life Land's shores. To tell us that our dead still live. Henceforth We look at things not seen ; for all about Us lie the blighted hopes and withered joys Of Earth, and spirit voices from the land Of Life are calling us away. Faith lifts Its tearful eyes, and through the thick' ning night Of gloom it sees the search lights on the Hill tops of the Spirit Land. The conquering Christ invaded Death's dark realm and broke the Seal of every tomb of earth. The Life Land shores Will burst upon our vision soon, and songs Of joy will greet us as we reach our Home. 22 Sabbath in Heaven. Is it Sabbath to-day in heaven, wife ? Will you worship with loved ones long gone And join in the songs that they sing, wife, As I sit by your grave, all alone ? Do you know I am lonely today, wife — That I long to be with you there ? For no one kneels with me at home, wife, At the hour of our morning prayer. Do you see me beside "the green tent," wife. On which I have placed some fresh flowers You planted, and learned me to love, wife. In the home that we fondly called ours ? Do you come to my pillow at night, wife, And whisper your love in m^^ ear ? Do you print a soft kiss on my lips, wife, As you did in the days you were here ? When you entered the home-land above, wife, Did those that you loved long ago. Receive you with greetings of joy, wife. As they used to in earth-homes, below ? As you roam midst new scenes of delight, wife, Do you wish I was there by your side. To share your new home and its raptures, wife, And evermore with you abide ? O, when the hour comes for my going, wife, If it be in the night or the day, I hope your freed spirit will come to me, wife, To guide me across the dark way. 23 The Lost Mate. As I sit all alone by the place where she rests, And recall the flown years of our love, There floats on the air from the boughs of a pine, The soft notes of a lone turtle dove. Are you sitting alone by the side of a nest From which your dear bird wife has flown ? And are your sad notes the low echoes of grief For the mate you loved, but is gone? Dear bird, do you know that my home, likeyournest. Is deserted and cheerless to-day ; That the notes that I sing are in undertone, too. Since the hour that my mate went away ? O turtle dove, had I your wings I would fly Away from these graves and these tears To the land where the homes are all sunny with love, And unchanged by the flight of the years. 24 Alone With God. [The incident described in this poem came under the observation of the writer as he was rambling- in one of our cemeteries. | The temple in whose courts she prayed was Not the work of human hands, for man has Never built a house in which to worship God of such transcendent beauty. Its dome — A soft October sky — threw down a mellow- Light upon her thin, pale face, that seemed as Calm as if no shade of grief had ever Fallen on her heart. She knelt upon the Withered grass, while all about her were the Faded autumn leaves — some sear and dead — and Some wdth crimson spots like hectic flushes On the cheek when death is near. Her altar Was a new-made grave on which were wilted Flowers ; for early frosts had paled their cheeks, And not a sign of life was left of all That hands of Love had planted. She held a Rosary and cross — the symbols of her Faith — which helped to fix her thoughts upon Her Risen Lord, whose strength she came to seek And in whose presence she believed her loved And lost had found repose. The autumn winds Sighed through the leafless boughs as soft and low As mothers sing when .sitting by their sleeping Babes, watching their quiet rest. 25 She breathed her Prayer in whispered words, for well she knew That He in whose dear name she asked would catch The faintest tones that break from Sorrow's lips. She bowed her head and kissed the cross ; then, with Uplifted eyes she pressed it to her heart As if its very touch would comfort her. She closed her talk with God and left the Sacred spot as quietly as one would leave The couch where sleeping love reposes ; and Turned away as if the light of some new Hope had fallen on her heart. Who can say That those with whom she used to worship in The house of God were not on steady Pinions poised above, and with love's magic Power inspiring her with new-born courage? To those who seek, faith has electric lines By which the wounded heart can send Dispatches up to Him who notes the sparrow's Fall, and quicker than the lightning's flash there Comes the rest of peace to those who mourn. 26 Spring on the Farm. When warming suns melt off the snow, And warm south winds begin to blow — When on the meadows, here and there Are patches that look dry and bare; And when the creeks begin to rise By melting snows and thawing ice — It 'minds me of my backwoods home — Of springtime on the dear old farm. These seem like Nature's first pulse beats- A life throb 'neath her winding sheet Where she has laid in sweet repose Beneath the wrappings of the snows. The sunshine with its magic power Is waking every bud and flower; And soon the silent woods will ring With songs from wild birds of the spring. Springtime upon the farm brings toil: It means to dig, and stir the soil — To fence and drain, and plant and prune; But harvest time will answer soon; For noiselessly as steps of stealth The fields will bring the toiler wealth, And on his pathway, all the while Hope throws the sunlight of her smile. My thoughts and heart in fondness cling To childhood on the farm in spring ; And often in my dreams again I wander in the fields and lane: I sit beneath the orchard boughs — At twilight homeward drive the cows, And in my merry childhood hours Stroll in the wild woods gathering flowers. 27 — Life's spring is changed to autumn, now ; Its morning sun to evening glow. But though I see 'tis sinking down — The twilight is as bright as noon. The days ot toil are almost past, And resting time is here at last. Far off, I see life's springtides roll — Near by, The Morning of the Soul. This Heart of Mine. O this heart of mine ! As I listen to its beating Every pulse seems an entreating (Like a softly whispered prayer Which none but he who prays can hear) For one gift all else above — The gift of one true heart of love: So prays this heart of mine. O this heart of mine! Throbbing when there's none to hear it — Throbbing when there's no one near it For love's smile to light the way — For love's voice to cheer each day; Throbbing oft with grief oppressed — Throbbing for the time of rest: So throbs this heart of mine. 28 — Memory's Storehouse. Memory, thy garners are filled with the stores Thou hast gleaned from life's harvest through all the pasi. years. Thou hast hoarded up treasure of value untold, And pictures of beauty more precious than gold. Thou hast kept in life's book the events of each day, And serenely, in secret, hast stored them away, That when in our sadness we feel all alone. Thou mayest cheer us with pictures of years that are gone. 1 knock at the door, and then patiently wait Thy coming to open the mystical gate ; Then softly thou presseth the key of past days, And visions of beauty flash out on my gaze. Not all that thou showeth inspires me with cheer : Some glow with the sunshine — some blotted with tears. In the Then, as the Now, there were dangers concealed, And darkness swept down on the heart that would yield. 'Midst the pictures of beauty revealed by thy light Is the home in the backwoods, though humble, yet bright Because of the sunshine that love ever throws On the days of our gladness — on the night of our woes. On the canvas of years, on the full printed page, I can see that thy pictures are dimmed not by age ; For their lights and their tints are as perfect to-day As they were in the hour they were first stored away. I see once again gathered 'round the hearthstone The same group of loved ones — though some are now gone; But the years and the graves from my heart cannot hide The friends that then cheered me, and walked by my side. — 29 — In the autumn of life, as its winter comes on, When the leaves are all faded, and flowers all gone, memory, thy pictures of beauty can bring To the sunset of life all the brightness of spring. 1 read in thy light of the soul's noble birth — Not a transient existence — not born of the earth — Though formed from the dust, yet mucli more than a clod- Created a man, in the image of God. Things Not Seen. Unseen things are all about us — Life forms floating overhead — In the dust on which we tread — In the dew drops they abide — On the winged winds they ride — Smile upon us in the flowers — Whisper to us in sad hours — Drop love words from unseen lips — Cheer our hearts with fondest hopes Of a changeless life beyond us, Where abide the friends who love us In the unseen world above us. — 30 3Ioonlisrht in Yoseiiiite. ' 'Soon as the evening shades prevail The moon takes up the wond'rous tale." Three thousand feet below the rock — rimmed brow O wild Yosemite ! Twilight thickens In the awful gorge while yet the sunbeams Play upon the snow-capped peaks that stand In silent grandeur as the night shades climb Their dizzy heights to drape them for repose. The roar of Vernal and Nevada Falls Floats on the evening air, and echoes o'er The hills like muffled thunder far away. Yosemite and Bridal Veil pour down The floods (fed by the melting .snows) which break Upon the craigs, and rise in sheets of mist That float like cloudlets through the v^alley. The beautiful merced in cadences As sweet as childhood's merry voice goes murmuring Through the vale like one who hums the strains of Some familiar hymn. South Dome throws down its Shadow on the placid face of Mirror Lake That nestles at its feet, which seems to Answer with a smile when morning breezes Fan its dimpled cheek. Amidst the thick' ning Gloom I lift my eyes, and through the shades that Fill the valley to its brim I see a Dim, pale blush is stealing on the darkness — As furnace fires will sometimes toss a glow Upon the brow of night. Beyond the far Off line where earth and sky seem blended in A shoreless sea of gloom a rim of light — 31 — Hangs out — as if it were the fragment of Some shattered globe afloat amidst the darkness. Another hour, and noiseless as the falling Dews the moon lights up her silver lamp and Mounts from cliflF to clifT, and leaps from peak to Peak; while darkness gathers up its skirts And steals away to gorges so profound that Neither ray of sun nor light of moon can Enter their sepulch'ral vaults. Her Transit from the moment of her dawn o'er The Sierra's fields of snow and ice-capped Peaks, is like the swing and roll of one grand Tidal wave, whose liquid light floods heights no Human foot has ever trod, and gilds the L,andscape with a glow no artist's skill has Ever reproduced. She turns her headlight On the domes and spires of the Cathedral Rocks which stand like sentinels, upon the Valley's brow; while cold El Capitan receives Her silvery smile without one answering Look of love. The coming of her midnight Train is traced by the receding shade Upon the granite wall that bounds the vale O'er which her flying steeds must leap or wreck Her gorgeous car upon the rocks below. But see! She lays her mystic track right for The gorge, and never heeds the doom Toward which she speeds without a sign of fear! Cathedral Rock, that rises like a temple Of the gods, stands on the very verge from Which the Night Queen is to leap, and for a Moment fear suggests that moon and mountain May collide. But long before the Red Man Found a trail amidst these craigs or climbed These dizzy heights — age after age, this same Old Moon has swung from rim to rim unchecked By fear and never harmed by accident, Nor wrecked by lack of skill. She seems to halt A moment on the valley's brow as if To note the scene below, or measure with Her eye the distance of the leap — then like A globe of light — without a guy to hold Her on her course — with every land line cut, rolls From the brink and hangs unstayed above the Yawning gulf beneath. A hush falls on the Soul and transport fills the heart, as standing ' Neath her noiseless train the thought and faith turn To the Unseen Hand which shaped her perfect Form, and from the hour when she became the Mistress of the night has kept her in her Trackless way. Not for one moment does she Halt that he whose soul is filled with awe may Feast his eyes upon the matchless .scene that Nevermore may burst upon his vision. The fearful leap is made! The valley fills With shadows as the moon sweeps on her wny, And Night with muffled steps returns to drape The vale which for a little while was all Aglow with light. From mountain peaks, and Merced's rippling flow — from roar of distant Waterfalls that echo through the forest Aisles— from night winds murmuring soft and low From out the bowers of pine I seem to Hear an anthem of adoring love to Him whose hand stretched out the empty places Of the north, and filled the field of .space With suns and worlds whose song from age to age Has been: " The Power that formed us is Divine." 33 — Autumn Tints. Autumn tints are hectic flushes On the paling leaves and flowers. Autumn winds are nature's dirges Floating through the leafless bowers. When the leaf -crowned boughs are faded, Pale and brown by summer heat ; Soon the winds sift down a carpet — Leaf-flecked carpet for our feet. Lying 'neath their winter wrappings, Now repose the faded flowers ; Which with love in spring we planted — Sometimes watered with love's tears. Noiselessly life's tides are halting. And the night of rest is near ; For the fading leaves of Autumn Mind us of the dying year. Nature's heart in sluggish pulses, Faint, and fainter, seems to beat ; And the fallen leaves, like corpses, Pale and dead, lie at our feet. — 34 — Morning on the Sierras. Wake, sleeper, wake ! The Morning comes- Morning, driving steeds of light. Chasing back the gloom of night. See how the shadows flee away Before the brightness of the day ! The night mists, like receding sails, Are seeking shelter in the vales. Look ! Mountain peaks in grandeur rise Like highways, leading to the skies. And Morning from her flambeau, throws A golden light on trackless snows ; While rock peaks stretching far away In sullen silence wait the day ; And mingling sounds from everywhere Float out upon the morning air Like muffled roll of Nature's drum. Wake, sleeper, wake ! Beauty has come — Beauty draped in robes of gold. And sunshine leaping from each fold ; While o'er the foothills and the plane In majesty she comes to reign : She sifts down brightness on the trees — Her whispers float on every breeze. She lights with smiles the woodland bower — She kisses every dew-washed flower. She dwells amidst the solitude Up 'midst the wondrous works of God — Up higher than the eagle's flight — Up on Sierras' dizzy height. Around whose brow by night and day, The lightnings flash, and thunders play ; And from whose cold and flinty brow Drip falling rains and melting snow. 35 There from her aery Beauty calls In voices from the waterfalls ; While verdant valleys far below Are radiant with her magic glow Caught from the distant mountain dome. Voices from the Flowers. There are voices that call from the flowers By loved forms that the eye cannot see, I catch their sweet songs from the bowers, Where they watch and are waiting for me. On the heart that is dreary and lone, There fall love rays that brighten its gloom ; And through the gray mists that shadow my path, Gleams the light of my heavenly home. I stand on the twilight-dimmed shore Calmly watching life's low setting sun, In the faith that the midnight of death Is the morning of life just begun. It is sweet, when the lone, smitten heart Is saddened and weighted with care, To think of the Home Land beyond. And the loved ones who wait for us there. -se- ll! the Shadows. As I sit amidst the shadows — Shadows of the dying year ; I catch voices in the stillness — Voices that I used to hear. From the far away come pictures lyighted by life's morning sun — Pictures sketched in fadeless colors On my heart as life began. Sitting in the year's last midnight, Memory takes me by the hand, Leading me with noiseless footsteps Back to childhood's fairyland. There she throws upon life's canvas All the fondly cherished names Of the loved ones ' round the hearthstone- All our sports and childish games. Eyes of love once more look on me — Words of love once more I hear ; And the merry laugh of childhood Floats upon the evening air. Then she softly sweeps life's love keys, And the home songs once so dear, lyike the notes of far off music Fall again upon my ear. In the backwoods home I linger. With its loved ones I rejoice ; Hear again my father's greeting. Hear my mother's tender voice. — 37 One by one the group is broken ; Childhood ripens with the years ; And I watch the fading picture, Looking out through blinding tears. But I see a bow of brightness Spanning from the then till now, While the clouds that hang above me Are with morning light aglow. In the tower the clock is striking Midnight. Now the year is gone. I have wakened from my dreaming, But in waking am — alone. Love's Offering. Here, wife, are the flowers that all winter I've kept. And guarded with tenderest care. And your spirit, I fancy is watching them now As their fragrance floats out on the air. You remember — for spirits I'm sure don't forget — Our bright, golden wedding day, wife ; How your friends in their love, then gave you these flowers As the type of your beautiful life. The fragrance of love, wife, is sweeter than flowers. For its petals unceasingly bloom ; While its beauty shines out as life's day turns to night, And gilds with its brightness the tomb. The frosts may steal down on the flowers I have brought, And their beauty may pale and die out. But the heart, wife, that loved through all the long years With the frosts of old age, changes not. 38 — My Dear Old Clock. Tick— tick— tick! I look upon your calm, cold face, Nor smile nor tear drop can I trace; And not a sign of age appears Upon your brow in all the years Though you have ticked by day and night — Ticked in the darkness — ticked in light. The years have come, but could not stay, For you have ticked them all away. Tick— tick— tick! I wake from sleep, and on my ear Your tick — tick — tick is all I hear; For all day long, and all night, too. No rest nor sleep e'er comes to you; And not one moment flies away — Not in the night hours nor the day, That can escape your watchful eye — Your tick — tick — tick, as it goes by. Tick— tick— tick! Your every tick tells of an hour When I will hear your tick no more. Your pulseless hands move slowly on, And yet how soon each hour is gone. Each tick, though fleeting as the breath Comes freighted both with life and death; But love's sweet voice, nor tone of fear Has ever fallen on your ear. Tick— tick— tick! How faithful, dear old clock, you've been Midst all the changes you have seen. You've ticked away when hearts were glad, — 39 — And ticked right on when they were sad. You've ticked amidst the smiles of home, And ticked, ticked, ticked when sorrow came. Good-bye, old clock! My sun goes down. But you will tick, tick, tick right on. The Dew-Kissed Rose. The following poem was suggested by the author finding a drop of dew in the center of one of his monthly roses. Beautiful, beautiful, flower ! I see that your lips are wet — For the moisture is on them yet — With the kiss of the dew. It noiselessly stole to your bower, Long after the sunset hour, And while you were wrapped in repose It whispered, " I'll kiss this rose." Beautiful, beautiful flower ! That gentle, sweet kiss of love Came on your soft cheek from above, To make it fresh and bright. So, oft from our gloomiest hours, Comes sweetness after the showers; And life, out of sorrow and woes, Is as pure as this dew-kissed rose. 40 — The Other 3Ian with the Hoe. The man with the hoe is a free man; He owns both himself and his hoe; He chooses the fields in which to work, And the life path in which to go. To toil does not hinder his manhood; For work is prophetic of wealth. He earns by his hoe life's best treasure — The harvests of plenty and health. His sweat drops are not liquid curses To torture and add to his woe; They are dews coming down from heaven ; Or gems to encircle his brow. The man with the hoe is surrounded With all that enriches the soul ; There are sources of good all about him Just waiting to answer his call. At morning the song birds awake him, And sing him their sweet, matin lays; And with songs in his heart and courage. He goes forth to the work of the day. He plants, and the sunshine soon wakens The slumbering life of the seed. He sows, and the clouds sift down moisture, And plenty soon answers his needs. The man with the hoe is a student; He searches the deep thoughts of God. He sees there are lessons of wisdom In flower bud, and crystal and sod. — 41 — He looks out on his golden harvests — On his fields where his flocks come and go. He smiles as he looks on his cornfields — The reward of his plow and his hoe. In Autumn he gathers his fruitage; His garners with stores overflow. He has wealth, contentment and honor — And this is the man with the hoe. Nature's Gospel. The sunshine is kissing the flowers — Soft breezes are fanning my cheeks; And Beauty from each swelling bud To my heart in Love's undertone speaks. The tree tops are vocal with song, For the birds are repeating His praise By whose spirit, in notes full of joy, They warble in sweetness their lays. There is music that floats on the air — There is praise in the murmuring brook, Which sounds like a gospel of love From the pages of Nature's Great Book. When I search for this Fountain of Love, Search the earth and the sea and the sky; These all in full chorus unite : " Love's fountain is God," they reply. 42 — A Sabbath Evening Reverie. Soft whispers float down from the evergreen boughs, 'Neath whose shade I am sitting alone; And they fall on my ear like the voices of love ; Or as music in sweet undertone. A cloudlet hangs out in the dreamy, blue sky, With its skirts all aglow with the light ; While it lazily drifts on its lone, trackless way, But as noiseless as dews of the night. A turtle dove coos to its mate on her nest In the same plaintive tone as of yore; While pictures of child-life flash out on my soul Of the friends I shall see never more. I think of them sleeping in wakeless repose — Of their home in the land of the blest; And my heart thrills with joy as I think of the hour I shall greet them, and share in their rest. I hear the sweet tones of the vesper bells, now, Floating out on the soft, balmy air — But the hills and the vales, and the woods and the skies, Are God's temples, and altars of prayer. The landscapes of life are all vernal, and bright, For beauty resides everywhere; And if reason will search all the pathways of truth. It will find at the end, God is there. 43 The Low Green Tent. Upon her " low, green tent" I print a kiss of love, And seem to feel an answering kiss From spirit lips above. The faded autumn leaves Now drape her place of rest ; And withered flowers lie on the grass Above her pulseless breast. The winds in plaintive notes Sigh through the boughs o'erhead, And forest birds sing soft, and low A requiem for my dead. Sometimes in dreams I think She's in our home again ; But oh, the thrill of joy I feel Soon vanishes in pain. I softly call her name, And wait to hear her speak ; But only sighs, and mufiled sobs The awful silence break. As through my blinding tears I lift my eyes above, I seem to see her spirit form, And meet her smile of love. With ' ' good bye ' ' on my lips, I seek my saddened home, In which, I know in all the years. She nevermore will come. Not long have I to walk My dreary path alone ; For life's descending sun hangs low. And I shall soon be gone. 44 — From Death to Life. Beneath our feet In lane and street, In silence lies Concealed from human eyes A vast empire of life. In every clod Beneath the sod, 'Midst waste, and wear, There slumbers everywhere, An unseen, vital power. We bend the ear As if to hear In echoes low. Its tides in underflow, Ivike voices from the dust. We halt and wait : No pulses beat, Nor faintest sound Breaks from the voiceless ground, And death's reign seems supreme. But spring showers fall, And over all This field of death The sunshine's warming breath Rests like the dew of life. The night is past — Day dawns at last; And morning smiles — 45 On meadows, fields, and hills, And life is everj'where. It blooms in flowers — It sings in bowers — It swells in buds, And floats, and swims in floods, And triumphs over death. Sunshine. O the beautiful, golden sunshine! How it chases away the night — How it gilds the world with light — How it plays upon the hills. And sparkles on the rills, Till the world is aglow with light. O the beautiful, morning sunshine ! How it wakes into life the flowers When bathed by the gentle showers. How clear the wild birds sing When the warming sun of spring Invite them to woodland bowers. O the beautiful, cheerful sunshine! How the sad, lonely heart it can cheer When the days are cloudy and drear. How it lights the hours of gloom — How its smile will brighten the home When the hearthstone is shadowed by care — 46 The Draped Door. O thou mute sign of grief, too well we know Thy meaning ! It needs no voice to tell the Tale of woe within the darkened home where Eyes of love are dim with tears, and hearts are Breaking with their weight of sorrow, for by Thy gloomy presence we can see that Death Has come. The whispered word — the slow and Careful step — the vacant chair before the Cheerless hearth — all these, O death, are signs of Thy unwelcome call ! There are no homes so Bright — no hearts so true — no joys of life so Sweet — that thou wilt not invade them all, and With remorseless greed destroy the fondest Hopes the heart has ever felt. The cheek of Youth, aglow with light enkindled by the Dreams of wealth and fame, with but one touch of Thine will fade in one short hour, and in thy Presence all the hopes of life will vanish lyike the morning mists. The mother prints a Kiss upon her baby's cheek while sleeping On her breast, but thy all blighting touch will Chill its tender heart as frost will chill the Buds of Spring, nor tears nor ministries of lyove nor prayers, will warm it into life. The blushing bride, while yet the dews of love's First kiss were on her cheek, has felt thy breath ; And he upon whose arm she leaned has borne Her from the sacred place a corpse. Manhood With steady step — with will to do and dare — 47 — On any field where duty calls — without A fear of any foe — will pale and fly At thy approach as flies the hare before The hunter's horn. The pleading eyes of grief Are turned to thee in vain as thy dark Shadow falls acrost the threshold of the Home, or gathers like the mists of night on Pillows soft as down, on which in sweet repose Are sleeping those we love. But tears do not Avail, O Death to touch a heart as cold As thine ; for thou hast never felt one throb Of sympathy or love ; and sighs and sobs Have never moved nor melted thee at all ; Nor prayer of bleeding, broken hearts has Ever turned away thy fatal blow. The hand of skill has tried in vain to turn Thee back, and wrest from thy unyielding grasp The arrows aimed at those whose deeds have Been a benediction to the world ; but Thy unerring stroke has smitten to the Dust the bravest foe that ever faced thee On the fields of strife. No conqueror ever Rode the steeds of war o'er bloody fields, or Led his marshalled hosts with such resistless Power amidst the fray of death, that with His laurels yet upon his brow, thou hast Not wrested from his hand his bloodstained sword, And led him as a captive to his grave. Beneath thy reign the earth is one vast place Of tombs — an empire where the dead are more Than all the living. Every day the air Is vocal with the sound of tolling bells, That in their plaintive tones tell us thou hast — 48 Come again on thy unwelcome errand. The dreamy days of autumn come with stores Of garnered grain and golden fruits — Spring with Its swelling buds and new born flowers, to Quicken up the sluggish pulse of earth; and Summer with its glowing skies and heated Breath — as if to hurry nature's tardy Steps, lest winter come too soon — but every Season is thy harvest time, O Death ! No Prairies stretch so far ; no mountains rise so High that thou dost not explore them all in Search of those who seek a place on which thy Shadow never falls. Down in old Ocean's Caves, in w^akeless sleep uncounted thousands Lie unmindful of the hideous forms Which creep and crawl about them, and heeding Not the voices of the deep, which echo Through the slimy vaults in which the lost repose. O God of heaven, and is this all there Is of life ? A fitful dream of love and Joy; a day of smiles and tears, a few short Hours of love and home, and then the loneness Of the grave ? Are all the longings of the Soul for truth and love — its ceasele-ss yearning For Immoral Life where we shall meet our Loved and lost, a cheat? Does Hope light up its Fires amidst the gloom of earth to lure us On till Death's dark night shall come, and then pale Out forevermore ? — 49 — Did He who gave to Us a nature like His owu, out of the Depths of which there ever springs exalting Faith and animating hopes, intend to Mock us in our deepest grief ? Thy reign, O Death, must end ; for He who once was dead, now Lives, and has the power to vacate all The graves in which thy victims sleep ; for since The morn at Joseph's tomb, we are no more Thy slaves ! O Death where is thy dreaded sting ? The Silent City. I walk its shaded streets alone ; Its polished mansions all are shut, I speak the names of those I love. And listen — but they answer not. A hush falls on the saddened heart. And silently love's tears will fall. As standing by these noiseless homes, Loved ones in silence I recall. The birds sing softly from the bough As if they fear to waken those Who, lying in their low% green tents, Have found an undisturbed repose. Here hands of love have planted flowers That silently will bud, and bloom ; And stilly as the tides of love. Will freight the air with sweet perfume. — 50 — Silent Forces. ' ' Thy thoughts are very deep. ' ' Down on the grass, close to the maple's roots I press my ear to catch the first, faint stroke Of Nature's ponderous Engine. Long have Its fires been banked, and from its nostrils Not one breath of life in all the dreary Months has been emitted. The autumn tints Paled out, and soon the sapless boughs tossed Down their faded leaves upon the withered Grass, to be the sport of winds and trampled In the dust, and left the grim, bare trunks, and Naked limbs, like skeletons denuded Of their flesh. The reservoir of life was So securely locked that not the faintest heart Beat could be heard, and not a pulse be felt In root, nor trunk, nor bough. The wrappings of The snow are lifted from the hills, and warming suns Are kindling up the smoldering fires of earth Which soon will force the tiny jets of life Through all the dormant buds and sleeping flowers. The throttle, now, of Nature's latent power Is held by a secreted hand, and every Vital force in action, or at rest, is Under its control. As noiseless as the Birth of thought, it hoists the mystic gates of lyife, and quiet as the blush of love that — 51 Steals on girlhood's cheek, the flowing tides mount Up the pulseless trunk, and waken from its L,ong repose each sleeping bud. They touch the Tiny seeds that seem to lie in wakeless Sleep, long hidden from the sunbeams searching Rays, and life and beauty leap from icy Tombs and winding sheets of frost. Each rootlet Feels the warming touch of earth's new kindled Fires ; and thrills of life, like nerve throbs wakened By electric wires, will load the boughs with Luscious fruits, and gild the hills and vales with Golden grain. We stand with awe amidst this Grand display of power that shaped the atoms Into worlds as silent as the night dews Fall, and teel that He whose hand built up the Universe of things, and opened up the Vast empires of Life, made man a Living Soul. 52 El-Capitaii. El-Capitan, a stranger from afar Is sitting at thy feet to sing thy praise. But as I gaze upon thy cold, bare brow, And rigid face, there comes upon my soul An awe that seals my lips, and Silence Bids my tongue be still. But if I do not speak Then bursts my very heart for utterance : For who can look upon thy form so grand — Thy brow encircled with the glory of Uncounted years — and feel no inspiration ? El-Capitan, hadst thou thy birth when Night And Chaos brooded o'er the new-made world, E'er suns and light of stars broke through the gloom That draped the cradle of the infant earth ? Were seething flames thy swaddling cloths ? And wast Thou born 'midst bursting magazines concealed In depths of liquid fire, and tossed in air As school boys toss their tiny balls ? Thou canst not speak, El-Capitan, to him Who fain w^ould know the number of thy years; But if thou hadst a tongue what wonders thou Couldst tell ! Siuce thou wast born the earth has passed From infancy to age. Thou must have seen The dawning of the day when first began The caravan of life; of life in ocean, Sea and air; all life that creeps or crawls or Flies — long, long before them all thou must have been. When earthquake shocks tossed up the mountain — 53 — Peaks, changing old ocean's mucky bed to Rugged hills and fertile plains, and dotted Seas with shores and reefs— thou must have seen it all When storms have shrieked like vengeful spirits Round thy head, and thunderbolts fresh forged From Vulcan's fires have hissed at thee, didst thou Feel any terror ? Thou art too great for fear ! The floods have leaped from dizzy heights, and Echoed over mountain peaks, and through the Forests aisles; while Merced's rippling waves like Tones from silver lutes, have been for thee One ceaseless hymn of praise. Upon thy cheek Like smiles upon the face of love, I see The glow of morning fall; and never does The sun go down without a good-night kiss For grand El-Capitan ! But I can see That thou art growing old! God's law of change Which nothing can escape hath written on Thy brow that thou art dust; and unto dust Thou, too, shall by and by, return. Deep on Thy flinty brow the hand of time has left The mark of years; and though thy form is yet Unbent, still waste and wear have left upon Thy stalwart frame the mark of age. Hadst thou A soul, El-Capitan, nor flight of years Nor wasting form, could end thy being; for Mind is more than dust, and spirit-life out Lasts the mould in which it is contained. But he who sings thy praise and prophesies 54 Thy destiny shall live when not a trace Of thy grand form remains in this historic Valley. In that eventful time, when from The shipwrecked earth God shall evolve a new Creation; then may I roam again these Grand, enchanted grounds, and gratefully recall The inspiration of thy presence. And now a long good-bye! He, who thus has Sung thy praise, must haste away where duty Calls, and nevermore may gaze upon thy form. But on my soul thine image is enstaraped, And in the far away will I re-live The hours I've spent with thee, El-Capitan! — 55 Silence. As I sit amidst the gloaming, Silence comes with mufiBed tread — Seals my lips with gentle fingers- Lays her hand upon my head, While I dream of joys departed — Happy days so quickly fled ! In the far away are pictures Never sketched by human art, — Locked securely in Love' s storehouse- Precious pictures of the heart — Reproduced in all their beauty — Tinted with Love's fadeless light. When I turn my footsteps homeward, Silence meets me at the door — Whispers of a cheerless hearthstone Where the light will shine no more. And no loving words of welcome Ever fall upon my ear. All the night it keeps its vigil Quietly beside my bed — Gently watches o'er my pillow Where I rest my weary head ; And it seems to walk beside me Everywhere my pathway leads. But it comes to cheer, and bless me ; Soothes me by its subtle power — Kindles light amidst the darkness, Never leaves me for an hour — Watches every falling tear drop — Catches every whispered prayer. 56 — Heart- Whispers. Do you know, wife, that the buds and the flowers Have pushed themselves up through the lawn? That the robins and blue birds from south-land are here And the ice and the snow are all gone ? Yon remember, wife, with what pleasure in spring We watched the first buds and first flowers — How we listened to catch the first song of the birds As they came from the south' s sunny bowers. It seems to me, wife, that the vines and the flowers On which you bestowed so much care. Will miss you when budding and blooming time comes, And will wonder that you are not here. They seemed soon to pale, and look lonesome, wife, When you went from the dear little home ; And sometimes I fanc}^ they plaintively ask If indeed you will nevermore come. Will it please you, wife, if I plant these flowers On the dear sacred spot where you sleep ? You will know that above you, by day and by niglit Their sweet vigil of love they will keep. Will you know when I sit by your side, wife, And am watching these beautiful flowers That they'll 'mind me of you and our dear little home. And the love of its bright, happy hours ? Do you miss me, wife, as you stroll 'midst the flowers? Do you think of our earth home below ? Do you know I am counting the strokes of Time' s clock And am waiting my summons to go ? O wife, how my heart often thrills with delight As I dream of our home life above, And hear your " All Hail," as I reach the bright shore When we meet in the Home I^and of Love ! — 57 Some One is Calling^. I thought I heard a voice, And bent my ear and listened : Like love's soft note It seemed to float Upon the morning air From out an opening flower On which a dew drop glistened. Its petals seemed like lips Which to my heart had spoken In undertone, As all alone Lrike one entranced I stood, Watching the opening bud Which seemed like love's pure token. I stooped and kissed the flower. My warm tears on it falling. I wept alone, For one was gone. But just beyond the river Love's flowers bloom forever. And — hark ! Some one is calling. — 58 Niagara. A hush falls on the soul, awed by the Greatness of thy power, and in thy presence Thought and faith receive new inspiration. Imagination kindles up anew Its fires while listening to thy matchless Voice, and from the deep, dim past, before the Count of years began, it hears an echo Of thy ceaseless hymn of praise. Before the Now of earth began ; long, long before the Red Man built his night-fires on the verdant Banks and laid him down to rest when wearied By the chase ; in unseen grandeur o'er thy Rocky brow thy liquid torrents rolled, And lost amidst the thickening mists, Sank in the awful gorge below. The tide Of time has onward rolled, and age on Age is lost amidst the sea of years since First thy thunder drum was heard, as thy fast Flowing flood is lost amidst the ocean's Vast expanse. The power of thy resistless Tide has chiseled in the flinty rock a Flume through which thy ceaseless floods have passed, Before the clock of time began to strike The circling years. The echoes of thy Voice were borne upon the winds through forest aisles, And tossed from forest boughs, and over Hills and vales in ceaseless diapasons, Before the tones of human voice or harp Were ever heard. — 69 The graves of L,undy's Lane Are moistened with thy spray, borne on the Winged winds, and sifted down as if to Keep in ceaseless bloom the flowers that love has Planted ; but on the ear of death thy tones Are never heard, and undisturbed its Fallen heroes sleep away the passing Years, nor war's alarms, nor yet thy deaf 'ning Roar, shall wake them from their long repose. From Out the awful gorge that slumbers at thy Feet, white clouds of mist in circling wreaths Arise, like vapors from some boiling sea, and On thy emerald brow the sunbeams play, As lightnings sport amidst the clouds and weave An arch of golden light from shore to shore. Amidst this grand display of power, the Spirit stands entranced, and in adoring Love to Him who Was, and Is, and Shall Be Evermore, pours out a hymn of praise, that He who made thee great, made him who stands And listens to thy voice, A Living Soul, 60 Does Death End All? What heart of grief when standing by its dead, With love's soft hand upon the pulseless breast, Has not repeated o'er and o'er again, This question of all ages? Out from the Dim and distant past — in every land — from every Clime — the echo of this question comes, as If some bursting heart were shadowed by An awful doubt. The fear and pain of death Have seized upon the good and great; the Giant in his strength ; the warrior in His coat of mail; and monarchs guarded by A thousand blades; but ever when the last Hour comes, the stricken heart cries out in grief: Shall not the dying live again? The cold Mute lips and palsied tongue that used to Answer back in love's sweet words are silent Now, for death reveals no secrets to the Mourner's plaintive call. Whence comes this greed of Love that those to whom the heart has clung in Fondness like a worship are still to us Henceforth as in the past, our living friends ? Cannot the spirit know itself, its own Exalted nature ? May not its mode of Being be transformed, and yet itself not Changed, save in unfolding powers ? Has fancy Wove a magic but delusive web of Thought and faith about the soul and wakened ()1 — In the heart the fondest hopes that but a Touch of death will blast ? Is it a mythic Light that faith in an immortal life Throws on the night of death to rob it of Its gloom, and kindle in the saddened Heart a transient hope, to be extinguished By the grave ? Can faith in falsehood build a Noble life and beautify the soul with Virtue' s grand achievements ? The very thought Of an immortal life inspires the heart In which it dwells to pure and holy living. Beyond the ken of earth, where waves of care Break on the heart as sea waves dash upon The shore, and toss their blinding spray high in The air, and chafe and fret the rock bound coast, So does the soul look out upon a bright to-morrow. From infancy To manhood and old age; from hour to hour Since thought began, and consciousness stamped On the soul a knowledge of itself; 'midst All the change of years, the real life is Still unchanged. The vail of flesh which life's Mysterious loom, evolved with matchless Skill, now hides from human eyes the spirit-self, And time has changed the bloom of youth to Pale and furrowed cheeks and wrinkled brows, But running like a thread of gold through all The years, the soul life is the same. Decay and Death belong to matter, not to mind; For while the outward self goes down with age And dust returns to dust, the spirit life 62 — Renews its power, and as the years go By unfolds in greater strength. In God's great Plan of life, though self-hood changes not, the Mode of life becomes transformed, and latent Powers unfold as hidden truths flash out Before the Soul. The seed conceals the flower And luscious fruit which only wait the touch Of nature's magic wand to bud and bloom And perfect their existence. We know in Part, nor does it now appear what heights of Power the spirit shall ascend when freed From dust; but with eternal years in which to Search for truth, and learn of God, we then shall Know what now transcends the power of finite miuds. 63 — Twilight. Sacred, twilight hour — The day bids earth good-night, And faintly comes the light Of the descending sun. The soft winds fan my brow, And murmur sweet, and low, L,ike nature's vesper song. Quiet, twilight hour: Now kindred spirits meet And whispered vows repeat, Which none but God can hear. The weary halt for rest — Peace soothes the anxious breast. And Paradise seems near. lyOvely, twilight hour: I sit me down alone And think of loved ones gone Where twilight never comes. Out through my tear-dimmed eyes, Beyond the star-lit skies, I see their spirit forms. 64 The Graveyard by the Bay. Sugg'ested by a recent visit to Johnson's Island, where in a deeply wooded spot, overlooking- the beautiful bay, sleep 206 of the flower of the southland — prisoners on the Island during the war of '61-'65. The author of this poem was a pastor in the city of Sandusky during the time the prisoners were in confinement and was familiar with all the circumstances. Like a gem in silver setting On whose face the sunbeams play ; There's an island, now historic, Nestled in Sandusky Bay — A beautiful, dimpled bay, The Venice of America. On this island once the Indian Built his wigwam ; had his camp ; Fished and hunted in his freedom ; Slept midst its dews and damp — Here by this beautiful bay— The Venice of America. Sweet as vesper hymns at twilight, Soft as notes of silver lutes Is the music of its wavelets, As upon the air it floats — Floating o'er the quiet bay — The Venice of America. Freedom's sky was bright above it, Lighted up its woodland bowers ; Peace and plenty smiled upon it ; Beauty flecked its glades with flowers- Flower-fiecked island of the bay- The Venice of America. 65 But a storm cloud from the southland, From the land of far away, Threw its gloomy shadow northward On the island in the bay — Peaceful island of the bay — The Venice of America. Soon the dream of peace was ended, And the wavelets in their flow Sighed like mourners crushed with sorrow — Crushed beneath a weight of woe — War was brooding o'er the bay — The Venice of America. Soldier prisoners from the war fields Here were guarded night and day, Sang their home songs ; dreamed of loved ones, On this island in the bay — Guarded island in the bay — The Venice of America. Sometimes voices seemed to call them From the scenes of far away ; Called the brother, lover, husband, On the island in the bay — The prison island in the bay — The Venice of America. Here no call to arms e'er wakes them. Nor the noise of shot and shell ; Still the death clouds often gathered, And the death dew often fell On the island in the baj- — The Venice of America. Vacant hearthstones in the home land Waited for the coming day When the brave boys here imprisoned 66 Would in triumph turn away From the island in the bay — The Venice of America. But the hearthstones still are vacant ; And they will be evermore ; For many soldiers here are sleeping On this distant island shore — In the graveyard by the ba}^ — The Venice of America. States may build no shaft above them ; Martial bands no dirges play ; Distant friends ne'er weep beside them In this graveyard by the bay — Quiet graveyard by the bay — The Venice of America. But though once as foes we held them, On their " tents" fresh flowers we'll lay While above them floats our banner, O'er the graveyard by the bay — Graves of soldiers by the bay — The Venice of America. — 67 Life's Hiffhlaiids. We are tenting here awhile, With storm clouds overhead, Filling the heart with dread — And turn our wistful eyes Out on the gray, cold skies, To catch the morning's smile. Over the hills of Time— I/ike mountains far away Bathed in the light of day — Faith sees life's highlands rise, Beneath the cloudless skies Of heaven's unchanging clime. Beyond life's farthest bound— The shore-line of the years. Made up of smiles and tears — Hope catches gleams of light, Amidst the gloom of night, Where endless life is found. 68 The Morning" Prayer. When early morning tints the skirts of night And on the waking world sifts down the light; How blest to steal away To greet the new-born day; And all alone, somewhere, Pour out the soul in prayer. Before the world's great heart begins to beat — Before the toiler's halt with weary feet, And cares come like a tide — Ere clouds begin to hide The sunshine of the day — O then how sweet to pray! When night in sleepless hours has passed away And longingly we've waited for the day — If sadness clouds the heart And tears of sorrow start ; Twill lighten all the way And cheer the heart, to pray. 69 A Woman's Hate. The tale is one of shame : the storj- of a Dreadful wrong inflicted on an honest Man because he dared to tell the truth. 'Tis strange how truth will kindle into flame The fires of hate toward those who tell us Of our sins. Men often shun the light of Truth, lest in its glow should be revealed The blots that vice has left upon the soul. 'Twas this, and only this, that stirred the Hatred of Herodia's heart ; for John had Told the King he could not have his brother's Wife, and not be guilty in the sight of God, and from that hour she planned to take the lyife of John the Baptist. And now the time Had come to do the bloody deed ! 'Twas at A Royal feast, the birthday of the King, When from his realm his captains and high lords Had come to do him honor. Young men of Princely birth, and men of great renown were There ; while queenly women graced the court, thus Adding beauty's charm to this auspicious day. In festive scenes the hours passed gaily by, And music's merry tones called to the royal Dance. Among the young and beautiful that Joined the dance there was a queenly girl of Modest mien, whose charms so won King Herod's Heart, that when the music ceased, he called Her to his side, and in the presence of 70 His lords, he promised with an oath to give Her any boon that she might ask — so pleased Was he with this young girl. Bewildered By a compliment so rare, and promise Of a place and power of which she never Had a dream, she stood a moment by the King like one entraced; then hastened from the Hall to tell her mother of the vow he Made, and asked her what to choose of all that Herod promised. Herodias saw her Hour to be revenged on her reprover Now had come : " Go tell the King," she said, " to Give you on this charger, by and by, the Head of John the Baptist ! " The daughter heard The fearful words with horror in her look. But dared not disobey. The blush of beauty I^eft her cheek, and pale and sad, she sought the Presence of the King. A chill of fear stole On her heart, lest Herod be displeased, and Spurn her from his presence. A hush fell on The merry group about the King, as for a Moment Herod waited for the girl's request. "O King," the maiden said, " I ask that thou Wilt send me, by and by, the head of John The Baptist !" A thunder bolt from out the Cloudless sky, would not have so amazed The King, as did this strange request, 71 — There stood A gentle girl with heart unsoiledby sin; whose Soul had never felt the vengful j5res of Hate, asking as a Royal gift the head Of him, whom Herod oft had honored. A painful silence fell on all the group, While every eye was turned upon the King, Would he recall the promise he had made ; Or would he For his honor's sake add murder to his list Of sins ? The King must needs redeem his pledge — The man of God must die ! He summoned to His side a soldier of his guard, and bade Him go and bring the head. The prophet lay Upon his prison bed in sweeter sleep Than Herod ever knew upon his bed Of down, with his adult' rous wife. He heard The sound of footsteps in the room, and thought Perhaps the King had ordered his release. The guard stood at the grated door, and Softly spoke the prisoner's name, who Answered from his bed of straw, and asked The reason of the midnight call. The soldier Stood a moment lost in thought — like one when Duty means inflicted pain — then low and Clear, he read to him the King's decree. The prophet heard the words of doom, and Bowed his head as if in silent prayer ; Then quietly as if he bade him to — 72 - The banquet hall, he left his gloomy cell And followed to the fatal block, and Calmy waited for the blow of death. He knelt Upon the cold, hard floor, as if it were The place and hour of prayer, and he Had come to worship. With whetted blade The soldier stood beside the prostrate form To execute the King's command. The place Was silent as the house of death — both now Are ready for the fatal blow ! With one Dull thud it fell upon the prophet's neck And from the bloody block the trunkless head Dropped at the soldier's feet, and turned its Glazing eyes upon the man who struck the Murd'rous blow. The gurgle of the flowing Blood was all that broke the awful stillness. The hair lay in disheveled locks upon The brow, and spots of blood were on the Paling cheeks. Without a word the soldier took The head, and laid it on the charger Which the queen had sent, and sought again The banquet hall. He stood a moment at the Door, and asked to see the girl to whom, by Order of the King, the head belonged. She came Adorned with costly robes and jeweled Hands ; but when she saw the bloody prize She turned away like one appalled — then Took the head and hastened to her mother. Herodias smiled, and took it from her Daughter's hand, and with a look of hate touched The cold, mute lips that nevermore would tell her Of her sins. She dallied with the matted lyocks that lay upon his brow, and joyed to — 73 — Think the tongue once eloquent with words of Truth would nevermore disturb her guilty Soul with its reproofs. Herodia's Triumph was complete ! The man of God who Told her of her guilt was dead ! It was the Transient triumph of a Wicked Woman's Hate. When The Spirit Steals Away. When the spirit steals away — Steals from out its home of clay- Does it linger 'round the spot, Though in form we see it not ? Does it see love' s falling tear — Does love's sob fall on its ear ? Can it hear the lone heart pray After it has gone away ? Something answers to me, yes; Spirit life is not a guess. Ivove life does not cease to be When our loved we cannot see. Spirit life is not a breath That ceases in the hour of death. No, spirits are not born to die Their birthright is — Eternity. — 74 — The Dear Old Flag. ' IVAo shall take it down f ' ' * * iis * ^,i * Millions of loyal hearts are standing 'neath The dear old flag to-day with eyes aglow With patriotic pride and souls inspired By Freedom's quenchless love, and once again Repeat: " What foreign foe or traitor's hands At home shall dare to take it down ? " From shore To shore — from out the North-land where the sons Of toil 'midst mines and forests build their homes — Beneath the South-land's sunny skies where brave And loyal men have learned to love their Country's flag — from " Boj^s in Blue " and " Boys in Gray " the answer comes: " I^et curses be on Every man that offers it dishonor! " Brave men have borne our flag across the seas At duty's call, and shaken out its folds O'er islands far away, and evermore Will Freeman guard its honor. Hawaii Knocked at Freedom's door, and stretched her hands In prayer towards Freedom's holy shrine; And now our banner floats above her hills And throws its shadow on her fertile vales Which daily echo with the songs of peace. The day of freedom dawns on Filipinos' Distant homes, and hills now draped with clouds Of war and fields all drenched in blood shall Bloom beneath the dear old flag, while on their Vales the smile of peace will rest. Proudly our Banner floats on Porto Rico's cliffs where once The " dogs of war " frowned down as Freeman — 75 Bore it up the steeps, aud now the dews of Peace are quick' ning into life the drooping Buds of Hope, and Joy is springing up in Crushed and bleeding hearts. On Santiago's Heights and Cuba's wave-washed beach, on which Spain's navy rusts and rots, our grand old flag Keeps vigil day and night as if to guard The skeletons of steel that strew the shore. But, grander still! The stars and stripes now float Above the wrecked and ruined Maine, to guard its Wat'ry grave and keep forever green the Mem'ry of our gallant boys who sleep Away the years in undisturbed repose. No monumental shaft, nor granite pile More grand can mark the resting place of our Heroic dead than is the dear old flag that Waves in triumph o'er their pulseless breasts. 76 Only Tenting. I am tenting, only tenting On the lowlands of the Now — Watching, as the evening shadows In the gloaming, longer grow. Years have left their mark upon me — Dimming eyes and wrinkled brow; But in peace I'm only waiting Just to strike my tent, and go. On life's hilltops far behind me Mem'ry's pictures still are bright; And the path o'er which I've traveled Still is all aglow with light. But the sun of life is sinking, And the evening shades are here; Yet the skies are bright above me And the stars are shining clear. Sunset skies are only blushes On the cheek of coming night, As it steals upon the landscape Tinted with the fading light. So the twilight softly gathers On my tent, while at its door I sit waiting for my orders — Orders from life's other shore. — 77 — The Lost Navy. On Cuba's rocky shore, as corpses tossed Upon the beach by dashing waves when storms Have swept the seas, the battleships of Spain Are strewed like skeletons. The waters Dash against their iron sides and riddled Hulks, as if the very floods were angry At their presence. Colombo lies upon The rocks, deserted by her gallant crew; Her mighty engines noiseless as the house Of death; and from her heart of fire comes not A throb of life. Her guns though pregnant still With shot and shell, in sullen silence lie Upon her decks, while close beside them are The mangled forms of brave and loyal men Who fell in her defense. The wild waves sport Around her shattered form as if to mock Her humbled pride, and wash her blood-stained Decks; while in her magazines repose the Thunderbolts of war, but powerless now to Save her from her foes. Viscaya, once the Pride of Spain; and sent to sport along our Coast, and drive our Infant Navy from the Seas; all torn with shot and shell, lies helpless Near Colombo's corpse, and nevermore shall Breast the storm, or plow the waves. Fleet were these Iron steeds — the Oregon was fleeter Still — and soon her well-aimed shells, charged 78 With secreted fire, had wrapped her in a Shroud of flame, and dashed her like a fire Brand on the rocks; while o'er her charred and Mangled hulk, the wild waves toss their spray And chant her requiem. Marie Theresa, too, Which bore Cervera's flag, beneath the folds Of which her brave commander stood and watched The fearful race of death, lies rusting on The sterile sands, her engines hailed by The Brooklyn's deadly fire. The Oquendo, Pluton, Furor, each in their turn, fell 'neath The matchless aim of our skilled gunners, and Lie upon the rocky beach like skeletons Tossed up by dashing waves. Strong were the hands And braver still the hearts that faced the storm Of death to save their nation's honor; but Battleships with ribs of steel and sides of Iron, went down before our murderous guns As rocks are shattered by volcanic fires. Magnificence in ruins; a nation's Squadron blotted out in but a single Day; and o'er Spain's ruined fleet in triumph Waves the Great Republic's Flag! Beneath its Ample folds, oppression's shadow soon will Flee, as clouds roll back before the morning Sun; and rest and peace will reign like gentle Spirits over desolated homes. The coming Years will hush the storms of war, and hearts that Throb and chafe with anger now, will soften 79 In the light of peace; and peoples in whose Souls the fires of hate now burn, will gather Round the graves of the heroic dead of Friend and foe alike, and chant above the lyonely graves in which they rest, the anthems Of the Free. On Cuba's rock-ribbed shore, where Ruined battleships are strewed, and heroes Fought and fell; in years not far away, the Lovers of the true and brave will join in Patriotic pride to rear the polished Shaft and monumental pile, that deeds so Grand shall never be forgotten. The Bow Of Freedom soon will span the globe, for crowns Are falling from the heads of kings, and thrones Of despots soon will crumble into dust. — 80 He Toucheth the Hills and They Smoke." (The morning^ dawned on Mont Pelee as quietly as childhood wakens from a night of sleep.) The new-born day looked down as Calmly on its gray, cold brow, as if no Slumbering magazines of death were Hidden 'neath its granite base awaiting The exploding touch of an Almighty hand. The years had come and gone without alarm ; For not one breath had been emitted from The nostrils of Pelee. Peace and safety Hung their bows of hope upon the slopes, and Plenty smiled upon the hills and valleys. Wealth took shelter ' neath her cliffs. And love built Homes amidst her foothills. Her heart of fire Sometimes had throbbed against her flinty ribs As if in pain ; and muffled groans, like roll Of thunder far away — the prelude of A coming storm — had echoed o'er the hills And up the mountain side, but still the tides Of life swept on in Pierre's crowded streets, And on her busy wharfs. A moment more And all was changed ! An unseen finger Touched the secret key of death, and in the Twinkling of an eye the smoldering fires Leapt from their lairs, and in one winding sheet Of flame enshrouded every living thing. Human knowledge pales, and human wisdom Veils its face ; while reason stands in silent Awe amidst such grand displays of power. 81 Science has trained its telescopes and searched For comets, suns, and worlds embedded in The distant depths of space — it tells the hour When in the far off years eclipses will Occur to veil the sun and drape the moon — With microscopic eye it searches out The atom's hiding place — it weighs the beams Of light that glisten in the dews ; but grand As its achievements are, and vast as are Its fields of thought which it explores, never Has it found the secret place where wisdom Lays her plans, nor yet the key by which it Can unlock the council chamber of Almighty God. The Changeless Forever. I hav^e read of a land where no sun ever shines Where the shadows of night never fall ; Yet the hills glow with light, And the valleys are bright, For the Lamb is the light of them all. I have read of a land where no tears ever fall — Where the years never wrinkle the brow ; Where, 'midst beauties untold Spirit life will unfold, As the Ages unceasingly flow. I have read of a land where death' s gloom never falls On the homes beyond the dark river. Where there's joy without pain — Where friends meet again In the land of the Changeless Forever. 82 Our Dead President. Once more there's crape upon the door of Freedom's Temple. Its flag is draped, and droops At half mast on its dome, and Silence, like A spirit dumb with grief, broods in its halls. And every sound is like an echo from The grave. The nation is in tears, and Grief Is the unwelcome guest of every home. Uncounted tearful eyes turn to the noiseless Chamber where, in wakeless sleep, our honored Dead reposes, calm as one who seeks his couch For peaceful rest. The echo of our woe Has broke on lands beyond the seas, and Islands far away, and everywhere the World's great heart has shared our grief and tears. Our President is dead ; but Freedom lives. Assassin hands may smite the men who guide The Ship of State, and anarchy, in secret, Plot the overthrow of law ; but every Wound inflicted by a traitor's hand, and Every patriotic tear the sons of Freedom shed, will be like solemn vows breathed Around the mangled form of our great dead, that Liberty and Right will guard with jealous Care, forevermore, the Great Republic. The price of liberty is much, because Its worth is much ; but if its altar fires — 83 Must needs be kept alive by offering up Our honored sons, a loyal people, though It be with tears and blood, will bring the gifts, And in the name of our illustrious dead. Will sacrifice them all to Freedom's Holy Cause. Death's Harvest. O Harvester, Harvester stay thy cold hand ! Thy arms are already well ladened with sheaves. Thy pathway is wet with the tears thou hast wrung From eyes that are pleading, all blinded with grief. Each day with your sickle, all ready for work, We trace your dark form by the shadow you throw On the homes that are bright with the radiance of love, While leaving behind but a harvest of woe. In your greed you have reaped both the good, and the great. The heart full of love, and the head crowned with years; And the fields where you reap, and the paths where you tread Are all dotted with graves, and watered with tears. No music 'ere breaks from your cold, icy lips, As you come with your soft, muffled tread, And noiselessly smite the pure heart that we love, And heartlessly leave us alone with our dead. Your harvesting surely will end by and by. And your sickle must drop from your hand; For God has declared, in His Great Book of Life That your reign on the earth has an end. 84 — Lengthening Shadows. Life's day is almost gone ! The sun sinks in the west — 'Tis long since morning dawned, And I need rest. Youth's dews have disappeared That glistened on the flowers- The songs of birds are hushed In evening bowers. The shadows longer grow — lyife's twilight now has come ; And some one seems to call — I must go home. The dews begin to fall — The vesper hour is here ; And voices I have loved, Float on the air. My heart joins in their song — Song of the pure and blest. The going time has come, And I will rest. 85 My Seventy -fifth Birthday. It is life's twilight now ; Gently my sun goes down : No clouds obscure its light — Nor dread of coming night, When daylight will be gone. Amidst the deep'ning gloom, As midnight hours come on, Glad days that long since fled Come back with silent tread — Bright days so quickly flown. The night dews on my path Are falling as I wait ; And as life's day pales out Love-voices seem to float From the Celestial Gate. I hear the muffled oars Of boatmen as they come To pilot me away ; Nor would I longer stay From mv Immortal Home. — 86 — Home Land of the Spirit. In the home-land of the spirit, Where the blight of want and woe Never settles on the soul-life — Never checks its ceaseless flow — There like diamond fields long hidden, Lie exhaustless mines of truth, Richer far in precious treasures Than the hidden wealth of earth. In the homeland of the spirit, Where the weary find repose — Where the verdure is unfading And life's river ever flows — There beneath the shaded bowers, Kindred spirits meet once more. And the crystal waters ever Ripple on the radiant shore. In the home-land of the .spirit. Side by side with those who trod— Now in sorrow, then in sunshine. O'er life's pathwaj^ up to God — We shall some day roam forever Through the boundless realms of truth. Crowned as victors in life's conflicts With the joy of endless youth. In the home-land of the spirit, Where unending life unfolds; 'Midst the grandeur and the beauty Which no tongue has ever told; There no night e'er throws its shadow On the sun-lit hills and vales. And the brow of spirit beauty By the touch of death ne'er pales. — «v In the home-land of the spirit, Now are tenting those we love; And they wait to bid us welcome To their spirit tents above. Sometimes 'midst earth's storms and darkness lyight seems bursting through the gloom, And the sound of spirit voices Seems to hail us from the tomb. To the home-land of the spirit Fondly turn our weary feet, And we're waiting for the morning When our loved, and lost, we'll greet. From the headlands of the Yonder Lights are gleaming from the shore, And earth's tempest-tossed and sad ones There may anchor evermore. Loves Tears. There's not a pearl that glistens in the light- There 's not a diamond shines so bright Nor star that shines as clear — As does the eye of love When moistened by a tear. Love's tears may fall unseen by human eye— The heart that loves, unheard, may sigh; Yet love shines in the tear And echoes in the sigh When no one else can hear. The Old Man's Dream. The Sabbath dawned, and in the chamber Of his far off home the old man Laid and dreamed — but not the dream of one Who sleeps The world without was not awake And all within his peaceful home was still. He opened not his eyes, nor did he seem To know the holy day had dawned and Filled his room with sunshine. He dreamed He was a child again and sleeping 'neath The roof of his old backwoods home on which He heard the falling rain, and listened to The dripping eaves, while now and then the sound Of distant thunder broke the stillness of The night. He saw again the lightnings flash, And in his childish fear he closed his eyes And drew the pillow o'er his head to blind Him to its brightness. He heard again the Cooing of the mourning dove calling in Plaintive notes its absent mate, like one whose Saddened heart breathes out its woe alone. Then morning came, and in the room below He heard the sound of steps, and listening, thought Some one had called his name — just as his Mother used to, on the farm, to wake him From his morning nap. He saw the fire was Blazing on the hearth; the kettles hung upon The crane. He heard the breakfast call, and saw The family each one in their place, all Gathered for the Sabbath morning meal. — 89-- Then, for a moment, all was still while on their food, and on them all, his father asked God's blessing for the day. Once more the old Man joined the cheer and glee that bubble Up in childish hearts when peace and plenty Bless the humblest home. Then came the hour Of family prayer — that sacred hour in Home life to which the memory fondly clings, When from our riper years, though we'ghted with Increasing cares, we backward turn the tides Of thought, and side by side, we kneel again In prayer with loved ones we shall see no more. The long used Bible laid upon the stand, And with an awe that love inspires he heard His father read once more the sacred truths By whose unerring light his life had been Through all the years ennobled. From out the Mist of dreams the old man saw the home group Kneel and join in worship; while melting words Of love and faith fell on his youthful heart. Nothing about the dear old home had changed: The morning glory hung above the door, and Climbed along the eaves more gracefully Than artist's hand could train them; while Lilacs waved like purple plumes against the Window panes, and wild wood flowers flecked Every nook and corner of the yard. The Creaking well sweep stood just as it did. And on it hung the dripping bucket from Whose rim he used to drink, and in whose Liquid mirror he could see his rimless Hat and freckled face. In the barn yard stood The same old stack of straw, round which he Often played, and up whose sides he used — 90 — To climb in quest of uew-laid eggs. Out in The fields he saw the skipping lambs, and from The distant woods he heard the echo of The bells as homeward came the cows at night. He strolled once more about the fields and in The woods, watching the nimble squirrel Leap from limb to limb, and listened to the Hum of bees and song of birds, till every Tree and bough seemed vocal with their songs. The Sabbath came, and all was quiet on the Farm. The weary oxen lay and chewed their Cud; the horses stood with drooping heads as If asleep, and work and play had halted For a day of rest. He heard his mother Hum an old familiar tune; while father Sat beside the little stand on which the Open Bible lay, and here and there the Boys and girls were strolling in the yard, as If the hours were long and cheerless. He saw the wagon at the gate; for now the Hour for church had come, and every one — this Was the family law — from baby on its Mother's lap, to the oldest of them all Must go, as no excuse would answer. He Heard the same old tunes they sang before the Choir had been allowed to interrupt the Worship of the house of God; or tones of Organ brought dismay to pious hearts. He Saw the people kneel in prayer, and heard Devout " Amens ! " from many hearts. The hymns Were sung, the Bible read, and blessings for The good and cursings for the bad, fell from The preacher's lips in words as solemn as The house of death. The service closed, good byes Were said, and as the people turned away The old man wakened from his dream and wept. — 91 The morning light streamed through the window Where he laid. He heard the hum of voices In the room below, and birds were singing Cheerfully out door, while from his tear-dimmed Eyes he looked upon the things, which like Himself, were growing old. So was the long Ago seen through the rifted mists of years — The paled and fading pictures of the past Regilded by the magic power of dreams. Good Bye All. Whispered by life's latest breath — Whispered from the gate of death — Farewell words to love's ear given — Echoed from the gates of heaven. Good bye to life's toils and cares — Good bye to love's coming years — Yet Father one last prayer to Thee : " Nearer my God — Nearer to thee." ' ' Good bye all . " The sun goes down — Daylight pales ; the day is gone. The twilight deepen's into night," But, " 'Tis God's way, and all is right." Good bye : A nation is in tears. Good bye echoes through the years, And countless millions will recall This sad, " Good bye— Good bye to all.' -92 — 111 the Beginning. What wondrous words are these ! What thoughts are Wakened in the soul as Faith, and Reason Halt to measure their full meaning ! A hush Falls on the heart as contemplation dwells Upon a theme so grand. God all alone ! One moment more — then something is ! And thus The Heavens, and Earth began — created By Almighty Power. Before the march of Time as measured by the flight of years — Before the lines of space were laid which mark The distant stars, and suns, and worlds — back in The thick' ning mists of the receding past. Creation's work began. The pointers on The dial-plate of Time have never marked The When ; and Science never yet has told The How, the worljds that float in trackless seas Of space began. The mind sweeps down the tides Of thought till lost amidst the depths of the Eternal years, and yet around, beneath, On high, the suns and stars roll on as if Their forms and paths through all the ages past Have never changed. We search along the tracks Of power in nature's vast domain, and note With care the marks that Time has left on rocks, And hills, and vales, and yet no record can Be found on mountain peak, or hidden 'neath The rock-girt seas, when earth or stars or suns First took their places 'midst the countless worlds. 93 Beyond the lines of thought where Reason halts Exhausted with the eager search for truth, The eyes of Faith descries an All-Sufficient Cause — a central Power from which all other Powers proceed. If Science points us to a Time when only atoms filled all space, Or world-dust hung like clouds of mist on high, Beneath, and everywhere ; then Faith, with depth Of thought profounder still, inquires whence came The wondrous stuff of which the worlds are Made ; and what the Power that molded atoms Into countless globes of light. From out the Book of God there comes a voice that answers Back to Reason's call for some efficient Cause for all that is: in The Beginning God Created systems, suns and worlds, and all The Heavens proclaim their Maker's Handiwork. — 94 — The Everlasting Now. Eternity ! Eternity ! A hush Falls on the soul, and seals the lips of him Who speaks this mystic word and waits to catch Its awful meaning. We stand like watchers By the sea when darkness hangs upon the Distant shore without a gleam of light ; or As one gazing on some far-off mountain Range whose peaks are lost amidst the clouds. Changeless amidst all change, — it opens Up to Reason's searching light a fathomless Abyss, down in the depths of which we gaze. Till in the awful gloom Imagination's Light expires and leaves us but a trackless, Starless universe of thought. Before the Soul — beyond the distant past when years Began their ceaseless flight — there lies a vast Unbounded sea whose waves break on no shore ; Whose ebb and flow are noiseless as the feet Of death, yet sweep right on like torrents Rushing down from mountain heights and plunging Into depths and gorges so profound that Not one echo ever falls upon the ear. Eternity ! It is, but is without Beginning. It has no years, as we count Years ; for, multiply them as we may, till Centuries are more than all the stars And all the sands of oceans, seas, and lakes, we Have not added to its age. And if we Could erase them all, it would remain — 95 Without one moment less. Each tick of Time's great clock, as age has followed age till Eons rolled away, is but the record Of a moment's birth and death. Thought wearies In attempts to grasp the awful meaning : As one may look out into space till stars Seem sinking into depths profounder than The lines of thought — so may the soul dwell on This wondrous theme till lost amidst its Noiseless solitudes. Eternity ! Its Shadow floats before us shapeless as the Fragments of a dream ; it stretches out as Measureless as space, yet seems to end with Every moment that expires. It ever Answers Reason's call, but is itself as Voiceless as the tomb of ages. It is the Presence of One Everlasting Now. "96 A Living Soul. A form of life that feels within itself The consciousness of a Divine Beginning — A selfhood that survives all change amidst The vi^aste and wear of ceaseless changes in The universe of things; yet feeling in Itself the pulse beats of unending life. We stand amidst the shades of doubt and fear Of death, and think upon a destiny So grand — like one who gazes on some Distant mountain peak whose summit rises Through the mists and clouds, and glows as if on Fire with noonday light. About us are the Changing forms of life weighed down with years, Returning to their native dust, to be Transformed and reappear in bud or Flower, or other forms of life. But in Ourselves we feel the motions of a life Unchanged, amidst all change. Not something That exists ; that simply is ; but something Conscious that is, and in its very Instincts reads, as in prophetic light, the Destiny of every living soul. To Live, as we count life, is more than simply To exist ; for atoms, worlds, and suns exist, But conscious selfhood never thrilled their Lifeless forms. Soul life is more than matter Shaped by Nature's skillful hand in beauty's Mould ; for by its power the empires of The world are ruled, and nations rise and fall. — 97 If atoms never cease to be, but only Change from age to age, and reappear in Other forms — may not a living soul, a Thinking, conscious selfhood, have an endless Mode of being, whose unfolding powers sweep Onward through the eternal years of God ? The Midnight Burial. They made his grave in the silence of night, And laid him to rest by the moon's pale light. Not a voice was heard — not a word of prayer Floated out on the quiet, midnight air. Gently they lowered him down to his rest — In silence they smoothed the sod o'er his breast ; Then softly they whispered love's good-bye O'er the new made grave beneath the night-sky. But He who noteth the sparrow's fall Can answer at midnight love's whispered call ; And Faith 'midst the gloom and tears can descry ' ' The home of the soul in the sweet bye and bye. ' ' — 98 — In Potter's Field. With feebleness she walked, Oft halting by the way. Her eyes were dim with years — Her locks were streaked with gray. Within her wrinkled hand She held one single flower; And often turned her tearful eyes Upward, like one in prayer. She found a new-made grave By which she slowly kneeled ; Then on it laid the little flower — That grave in potter's field. She rose and looked about On costly shaft and spire ; But none were grander in God' s sight Than was that widow's flower. It was a simple gift ; But He who rules above Recorded in His Book of life That offering of love. In many unmarked graves God's great dead sweetly sleep ; And o'er them loyal hearts, in love, Their ceaseless vigils keep. There is one priceless gift — A gift all else above More precious than is Ophir's gold — A pure heart's gift of love. 99 — At My Brother's Grave. I sit alone beside my loved and dead, And dream of heaven. The Sabbath sun breaks Through the overhanging boughs, swayed By the breeze that fans my cheek, all freighted With the odors of sweet flowers that hands Of love have brought, baptised with tears, and Strewed above the pulseless hearts of those They've left alone to sleep away the years. I stand like one alone upon the shore That bounds the land where weary feet are halted By the chill of death's cold waters, and just Beyond, and through the thickening mist, breaks Forth the morning of an endless life. No ! No ! it cannot be that he above whose Sightless eyes I've laid a pure, white rose, as If to see them flash again by beauty's Matchless touch, is dead ! I feel the power Of his great soul, and though his lips are mute, And answer not my muffled call as once Again I speak his name, yet still I feel He is alive ; and in the years not far Away, we'll roam again the fields of thought, Where pain can never waste the frame, and death Will never pale the brow, nor ever halt Us in our search along the paths of truth. iU.ofC. — 100 — Our Dead Heroes. Here at the graves of our heroic dead We stand again, to tell the story of Their daring deeds, and strew fresh flowers Upon their pulseless breasts. "Above these low Green tents," where now in dreamless sleep our gallant Comrades lie, the hands of love have placed The Nation's flag for which our valiant Brothers fought, and ' neath whose shadows now They rest in undisturbed repose. Once more The noise of war has woke our dream of peace ; And squadrons of the true and brave, beneath The same old flag for which these fought and fell, Are marching to the peal of fife, and roll Of drum, to meet a foreign foe ; but roll Of drum, nor cannon's voice, nor bugle blast. Can break the sleep of our heroic dead. Some Rest to-day beneath the Southland's sunny Skies, far from the scenes of home and love, where Comrade, mother, wife nor friend, may ever Plant a rose, or strew a flower ; and on Whose graves the shadow of the dear old flag For which they died, may never fall ; but in The Nation's Book of Life, their names and deeds Shall ever stand among the world's great dead. In unmarked graves uncounted numbers lie, Of freedom's bravest sons ; and we shall never Know the sacred spot where in the awful Strife they fell ; but in each loyal heart, their Deeds of valor live forevermore. 101 — What mem'ries throng the heart and stir the soul in Such an hour as this ! The far away comes Back, all freighted with its tears and love's long Sad good byes — with desolated homes from Which brave men and noble sons went forth to Come not back in all the years. We seem to Hear once more the clash of arms, and see the " Burnished rows of steel," while all about us, Gashed with wounds and dying on the field Of strife, our comrades lie, without a word Of cheer or kiss of love to light them to The night of death. Heroes were they all ; for He who braves the shafts of death, at duty's call, And leaves behind him home and all the ties That sanctify the love of human hearts To save the honor of his country's flag, Deserves a nation's ceaseless praise. But while We bring our wreaths and flowers to crown our Heroes dead, we may not close our eyes and Hearts to others brave as those who never Joined the weary march nor faced the Hostile foe, and yet who wept but murmured Not when care and want and grief fell on the I^yal heart of mother, wife and lover. All over this broad land, from shore to shore, On mountain, hill and vale — are countless homes Still draped in woe, and hearts beat heavy With the weight of an undying grief because The husband, father, son, will never come. If it meant much that men should say good-bye To home, and go at duty's call to danger — 102 And to death, did it mean less that those Who love with woman's fervent heart, should bid Them go and die, if freedom's holy cause Required a sacrifice so great ? Not on The battlefields alone, nor in our veteran Ranks, nor yet in soldiers' graves, are all the Nation's heroes ; for in the homes made dark And desolate by war, are hearts as brave And true, as ever fought in freedom's cause. These graves, marked by the presence of our Country's flag, where rest our soldier-dead, are Freedom's holy shrines to which we bring the Incense of a nation's quenchless love, and O'er whose sleeping dust we chant the anthems Of a land made free by their heroic deeds. The thinning ranks of those who yet survive — Who bravely stood 'midst shot and shell, and yet Are with us still — who come with halting steps And bending forms, with battle scars and eyes Grown dim with years, to honor those whose toil and Danger once they shared, remind us of the Home not far away, when other hands will Strew fresh flowers upon their lowly tents. But time cannot erase the noble deeds And honored names of our heroic dead. Transcribed on scrolls of fame, and graven On the loyal hearts of freemen's gallant Sons, in patriotic blood. The waste of Years and storms of time may change our columns Into dust ; and granite piled above our Honored dead may crumble back to earth ; but An immortal fame belongs to all who dare To die to make men free. — lOJ But while we come To-day with wreaths and flowers to crown our Soldier dead, again the noise of battle Echoes o'er the hills and plains, and breaks our Fondly cherished dreams of peace ; while war clouds Hang like vengeful spirits over all our Land, Most fondly had we hoped, and from our Hearts most fervently have prayed, that as the Years may come, the stains of blood might bleach From all our battle fields and nevermore The wail of woe might break the smile of peace, That rested like a gentle spirit on Our hills, and hung like an auroral blush On every mountain peak. But once again The war drum beats to arms ; and thousands of Our gallant boys, born since rebellion struck Its flag and yielded up its sword to our Victorious hosts, have answered duty's Call, and gone to swell the ranks and share the Danger, and the glory, too, of freemen's Conquering ranks. From homes of wealth and marts Of trade — from plow and forge — from schools and banks- They hasten at their country's call, to do And dare, and die as did the heroes by Whose graves we stand when treason lifted up Its bloody hands to tear our grand old flag From freedom's dome. While now we strew our flowers Upon these honored graves, our anxious hearts And tear-filled eyes will turn to our heroic Boys on whose warm lips the kiss of love has Hardly dried ; and visions of their low white Tents — the hurried march — the awful clash of arms, And death's dark cloud suspended over all — 104 — The scene, will fill onr souls ; and we will watch Each lightning flash from land and sea, to catch The tidings of our loved and gone. If these Shall not return, but fall amidst the strife ; Are left to sleep away the years beneath Our Southland's sunny skies in unmarked Graves ; here in the presence of our living Comrades and our soldier dead — beneath our Grand old Flag, unsullied by defeat and Honored everywhere on Freedom's altar; Here to-day, we swear to keep their mem'ries Green, and honor their heroic deeds as Now we honor those who lie about us. The Twilight Bell. As I sit in the twilight alone There falls on my ear In tones low and clear, The sound of a distant church bell. 'Tis the good bye of day Stealing softly away — Slowly ringing its evening farewell. When I think of that slow ringing bell- Of its cold, iron tongue; How oft it has rung When the last of life's daylight is gone: Then I dream of a day When no more I will say, I sit in the twilight, alone. — 105 — The Parted Ways. This poem was written upon the first anniversary of the burial of my wife while sitting at her grave. * * * Twelve months have passed as noiseless as the Floating clouds, since standing side by side Upon the fiowerless shore of death's dark flood, We breathed our last good bye. Like one who Stands upon the beach and notes the rising Tide, and listens to the murmurs of the Waves whose echo sounds like muffled sighs of Grief ; so did I note the rising tide of Death as paleness stole upon her cheek and Chilled her brow, and when the last faint pulse Beat came, I stood like one tossed by the Storm upon a pathless, starless shore, alone. Midst flowers and tears we bore her from the Home once cheerful by her smiles and love, and Laid her down to rest beneath the fading Flowers and changing autumn leaves, then Turned away to meet the coming winter Days like one along whose path the frosts have Withered every bud and flower. Here she has Sweetly slept away the year within her Low green tent, and I am looking out of Tear-dimmed eyes upon the clouds that hang Above my path and waiting for the hour When once again our parted ways will blend To be divided never — nevermore. — 106 Rest, Brother. Rest, brother, rest. The throbs of pain are past — The rest hour came at last. And on your pale, cold brow The dews of death lie now. Sleep, brother, sleep. Rest, brother, rest. Love watched the swelling tide That bore you from our side; Nor love nor skill had power To stay death's gloomy hour. Sleep, brother, sleep. Rest, brother, rest. We laid you down with tears To sleep away the years; And with love's tender sigh We breathed our last good bye. Sleep, brother, sleep. Rest, brother, rest. The wasting hours of pain Can ne'er return again; And now the tired hands rest Upon your pulseless breast. Sleep, brother, sleep. — 107 — Crucified Innocence. The Nazarene stands charged with crime at Pilate's Bar : A traitor's kiss is on his Cheek — his hands are bound, and muttered words of Hate fall on his ear. He hears the taunts of Mocking priests ; but conscious of no wrong, he Waits the presence of the Judge, calmly as One who in the house of God waits for the Benediction. Men are not pure because The world applauds ; nor are they guilty in The sight of God because we cry, " Let him Be crucified ! ' ' though they who mock may call Themselves the priests of God. The hope of gain May bribe a sordid soul with less than Thirty pieces to betray the pure, and Jealousy prefer Barabbas rather Than the Christ ; but innocence in chains is Better than applauded wrong, for crime cannot Be sanctified by praise from priestly lips. Justice with her searching eye, from which the Guilty ever shrink, steals in beside the Judge ; and, holding in her hands her even Scales, now bends her ear to catch each word that She may weigh the verdict that will seal the Prisoner's doom. " What is the crime with which you charge This man ? " inquires the Court. " He calls himself A King," the priests reply. " He says our forms — 108 Of worship are not service paid to God ; That washing hands and paying tithes to us Do not fulfil the L,aw ; and thus our creed And calling are dishonored." " He is a Malefactor ! ' ' cries the mob. (There is no Sting in all the realms of pain more fatal Than the tongue when charged with envy and Deceit ; and prejudice and hate are but Other names for death, which like an asp, Secreted 'midst the flowers, will strike its Unsuspecting victim with its deadly fangs. ) ' ' Art thou a King ? ' ' Pilate now inquires — as If he felt a fear lest Csesar be dethroned And he will lose his place and power. " My Kingdom is the world of Truth," the Christ Replies ; " to this end was I born ; for this Cause have I come ; and all who love the truth Will follow me." Pilate answers, ' ' What is Truth ? " All eyes are fastened on the Nazarene. " Not guilty ' ' is the verdict of the Court. " I find in him no fault at all. lyoose him, And let him go." ' ' Thou art not Caesar' s friend ! ' ' Rings through the hall, "if this pretender, this Defamer of religion, is released ; For he who makes himself a King is not The friend of Csesar ! ' ' 109 In vain he pleads : " I find in him no fault ; what evil hath he done? " But fear of shame and dread of priestly Scorn weigh more with Pilate in the scale that Justice holds than does the innocence of This pure man. Pilates have often sat in Judgment halls where purity and truth Were jeered and scorned by godless mobs And jealous priests in every age ; but now, As then, when zeal for creed and lifeless forms Is more than love of right and greater than The love of God — when to the cry of want And woe it shuts the ear, and wounded hearts About us plead in vain for help : then come Accusing priests with crowns of thorns, then Calvary, and then — a cross. Barabbas is Released and greeted with applause while yet His hands are red with blood ; and Jesus — to Appease the mob, and win the favor of A priesthood jealous for decaying power — A victim of religious hate, is doomed To torture and a death of shame. The paths Of Truth in every age have led men to Gethsemane — to mocking, and a cross. Its sacred light has rent the veil behind Which error long has been concealed, and, though The priests of wrong have raged and sought to bind With thongs the souls of men — right on the tides Of Truth have swept ; nor mobs, nor hate, nor yet The Cross can stay the Morning of its Triumph. 110 — Light and Shade. There's a morning that follows each night; And sunshine that follows each storm; There are smiles after tears — There are joys after fears, And hopes that dispel our alarms. Each midnight is followed by noon — Each tempest succeeded by calm. Though the wild winds may roar, And waves dash on the shore. They may hurry the mariner home. Winter locks the great storehouse of life, And storms their sad dirges may sing; But new life forms will come, And new flowers will bloom, Waked to life by the sunshine of Spring. Our paths may be shrouded by clouds — No stars may shine out on our night, But beyond the gray skies, Faith sees a sunrise That shall glow with unquenchable light. Ill — Take Him Down from the Cross. Take Him down from the Cross Death's work is now done. I^oose the nails from His hands — From His head take the crown. Close the wound in His side — Loose the thongs from His feet — Wrap The Crucified One In love's winding sheet. The sun is now setting, The night will soon come — Bear the Christ from the Cross To His rest in the tomb, Where the malice of men And the hatred of foes Can torture no longer Nor break His repose. Close the door where he sleeps — Let no footfall be heard In the chamber of death Nor love's soft, whispered word. There are watchers unseen Keeping guard at the door — Let Him rest till the morning Then w^ake evermore. On the door of the tomb Is the King's greal seal. Save the tramp of the watch The garden is still. And the sleeper sleeps on While the hours steal away That shall give to the world Its first Easter Day. 112 — Earth's New Day. Far away o'er the gray hills of Years IvO, a star at earth's midnight appears. Its brightness bursts forth as the sun — A new day for the world has begun. The Shilo, the Peace Prince, is here — His triumph shall be evermore! O'er the sleep- locked homes of the world His banner of peace is unfurled. There is music floats out on the air — Peace songs from the heavenly choir. It echoes o'er Bethlehem's hills I^ike the chimes of far away bells. Once more will the millions of earth Rejoice in His wonderful birth. Though ages have since passed away, The Christ-Child is with us to-day. For Him wealth will open its door And His presence will gladden the poor. O Peace Prince the world prays to-day That its war clouds may soon pass away! With gloom they still darken the sky. And the tempests are still passing by. Thy aid, Conquering Christ, we implore, That earth's battles may cease evermore ! 113 — O Death! This poem was written upon hearing of the sudden death of a lamented friend. O Death! Thick and fast your arrows fly Heedless of the mourner's sigh — Heedless of the tearful eye ; Never bending low your ear — Never touched by love's warm tear — Never moved by pleader's prayer. O Death! Hear you not the wail of woe When beneath your withering blow Strength and beauty are laid low ? Feel you not the awful gloom When with muffled steps you come Crushing hearts, and blighting home ? O Death ! Often at lyove's hour of noon, When its sun has brightest shone — lyong before its going down, You have turned the day to night — Smitten fondest hopes with blight — Dimming every ray of light. O Death! There will come a golden day " When beneath Messiah's sway " Your long reign will pass away. Tear-dimmed eyes with joy will glow- Ceaselessly Life's tides will flow As the Ages come and go. 114 — Then and Now. On the shore of Lake Cayuga Where the Red Man used to roam ; There amidst its scenes of beauty Was my early childhood home. I can see the dear old cottage Where my eyes first saw the light- See it like a far off picture — Fadeless picture — ever bright. Old Cayuga, queen of lakelets, I can hear your muffled roar As I heard it in my childhood When I strolled upon your shore. In my dreams I hear your music Stealing on the twilight air Soft and sweet as songs of worship At the hour of evening prayer. On your banks I gathered flowers — Sat upon your beach, alone ; Watched the ripple on the water ; lyistened to its undertone. Once again I see that picture — Stroll once more upon the strand — Picture which no art can equal — Picture sketched by Beauty's hand. But there came a day of parting ; And as birdlings leave their nests, So I left the dear home cottage For the wild and far olf west. — 115 It was a quiet Autumn night. The moon Rose at her best, and from a cloudless sky Threw down a silvery sheen on forests Stretching far away till distance blended Sky and woodland in one common sheet of haze. A hush — as if the world had gone to sleep — Was everywhere, and loneness brooded Over every tree and bough. Here in a Little open nook, standing so near the Dismal looking woods that we could hear the Murmur of the night winds in the boughs like Muffled whispers tossed from tree to tree. We found our cabin home : A clapboard roof — A single window where the moon peeped in And threw a sickly smile upon a Puncheon floor — a door whose wooden hinges Gave a screech as if in pain whenever It was opened — fire-place extending half Aross the room — a chimney built of sticks And lined with mortar made of clay — this was The spot, and this the house selected for Our future home. A meal invented by A mother's skill from odds and ends of an Exhausted larder, and served on chairs and Boxes scattered round the room, with fun and Frolic for dessert — this was our first night's Supper in the woods. Then came the hour for Sleep, and here again a mother's loving Care was equal to the problem: beds on The floor upstairs and down — chairs and boxes Changed from tables into beds— children tucked In corners out of sight, and soon the dew Of sleep fell on the new-found home : for some — 116 — A restful sleep ; for some a fitful dream Of the deserted home now far away. But morning came as bright as if the sun Had never shone on lonely hearts, nor earth Had ever seen a tear or heard a sigh. These were the days of pioneers, when hope Threw on the night of care a bow of light And courage nerved the arm to do and dare. Faith saw concealed within the virgin soil Potential wealth, and as the woodman's axe Rang through the forest aisles the hardy sons Of toil heard, as the echo died away The prelude of the harvest hymns that grateful Hearts would sing in coming days. If we had Left the music of Cayuga's wave- washed Shore ; here in the forest we had gained The sweep and roar of winds and storms that Echoed through the woods like bursts of thunder Far away. If on the lakelet's verdant Shore I could no longer sit beneath the Pine trees shade and watch the dimpled waves, here Could I stroll where once the Red Man had his Trail, while wild flowers stood in beauty all Along my path and tossed their perfume On the air as if to win my thoughts from My Cayuga home. The pictures Beauty Painted on my heart when but a child Flash out before me in my autumn days For then, and now, are but the poles of one Continued life which through the waste of Years has only changed in its unfoldment. — 117 — Amidst life's ebb and flow The years that come and go Are but as waves, whose muflBed roar Remind us of the distant shore. ^K * * * * Soon all was changed : The forest yielded to The woodman's axe — the fertile, wild lands Hitherto unstirred by plow or hoe, were Wakened from their long repose and answered To the hands of toil, while plenty now began To smile where want had cast its dismal frown. The hands of love and skill transformed the Cabin in the woods into a cozy home Where gladness reigned within, and beauty Reigned without. The woodbine climbed the Rustic sides and well concealed the chinks and Cracks — the honeysuckle trailed along The clapboards eaves and hung in graceful loops Above the door ; while pinks and roses tossed Their fragrance on the air like odors from The " Garden of the gods." The wild flowers Flecked the fields and bloomed and blushed In every nook, and lined the banks of Every creek and rill, as if to cheer and Rest the toiling pioneer. Had Beauty Missed me from the scenes where first I felt her Thrilling touch; and had she sought me in the Wild woods of the West ? I thought I heard Her voice, as when in childhood's merry days She met me on Cayuga's shore, and threw Upon my soul a fadeless picture. I Heard the same sweet voice when in My waking hours I listened to the night winds plaintive Tones that echoed in the forest boughs — as Once I heard it midst the pines upon the 118 Lakelet's shore. Once more she seemed to take My hand and lead me, as alone I strolled Amidst the maple groves and sat beside Me as I lay upon the autumn leaves And listened to the wild bird's song, and Watched the nimble squirrel as he leapt From bough to bough. Did not her skillful hand Paint the new landscape on my soul, and throw These crimson tints upon the evening skj^, As I had seen them in the twilight at My home so far away; yet knew not then She ever clothed herself with clouds, or Hid herself in mists? And was it not her Hand that shook the leaves from off the boughs when Chilled and blighted by the frosts ; and spread Them as a winding sheet upon the Dying flowers ? Does not the hand of Beauty Paint the rose? Does she not sparkle in the streamlet Where it flows? Does she not gild the hilltops With the light, And throw Aurora's blushes On the night ? But child-life changes with The years, and sunny days and pleasant paths Lead to the gates of duty ; but pleasure ends Not where the real work of life begins: Its broader, grander fields of thought ; its hope And faith, gild all the coming years with light. The discipline of toil can stimulate And help unfold the unused powers of Mind, and thus disclose the mission of the — 119 — Life for all its future. Each day, amidst The toil of field and farm — to him who thinks The buds and flowers; the rills and rocks, make Their mute appeal, and are the classics in The college course of life. To him who Has an ear to hear, come voices from the Very dust on which he treads : He plants and Sows, and waits; and soon a latent power Begins to throb and thrill in every blade And bud, and throw the tides of life from root To bough, till all about him seems to be A ceaseless, vital force. On such a scene The backwoods boy looked out, and like a Changing view when one ascends from valleys To the hills — so wider fields and grander Views of life stretched out before him. Nature's volume — always open to the Eyes of those who seek its varied truths — Became his daily book, in which, though want And work demanded time and care, he found Concealed truths grander than the pen or press Have ever yet revealed, Beauty's matchless hand Had illustrated every page, and wakened In his soul the most intense delight ; for Back of every perfect form of things, or Perfect form of life, he saw the presence Of a mind. Here in the great outdoor of God he found his college halls, and watched The looms of Nature's silent powers weave From the dust her wondrous forms of life, each In itself complete. As yet he had not Learned the meaning of the truths inscribed On Nature's changing pages ; nor did he Always understand the Voices calling — 120 From the woodland shades; from swelling buds and From the night winds, in his waking hours, and Yet amidst his toil he often paused as if Some one had called his name. Often in the hush of evening 'Neath the night sky, all alone, Duty's voice — like some one calling- Calling him in undertone — Bade him bear his Master's cross, For Him counting all things loss. Manhood's morning Now had dawned, and looking outward through Life's open gate he saw well beaten paths Oe'r which, before him, men of great renown Had passed to wealth and honor. Once more He paused, as if in doubt, and stood as one Where two ways meet, and fears to choose, but at The last the choice he makes proves but a path To blighted expectations. There is no Anguish more intense than that which stings the Heart, when, blinded by the love of self, we Turn from duty's paths to find at last but Skeletons of blighted hopes. Ambition Kindles up its fires, and men look out on Laurels to be won, and honors to be Gained, and in the greed for place and power They hush the voice of conscience in the soul And close the ear to duty's call. God does Not always speak from out the smoke of burning Mounts; nor yet from burning bush; but often In a still, small voice. He says: " He that loveth Wealth, or friends, or life, more than he loveth Me, he cannot follow me." This was the — 121 — Voice that thrilled his soul as thus he stood, And looked through life's wide, open gate, and On the coming years. As once the kingdoms Of the world flashed out before his Lord, and Earthly glory offered Him its crown if He would worship a Deceiver — so now Was thrown upon the canvas of the coming Years the glint of wealth, and honor's sunlit Heights, to woo and win his heart. Beside him Duty stood with steady eye and face Serene as morning when its light falls on The hills. She bent her ear to catch the first Faint whisper of his choice; to make the Record of his vow; for in that vow there Was concealed a harvest of results that In the reaping time might crown his life with Good, or blight his years with sorrow and defeat. While thus he listened to the Voice and shrank From duty's rugged way, the memories of The past, like waves tossed back from distant Shores rolled in upon his heart, as if to Turn his thoughts away from cherished hopes, and Dreams of coming fame, should he obey the call. All life, sometimes, seem crowded in an hour; And all the past, and all our future may Contain, are blended in one act of will. An Unseen Hand, with even poise, holds up The scales on which life's choices must be weighed, And which, when tested by their real worth. Decide our future destiny. Enough — His choice is made. Decision's golden day Broke through the clouds of doubt, and fear that long Had hung above the path where duty bade 122 — Him go. Peace settles on the heart like dew Upon the withered buds when shrunken by The drouth, when Will and Conscience answer to The voice of God. Henceforth the work of life Took on a brighter hue; and faith and hope Threw lustre on his path on which the night Of doubt had cast a gloom. One purpose took Possession of his heart; one object held His steady gaze; that purpose the honor Of his Lord. We need not trace the pathway Of the years in which he sowed and reaped — Sometimes in joy, sometimes in grief and tears — For He who sent him forth has kept the record Well; and when the day shall come that tests the Merit of our deeds and virtues of our hearts, Nor human praise nor blame, can change the Verdict of the Judge to whom the secrets Of all lives are known. From out the evening Shades far from his old Cayuga home, With eyes dimmed by the years, serenely As the Autumn sun goes down, the harvester Looks backward on the paths where duty led. And ever and anon turns wistful eyes Acrost the valley through whose gloom he soon Must pass, and on whose farther shore Faith sees The waiting souls he pointed to the cross. " Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure Sy the cross are sanctified." — 123 Some One is Calling:. I thought I heard a voice, And bent my ear, and listened: Like love's soft note It seemed to float Upon the morning air— From out an opening flower On which a dew drop glistened. Its petals seemed like lips Which to my heart had spoken In undertone. As all alone, Like one entranced I stood Watching the opening bud, Which seemed like love's pure token. I stooped and kissed the flower, My warm tears on it falling. I wept alone. For one was gone. But just beyond the river Love' s flowers bloom forever, And — hark ! Some one is calling. — 124 — The Uncaused Cause. " I am Alpha and Omega." As one who stands within the shadow of Some mountain peak forever draped with clouds, Till lost in thought amid its silent grandeur; So reason stands within the mist of Uncreated Cause, lost in the thought of Self-Kxistent Being. Above the power of Finite minds to comprehend; profounder Than Imagination's depths; its presence Fills the soul with awe, as sunlight fills the Crystal with its golden rays. When Reason Halts, — exhausted with its eager search to Find the hidings of Creative Power, — Faith Stands serene amidst the gloom of doubt; for Through the mists that long have hung upon the Fields of thought, it sees an Infinite Creator. The world has turned its searchlights on the suns And stars, and men have analyzed the dust, And listened for the first faint pulse of life; But suns and stars are silent as The lips of Death. Too far away for Telescopes to sweep, containing forms of Ivife too small for microscopic eyes to find, Are regions of Creative Power yet lying Unexplored, in waiting for some coming Age, when pioneers of thought shall pass their Mystic bounds, and open to the world new Continents of truth. An Unseen Cause has Launched the planets on the shoreless seas of Space, to roll in unchanged orbits evermore; — 125 — And noiseless as Aurora throws its tints Upon the evening sky, they sweep along Their unmarked ways. Around, above, beneath, Far as the lines of thought can reach, where suns Pale out, lost in the depths of space, all that The eye can reach or science can disclose, Bears on its form, or in its life, the impress Of a mind that planned the universe of Things in which each atom fills its place, and Shaped each form of life, from tiny monad Up the graded heights of vital force to man. Out from the distant past an echo of Creation's hymn, sung by the Morning Stars And chanted by the Spheres, floats through the aisles Of Time from Nature's grand Cathedral: " Before the mountains were brought forth, before The earth and worlds were made, from everlasting To eternal ages. Thou alone art God." Ego Sum. If nothing else I know, I know I am. If nothing else is true, I know I am. If all things else I doubt, I know I am. If all else I forget, I know I am. What else I may deny; I know I am. I cannot this gainsay, I know I am. — 126 — The First Bobin. Back from your south-land home So soon ? And yet it seems so long Since I last heard your song, That almost I'd forgot Your cheerful tune. Have you come back to stay With me ? I love your clean red breast : And I will guard your nest From every wayward boy That I may see. The little nest you built Last year Is on the maple bough All ready for you now, But, by the storm and cold, L,ike me, it's old. You used to sing a soft Sweet lay At twilight's holy hour, Which floated from your bower Sweet as an evening prayer At close of day. Please sing that dear old song Each night, Just as you used to sing When your full notes would ring And rapture seemed to spring From out your heart. — 127 — You're welcomed home again Sweet bird ; For long have been the days Since in your evening praise, And cheerful morning lays, Your voice I heard. Whispered Greetings. I am sitting in the shadow — Restful shadow Of the maple bough ; lyistening to the wind's soft music — Plaintive music, Whispering low. Hush ! There comes a spirit message- Loving message For me alone ; And I bend to catch its echo- Sweetest echo In Ivove's undertone. From the world unseen, it calls me — Gently calls me To the life above ; Where my loved ones wait to meet me- Wait to greet me In their home of love. — 128 Power to Become. It is hidden in the atoms Floating in the sea of space — It is chiseled on each crystal In its secret hiding place — It is wrapped in every seed form Waiting for the sunbeams call — It is sparkhng in each dew drop, And the snowflakes as they fall. It has opened every flower bud That has flecked the fields in spring- It has taught the woodland songsters Every note of joy they sing. It is hidden in each life cell, Shaping every tiny form — Whispers in the softest Zephyrs — Holds the reins in every storm. It directs the comet's passage — Holds the balance of the stars — Sweeps the Keys of Nature's Organ- Wakes the music of the spheres. Soul life, too, has its becoming, An unfoldment, hour by hour — L,atent powers which have no ending- Powers expanding evermore. — 129 Tli€^ Old and the New Century. The blush of early morning glows upon The brow of the New Century. It dawned Upon the world as noiselessly as stars Flash out at night, and stilly took its place In the long line of Uncounted Ages. The same old sun that lighted up the Pathway of the century now gone, and Threw its mellow light upon its closing Hours, still shines upon the New, and sheds its Golden beams along the track of coming years. As love dies not when years have changed the Bloom of youth to wrinkled brow and dimming Eyes — so will we not forget the golden Days of treasured good the world has reaped from Its abundant harvest. lyike one who stands Upon the ocean's shore watching the Outflow of the tide that bears awaj^ our Loved, till distance drops the curtain on the Scene, and leaves us but the vastness of the Sea— so faded from the world the shore lights Of the century, till not one lingering Hour of all its hundred years remained. As comets dash along their unmarked way Amidst the stars till lost in depths of space. Throw back a trail of light to mark their passage Through the sky — so can we trace upon the Map of Years, by its achievements unsurpassed In all the ages gone, its passage down — 130 The stream of Time — Its laurels won ou Many fields of strife where Right met Wrong, and Wrested from its iron grasp its sword and Battle ax — its answer to the prayer Of Afric's sable sons whose unrequited Toil and undressed wounds appealed in Freedom's name for help — its honored living And its honored dead, whose names and deeds add Glory to its years — all this historic fame, More highly to be prized than Ophir's gold And diadems of Kings — all these, and more, — Much more — belong to the New Century By right of birth. It gives to us the wealth, And patient toil of fruitful minds that day And night have quarried in the mines of Truth — It opened up the long sealed magazines Of power, and wakened sleeping forces From repose, and geared them to the workshops Of the world — it placed a crown of glory On the head of honest toil, and from the Burning Mount of Love it thundered out the Brotherhood of Man. The new-born Century, With dew of youth still on its brow, points to The wid'ning fields of thought, and mines of wealth Yet unexplored inviting genuis to Unlock the secret chambers where repose The subtile powers that daily from the Dust are weaving in earth's noiseless looms the Varied forms of life, and which await the Magic touch of science to unbolt their doors And send them forth on tireless wings to do The errands of the world. — 131 — Science with its lyighted torch and searching eye — Reason with Its burnished blade defending fearlessly The citadels of truth — Hope pointing to The highlands where the mists of error fall Not on the pathway of the soul — and Faith Serene as morning 'midst the battle fields Of thought — these, as the Century now new, Shall pale with years and fade away, shall in Its place stand as beacon lights to guide Men to the paths that lead to truth and God. Met in The Windowless Chamber. Met in the windowless chamber — Met in the silence of rest; Met, but no love word was spoken — Met, where there's no anxious breast. Met after waiting and watching — Met at the end of long years; Met where no farewells are spoken — Met safe from sorrow and tears. Met with a cheerful, " good morning " — Met where the day never ends; Met where the bliss is unending — Met 'midst the greeting of friends. Met where the life is eternal — Met in the welcome of home; Met with the good of all ages — Met at the Throne of the lamb. — 132 Thanksgiving. A nation on its knees for prayer and Praise ! A hush, amidst the noise of ceaseless Care and toil, while countless eyes and anxious Hearts are turned to God ! This is the nation's Holy Day ; a mid week Sabbath ; when the Glow of furnace fires shall dim, and engines' Arms of steel shall rest, and looms shall stand in Silence all the day, deserted by the Weary ones who through the weeks and months have Stood and watched their shuttles come and go. A joyous day ; when smiles come back again To heavy hearts and brows of care, and tides of I^ove and mirth crowd from the soul the wants and Woes of life. This is a sacred family Day ; a time to kindle up anew the Fires of early love which absence, care and Years have dimmed, but had no power to Quench ; the time of coming home again, to Print the kiss of love once more on mother's Wrinkled brow, and taste again the luscious Things her hands have made, and share the greetings Of a father's love. Here 'neath the old home Roof, child-life comes back with all its gush and Glee, and for awhile we live amidst its Pranks and pouts, forgetful of the years that Lie between the Now and Then, and hardly Note the changes time has wrought. But merry Hearts can never long forget the loved And lost, and silence settles on each soul, As names of love are called which nevermore 133 — Will answer to a mother's voice. But still The loved ones out of sight, amidst these Festive hours, seem near as when in childhood's Merry days we wandered side by side, and Strolled along the running brook or gamboled 'Neath the orchard boughs. Though tears unbidden Fall when memory takes us by the hand and Leads us to the graves of those we loved, yet still These hours are not for grief. The ceaseless flow Of good through all the days and months demands A ceaseless song of praise. The house of God To-day should echo with the voice of song From loving, loyal hearts. With plenty He Has crowned the fields, and streams of goodness Flow on every side. His power has checked The march of death that threatened to invade Our land, and peace has smiled on all our Hills and vales. The early and the latter Rains have brought us fruitful fields, and plenty Sits enthroned on every hand. The God Who gave us Freedom's sacred boon has raised Up countless loyal hearts to guard it well From treason's blighting hand. How blind must be The eye that cannot see, in all these gifts The loving, guiding hand that made the Worlds. 134 — A Living Presence. In all that is, iu earth or sea or sky, There seems a living presence; a secret Power that wakens in the soul the most Inspiring thoughts, and out of things not seen, And things that have no life, brings forth a new Creation. It steals upon the heart as Morning steals upon the hills and gilds with Hues of gold the very dust on which we Tread. It gives a form to every swelling bud, And by its magic touch the tides of life Flow through the veins and arteries of earth. Its voice is heard in every running rill. And summer breeze that floats through forest boughs, And all the mingling sounds of earth seem but The echo of its matchless voice. Its power Can kindle into life imagination's lyatent fires, and stir the spirit's depths as Tempests stir the caverns of the sea, and Toss upon the shore new forms of life, and Buried gems on which the light of day has Never shown. The glittering dews of early Morn are lighted by its touch, and every Throb of life in all that creeps or crawls or Flies, is but the ceaseless pulse of its great Heart of life. We see it when Aurora Tints the night sky with electric fires, and Paints a blush of beauty on the gloomy Brow of night. It shapes the brilliant bow of I,ight that spans Niagara's liquid brow, — 135 — And in its ceaseless roar we hear the echo Of its voice. When lightnings flash, and thunders Roll as if the magazines of heaven had Burst, we feel this presence midst the awful Fray, and stand appalled at its resistless Power. There is no night so dark, nor forest Shades so deep, but he who seeks repose can Hear its whisper, as the night-winds sigh like Vesper hymns to lull him into sleep. In Twilight's sacred hour, when on the soul there Falls a hush — like night-dews on the drooping Flowers, amidst the dews and damps — it lays Its hand in ours, and walks with muflfled steps Along our evening paths. When lone and sad, We leave the thoroughfares of life and seek The silent city of the dead, to sit Alone and weep beside the graves of those We love, this Presence seems to share our grief, And points us to The Land where mourner's sigh Will nevermore be heard. How hallowed is The place; how sacred is the hour when earth And heaven seem so near that every tear We shed is seen by spirit eyes, and as We breathe the names of those we love we seem To hear them answer from the other shore. Here by our loved and lost the seen and Unseen meet, for just beyond the pale, cold Realm of death. Faith sees a new empire of Life where spirit-being may unfold its Latent powers through endless years, and in This Living Presence dwell forevermore. 136 1 Am The Life. Through the long aisles of Time have echoed these Strange words since the eventful day, when from The guarded tomb the Risen Christ came forth And opened to the world the empire of An endless life. Like waves succeeding waves When driven by the storm — so each succeeding Age has borne these magic words that fell from Jesus' lips on time's resistless tide, till Every land and island far away Have heard the joyful news. On this new Easter Day, " I am the Life " in soul inspiring Praise — in anthem, song, and chant — from choir and Hut and home, will roll like some grand hymn of Joy, till earth and heaven are swept by one Great tidal wave of cheerful song. The night Of doubt had hung upon the graves of earth So long — the light of hope so dimly fell Upon the land of death — no marvel when The Sun of Life burst through the mists, and Tearful eyes saw morning dawn upon a World of tombs, that songs of gladness broke on Aching hearts. Henceforth, beside each new made Grave, Faith took her place, and pointing to the Life land opened by the Risen Christ, dispelled The gloom that drapes the sacred tents where sleeps Our loved and gone; while low and soft, she — 137 Whispers in each Hst'ning ear " I am the I^ife. " Uncounted thousands in love's minor key Will join to swell the I^ife-song of to-day; For from the homes of earth where grateful hearts In harmony have sang through happy years The Matchless Name, have gone the voices we shall Hear no more, and on whose hearthstone rests a Ceaseless hush. To-day new voices help to Swell the chorus of the skies, and spirit Songs will mingle with the songs of earth, and Echo in our hearts; and thus the homes of Heaven, and homes of earth, will still be one. " I am the lyife." With this song upon Our lips, and welling up from joyful hearts Once more the church below, and church above Will join to swell the praise of Him who once Was dead, but lives forevermore. The ebb And flow of years — the changing tides of thought — The world's increasing light — these all have Added lustre to His matchless Name. 138 — Mystic Borderland. There is a mystic border land Which bounds the Now and Then ; Upon whose shores the waves of Time Strew scenes long past again. They lie about us like the gems Cast on the ocean's strand "Which running waves have left to glow Upon the cheerless sand. Behind us lie life's verdant Then Whose hill tops glow with light ; And love-thoughts flash from out the years As stars from out the night. lyOved voices float upon the air — The Now becomes the Then ; While backward flows the tide of years, And we are young again. Through all the tangled web of years There runs one golden thread That binds the heart to those we love — Our living, and our dead. Beyond the Now and Then of earth, The tide of life flows on ; For soul life here, and soul life there. Are in their nature one. — 139 The First Geranium Bud. All hail to the first born of Spring tide ! I have watched for you, day after day ; Have bathed you and warmed you all winter, And wondered that you should delay. I placed you each day in the window In hope that the cheerful sunshine Would waken you from your long slumber And gently kiss open your eyes. The night frosts have noiselessly watched you To touch your soft cheek with their breath ; But I've guarded the time of your sleeping, And saved you from chilling and death. Your pulse beats grow quicker and stronger, Your wrappings of winter are old ; And soon will the fingers of sunshine Your soft, blushing petals unfold. Your brightness and beauty will cheer me, For your presence will 'mind me of one Who planted and lovingly watched you. But has gone — never more to return ! So above the low tent where she' s sleeping I'll plant you with tenderest care ; She will know you are blooming above her — She will know who has planted you there. — 140 — When the Sun Goes Down. When the shadows longer grow, And the zephyrs whisperd low; When the light pales on the hills, And the nightshades drape the vales ; Then 'tis sweet to steal away At the hour of closing day, And, somewhere, be with God alone — As the evening sun goes down. In the stillness of the hour, On the soul their steals a power. Gently as the dews of night, Softly as the morning light. Which wakens from their long repose The memories of far-off days, When, with loved ones long since gone We watched the evening sun go down. Words of love from lips now still Seem once more the heart to thrill; And voices we shall hear no more Come to us on the evening air. Like whispers from the far away — When sitting at the close of day Amidst the gloaming, all alone. We watch the evening sun go down. — 141 — Sunbeams. A little spot of sunshine Came like a patch of gold, And fell upon a flower bud As it shivered in the cold. The dews of night had drenched it — Its tiny head was bare — Its whole form seemed to quiver, Chilled by the evening air. But when the sunshine kissed it, In just a little while Its blushing petals opened And answered with a smile. So, often in life's trials. When all the world seems cold, One love-word spoken to us Comes like this patch of gold. Its glow breaks through the night mists. It floods the heart with light ; And gladness, like the morning. Succeeds the darkest night. — 142 Not Far Between. It is not far between lyife's morning and its night; But oh how swiftly flow The hours that come and go ; Nor can we stay their flight. It is not far between Our days of hopes and fears ; And yet amidst them all, Upon our pathway falls Sunshine, to dry our tears. It is not far between The hearthstone and the tomb ; But light shines on the way, And leads us to a day Where good byes never come. It is not far between The death land's dreary shore And the immoral strand — Life's verdant border land — Where death comes nevermore. — 143 His Name Shall be Called Wonderful. " I shall see Him, but not now; I shall behold him, but not nigh." " Unto us a child is born, Unto us a son is given." He * * * * A hush had fallen on the world. The sound Of war had died away, and peace was Brooding like a gentle spirit over Every land. The reign of strife had lasted Long, and hate and wrong had left a blight like Vengeful spirits everywhere. Men wearied Of the sight of marshaled hosts, and fields of Carnage red with blood, and in their hearts they Prayed for peace — the promised golden age. When war should be no more. When Paradise Was lost by sin, and conscious guilt had filled Man' s heart with fear, the promise of a Seed Whose heel should bruise the serpent's head, came like A bow of light amidst the awful gloom, And Hope descried the coming of a day When peace once more 'twixt heaven and earth should Be restored. Age after age the altars of Devotion glowed with sacrificial fires, And sprinkling priest and sprinkled blood were each Prophetic of the coming Christ. His long Delay had left the gloom of fear and doubt On many anxious hearts, and unbelief 144 — Had left its withering blight on many Who had fondly hoped the Paradise Of peace would come again to earth. But in The plans of God, the great events that change The channels where historic tides have run From age to age, and opened up to thought And faith still grander fields, come on so slow, And hidden causes lie so far away. That we forget He holds the reins of power By which all nations rise and fall ; and that With him a thousand years are as a day. God's bow of promise spanned the awful Gorge of gloomy years from the eventful Day when Paradise was closed to sinning Man, to that new morning far away, when David's Greater Son should come in peace, and Reign forevermore. The fulness of the Time had come, and Hope began to kindle Up anew its fires, which threw on earth's long Night its mellow rays, as when through rifted Clouds the moon's pale light falls on the hills and Vales below. The pulseless world began to Waken from its morbid sleep, and longing Hearts, inspired anew with faith, were waiting For the Shiloh. The clock in Time's old tower Had just struck twelve, and Bethlehem's busy Streets, that all the day were thronged with stranger Guests, were quiet now, and sleep had lulled The weary ones to peaceful rest. — 145 No night I/ike this had ever settled on these hills ; And never such a morning dawned upon The world. The Jubilee of Peace began When from the midnight sky the angel-choirs Pealed out in notes of joy an anthem earth Had never heard before, the melody of Which has never died away. ' ' Good will to Men, and peace on earth," broke on the wondering Shepherd's ears, and echoed o'er the hills and Vales, for Israel's conquering King had come, and in A manger, wrapped in swaddling cloths, the Christ Now slept upon the Virgin Mother's breast. Life's Highlands. We are tenting here awhile. With storm clouds overhead, Filling the heart with dread — And turn our wistful eyes Out on the gray, cold skies, To catch the morning's smile. Over the hills of Time — Ivike mountains far away Bathed in the light of day — Faith sees lyife's Highlands rise, Beneath the cloudless skies Of heaven's unchanging clime. Beyond life's farthest bound — The shore-line of the years, Made up of smiles, and tears — Hope catches gleams of light. Amidst the gloom of night. Where endless life is found. 146 The Thought World. O the wonderful world of Thought ! As broad as the fields of space, Its shore line no vision can trace ; For search as we may It stretches away, And widens as onward we fly. O the wonderful world of Thought ! When the tempest of care. And the mists of despair Shut out the sunlight Changing noon into night, We find an oasis of rest. O the wonderful world of Thought ! Its highlands are radiant with light, Its valleys are glowing and bright, And its meadows and hills, Its lakes and its rills. Are ablaze with the light of truth. ^ O the wonderful world of Thought ! No tyrant its gateways control — Its storehouse is open to all : To old age, and to youth — To all lovers of truth The thought world invites to its path. O the wonderful world of Thought ! Its pathways are througed with the brave, With the learned, the peasant and slave ; For earth's night flies away And there dawns a new day When the souls of men shall be free. 147 The Risen Christ. All hail to Israel's conquering king, From out the night of death ! The head on which Was pressed the crown of thorns is crowned With glory now, for Life, Immortal Lite has triumphed o'er the grave. The triumph Of the tomb was short ; for ere the victors' Shout had died away, the world's new morning Broke upon the night of death. If faith shrank Back, and hope expired when darkness spread Its mantle o'er the sun, and rending rocks And opening graves seemed seized with pain When Jesus died; still love kept vigil at His grave. The tomb was closed when twilight Deepened into night, and Jesus laid unguarded Till the morning dawned, for Friend and foe alike had left the sacred Spot (made sacred as His place of rest) , the One to spend the sleepless night in grief and Tears — the other to rejoice as o'er a Vanquished foe. But when the new day dawned The men who clamored for his death, asked for A guard to keep his grave, lest vandal hands Should steal his lifeless form, and then announce His resurrection. The guard was set, and On the tomb the royal seal was placed, And now the Christ became a captive in The realm of death. All day the guard in Measured steps paced off his beat and doubtless Many a jest and ringing laugh broke on The stillness of the sacred place, where now — 148 — In calm repose, the Christ was resting. The First day passed and twilight threw its shadows On the hills, and sleep soon closed the world's great Eye — but all night long the guard paced out the Slo^\^ dull hours, till streaks of morning light Announced the coming of the second day. One more day and night will test His claim To be the Christ. All day in anxious groups The priests and people met, and half in jest And half in fear, spoke of the great to-morrow. The hearts of love that from afar had watched The tragic scene and lingered near the tomb Till darkness threw its mantle o'er the place. Had waited through dreary hours to bring The spices they'd prepared, that when the guard Should be recalled, they might anoint their Lord. The second day had closed, and midnight hung Upon the hills. The clock of time in all The years, had never struck an hour like this; For prophecy and faith, at Joseph's new- Made tomb had met in waiting for their Christ To break the thongs of death and open to The world a new empire of life. The time Of waiting had seemed long to those who loved Their L,ord, and night seemed slow to lift its Gloomy curtain from the place where Jesus Slept. At last the morning broke upon the Distant hills, and on the skirts of night it Threw a blush of beauty. Look ! See ! From out The sky, on noiseless wings, in vestments like The sun, the messengers of God descend, and — 149 — Backward roll the stone that closed the tomb, Regardless of the royal seal, and from The realm of death the conquering Christ steps Forth — not in the wrappings of the grave, but In the vestments of Immortal Life. The Guards fell at His feet as if the shafts of Death had pierced their hearts, and soon the news, Like an electric wave, had thrilled the City. All Hail ! had fallen from His lips On saddened hearts that hastened towards The tomb, like notes of triumph of a Victor from a field of blood, and kindled Up anew the fires of the disciples ' Faith, the glow of which has never passed away. The world's long night of gloom that hung like mists O'er all the ages past, and dimmed the Light of cherished hopes, was ended when the Christ arose ; for Life's New Morning threw Its brilliant rays o'er all the realm of death. And lighted all the new-made graves of earth. 150 — Yosemite's Lone Grave. While on a visit to the Yosemite Valley, on one of my evening' rambles along the banks of the Merced River, I came to a clump of cedars and pines, in which, almost concealed from view, I dis- covered a lone grave. It was unmarked save by a low, unpainted picket enclosure. Upon inquiry I learned that it was the grave of a Frenchman who came alone and in haate to the valley to spend but the day, and while descending the rude stairway at Nevada Falls he fell into the gorge below and died before he could be reached. As no information of him could be obtained he was buried. At the time his was the only grave in the valley. In Yosemite' s beautiful vale Sleeps a stranger from bright, sunny France, In an unmarked grave, all alone ; And the rippling Merced Chants a dirge for the dead, Like a heart when its loved one is gone. 'Neath the shade of the cedar and pine, Where the wild birds their carols will sing, And the mists the wild flowers will lave. Strangers laid him to rest With no flowers on his breast And no tears on the new made grave. As I sat in the gloaming, alone, By the side of his windowless tent, I thought of his far-away home — Of the eyes dim with tears That have watched through the years For the loved one who never will come. I said to the sleeper : * ' Sleep on ! The night of the grave has an end ; A morning will break on the sky, Then the parted will meet And our loved ones will greet In the land of the Sweet By and By." — 151 — The Dying Year. The bell in Time's old tower Is tolling out the hour Of the expiring Year : It sounds like Love's good bye, Or Sorrow's muffled sigh When death is near. It echoes o'er the hills, And murmurs through the vales Like music far away When daylight all is gone. And night her mantle throws On the departing day. The Year is dying now : The night wind soft and low Breathes out its plaintifiE sigh, Its weird and mournful note Out on the darkness float Like whispers from the sky. Stroke, after stroke, I count Like heart beats low and faint When death is coming on. Death's dew is falling fast — The hour will soon be past, When all is gone. — 152 My Backwoods Home. Oh, give to me my backwoods home — The old log house and puncheon floor, The back-log fire, its open hearth. The latch-string, and the wood-hinged door. Give me my bed up stairs once more, And let me hear the pattering rain That dashed upon the leaky roof, And on the window pane. How often in the blustering night The snow would sift through unchinked cracks. And stilly carpet all the floor, All ready for our barefoot tracks. Snow on our breeches, on our socks — Snow on the pillow, in our hair — Snow on the chair on which we sat — Snow in our shoes, snow everywhere! Maybe you think we didn't laugh When first we landed out of bed; How light and nimble was our step ! What lots of funny things we said ! I'd love to paddle in the creek, And sit upon its grassy shore. With pole and string and pin-made hook, And bob for ' ' minnies " as of yore. I used to cram my pockets full Of pebbles, for my leather sling; Then watch the stumps and trees for birds, And try to take them on the wing. I wish that I could see again The barnyard where we used to play Around the stacks, and chase the calves, And hunt for hens' nests every day. — 153 — Was ever childish sport so sweet, Or fun and glee so great, as when In playing hide-and-seek, we found The eggs of some secretive hen ? Oh, for another good day's hunt With our old dog, my dear old " Low " ! What lots of rabbits we two caught ! I seem to hear him barking now. The first great grief my boy-heart felt Was when that dog laid down and died; I see him as I smoothed his hair, And held his paw — Oh, how I cried ! How well do I remember yet The merry days when we would tap The sugar bush and clean the troughs. Made ready for a run of " sap." How grand it was to burn the brush And watch the waving sheets of light ! We'd whistle out our merry notes While " chunking log heaps " late at night. The dear old woods have disappeared; The fences all have rotted down; The stumps 'round which I used to plow Have been grubbed out, and now are gone. These childhood scenes have passed away. And my October days have come; But sometimes I forget I'm old When dreaming of that backwoods home. The fires have died upon its hearth; The old log house has tumbled down; The hearts that loved me then are still, And I am homesick and — alone. 154 — Our Golden Wedding. A glow of mellow sunshine, wafe, Is gilding now our evening sky, And we are sitting in the twilight, Thinking of the years gone by. Fifty years have glided past us Since we breathed our solemn vows ; But the love that then inspired us. In our hearts glows brightly now. Before us rose life's sunny hill-tops And the tides of hope ran high. While we bravely faced life's battles, Dreaming but of victory. We possessed no worldly treasures, But we had each other's love, Strength' ning us in hours of weakness lyike sweet manna from above. Duty called us from the pathway We had planned for coming years, And we buried hopes then cherished — Watered by our falling tears. But we heard the Master calling, And we dare not answer, no: For the souls of men were dying. And our mission was, to go. We have toiled in want and plenty — But the things that then seemed loss, Proved to be our richest treasure — Consecrated by the cross. 155 We are watching, wife, and waiting For the summons to depart, And we must be near the crossing, Where our paths of life will part. 'Midst the gloaming, wife, we're standing As we then stood, side by side ; And to-day, again 1 greet you As my loving. Golden Bride. On the Birthday of a Friend. You're standing on life's borderland- Its twilight hours are here ; The shadows deepen on your path, The midnight must be near. Behind you are the busy years, But radiant still with light : For on the battlefields of Truth You stood for God, and Right. The dew of peace is on your brow, Love's light is in your heart ; You are but waiting orders now — All ready to depart. We come to-day to say "All Hail !" We greet you in pure love ; But all who love you are not here — Some wait you from above. — 156 — My Backwoods School. Last night I had a lovely dream Which thrilled my very soul ; I thought I was a child again Attending district school. I don't believe I'd seen the place For more than fifty years, But when I saw that old school house My eyes just filled with tears. I stood upon the very spot Right where it used to be ; It hadn't changed — no, not one bit ! — As far as I could see. There was the desk on which I wrote, The bench on which I sat, For on them both I cut my name — I saw the very spot. There stood the same old rusty stove- It wasn't changed one dot — On which we used to slyly spit To see if it was hot. There was the same old water pail — I'd often filled it up — And there was hung upon the nail The same old leaky cup. My dinner basket, made of splints, Some red, some blue, some white- 'Twas always full of stufiE at noon But empty every night. — 157 The path to school was through the woods ; In spring ' t was full of flowers ; And there I'd often stop and play And ramble 'round for hours. I knew that sometimes I'd be late — But Where's the boy who'd see A squirrel perched upon a limb And wouldn't climb the tree? I always knew the teacher 'd say : " What made you come so late ? " But when he'd sit me with the girls I'd bravely meet my fate (?) There was the crack acrost the floor, Each scholar had to toe ; Then to the teacher all must turn And make a graceful bow. They seemed to think in backwoods' school We ought to be polite ; But now it seems that study's dropped And left clear out of sight. Here, too, we had our spelling schools. And challenged all the town To come and bring the best it had And we would spell them down. Sometimes we did — sometimes we failed — But each one did his best. And happy was the lucky one That spelled down all the rest But when the " spelling match " was done; And quitting time had come; Each fellow sorted out his girl And waited on her home. 158 The older people always said That's what these " spells " were for, But, just the same, we had " our" spells, For spell-bound ( ?) boys we were At last I wakened from my dream And then I lay and thought Of all my early schoolboy pranks I seemed to have forgot. My outer self I see grows old. My inner self — no, never ! The scaffold soon will drop to dust — My soul stay young forever. The Song of the Lark. The song of the lark floats out on the air Like notes from the harp strings of love : With the dew on her breast From her meadow-built nest She greets the new day With a sweet, cheerful lay. Then up toward the skies In her rapture she flies To bathe in the pure light above. From her bird soul she offers sweet matin songs. And who will deny that she feels The emotions of praise As she sings her glad lays ; And breathes a bird prayer As she floats through the air. That the God of the day Will lead her His way By the light He in her reveals. — 159 — Evolution. Of all the strange things our thinkei s have thought. And all the strange things that science has taught — The strangest of all is how life first began — How a monad evolves till it comes out a man. We are told that at first we are eggs in a cell — But what laid the egg no thinker can tell. Then science assures us that monkeys and men Are hatched from this egg — though not by a hen. Again it is said, all life is the same In fish, men and puppies — but different in name. And when we read Huxley, it is said, you will see, That man is but just an improved chimpanzee. According to science, mankind only stand In the line of ascent from polyps to man: So our scholars and thinkers who in wisdom have led, Are but college-bred monkeys, that stand at the head. They tell us all nature exists without cause — That it never began — that it makes its own laws ; That order and life, which are everywhere found, Are the product of causes that exist without mind. But Reason asserts that phenomena lead To an adequate cause, from which they proceed ; That these all reveal a great final cause — Its attributes, potencies, nature and laws. As life begets life — so mind begets mind ; Each always producing just after its kind. And as mind is not found, not in monad nor clod ; It must be in its nature the offspring of God. 160 The Old South Woods. In the south woods I am strolling — Strolling where I played in childhood, Where in spring I gathered wild flowers, With my dog and bow and arrows. Hunted for the birds and squirrels As they perched on limbs above me. Sang and chattered as if laughing, Laughing at my bow and arrow, Laughing that I tried to shoot them, Shoot them when so high above me. Often when I aimed right at them, Took good aim and fired right at them, Fired away but did not hit them — Then the squirrel chattered at me, Whisked his tail as if to mock me, Laughed because I lost my arrow, Laughed because I could not hit him; Seemed delighted, saying to me : " Don't you wish you had your arrow ? Don't you wish that you could hit me ? " Then the blue jay and the robin When they heard the squirrel laughing Seemed to say : Poor little fellow ! You're no hunter — j^ou're no marksman ! You can't shoot as high as we are With that little bow and arrow ! Do you think that you can hit me, Shoot way up in these old maples — Shoot a squirrel on an oak tree With that little bow and arrow ? Nothing but a cotton bow string Just a sliver for an arrow! Don't you like to hear us singing. Singing to you in the South woods ? — 161 — Singing when your'e in the sap bush, Singing when you come for flow^ers ? We were hatched in these grand south woods Build our nests here; here our homes are; Sing our love songs here each morning, Sing ourselves to sleep each evening In the cradles we have builded — Cradles rocked by gentle night winds. Why do you come here to kill us ? Do we harm you, do you wrong ? When you work here in the sap bush Then we sing to cheer and rest you, • Sing the songs our mothers taught us, Sing because we love the South woods. Sometimes we have heard your whistle- Whistle tunes that we have taught you; Then we think that you must love us, Then we feel that you won't shoot us. You have watched us when nest building. You have wondered who has taught us — Taught us where and how to build them. How to fasten them securely To the boughs on which we build them — Build them so the winds won't wreck them." Then the robin seemed to watch me. Looked at me as if thinking — Thinking if she had not seen me Climbing trees to steal her young ones, Stealing eggs when she was absent. I had dropped my bow and arrow. Dropped them by me as I watched her. But I made to her no answer, Answered not, but still she eyed me. Then she asked me : "Do you wonder — Wonder that the birds all hate 3'ou ? — 162 — Fly away when yon are coming; Build our nests up in the tree tops; Build them far out on the branches? Don't you know we miss our young ones When you steal them from their nest homes; That we mourn as would your mother If some thief stole you from her home ? As I listened to this bird talk — Bird talk from the boughs above me; Saw them watch my bow and arrow — Though they knew I could not hit them, Knew my arrows could not reach them, Still I thought of what they told me, Told me of their south woods home life, Told me of the nests they builded, Told me of their eggs and young ones, Of the songs with which they charmed me, Told me of the nests I'd plundered. Told me of the grief I'd caused them. Then I threw away my arrows. Threw away my bow and arrows, Left the squirrel perched above me, Left the birds up in the tree tops. Whistled for my dog and left them — Left them in their south woods home. Looking backward through the year mists, Looking at the far off picture, I can see the same grand south woods, See my little bow and arrow. See the robins and the squirrels, See the flowers and catch their fragrance; For the pictures of the spirit — Pictures stamped upon the soul life Never fade by time and distance — Never dim, and never perish. — 163 If We But Knew. If we but knew how like a dart One little word can wound the heart, As we ourselves would shrink from pain — So would we never wound again. If we could see how one cold frown Can chill a heart, and weigh it down We'd brush each shadow out of sight. And wreathe our brows with love's soft light. If we could learn that gentleness Inspires the heart like dews of peace — Our words, like music from above, Would soothe the heart like songs of love. If we could feel how weak we are — How prone to wrong — how^ often err — How it would soften heart and mind Toward those who, like ourselves, have sinned. If we in heart, and life are pure, And love controls us hour by hour — Then will we weep o'er those who fall, And thus exalt, and win a soul. If we have learned Christ as He is — If in our spirit we are His — His love and gentleness will show In all we think, and sa}^, and do. 164 Conscience. O Conscience, Conscience, thou art but another Name for God ! No eye hath ever seen Thy mystic form, nor ear hath ever heard Thy voice in syllable or word, yet We know thou art a Real Presence. Distance cannot hide from thee ; nor can the Darkness shut thee from the heart ; for if we Fly to earth's remotest bounds, behold we Meet thee there ! And if we hide in deepest Shades of night, there's not a thought that is not Known to thee ; nor yet a secret of the Soul thou knowest not. Thy talisman for Spirit life is " Ought — for danger, is Ought Not : One is the still, small voice of God, whose Approbation thrills the pure in heart — the Other is the thunder drum of doom that Pales the cheek of guilt. When storms of passion Sweep the soul, and sin and shame assail the Heart ; then quick as an electric flash thy Light falls on the paths of death to warn it Of impending woe. If pleasure throws its Baneful spell upon the heart, and with Seductive smiles would lead the feet astraj'. Thy light reveals the hidden snare, and throws Its penetrating gleam down in the awful Gorge where shipwrecked manhood lies. Unbidden Conscience walks amidst the busy mart of Trade where honor falls before the greed of 165 -- Gain, aud faith is trampled in the dust ; where Virtue is exchanged for gold without remorse ; But he whom she condemns, cannot impeach The justice of her verdict. She holds the Scales of right with an impartial hand, and Weighs without respect of place, or wealth, each Motive of the heart. It was thy voice, O Conscience, sounding in old England's ear that Bade her call her slave ships from the seas, and Trade no more in tears and blood. It was thy Light poured on the Great Republic's heart that Bade it free its slaves and open to the World a temple at whose holy shrine Manhood from every land may come and worship. What are the world's convulsives throbs to-day, But echoes from the voice of Conscience heard Above the din of war ? When Potentates Shall heed her call, and legislators listen to Her voice, then shall the roll of war drums cease. And Conscience rule the empires of the world. 166 Thrashing with a Flail. Of all the mean work that a boy ever did: To ditch, or to chop, or even split rails, The hardest and meatiest of all work on a farm Is when they compel him to thrash with a flail. I had always to thrash on the da3^s when it rained, For that was a job that seemed never to fail; But all the amusement such days ever brought. Was thrashing alone in the barn with a flail. I've chopped with dull axes, and mowed with dull scythes; I've worked without mittens, in snow and in hail, But to chop and to mow, and plod round in the snow. Is more cheerful by far than to thrash with a flail. I've tramped in the sap bush all day in the slush, And lugged barrels of sap in a big, heavy pail; But with shoes full of water, and feet cold as ice, It was pleasanter far, than to thrash with a flail. I've husked corn when it rained, and husked in the cold; I've mowed thistles bare-footed, and cut brush in a swale, But nothing so " riled " me and made me so mad. As when they compelled me to thrash with a flail. I've pulled cockle in wheat fields, watched "gaps" by the hour. Shelled corn, and pulled flax, loaded hay in a gale; But pulling and shelling, and loading and all, Isn't half as mean work as to thrash with a flail. I've churned by the hour, when no butter would come, And I knew all the time that my effort would fail; But I'd rather churn water from daylight till dark, Than go " Humpty-dump-dump ! " — one hour with a flail. — 167 I've stood in the water all day and washed sheep; I've rubbed and scrubbed them from head to the tail ; But I'd rather, far rather, be soaked by the hour. Than to be ordered to thrash in the barn with a flail ! I've plowed with slow oxen; I've milked kicking cows; Been knocked from my stool, lost my milk and my pail ; But I'd rather be kicked and all splattered with milk, Than forever be thrashing alone with a flail. I can see that old barn as it looked to me then ; Its hay mow, and scaffold — the very old nail That I drove in the studding, way back out of sight, Where I hung when not thrashing (?) my much hated flail. I look backward to-day, through the mists of the years. And see the bright spots that have marked the long trail; And I smile when I think how I hated the work Of thrashing alone, all day long, with a flail ! — 168 — Our Little Mary. One more birdling gone From out its nest; No more in love's bright bowers Shs sings away the hours — She's gone to rest. Another opening flower Has drooped and died; Its petals bright and fair Shed fragrance on the air On every side. One little hour with those She loved so well ; Then came the slow, soft breath, The muffled step of death, And all was still. Our Mary did not die- She went away; And now beyond death's chill We see our Mary still In endless day. — 169 — The Ides of Spring. We are watching for the coming — Coming of the ides of spring: Waiting for her muffled footfall — For the beauty she will bring, When the buried seed will swell Touched by the sunbeam's magic spell — When from winter's long repose Will bloom the tulip and the rose, Scattering on the morning air Sweetest fragrance everywhere. We are wailing for her coming To unwrap the wild wood flowers; We are listening for the music Of the song birds in their bowers — Watching for the clover bloom — Listening for the wild bees hum — Looking for the running rills Through the meadows— down the hills. How all Nature seems to sing When return the ides of Spring. — 170 — Spring is Coining ! Spring is coming! It is coming! I can see its gleams of light On the gray, cold sky above me, Like the morning after night. Spring is coming! Chilled and pulseless Earth awaits it mystic powers To adorn her hills with verdure. And to fleck her vales with flowers. Spring is coming! While I listen, In my fancy I can hear The soft tripping of Her footsteps. Gently falling on my ear. Spring is coming! On the hilltops I can see its cheerful glow Melting off their winter wrappings — Crystal wrappings of the snow. Spring is coming! Winds are playing Softly on their silver lutes. And the echo of their music On the air like laughter floats. Spring is coming! Buds are swelling On the tips of every bough; And the currents of their life blood Noiselessly begin to flow. Spring is coming! It is spreading Velvet carpets on the fields; And it wakens with its brightness. Beauty, sleeping in the vales. — 171 — Spring is coming! Flowers are blooming, And with smiling faces stand; Blushing with a matchless sweetness — Tinted by a matchless hand. Spring is coming! From the Southland Have returned our forest choirs, Pouring down their notes of gladness — Singing in their leafy bowers. But, oh spring, since thy last coming. Faded flowers, and withered leaves Have been strewn along our pathway — Strewn upon our new-made graves! 172 Christmas Greetings. Are there Christmas rejoicings in heaven, wife ? Do the glorified spirits above Clasp hands as thej'^ used to do on earth, And exchange the fond greetings of love ? Have you met the friends of the long ago, wife, Midst the scenes of your heavenly home — The loved ones you knew in the years now gone E'er the sad days of parting had come ? Does the Glorified Child of old Bethlehem, wife, To whom all our praises belong, Look lovingly down when He hears your voice As you join in your new Christmas song? As you catch the clear notes of the spirit choir, wife, Do you miss any voice in the song That you once loved to hear in the days long ago When it joined with the glad Christmas throng? Were you here in our dear little home, wife, As I wakened and wept all alone; And did your sweet spirit respond as I Sighed: " It is Christmas, but she is gone." But I send you a glad, merry Christmas, wife. Just as if you were here by my side; For the love that united our souls long ago Will forever and ever abide. - 173 — Spirit Tendrils. How the tendrils of the spirit Cling to those we love, How we feel that they are near us — How we think they bend to hear us — Hear us from above. How the lone, dark hours grow brighter When our loved and gone Seem to see the tears we're shedding — Seem to know the path we're treading — Treading all alone. When we stroll amidst the flowers, Planted by their care, How with new delight they fill us — How their fragrance gently thrills us — Fragrance ever)^ where. When alone we kneel in sadness At the hour of prayer. How we seem to hear their voices — How again the heart rejoices — Rejoices they are there. O, the tendrils of the Spirit, How they clasp the heart To the loved ones God has given- Till we meet again in heaven — Meet no more to part ! — 174 — The Old Family Cupboard. How dear to my heart was the old family cupboard That my keen recollection now brings to my mind ! As I think of its cookies, and doughnuts, and jellies And all the good things, I knew it contained; I can see it to-day as it stood in its muteness, With its clean papered shelves, and its dishes so bright, And the good things within it my mother secreted, The pies, and the dainties, she hid from my sight. Oh, the big family cupboard, the old familj' cupboard, The dear family cupboard that stood by the wall. How often I stole to the old family cupboard In search of the good things I knew must be there, Tucked away under dishes or covered with napkins. But I searched the old cupboard and looked everywhere. Such cookies and doughnuts no boy ever tasted As those that I stole from their hiding place there ! And now I live over my pranks and my antics, As my mother would spank me, then called me her dear. Oh, the big family cupboard, the old family cupboard. The dear family cupboard that stood by the wall. That old house in the backwoods fell down long ago. And the old family cupboard we all soon forgot; But the cookies and doughnuts that I stole from their hiding When weary and hungry, I dream of them yet. I have seen many cupboards that were varnished and bright, Filled with all there was good, and awaiting want's call. But no cupboard in mansions, though adorned with much art, Could compare with m}^ cupboard, that stood by our wall. Oh, the big family cupboard, the old family cupboard. That dear family cupboard that stood by our wall. — 175 — If I But Whisper Her Name. I hope, when life's daylight pales out, And the hour of my going has come; That the friends I have loved, who once walked by my side Will be with me to guide me safe home. I hope I will hear the one loving voice, That for long, lonely years, I've not heard; For if at the last I but whisper her name, I am sure she will catch the sweet word. O how can I find her far away home, When death settles down on my way; If she does not come, having crossed the dark flood, To guide me to life's Endless Day? - 176 — Beiieclictioii. O Thou Spirit by whose light We learn to know and love the right ; Without whose guidance in life's way In seeking truth we go astray ; To Thee our grateful hearts we raise, And for Thine aid we render praise. O Thou guide in paths of thought, To him who by these lines has sought To honor Thee, and comfort those Who in Thine ear pour out their woes- May all who read these words of love In triumph gain The Home Above. DPn K 1902 mi mm \!bbaR^ oFfflSIl 016 112 618 11