w.' . ** % \^Kp,' ^ ■% -yiw.' v^ ** %.** . » • A -e. a5°,6 LAST DAYS OF LINCOLN AND LYRICAL SKETCHES Cofyrifrht igcf, by JOHN lliviNG PEARCE, JR. All rights reserved. LIBR/^KV of CONtiRESS Two Copies Received APR 4 1904 a Copyright Entry CLASS «- XXc. No. ^ COPY 3 ?s 3 ^"3/ ^^Z.L 3 //^^ - •ncoln'a . i ^ REVISED AXD ENLARGED THIRD EDITION. Published b> Laird & Lee At Chicago. COVER DESIGN by Robert Nelson Place TITLE PAGE by Ben M. French ILLUSTRATED FROM PEN AND INK DRAWINGS by E. W. Hoehn Allen E. Philbrick and Frank Turner Godfrey INDEX OF CONTENTS. Anna, 97 April Snow, 64. Barn, The, 49 Battle Hymn of Humanity, The, 84 Beauty's Eyes, 67 Birth of the Graces, The, 46 Blanche and Isabel, 32 Broiled Lobster, zi Carrie, 115 Catherine, 136 Cecelia, 108 Childhood's Charm, ^^ Christmas Tree, The, 81 Come, Fame ! 90 Contrasts, no Death of the Lobster, The, 36 Decoration Day, 79 Dorothy, 119 Dream, The, 20 Dying Year, The, 148 Easter, 76 Easter Morning Song, An, 61 Edith, 52 Emeline, 126 Even-tide, 54 Faded Wreath, The, 106 Felicity, 78 Grandfather's House, 59 Growing Old, 16 Harriet, 15 Hast Ever Been in Heaven? 95 Heart Cry The, 48 Heart's-ease, 18 Helen, lo Her Wedding Night, 117 If I Had Thought, 122 Isabel and Blanche, 33 John Marshall, 30 Jennie, 29 Karra, 62 Last Days of Lincoln, 6 Listen ! 98 Looking Backwards, in Looking In At The Window, 99 Looking Through a Lady's Shutter, 132 Lost Dream, The, 118 Love Lives Forever, 40 Love's Three Degrees, 93 Lutie, 128 Marguerite, 103 Marjorie, 38 Mary, 82 Midst the Evening's Red and Gold, 151 Mildred, 112 Music, 92 My Little Boy and I, 83 Myrtle, 71 My Son, 23 Mystery, The, 124 Nature's Solitude, 27 New Century, The, 69 Nor Heaven Nor Hell, 39 Ode On a Lady's Hat, 105 Old Daguerrotype, The, 28 Olive, 88 On the Banks of St. Joe River, 145 Our Sisters-in-Law, 134 Oh! Why Should Thy Heart? 26 Pearl, 139 Poet at the Banquet, The, 153 Pour Passer le Temps, 74 Rose, 56 Rose of Bethlehem, The, 72 Ruth, 100 Sea, The, 113 Shall We Meet?— a Song, 137 Silver Bell, The, 102 Sisters, The, 22 Spes Mea Christus, 143 Sunset, The, 55 Tempus Fugit, 66 Those Pleasant Houvs, 127 To a Baby's Face, 41 To a Face Behind a Fan — a fragment, 116 Toasts, 149 Together in One Bed We Sleep, 141 To My Valentine, 140 To My Wife, 5 Transvaal, 34 Traveling On the Train, 11 Verna, 44 Violet, The, 58 Virtue's Humble Couch, 24 War, 13 When Scot Forgets His Mother-Tongue, 130 When the Evening Fades Away, 104 When the Last Kiss is Given, and Lovers Must Part, 120 Why Do You wait? 86 Why Must W^e Forget When We Should Remember? 138 Winter Thoughts — a pastoral, 153 Yale, Farewell ! 164 iii INDEX OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Frontispiece Title Page, Ben M. French Last Days of Lincoln, E. W. Hoehn, 6 Helen, A. E. Philbrick, lo Growing Old, E. W, Hoehn, i6 The Sisters, E. W. Hoehn, 22 Nature's Solitude, E. W. Hoehn, 27 The Old Daguerreotype, F. T. Godfrey, 28 Blanche and Isabel, F. T. Godfrey, 32 Broiled Lobster, F. T. Godfrey, 37 Love Lives Forever, A- E. Philbrick, 40 To a Baby's Face, A. E. Philbrick, 41 The Birth of the Graces, E. W. Hoehn, 46 The Barn, E. W. Hoehn, 49 Rose, A. E. Philbrick, 56 Grandfather's House, E. W. Hoehn, 59 April Snow, E. W. Hoehn, 64 Tempus Fugit, A. E. Philbrick, 66 The Rose of Bethlehem, E. W. Hoehn, 72 Pour Passer le Temps, A. E. Philbrick, 74 Easter, E. W. Hoehn, 76 Felicity, F. T. Godfrey, 78 Mary, A. E. Philbrick, 82 My Little Boy and I, E. W. Hoehn, 83 Olive, A. E. Philbrick, 88 Music, E. W. Hoehn, 92 Anna, F. T. Godfrey, 97 Marguerite, E. W. Hoehn, 103 Ode on a Lady's Hat, A. E. Philbrick, 105 To a Face Behind a Fan, A^ E. Philbrick, 116 The Sea, A. E. Philbrick, 113 Carrie, E. W. Hoehn, 115 When the Last Kiss Is Given and Lovers Must Part, F. T. Godfrey, 120 Emeline, A. E. Philbrick, 126 Looking Through a Lady's Shutter, F. T. God- frey, 132 Catherine, E. IV. Toehn, 136 Shall We Meet? A. E. Philbrick, 137 Spes Mea Christus, F. T. Godfrey, 143 The Dying Year, F. T. Godfrey, 148 The Snow Lies White on the Frozen Grass, E. W. Hoehn, 155 The Farmer's Wife, with Sparkling Eye, Pre- pares the Succulent Apple Pie, E. W. Hoehn, 156 The Wood Fire Crackles on the Hearth, E. W. Hoehn, 157 The Church Bells, on Each Sabbath Morn, E. W. Hoehn, 158 Oft When the Preacher Stops to Dine, E. W. Hoehn, 159 Yet Village Churchyards Filled with Stones, E. W. Hoehn, 160 With Eager Expectation Wait His Wife and Children at the Gate, E. W. Hoehn, 161 Bed Time, That Bugaboo of Youth, E. W. Hoehn, 162 So, Wordless and With Dreamy Mind, Upon Some Verdant Bank Reclined, A. E. Phil- brick, 163 TO MY WIFE. There is no dream that I could dream That's half so sweet as dreams of you ; There is no thought that I can think That can compare with thoughts of you; I have no hope that I can hope That's half so dear as hopes of you ; There is no life that's half the life My life has been for love of you. LAST DAYS OF LINCOLN. When on that April night of long ago, From fiend incarnate fell the dastard blow Whose agony more cruelly was felt By millions than by him the blow was dealt; A doubting silence spread its lightning wing O'er farm and city, tingeing everything With that deep melancholy which the dead, Immortal martyrs in their passing shed. One drop of blood, soaked from the marble stair Up which they carried him, to languish there, By simple child, on paper, in a trice Changed hands a hundred times at fab'lous price. The banners of victorious hosts that threw Their joyous tale to every wind that blew. Were stripped, dishonored, in next morning's glow. Displaced by the dread draperies of woe. With bended heads, white faces and knit brows, All men left their appointedi tasks ; and vows Sworn vehemently, touched the pallid lip ; And hand to hand pledged vengeance in its grip. The approaching day of God stirred memories That ne'er had wakened till the souls of these, Disrupt from their exceeding calm of peace, Were born again, as was the art of Greece, All knew then he had loved them, though un- known ; Each felt the sad bereavement as his own; The conquerors grew helpless in their loss ; The foe forgiven feared a sterner cross. And yet the crisis passed, because his love Reflected that of purest Heaven above ; And angered men were lenient, knowing not Their mercy was of Lincoln's heart begot. And now minds tasked their ingenuity To honor him who in so full degree Had drained the font of prophecy, to lead His children to their promised land of meed. The soldiers of the rival arms excelled In pouring out the reverence each held For him who taught the bleeding heart to dwell More fondly on the fields where heroes fell. Yet not to its last resting place forlorn Was the dumb clay of this sad minstrel borne; But at his feet his loved son was laid ; Nor death had for his prayers its sickle stayed. Bare-head round solemn catafalque there passed Both young and old, all weeping; while, enmassed In every distant hamlet, friend and foe Wreathed immortelles of thought upon his brow. Came then the bitter parting when his form, Close-watched by veterans of war's dark storm, Swift-coursing with the train's cold, iron roar. Left the fair Capitol 'twould grace no more. 'Neath arches built by reverent hearts it sped, Past beacon lights adoring hands had fed; By town and farm, and in woods lonely-placed, The people kneeled and prayed, as past them raced AH that their mourning eyes might ever see Of him whose fame survives eternity : Nor rain, nor darkness broke the faithful line Of worshipers of this tried soul divine. In each great city where his body lay Imposing in its state, there flocked by day Uncounted myriads from miles around. Whose dirgeful tread through midnight shook the ground. The negro, yet untaught to sell his vote, To freedom new, from slavery not remote. Sobbed miserably above the fading face Of him who broke the shackles from his race. The soldier, who had naught but honor left. His body racked with wounds, his fortune cleft In twain a thousand times by brave neglect, Grieved that he died not with this chief elect. Near early scenes of boyhood's simple sighs, In silence and with blind, unseeing eyes. He homeward drew at last, to rest among The willows where his youthful harp had hung. Here tears were real indeed, hearts broken quite. And memories awakened in the night ; Each hearth was haunted by a ghost unknown, And terror claimed his comrades for its own. 8 Through devious saddened wanderings this man Had drifted back to where his toil began ; But history and right had both been blest By him before his spirit found its rest 'Neath dedicated shaft, in hallowed spot, His lineaments were laid away to rot ; But rust cannot corrode the good he did, And from the eye of God no grace is hid. Within a wood where once a village stood, A lonely grave-stone marks a womanhood Long since elapsed and gone the eternal way; Nor greatness could, nor love, its glory stay. And on that tomb, neglected and forgot, Is writ in letters that have perished not "Anne Rutledge," — sweetest name man ever knew — And 'neath this simple name is sculpt' : "Here too My heart lies buried, Abraham Lincoln" — true To his first love, as to his love of truth. He left hope's light undimmed where'er he trod, And told his own despair alone to God. Such treasures are the wealth of nations held In single hands that have the power to weld Affection with the great affairs of life. Yet falter not when fratricide is rife. No longer doubt and sneers and hatred reign : Let charity, of malice shorn, remain, The greatest monument man ever reared To him who loved and fought, but never feared. HELEN. Oh ! may thy poorest hopes ne'er die But e'en in death to multiply, And may no sad thoughts bed with thee To mar thy dreams' fehcity : Dear, may thine wak'ning eyes behold A green world bathed in mists of gold, Where fancy wanders far from care. And all thy youthful idols are. And, Helen, on thy form and face May beauty all its madness trace Forever, and no touch of time Defile thy nature, now sublime. TRAVELING ON THE TRAIN. In steel-winged flight the train goes screaming through the fields Where cattle pass their peaceful days ; And rivers, caught between their graceful banks of green, Flow on, regardless of man's ways. The balsam from the encroaching woods, fresh carpeted With lights and shadows by the sun, Blows in upon the travelers in grateful breaths ; As if it called each tired one. The quiet hamlets hugged against the iron rails That bear the swift world's throb along. Through leafy dells and highlands smooth with sunning grain ; With soul-refreshing rev'ries throng. The children, with their bare and sun-browned, slender legs. And shy, bucolic diffidence; Gaze, wild-eyed, on this messenger from un- known spheres ; While colts race with it to the fence. The swift-retreating, gleaming tracks, seen through the dust Whirled on the wild flowers by the train. Seem to close up behind it and fore'er shut out The memory of every pain. II The purpling sunset on the silver stillness of Some eye-caressing inland lake, Gives place in quick succession to the shoreless sea Of undulating, wind-swept brake. The plowman, driving home his weary, faded team. The good wife trudging by his side, With cooing babe, triumphant on her sturdy arm ; Fill in the glow of even-tide. The scented dampness from the dew-wet grass of dusk, The wheat-shocks whit'ning to the moon. The quietude of the vast, care-dispelling night; Take their departure all too soon. And in another morn, care-born, we wake again, Wrapt in the mantle of regret ; But cherishing in dreams, through sultry city nights. The country's rural beauties yet. 12 WAR. What's War? It is "hell," according to Sherman: Who are you that, self-called, man's estate shall determine? Have you ever been wounded or wasted away In the enemy's prison? If so, could you say, When in pangs of starvation, (and believe it was true) That your freedom you'd give for the red, white and blue? And who are these freemen who proffer their life To the smoke of the gun and the gleam of the knife? They are not the wise men, — nor yet you and I — But the poor men who seem all alike to our eye. They count not the loss; self value, they have none; Like cattle they toss on the ocean's abandon ; At the instant command — at the gateway of hell — Of paid masters, they land and child-devils dispel. When they die, there's one less of people we know not, To wander the earth at behest of war's despot ; While we who stay home of our patriots prate. And bid the poor soldier march on to his fate. We pay them for courting that death which we dread, A stipend so meager, their children lack bread ; We gloat o'er the vict'ries we've won with their blood ; In the cunning of safety, admire their manhood. What is glory but folly? What is death but a box In a grave unannointed,'neath mud and the rocks? 13 How content could you die far from those whom you love, In the heat of the plain and the damp of the grove ? And this we call progress and civilization ! If you had to die, would you care for the nation? Or would you not rather remain as you were. Than for knowledge's advance death's oblivion incur? 'Tis lucky for those who're too good to be shot, That poor heroes are plenty, and blood still runs hot In the veins of the masses, who childlike, have given Their lives, hopes and loves — in war's agonies striven ; That those who consider themselves far above them, May live unmolested to solve progress's problem. 14 HARRIET. Just sixteen sweet summers have gilded thy hair With the bloom of youth's loveliness, rioting there Midst the scents of love phials that Cupid has spilled All over thy bosom so ecstasy-filled. And where is the bold one would tempt thee away From the charm of thy maidenhood's pleasures' array ? The dull lessons of wisdom so dearly are bought, 'Tvvere better to stay young and miss them — why not ? 15 GROWING OLD. We are so poor, so old, so tired, Disheartened, sick and burden-prest : God, let the bitter cup pass from us ; Oh, take us now and give us rest ! So long since we were young and merry; So long we've lingered in decay, With Hope's bright orb long set beyond us : Lord, come and take the pain away ! The days are dark, the nights so fright'ning, And human glances turned lo stone ; The world we loved so, now disowns us : Lord, make our home thine ageless throne ! These wrinkles that our forms disgrace. And cause the eye to drop in shame ; God, take them from us with the breath That tenants yet the wasted frame I It is so sad to grow old — To feel each weak'ning power wane ; The shadow of the grave before us Mars all the future can contain. And, when we gaze on one another, The dread has doubly grewsome grown; For then each other's daily failing The mirror holds up to our own. But take my hand, dear, weary helpmeet; Together we will plight again The troth our youth found so inviting; And no regrets the end shall stain. i6 And thus we'll journey the decline Of life's once sweet and scented vale; And at its foot we'll leave behind The lowly mound's forgotten tale. 17 HEART'S-EASE. My heart has wandered where it willed so long, so long ; Yet never found a harbor for its anchor aye, Until love's message on thy lips so rare, so rare, Came to enchain it — with thy prayerful eye. 'Tis bliss to listen to thy voice so sweet, so sweet ; 'Tis more than bliss to watch the color come and go Upon thy tell-tale cheeks and neck so white, so white. Like carmine sunset on the dazzling snow. I know not whence such magic's come to thee, to thee, To fair ensnare me in thy net so merciless ; But oh! 'tis happiness to lie so calm, so calm, And on thy fragrant breast my love confess. One moment let thy lips on mine so cold, so cold, Drop slowly down in rapt'rous, nestling flight, to rest : Ah ! love, what nectar had the gods so spiced, so spiced. With nameless fascination unreprest? To hold in my unconscious arms so close, so close, Thy unresisting form, and feel thy panting breath Beat askance on my answering heart, so keen, so keen To love thee madly, kills the sting of death. There's naught nor none could tempt my heart, so charmed, so charmed, To break these welcome bonds, and venture on again : With all of passion and felicity acute, acute, Exhausted in thy love, what can remain? 19 THE DREAM. I lay at midnight in my bed, When e'en the nightingale was still, And coy winds rocked the trees to sleep, And mute reposed the whip-poor-will. And, as I lay, my helmless mind Gyrated through the mistful field Of afterthought — futurity, Kaleidoscopic — half-revealed. I dreamed the wisdom of the gods I stood and drank at fame's swift fount; Success-elated, held the reins, On glory's stirrup soon to mount. Again, I dreamed in felon's cell I wrote my greatness on the wall That might restrain a broken heart. But genius baffled not at all. I dreamed I held an ard'rous maid (She had thy features and thy form) Within my arms — against my heart, And felt her heat my body warm. I dreamed 1 sped o'er glinting seas That rose and sunk to rhythmic wave. And closed my eyes in sunny sleep — The sleep that slumber's vision gave. On sun-kissed sands I heard the breeze Of perfume-laden fairy climes Low whisper through the gossam'ry trees Of unrecorded dreamland times. 20 I held the thread of many a tale Unbroken, through weird phantasms traced, What seemed to me forever, till By other scenes 'twas fast effaced. I grieved in abject misery O'er wrongs I could not rise to right : Amphorous are the changeling thoughts That visit us uncalled by night. My hand to strike, my heart to feel, My mind to reason, soul to fly ; In vain beat on the prison bars Of Morpheus till dawn was nigh. I woke, and felt the breath of morn Blow cool, refreshing, on my brow; But all the children of my dream Are buried in oblivion now. ai THE SISTERS. There are two sisters, both so sweet I cannot choose the sweeter; Two roses ne'er grew more alike, Four ankles ne'er were neater. Now it is Maud and now 'tis May That holds my heart enchanted, Cooling its fever like the brook For which the wild hart panted. In Maud's sad smile compassion lurks, In May's gay laughter pleasure ; Yet in the eyes of both dear maids Loves dance to mirthful measure. 'Tis rapt'rous to be sad with Maud As to be glad with May ; In arms of both I'm nothing loath To scare despair away. For, oh ! to love or to be loved By either one, so fair, Would steal the miseries from fate And leave its blisses there. So bright, so sweet, so kind, so good, So filled with charming womanhood! My heart must linger many a day Between its choice of Maud or May, 22 MY SON. I had a little son, and his name was John — A lovely child was he ; His hair was soft as the zephyr's breath, And cool as the star-lit sea. His smile was sweet as an angel's face, His lips the dampest pink. His heart as tender as the spring's young bud That nods at the bobolink. His laugh would awaken the saddest soul From dreams of dread despair ; And the patter of his feet soothed me to sleep, Like raindrops beating there. Across his grave the adoring sun Now lays its rays of gold ; But all their grandeur seems as naught Beside my love untold. 23 VIRTUE'S HUMBLE COUCH. When virtue on its humble couch With easeful conscience lies outstretched, Pure are its dreams and sweet its rest, Untroubled by thoughts anger-fetched. For virtue is its own reward, And chaste as beauty unadorned ; No sun-chased shadow disappears More traceless than lost virtue mourned. Dear are the charms that virtue holds, Deep the regrets its absence calls ; But purity is found as well In lowly cot as marble halls. Although they're priceless, all may own Its self-respecting attributes, Its freedom from distressing taint, And boldness that all ill refutes. Dawn and sunset both are bright To eyes that by no self-reproach Are blinded to their kindly light, And honor's soul in glances broach. How bootless is the paltry gain Dishonor ofifers in return For all that's wasted in attempts That blight the soul and faces burn? For though the world and all were thine. And though thyself hadst conquered not; The painted laurels wrong had set On thy unholy brow, would rot. 24 Truth lies well-deep in guileless eyes; Aflfections grace the dauntless heart; Trust sits enthroned in stainless soul ; And faith stands where the pathways part. Thus zestful life is one long road, All flower-bedecked, to simple mind That wisely craves no brighter dreams Than virtue's humble couch can find. 25 OH! WHY SHOULD THY HEART? Oh! why should thy heart wander forth from its nest In the warmth of thy maidenly bosom? It will find no retreat amongst all it loves best So fit for its budding and blossom. For where is the love that's so charming as thine, And where is the heart that could hold it? When the nightingale sang in the twining wood- bine, Not even his tongue could have told it. Like a rose, it would wither and die in the hand That ventured to pluck and transplant it ; On its own sweets it thrives, like the pine in the sand: Oh, would that my words might enchant it! But 'twill never for me burst its bonds in the light Of its sunny, angelic indulgence ; 'Twill never for me fall awake in the night In dreams of unfathomed effulgence. NATURE'S SOLITUDK Bending o'er the stream, Where the waters flow — And my soul flows on with them Where sweet flowers grow ; Where the shadows lie On its shining breast — And my thoughts are mirrored, too, In its peaceful rest ; Nature's freshness spreads O'er the quiet scene — And my heart goes wandering Midst soft fancies green. Where the woods, crept down, Dressed in bridal leaf, Seek the water's loved caress ; Sadness' reign is brief. Birds of graceful wing, Fish of glinting hue, Vie in tranquilizing charm With my dreams of you. n THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPE. I was sitting alone in the firelight, In the silent and shadowy room, Where memories thronged through the darkness, And dead loves illumined the gloom ; When my eyes rested on a daguerreotype, Half-opened, reflecting the gleam Of the lambent flames lazily mounting. Lightly touching the face like a dream. And my mind drifted back to my boyhood, And the days of my earliest love ; And the face on the old table called me — Called me back to the old hemlock grove. There we met once again, in the spirit. Where sweet ecstasy erstwhile held sway; And she twined her fresh, young arms about me, And drove all my reason away. I dreamed till my old heart had softened In tears of long hopeless regret ; And I kneeled at the shrine of her likeness, And prayed for the strength to forget. 28 JENNIE. (A Song.) Oh, Jennie, my Jane ! My heart must remain Forever thine own, sweet love; Though fortune may change And plans disarrange, My love will still call in the grove. Oh! list to its sigh, Thou maid of brown eye ; Oh ! list to its longing for thee ! When rocking to rest On slumber's soft breast. Pray dream, ah, my dear one ! of me. Out in the grove it is calling to thee. Singing of thee, cr3nng for thee; Hark! O dear heart, how it's praying for thee! O wake love — 'tis dying for thee! JOHN MARSHALL. Out of the shadows of history, Loved lineaments of the great Gleaming now clear and now fitfully, The heart of young hope animate. Those who down to the grave went in glory, Shrouded in untarnished fame, Hallowed by genius' achievements Teach us the worth of a name. Greatness, when wedded to goodness, Bears offspring that never shall die, And, cherished in grateful approval. Hold no sad defects to our ej'e. Back in our country's beginnings, Threatened with annihilation. Silencing all opposition, Rose one who fought for the nation. Fought with the gun and the intellect — Soldier and statesman and jurist; And, like the unperishing day-star, The light of his mind still endureth. Swung in the censer of ages, The perfume of justice ascendeth Aye from his actions and wisdom, And will swing while the mind apprehendeth. Rich both in lore and in kindness, Each doubt new conceptions awoke In this mind that was supple to bending, Yet, bending, bore fruit ere it broke. 30 His the justice that punished not blindly, But with sweet, human mercy was tempered ; And so long as a wrong shall need righting Shall the depth of his thought be remembered. Thus- the reason, but what of that heart-blood That so ceaselessly throbbed for the free ; And who now may weigh the salvation He wrought then for you and for me? I know not what's writ on his tombstone. Where honor bloomed forth in his van ; But his works are a deathless memento Of John Marshall, the patriot and man. 31 BLANCHE AND ISABEL. Like red wine 'neath the moonlight And gold wine in the sun, Love's blushes on my Blanche's cheeks Up to her tresses run ; But Isabel is full as fair, And rarer tints betray her hair : What heart distraught between the two, Could e'er determine what to do? My Blanche's eyes are madd'ning. My Isabel's lips sweet ; And oft I doubt, in rapt despair, Which first my kiss should greet. O eyes of starry brilliancy And lips that shed their dew for me, My heart would to you both be true If I could but combine the two! To linger where love laughs And shun all mournful things, To drink where genius quaffs And soar on tireless wings ; Is but a poet's dream, That cannot, loves, compare With all the joys that seem To gather where you are. 32 ISABEL AND BLANCHE. Oh, could I tell you all I felt When at your two-fold shrine I knelt, The fairest words soulless would seem Beside the glory of my dream. For richer are your lips, your eyes, Than blood-red flowers 'neath deep blue skies; And, treasured in this heart of mine, Your blushes shame the rarest wine. Too late to choose, I wander yet Where memory's lost in fond regret ; As when the snow its mantle spreads Above the sleeping flowerets' heads. Oh, Isabel, sweet Isabel ! To know you's but to love you well ; And Blanche, no star of heavenly light Throws half your radiance by night ! My dearest hopes, my saddest sighs. Are measured by your fathomless eyes ; To live is prayer, to die were sweet, Kneeling or lying at your feet. O Isabel, O Blanche divine! Seek for no other love than mine; In you two virgin hearts I see Destined by holy heaven for me. 33 TRANSVAAL. Believest thou, in thine own secret soul, That thou art right to tempt the patient Boer To an unequal conflict, that his blood, Congealing in thy golden opportunity, May clot the avenues of human faith And set thy stamp of insincerity Indellibly upon his agony — Nor wife, nor child consider in thy heart? Baseless baubles thy ill-fraught excuses, Sown in lust and blossomed forth in crime, Dark as hell is, yet lighted by the flame Of mankind's condemnation — Coldly yet The iciness of thy absurd demands. In blasphemous, ignoring strike at heaven. Swells earth's eternal list of heaven-wept wrongs. Down in the land that seems by God forgotten. In thy insulting face has issued forth A cry impassionate from hearts that love And are loved, even as tenderly as thine own ; And, for shame, thou answerest not — Cursed By thy insatiate and insensate greed, Oblivion yawns for thy good intentions. And rank ingratitude is puffed With pride of armored might, and thunders Of vile opprobrium, on thy deaf ear, Are like the wistful whispering of the ant — Heard indeed, but heard alone of God- 34 Is money then the crown'ed king of hearts, That any brawny knave may hope to win Through perfidy personified as right, Yet wronging justice to its innermost core? Each kiss that mantles on the pallid lips Of babe and mother in that dreaded hour When Boers, as men, leave their sad homes be- hind, Shall speed to heaven as bullets fly ! And, though thou conquereth, the blood that stains Thy world-grasping hands will never out; And tarnished glory on belated wing Will fly sans object in a poisoned sky. And they who die to fat thee, greedy-gut, Fanatical as thou mayst wrongly deem Them in their virtuous, though puny, strength ; Shall rise again in deathless days to come So high above thy blinded, pigmy mind That they, in solemn pity, looking down From their sin-unapproachable far heights, Will drop their tears of chastened memory In sweet compassion on thy thankless soul. 35 THE DEATH OF THE LOBSTER. Ah ! noblest fish that ever svvain, Free and untrammeled in the sea, 'Tis sacrilege that thou must die To give a fleeting joy to me. Thy mail'ed hand that hints of war, In fellowship is ne'er extended To meet the grasp of tyrant man, Who gloats o'er thee when life is ended. And yet thou gaineth in demise, Aye, quite as much as many a man Who on his death bed lies content To think that, dying now, he can Insure his loved ones affluence He could not hope for them while living ; And, soothed by his approaching rest, Feels all the blessedness of giving. And though in no uncertain stream His vanquished life may pass before him, For all the ease he leaves behind His tribe is certain to adore him. Thus thou, O lobster ! couldst thou think, Like thy more gifted human brother, Wouldst choose the death that maketh glad The mourner, over any other. 36 .'"X/^ BROILED LOBSTER. Great lobster ! were we served like you — Alive and squirming cut in two, And salted while our entrails quivered, Before our souls had been delivered ; How could sweet maidens, so demure, The dread, repulsive sight endure. And calmly sit and eat our livers And tear our dying hearts in slivers, To satiate their base appetite ; Or pass the trivial hours of night Drinking to our sad decease In glasses emptied to their lees? 'Twere not so solemn to be boiled. But to be twained and broiled alive! Oh ! who would e'er a lobster be If he but knew how men connive For his untimely death to gloat Upon the softness of his flesh ; Nor e'en in mercy, cut his throat. But split his back while yet so fresh? 'Twere vain a moral to attempt To patch the misery of my strain. Except dead lobsters taste so good ; While living lobsters breathe in vain. 37 MARJORIE. Light as the feather on thy hat, Thy airy smiles beguile me : The sweetest stream from nectar's vat Could touch but to defile thee. For love is sparkling in thine orb, Like starry passions gleaming In skies that every hue absorb That in that orb lies dreaming. Thy face, O heaven ! it is a sight To set the gods athinking! What ecstasy could hold the light To lips that, to thee drinking. Must faint with rapture in the draught, And, wet with blissful longing, Would hide their blush in subtle craft From cupids round thee thronging? 'Tis heaven's own guerdon that thy charm Holds lightly still above us ; 'Tis love indeed could hope to storm Those heights that madly move us. 38 NOR HEAVEN NOR HELL. Your arguments are vain; no man can tell Whether there is a heaven or a hell ; But any simple fool knows when he's sick, And that a sausage's softer than a brick. Leave to the wise the making of old saws, And, when you reach the unknown, think and pause. Unto your faithful belly e'er be kind. And in the long run you will surely find 'Tis your best friend, when treated fairly well ; Whether there's a heaven or a hell. 39 LOVE LIVES FOREVER. When youth is drunk with love And age is drunk with wine, The little foxes steal the grapes That bend the tender vine. But youth will live to drink again When age has passed away, And many a heart that broken lies Shall mend on love's birthday. For love lives ever, though the heart May perish and be gone; For when the body turns to clay The heart but turns to stone; And, melted in the fire of time, Will turn to shining gold When from the sepulchre's decay By new-born hands 'tis rolled. Undiminishing and bright, love lives Through ages, floods and climes; Forever strung in sweet attune With God's immortal chimes. Then love to live and live to love, And, dying, love, and, born again, Awake to love ; and only love Shall satisfy thy longing then. 40 ^^^^^w^rr~wEJ] TO A BABY'S FACE. I love to see the innocence On childhood's face enthroned, The wond'ring eye and trustfulness That here alone are found. Receptive to the slightest truth Their virgin minds are taught, Thrice cursed be he who wantonly Shall teach them there is naught That's sacred in this doubting world ; That cunning minds have learned, With growing age and wise conceit, That truth can e'er be turned To serve the ends of falsehood ; And that our bleeding hearts Are cured by idle sophistries. And honest feeling thwarts The friendship of the knowing ones— Oh! childhood's calm belief In those who first surround it, Is but too sadly brief. There is no wisdom vaunted By those whose eyes grow small From knowledge and experience. That can compare at all With that pure glance of heaven Seen in a baby's eyes — That unformed mind that wanders — Those innocent replies 41 To questions culled of verbiage So they may understand. They are the gods we worship — The never-ending band That pleads for us with heaven, And makes us live again The days we had forgotten Through days that yet remain. O childhood's sweet remembrance! Oh ! baby arms that twine About our necks and cherish That charity divine Which we had lost without them ! How dark our lives would be With no young faces round us — No new-born eyes to see The world as God has made it, The good in everything, The charm and beauty all but dead To us; the joys that bring The memories of our early lives To soothe our present sorrow, And in the dreams of yesterday Make us forget tomorrow. O baby faces innocent ! O baby eyes so mild ! O little hands that grope for ours, O childhood undefiled ! 42 Thou art the living promise Christ gives to us through thee ; In thee He's e'er arisen since He died on Calvary. 43 VERNA. Venerable fossil, doomed to lie Within the rock's cold breast, Called, centuries ago, to die ; Who first disturbed thy rest Gazed in amazement on thy form, Through ages lost to view : Ten thousand years of calm and storm Now call thee forth anew. What wonders couldst thou not unfold If Time untied thy tongue, What beauties didst thine eyes behold When this old world was young? Would lamps with wisdom seem to burn. If thou couldst hear our speech? Wouldst thou but now begin to learn. Or now begin to teach? Say ! tell us whom thou knewest great, To what gods bent the knee. What seas and lands bound man's estate, And was man slave or free? Was woman then, as she is now, At once man's friend and foe? Did glory on some youthful brow Imprint its quenchless glow? Good friend, take up the faded page Historians turn in vain, And read what's writ about the age That ne'er shall bloom again. 44 And when, with learning too replete, We drop our eyes in shame, Speak of thine own departed love. And whisper low her name. Had she, like Verna, hair of jet And eyes of matchless light. And didst thou all but her forget. And dream of her by night? Was she more beautiful, more sweet, Than Verna is to me? Had maids then charms no longer meet For maids of high degree? Thou answerest not; ah! well I knew Thou couldst no story tell Of any maid so dear and true As she I love so well. So to my Verna I'll return And linger all the day; And if my Psyche break her urn, I'll kiss her tears away. 45 THE BIRTH OF THE GRACES. In other days long since decayed, Prenatal days of long ago, Before the fields had been defloured Or forests low by vandals laid ; In the wild haunts of birds deceased And hunting grounds of wilder men, Where roamed strange beasts ere now defunct, Which lived on lesser beasts they seized ; When the hot sun-rays did descend Through mammoth trees' deciduous leaves, And monstrous snakes their prey decoyed With subtle charm to their dread end ; When rifted rocks the rage defied Of hurricanes and myriad winds, And oceans raved till they destroyed The cliffs that checked their rising tide; When hope was to all men denied Through the ingratitude of Eve, Who by her selfishness defamed The sex she might have deified : Sweet Charity, till then delayed, Was born of grief and punishment, When Cain and Abel earned desert Of woman's passion once betrayed. Then Faith, by heaven predesigned To take the place of hopelessness, But, till 'twas needed, long deferred, Was granted; that it might remind 46 t:t^War