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CAS T L E G A T E S 
 
Castle Gaies 
 
 (A Book ^ Poems) 
 
 7hrot!gK Which the Knowini^ 
 
 Oaes Are Admitted Into 
 
 Some of My Castles 
 
 i a S pai i\ 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES LARKm PEARSON 
 
 PEARSON PRINTING COMPANY 
 
 MORAVIAN FALLS, NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 1908 
 
OCT ta m6i * -^ '^^^^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908, 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES LARKIN PEARSON. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Kind Reader: 
 
 Before you place the stamp of your con- 
 demnation on the poems here presented, let me 
 beg your indulgence for a few words of expla- 
 nation and comment. I have previously printed 
 two or three small pamphlets of my poems, 
 and circulated a few copies privately, but this 
 is my first real book. It was printed in my own 
 shop here at Moravian Falls. My wife, who is 
 also a printer, helped to set the type, and I 
 ''kicked off" the sheets on my old job press — 
 four pages at a time. It took over 15,000 im- 
 pressions to print the edition of 500 copies, it 
 required nearly a m.onth of hard work to set 
 the type by hand and get all the sections print- 
 ed and folded ready for the binder. But we en- 
 joyed the work, and the time passed quickly 
 and pleasantly. I am hoping that the little book, 
 as it goes out among the people, will fall into 
 the hands of friends — people who will have a 
 proper appreciation for all the good there is in 
 it, and a mantle of charity for its many w^eak- 
 nesses. 
 
 In order that the reader may better under- 
 stand the conditions out of which this volume 
 has grown, it may be w^orth while to add here 
 a few words in regard to my life-history. I was 
 born on a poor mountain farm near Moravian 
 Falls, N. C., 29 years ago. Worked on the farm 
 until I was 21 years old. Sometimes I got to at- 
 tend the district free school a few wrecks during 
 the w^inter. Studied grammar a little, but could 
 
not make head nor tail of it. Had only a very 
 moderate liking for history and geography, and 
 couldn't endure arithmetic at all. Liked my old 
 Fourth Reader very well, because it had some 
 poetry in it. Spent most of my time during 
 school hours writing poetry on my slate. Was 
 set down as a hopeless case, whom there was no 
 use trying to educate. Quit school entirely at 
 16, having never been in school more than 12 
 months, from first to last. Never saw the inside 
 of a high school or college. Stayed between the 
 plow-handles for several years longer. Read all 
 the poetry I could get hold of, and gradually 
 developed a taste for other kinds of reading. 
 Wrote a poem every little while for some pa- 
 per or magazine. The editors were kind, and 
 printed my stuff. Drifted into a local newspaper 
 office. Learned to set type. Edited the paper. 
 Acted as Washington correspondent. Contrib- 
 uted poems to various periodicals. Operated a 
 linotype machine in office of city daily. Got 
 married. Set up a print-shop of my own to 
 print ray books. That brings us down to the 
 present, and that's as far as I can go with my 
 history just now. Maybe the world will want 
 to know more about me some time, and maybe 
 it won't. We'll wait and see. Respectfully, 
 JAMES LARKIN PEARSON. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 My Castle In Spain 
 
 9 
 
 The Poet In His Den 
 
 9 
 
 The Master Musician 
 
 11 
 
 An Inward Prayer 
 
 12 
 
 Vulnerability 
 
 13 
 
 The Rivals 
 
 14 
 
 The Secret of Attainment 
 
 15 
 
 Her Wonderful Eyes. 
 
 16 
 
 Worship 
 
 18 
 
 A Picture On Memory's Wall 
 
 19 
 
 A Song of Trust 
 
 21 
 
 Love Me While I Live 
 
 22 
 
 The Magi and the Star 
 
 22 
 
 My Various Loves 
 
 24 
 
 The Love that Never Dies 
 
 25 
 
 News From the Front 
 
 27 
 
 Lights and Shadows 
 
 28 
 
 Port-Seekers 
 
 29 
 
 To Christmas Day 
 
 30 
 
 Song of the Star of Bethlehem 
 
 31 
 
 A Hymn of Thanksgiving 
 
 32 
 
 The Congressional Library 
 
 33 
 
 Day and Night 
 
 34 
 
 Love's Victory 
 
 35 
 
 Sonnet to an Egyptian Mummy 
 
 38 
 
 Faith and Works 
 
 38 
 
39 
 
 The Kiss 
 
 A Winter Evening" ^q 
 
 Do You Remember 4£ 
 
 1 Know You Can 42 
 
 Thanksgiving- 43 
 
 The Inner Sight 44 
 
 The Long Hand-Clasp at Parting 45 
 
 A Bunch of Violets 47 
 
 The Night 48 
 
 Lucile 41^ 
 
 A Child's Cry to Nature 50 
 
 The Woman Servant 51 
 
 The Building of Delpha 52 
 
 The Death of a Century 55 
 
 Thy Promise 5g 
 
 A Lyric of Love 57 
 
 A Lullaby Song 53 
 
 The Empty Boat 58 
 
 Strolling in the Starlight 59 
 
 A Poem to the Poets 62 
 
 Song to Old Glory 63 
 
 Thanks 64 
 
 A Drop of Dew 65 
 
 The Organ of Life 66 
 
 To Cora In Florida 67 
 
 Sonnet — to a Scientist 69 
 
 At the Grave of Payne 69 
 
 A Bed-time Song 72 
 
The Stem of a Eose "^^ 
 
 The Approach of Night '^^ 
 
 Oh, to Be Married In May ^^5 
 
 The Mystery of Man ^6 
 
 Looking Backward <^ 
 
 The Book of Truth '^'^ 
 
 My Love-Ship '^'^ 
 
 Ten Thousand Years Ago "i^ 
 
 The Marriage ^^ 
 
 My Muse ^^ 
 
 Prophecy °^ 
 
 Soul-Sculpture 82 
 
 The Dancing Men 83 
 
 His Majesty, the Czarevitch 83 
 
 A Bottle of Ink 84 
 
 The Old Man's Opinion 85 
 
 To the Dying Year 87 
 
 Life's Lessons 87 
 
 The Vernal Season 88 
 
 Beautiful Hands 89 
 
 The World's Desire 90 
 
 Digging the Canal ^1 
 
 The Service of Little Things 92 
 
 Thoughts on the Rubaiyat 92 
 
 Memories 93 
 
 The Old Turkey Gobbler 95 
 
 Life and Peace 96 
 
 The Old Sweet Story 97 
 
A Valentine 98 
 
 A Pensive Poetical Proposal 99 
 
 The Men of Mecklenburg 100 
 
 Transcendentalism 102 
 
 The Politician's Choice 103 
 
 Admiral McGinty 104 
 
 Change 104 
 
 Getting Down to Business 105 
 
 A Night In Jane 106 
 
 Grief and Gladness 107 
 
 A Song of Myself 107 
 
Castle Gates 
 
 MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 
 
 In sunny Spain, upon my broad estates, 
 I have a castle with an hundred gates; 
 My stately palms and cedars are astir 
 With all the gentle winds that never were. 
 
 Within, my halls and chambers are perfumed 
 With bright, perpetual flowers that never 
 
 bloomed, 
 And dreamy maids by gallant knights are led 
 To banquet tables that were never spread. 
 
 THE POET IN HIS DEN. 
 
 One night the poet sat and wept 
 
 O'er grievous ills that burden'd him, 
 
 What time the world oblivious slept 
 Beneath the shadows deep and dim. 
 
 "Give me a song, O Muse," he cried, 
 "A song to move the world to tears; 
 
 Which rendered, I can better bide 
 The thankless service of the years." 
 
He lifted up his wond'rous harp, 
 
 Whose vibrant chords were keen to speak; 
 
 He sang of competition sharp, 
 
 Of how the strong- oppressed the weak. 
 
 But all the slumb'rous world was still, 
 And no man heard the tragic song; 
 
 No bosom sent an answering thrill 
 Back to the bard, who waited long. 
 
 Again the chords were touched, and now 
 War's agony rose loud and high — 
 
 The voice of bellowing guns, and how 
 Men marched away from home to die. 
 
 Up rose the world with morn's return, 
 The song was lost in traffic's roar; 
 
 The critic's voice was harsh and stern. 
 So that the bard could sing no more. 
 
 A little child with beaming face 
 Found out the poet's lonely den — 
 
 Brought glad new life into the place. 
 And he Avas moved to sing again. 
 
 This time it was a soft, sweet song 
 For childhood's tender, trusting years; 
 
 But when the bard looked up, ere long. 
 Behold, the world was all in tears. 
 
 10 
 
THE MASTER MUSICIAN. 
 
 The voice of every living thing is held a captive 
 in his hand, 
 And from his subtle finger-tips the rapid, 
 rolling thunder speaks; 
 The first glad notes are those that tell of life 
 among the rich and grand. 
 And then I hear the muffled sound wherein 
 the soul of sorrow reeks. 
 
 I do not see the master's form nor yet the in- 
 strument he plays; 
 I am not conscious of the fact that all the 
 world of sight and sound 
 That pulses in my inner soul and fills my rap- 
 tured mental gaze 
 Could be the handiwork of man and in so 
 small a compass bound. 
 
 The old piano shrieks and groans in agony of 
 hopeless woe, 
 And tragic scenes come into view beneath the 
 master's witching hand; 
 And silent fleets of phantom ships all rudder- 
 less and aimless go 
 On bottomless and shoreless seas to port in 
 some far phantom land. 
 
 XI 
 
AN INWARD PRAYER. 
 
 We are hungry for the bread 
 That will satisfy the soul; 
 
 We are longing to be led 
 Where the living waters roll. 
 
 We are begging for the balm 
 That will heal the broken heart. 
 
 And we seek an inward calm 
 That will nevermore depart. 
 
 We are weary of the road 
 
 That our bleeding feet have trod; 
 We would take up our abode 
 
 In the palaces of God. 
 
 Father, keep us in Thy care, 
 Lead us in Thy holy way; 
 
 Save us from the tempter's snare, 
 For Thy mercy's sake, we pray. 
 
 We are weak and we are blind, 
 Darkly groping after Thee; 
 
 Maker of the finite mind, 
 Lift the veil and let us see. 
 
 Let us, weaklings that we are, 
 Take to us the better part; 
 
 12 
 
Let us view Thee from afar, 
 Pure and perfect as Thou art. 
 
 We have followed frantic men 
 Through a legion empty creeds: 
 
 We have worshipped them, and then 
 We have shuddered at their deeds. 
 
 We have been full often cast 
 Helpless on confusion's sea; 
 
 We have come to know at last 
 There is nothing true but Thee. 
 
 Take us to Thy Father-Heart, 
 Tender Shepherd of the Sheep; 
 
 From the cruel world apart, 
 Let us on Thy bosom sleep. 
 
 VULNERABILITY. 
 
 A man may build about his heart 
 A strong defense of triple steel, 
 And boast within himself and feel 
 
 Secure from every coming dart. 
 
 Iiut lo! his boasted strength is vain, 
 For when he sees no danger nigh, 
 An arrow from a woman's eye 
 
 Sliall cleave his armor all in twain. 
 
 13 
 
THE RIVALS.* 
 
 Rose-crowned, with lifted veil, and soft, ghA 
 eyes, 
 
 She met him at the portals when he came; 
 For she was Life, and he, full lover-wise. 
 
 Did kiss her hand and fervent love proclaim. 
 
 And they were boon companions. Life and he. 
 And fitly joined in every mood and thought; 
 
 They plighted love beneath the forest tree; 
 In nature's school together they were taught. 
 
 His poet-heart was wakened into song, 
 Nor ever sang the nightingale so well; 
 
 Great thoughts that to eternity belong 
 From his ripe lips in perfect numbers fell. 
 
 But gaunt-eyed Death sat envious and alone. 
 Perceiving how the happy pair were blest; 
 
 And she into a jealous rage was thrown — 
 With fleshless palm she smote her hollow 
 breasti 
 
 And in that mood Death made an awful vow 
 To lie in wait where Life and Poet stroll'd, 
 
 * Written in memory of the late John Charles McNeill, tlce 
 gifted North Carolina poet who died Oct. 17, 1907, aged 33 ycarK. 
 
 14 
 
That she might plant her kiss upon his brow, 
 Touch his warm, singing heart and leave it 
 cold. 
 
 And even so befell the tragic deed; 
 
 From Death's assault there was no arm to save, 
 And many hearts shall long in silence bleed, 
 
 While Life stands weeping by her Poet's 
 grave. 
 
 THE SECRET OF ATTAINMENT. 
 
 When the clouds are all about you and you get 
 
 to feeling blue, 
 And you come to the conclusion that nobody 
 
 cares for you. 
 That's the time that you should rally all the 
 
 courage that you can, 
 And determine, with God helping, that you 
 
 mean to be a man. 
 
 Take an interest in living — champion a worthy 
 
 cause, 
 And content yourself with little in the way of 
 
 man's applause; 
 Then you won't be disappointed if you fail to 
 
 get a raise, 
 
 15 
 
And your joy will be the greater wlien you 
 strike a job that pays. 
 
 Always look upon your failures with an opti- 
 mistic eye; 
 
 If you'll only keep a-going you will get there 
 by and by; 
 
 And at last wdien you are standing on Attain- 
 ment's sunny brow, 
 
 You will feel like smiling — smiling at the things 
 that grieve you now. 
 
 There has never been a voyage but a little gale 
 has blown, 
 
 And there is no path of roses that will lead you 
 to a throne; 
 
 So, my worthy friend, believe me, it is much 
 the wiser plan 
 
 Just to pull yourself together and move on- 
 ward like a man. 
 
 HER WONDERFUL EYES. 
 
 Oh, were I an artist with power to paint 
 A picture as pure as the soul of a saint — 
 As strong in conception and rich in design 
 As the jewels that come from the depth of the 
 mine; 
 
 16 
 
And were I to paint from the coming of spring 
 Till the swallows go southward on shivering 
 
 wing, 
 I never could paint you the picture that lies 
 'Neath the lovable lids of her wonderful eyes. 
 
 If the stars were dissolved and the dews were 
 
 distilled 
 And mix'd by a chemist, though never so 
 
 skilled, 
 And then if Aurora were captured and bound 
 And melted and mix'd in the splendid compound; 
 If the tail of a comet were given me then 
 To dip and to paint for the children of men, 
 Though I took for my canvas the scroll of the 
 
 skies, 
 I never could paint you her wonderful eyes. 
 
 Her wonderful eyes! How they sparkle and 
 
 gleam! 
 How they mock the outburst of the poet's wild 
 
 dream! 
 For they rival the light of the costliest gem. 
 And her beautiful soul is reflected in them. 
 I am powerless now that I stand in the way 
 Where the twin lights of love cast refulgent 
 
 their ray; 
 
 17 
 
1 am held in the thrall of the power that lies 
 In the fathomless depth of her wonderful eyes. 
 
 WOKSHIP. 
 
 A little rough cabin of poles 
 
 Alone in a region remote; 
 But now in the hut that the forest enfolds 
 There gathers a group of devotional souls, 
 And deep through the mountain the melody 
 rolls 
 
 From many a musical throat. 
 
 A simple but tender appeal 
 Goes up on the pinions of prayer; 
 And while at the altar they reverently kneel, 
 Their hearts overflowing with spiritual zeal. 
 Each hearer is made to instinctively feel 
 That truly 'tis good to be there. 
 
 Then slowly, again and again, 
 The preacher reads over his text; 
 It gives us a glimpse of the Evergreen Plain, 
 Where harmony, beauty and holiness reign; 
 It comes as a heavenly lotion for pain, 
 To hearts that are troubled and vex'd. 
 
 18 
 
A PICTURE ON MEMORY'S WALL. 
 
 There are days in our lives that we'd like to 
 forget; 
 They are tinged with remorse and the shad- 
 ow of pain; 
 Then again there are bright days that bring no 
 regret, 
 Save the saddening thought that they cannot 
 remain. 
 
 On a sensitive film hid away in my heart 
 
 Is a photograph taken one beautiful day, 
 And the seasons may change and the sunshine 
 depart, 
 But I'll keep the bright picture forever and 
 aye. 
 
 'Twas a day in October— a Sabbath so bright!— 
 
 And I felt that the day was entirely too brief; 
 
 From the east to the west not a cloud was in 
 
 sight. 
 
 And the far mountain ranges stood out m 
 
 relief. 
 
 There was just enough edge on the cool autumn 
 air 
 To invite the glad gleam of the radiant sun; 
 
 19 
 
And the landscape around was surpassingly fair. 
 As I strolled o'er the hills with my Beauti- 
 ful One. 
 
 When we came to the brook flowing down 
 through the field 
 We were minded to linger beside it and talk; 
 Many hidden heart-thoughts did our willing 
 lips yield 
 Ere we left the brook-side and continued oar 
 walk. 
 
 Then we passed slowly on through the dear au- 
 tumn wood, 
 Walking close to each other like lovers of old; 
 What the lips failed to speak, yet the heart un- 
 derstood, 
 And we left not a word of love's story untold. 
 
 There were whispers of parting, but not in a way 
 To suggest any sadness of sundering ties; 
 
 I had loved as sincerely as ever man may, 
 And I read my reward in the light of your 
 eyes. 
 
 And I trust we may fare o'er the pathway of 
 life— 
 
 20 
 
Even through the dark waters of death and 
 the grave — 
 In that holy relation of husband and wife. 
 Leaning hard on the Arm that is mighty to 
 save. 
 
 A SONG OF TRUST. 
 
 From God to earth the blessings fall. 
 From earth to God our thanks arise; 
 
 We cannot know His ways withal, 
 We only know that He is wise. 
 
 We lay our lives down at His feet, 
 A simple, trusting brotherhood, 
 
 And all our days are calm and sweet, 
 Because we know that He is good. 
 
 We are as children when they feel 
 A father's hand upon their heads, 
 
 And gladly in the light we kneel — 
 The light His smiling favor sheds. 
 
 We lay us down at close of day 
 Beneath the shade of angel wings. 
 
 To hear angelic fingers play 
 Upon a harp of golden strings. 
 
 21 
 
LOVE ME WHILE I LIVE, 
 
 I will not ask that in the future years, 
 When I have passed into that Silent Land, 
 
 Thou come to me with kisses and with tears 
 And proffer love — I would not understand. 
 
 I will not ask that wreathed flowers be brought 
 To wither on my coffin and to die; 
 
 I would not that my name be proudly wrought 
 On chisel'd shaft up-rising to the sky. 
 
 I need the comfort that thy smile would lend 
 In the dark way that I must travel here; 
 
 But in that vale toward which my footsteps tend 
 1 shall not heed the falling of the tear. 
 
 So if thou hast a blessing to bestow. 
 Or if thou hast a kindly word to give, 
 
 Defer it not till I am lying low 
 
 In death's embrace, but tell me while I live. 
 
 THE MAGI AND THE STAK. 
 
 Across Judean hills afar 
 
 There flamed a Star, 
 
 And Wise Men, tented on the plain. 
 
 Went forth amain. 
 
 22 
 
Arabia, Egypt and the East, 
 
 On chosen beast, 
 
 Fared forth upon their sacred quest 
 
 At God's behest. 
 
 Day after day, night after night, 
 The Star gave light. 
 And went before and guided them 
 To Bethlehem. 
 
 Then straight into an ox's shed 
 
 The men were led, 
 
 And from the manger looked and smiled 
 
 The promised Child. 
 
 And lol the bearded prophet men 
 Were happy then. 
 
 And bowed the reverent knee in prayer 
 And worshipped there. 
 
 Oh, thanks to God that on that morn 
 A King was born. 
 And w^e, far off in time and place. 
 Shall see His face. 
 
 23 
 
MY VARIOUS LOVES. 
 
 I love the silence and the solitude, 
 
 The landscape with the silent sky to back it; 
 Then, sometimes, when I'm in the proper mood, 
 I love a racket. 
 
 My appetite has an extensive range— 
 
 Poundcake my Epicurean palate tickler; 
 And then at other times, by way of change, 
 I'm fond of pickles. 
 
 I love the sunshine on a cloudy day, 
 
 And think how pleasant just to see it shining; 
 I'm also partial to the clouds, if they 
 Have silver lining. 
 
 I love the classic notes of Sousa's band. 
 
 Although their meaning is to me a riddle; 
 But if that company is not at hand, 
 Bring on your fiddle. 
 
 In literary paths I love to roam — 
 
 Shakespeare and all his peers I value highly; 
 Then coming down the ages nearer home, 
 I'm fond of Riley. 
 
 When on the farm I long the town to view, 
 
 24 
 
And when in town I think the country's 
 charming; 
 Business is pleasant when I've none to do, 
 And so is farming. 
 
 THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES. 
 
 Down beside the ancient river where the lofty 
 birches quiver, 
 And the mellow moon is mirror'd in the soft, 
 translucent wave; 
 There, so silent and so solemn, stands a massive 
 marble column. 
 And beneath it, flower-laden, lies a lovely 
 little grave. 
 
 Underneath the blushing roses in her purity 
 reposes 
 One upon whose tender shoulders never sor- 
 row's mantle fell; 
 But whose sad, untimely going, she the truth 
 so little knowing. 
 In the bosom of another kindled all the 
 flames of hell. 
 
 Youth and maiden I have seen them with the 
 yard-gate shut between them, 
 
 25 
 
As they lingered in the gloaming ere the 
 
 parting word was said; 
 And they used to walk together in the early 
 
 autumn weather, 
 When the yellow leaves were falling from 
 
 the branches overhead. 
 
 In that lonely land where slumber pale compan- 
 ions passing number, 
 She is still the little maiden, changing not 
 with changing scenes; 
 But the youth, his brow is wrinkled and his 
 hair with white is sprinkled. 
 You can tell that he is ageing by the staff on 
 which he leans. 
 
 lie has lived retired and lonely, with no living 
 creature only 
 His poor dog to share the silence of the long 
 and cruel years; 
 And he reared the marble column, standing 
 there so sad and solemn, 
 And he planted all the flowers and he waters 
 them with tears. 
 
 26 
 
NEWS FROM THE FRONT. 
 
 Oh, the men-of-war that ply upon the seas! 
 
 Oh, the many aching bosoms, ill at ease! 
 Oh, the fierce and fearful rattle 
 AYhen the navies clash in battle, 
 
 Their insatiate thirst for murder to appease! 
 
 Oh, the fearless younor reporter loves to roam! 
 
 lie is with them far away upon the foam; 
 While the soldier-men are fighting. 
 He is writing, writing, writing — 
 
 Making ''copy" for the papers back at home. 
 
 Oh, the telegraph that spans the pulsing earth! 
 We can never rightly estimate its worth; 
 
 And the cables, oh, the cables! 
 
 How they put to shame the fables 
 Of the wonders that were never given birth. 
 
 Oh, the editors, how rapidly they write! 
 
 Oh, the Mergenthalers running day and night! 
 
 And the presses, oh, the presses! 
 
 How they grind out the distresses 
 Of the great opposing nations in the fight! 
 
 Oh, the messages that come upon the wire! 
 They are laden with the breath of blood and fire; 
 And while yet the conflict rages 
 
 27 
 
It is spread on printed pag'es. 
 And the world is moved with sympathy — or ire. 
 
 Oh, the Russian is a very wily chap, 
 
 But it seems he's met his equal in the Jap; 
 
 And I hardly need to mention 
 
 That it is the firm intention 
 Of them both to make some changes in the map. 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 A medley of lig^hts and shadows, and the busy 
 world spins 'round; 
 
 Glad souls there be, and sad ones, but each soul 
 outward bound — 
 
 Breathed out from the Source of being to wan- 
 der awhile through space. 
 
 The dupe of consuming passions, or the object 
 of saving grace. 
 
 Glad songs and the voice of laughter in many a 
 
 gleaming hall. 
 And then the shroud and the death-watch and 
 
 the funeral's dismal pall. 
 A season of strength is given wherein we shall 
 
 all be gay; 
 But the pallor of death comes after, and the 
 
 desolate, dreamless clay. 
 
 28 
 
POET-SEEKERS. 
 
 Lone pilgrim bands, 
 
 In Eastern lands, 
 Traverse Sahara's burning sands; 
 
 O'er deserts wide, 
 
 With weary stride. 
 They go to where the gods abide. 
 
 Foot-sore, the while, 
 
 In endless file, 
 They cover many a pathless mile; 
 
 Their gods, bedight 
 
 In spectral white, 
 Drift ever from their aching sight. 
 
 Lo, far and wide, 
 
 On luring tide, 
 A myriad freighted vessels ride; 
 
 Within each hold 
 
 Is stored the gold 
 Of merchant-princes manifold. 
 
 They sail and sail 
 
 Through calm and gale, 
 But ne'er the long-sought harbor hail; 
 
 Their port of mist 
 
 Has flown, I wist, 
 Into the farther amethyst. 
 
Poor plodding' man 
 
 Will scheme and plan 
 Throughout his life's allotted span, 
 
 That he may claim 
 
 For his poor name 
 An hour's evanescent fame. 
 
 But look! Behold, 
 
 When all is told, 
 His name, though carven deep and bold. 
 
 By slow decay 
 
 Shall fade away, 
 And fame's allurements — where are they? 
 
 TO CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 Unto thee, delightful day, 
 Let me chant a greeting lay; 
 For of all the days that be, 
 None may I compare with thee. 
 
 Human hearts, united by 
 Fond affection's surest tie, 
 Gladly at thy coming raise 
 One united song of praise. 
 
 Faintly whispered, lightly sung, 
 By some love-taught angel tongue, 
 From celestial worlds 1 hear 
 Sweetest music wafted near. 
 
 30 
 
SONG OF THE STAR OF BETHLEtlEM. 
 
 I hav^e come from out the silence of the days 
 
 that are to be; 
 I hav^e brought a holy message, line of Adam, 
 
 unto thee; 
 I have stood upon the sunmiit of the highest 
 
 hills of grace, 
 And have seen One great of power take the 
 
 world in His embrace. 
 
 From the awful deep of darkness that has held 
 
 the heaving earth, 
 I have seen her issue smiling, blooming in her 
 
 second birth; 
 Yea, the Lord hath had compassion on the 
 
 stricken souls of men — 
 He hath plan'd a great redemption whereby 
 
 they may live again. 
 
 I have seen the Lord Jehovah summon forth 
 
 His angel band — 
 Seen the angels stand in silence while He gave 
 
 the great command: 
 '^Haste ye earthward, shining children, where 
 
 a people groaning lies; 
 Tell them that to-day in Judah shall a mighty 
 
 Priest arise." 
 
 31 
 
Then I heard the swoop of pinions and 1 saw 
 the morning light 
 
 Straight descend and rest upon them, and it 
 followed them in flight; 
 
 Then the eyes of men were opened and the 
 hearts of men were glad 
 
 When they saw the King of Glory in those tat- 
 tered garments clad. 
 
 Magi! O ye m.en familiar with the language 
 
 of the stars, 
 Who have won the courts of Wisdom past her 
 
 mighty gates and bars, 
 1 have come to bear you witness of the things 
 
 that are to be; 
 If ye seek the great Redeemer of all peoples, 
 
 follow me. 
 
 A HYMN OF THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Our Father, by whose guardian hand 
 Thy little ones are kept and fed, 
 
 And by whom, in this desert land. 
 For us an ample feast is spread: 
 
 Forgive the weak, the faithless heart, 
 The failing trust, the broken vow; 
 
 Bid all our questionings depart, 
 And let us trust Thee, even now. 
 
For Thy dear love that faileth not 
 To point us to the heav^enly way; 
 
 For all that crowns our earthly lot, 
 Accept the homage that we pay. 
 
 Accept the broken song we raise 
 
 Before Thee in this holy hour. 
 And all the remnant of our days 
 
 Protect us with Thine arm of power. 
 
 THE CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY. 
 
 A dream in polished marble! This thou art, 
 O temple of the living and the dead! 
 
 Thy beauty charms the eye and wins the heart, 
 As through thy halls thy thousand lights are 
 shed. 
 
 Oft have I stood upon thy central stair 
 And felt the thrill that hath no outward voice; 
 
 A million heavenly beauties mingling there, 
 Compel the soul en rapport to rejoice. 
 
 Man's most sublime conception, highest thought, 
 Converges there with something of the skill 
 
 By which the circling suns were formed and 
 taught 
 To roll submissive to their Maker's will. 
 
 33 
 
I've wandered through thy spacious halls by day, 
 And viewed, with well-pleased eye, thj^ mu- 
 ral charms — 
 
 Thy living mottoes, writ in classic way, 
 Thy pictured Muses with uncovered arms. 
 
 Again I've sought thee as the twilight fell. 
 When thou wert bathed in soft electric light, 
 
 And 'mid thy million books (I love them well !) 
 I've whiled away the early hours of night. 
 
 O living world of dead men's better selves — 
 Thou world of books — my heart would dwell 
 with thee! 
 
 Fain would I walk amid thy endless shelves 
 And hear thy voices calling unto me. 
 
 Here dwells the best that every age has known, 
 The gathered treasures of recorded time; 
 
 Here, framed in the abiding strength of stone. 
 Our legacy eternal and sublime. 
 
 DAY AND NIGHT. 
 
 It's very strange that day will break 
 When slightest fall it does not take; 
 And stranger still that night can fall 
 And somehow never break at all. 
 
 34 
 
LOVE^S VICTORY. 
 
 So like a sudden glory 
 That breaketh unaware, 
 
 Came that delightful story 
 In answer to my prayer. 
 
 My long and ardent wooing 
 Has won the day at last, 
 
 And great the joy accruing 
 From sorrow of the past. 
 
 Six years ago i met you, 
 And fell in love at sight; 
 
 1 never could forget you 
 At all, by day or night. 
 
 You were my soul's ideal— 
 That plainly I could see; 
 
 My sweetheart true and real 
 I longed for you to be. 
 
 Not mine the skill, however, 
 To win a maiden's heart; 
 
 Like ships that pass and sever, 
 We drifted far apart. 
 
 Yet in my heart, though broken, 
 I kept a place for you; 
 
 85 
 
And this was for a token 
 That I'd be ever true. 
 
 The years came empty-handed, 
 
 Or laden but with pain; 
 My hopes were wrecked and stranded 
 
 Beside life's cruel main. 
 
 With sorrow 'round me lurking, 
 
 And holding me in thrall, 
 I could not see the working 
 
 Of God's plan through it all. 
 
 But God was only trying 
 
 My temper in the fire; 
 He was but purifying 
 
 The gold of my desire. 
 
 Behold, the night of weeping 
 
 Is past away and gone; 
 The light of love is sweeping 
 
 Across the hills of dawn. 
 
 Oh, joy beyond expression! 
 
 My fair one has returned. 
 And made the sweet confession 
 
 For which I long have j^earned. 
 
 36 
 
*^I love youP' Oh, what meaning 
 Those little words convey! 
 
 From all our language gleaning, 
 We've none so sweet to say. 
 
 These words have been repeated 
 A thousand million times, 
 
 And daily they are greeted 
 In every poet's rhymes. 
 
 We count them each a jewel 
 
 As oft as they are said; 
 Without them life were cruel, 
 
 And languages w^ere dead. 
 
 And so for all the pleasure 
 Which your confession brings, 
 
 I thank you, O my treasure, 
 Most loved of earthly things! 
 
 Now may the grace and blessing 
 
 Of Heaven still abide. 
 And may we, onward pressing, 
 
 Go ever side by side. 
 
 37 
 
SONNET TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. 
 
 Thou ancient mumra.y, lying prone in state, 
 And wliat is thy good wish this lovely day? 
 Thou bronzed stiff, impervious to decay. 
 
 Hast thou been well attended here of late? 
 
 In Egypt thou wast honorable and great; 
 But that was full three thousand years ago, 
 And here thou liest, wrapped about with tow. 
 
 And all unmindful of thy hapless fate. 
 
 I stand and look into thy sightless eyes 
 And think w^hat olden wonders they have seen, 
 And what eventful ages lie between 
 
 Thy world and ours. What would be thy sur- 
 prise 
 
 To know thou'rt sleeping under alien skies, 
 In Oriental trappings moulded green? 
 
 FAITH AND WORKS. 
 
 Upon the hill of Faith he built his tower. 
 But crowned it not with ordnance of good 
 works; 
 
 Then sat contented, waiting victory's hour, 
 Nor marked what danger in inaction lurks. 
 
 '*0 Faith, thou art ray monitor,'' he said, 
 **And thou wilt bring good fortune unto me: 
 
 38 
 
My heart is set, my eager arms are spread, 
 And I shall prosper by thy good decree." 
 
 But while the man of Faith sat idly by, 
 
 Conjuring up fair pictures in his mind. 
 The man of Works, with purpose strong and 
 high. 
 Bore off the laurel wreath that Faith had 
 twined. 
 
 THE KISS. 
 
 You smiled, and my soul 
 
 In a moment took fire, 
 And I could not control 
 
 My o'er weaning desire 
 To fold you secure 
 
 'Gainst my warm, throbbing breast, 
 And kiss your demure 
 
 Little lips into rest. 
 
 Reluctant you came, 
 
 Like a coy young sprite. 
 With a blush, as of shame 
 
 Interwove with delight. 
 When I felt the soft touch 
 
 Of your warm, wavy hair. 
 The sensation was such 
 
 That I fainted rig-ht there. 
 
 39 
 
But no man of the race 
 
 Could unconscious remain 
 With the dream of your face 
 
 Dancing over his brain; 
 So I came to myself 
 
 In a moment of time, 
 And — I kissed you, sweet elf, 
 
 And that kiss was sublime. 
 
 The wine may be rare 
 
 That great Jupiter sips, 
 But it cannot compare 
 
 With the wine of your lips; 
 For I never had known 
 
 The full meaning of bliss 
 Till my lips met your own 
 
 In that rapturous kiss. 
 
 A WINTER EYENIKG. 
 
 When Winter, with her evenings long and drear, 
 Has bared the forest and congeal'd the stream, 
 
 I like to lounge about the fireplace here. 
 And lose myself in some old poet's dream. 
 
 Let others trail out with their guns and dogs, 
 To bounce a rabbit from some sheltered nook; 
 
 I'll build a roaring fire of hickory logs, 
 And spend the evening with my favorite book. 
 
 40 
 
And when the ev^ening wanes to twilight dim, 
 And when the twilight thickens into night, 
 
 I think of spectres stalking tall and grim, 
 Then close the w^indow shutters good and tight. 
 
 The wind outside, against the casement there. 
 Howls sadly, like some creature in distress; 
 
 And far off, through the forest lone and bare, 
 Its wail intensifies the loneliness. 
 
 My friendly fire sends up a cheerful blaze, 
 My feet outstretched before it do recline; 
 
 And soon again I'm lost in other days. 
 And all the author's interests are mine. 
 
 Give me a winter evening in my den. 
 
 Here with my books, my lamp, my cozy fire; 
 
 Just turn me loose, and I'll be happy then — 
 These are the things toward which my 
 thoughts aspire. 
 
 DO YOU REMEMBER? 
 
 Do you remember, dear. 
 The long, sweet days we wandered here? 
 How did the sunbeams chastely play 
 
 Across the fields in May? 
 
 4:1 
 
When Youth was blooming fair, 
 And gentle breezes stirred the air, 
 We walked together in the wood, 
 
 Where springing flowers stood. 
 
 We, at this fountain, oft. 
 When Love's bright planet was aloft. 
 Drank deep dear Nature's nectar'd wine. 
 
 That did our hearts combine. 
 
 I KNOW YOU CAN. 
 
 'Tis not so hard to be a man — 
 To fight life's battles bravely througli. 
 And all the powers of wrong subdue — 
 
 If someone says, ''I know you can." 
 
 'Tis not so hard to work and plan — 
 Your own misgivings to deny — 
 If some kind-hearted passer-by 
 
 Will pause and sa^^ "I know you can." 
 
 .But if the world, with deaf'ning din. 
 
 Shouts ''No, you can't; you need not try," 
 Though what it utters be a lie, 
 
 The prize is doubly hard to win. 
 
 42 
 
THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Let us shout a glad liosanna from the green 
 
 earth to tlie sky, 
 In thanksgiving for tlie beauty that shall never 
 
 fade nor die. 
 P2arth is bless'd beyond comparing — let all 
 
 creatures thankful be 
 That the valley smiles with plenty from the 
 
 mountain to the sea. 
 
 I'here's the plowman with his horses and the 
 angler with his hook, 
 
 And the lover with his lassie and the scholar 
 with his book. 
 
 Oh, the earth is rolling onward, leaving sad- 
 ness in the rear, 
 
 And the highway to the kingdom shines before 
 us bright and clear. 
 
 Not a zephyr greets the morning but it bears 
 upon its breast 
 
 Incense from affection's altar, echoes of celes- 
 tial rest; 
 
 And the night of gloom and darkness is a pre- 
 lude to the day 
 
 That is soon to burst upon us in its golden, 
 glad array. 
 
 43 
 
Then the day will be the brighter for the night 
 that came and went, 
 
 And the earth will smile with beauty and the 
 air will breathe content, 
 
 And the richest boon of heaven will upon crea- 
 tion rest. 
 
 While the friendship long forgotten springs 
 anew within the breast. 
 
 Thus the Father of the faithful stretches out 
 
 His gentle hand 
 To pronounce the benediction of His love upon 
 
 the land; 
 Then the mountains catch the echo and repipt 
 
 it once again, 
 And the forest bows approval, and the vale 
 
 responds "Amen." 
 
 THE INNER SIGHT. 
 
 The town, the village and the farm, 
 Aforetime all so commonplace, 
 Have robed themselves in richer grace. 
 
 And don'd a more enduring charm. 
 
 The things wherein I only saw 
 
 The base, the brutish and the wrong. 
 Are rich in themes of holy song, 
 
 And loyal to the perfect law, 
 
 U 
 
I cannot walk the meadow path 
 
 And not behold a smile of God, 
 Whereas, when first the path I trod, 
 
 I only saw His frown of wrath. 
 
 And hence it is that I believe 
 
 We find the thing we truly seek. 
 Though be it strength when we are weak, 
 
 Or be it comfort when we grieve. 
 
 THE LONG HAND-CLASP AT PARTING. 
 
 When in the twilight hour we stood alone. 
 
 Hand clasp'd in hand outside thy cottage door, 
 I knew full well (and ah! if thou hadst known!) 
 
 That I should see thee not for evermore. 
 That was a time of sorrow unto me, 
 
 A time of mourning, and a broken heart, 
 For in a moment I was led to see 
 
 That our respective lots were cast apart. 
 I plighted there my last eternal vow— 
 
 My last forever— touching thee and thine; 
 No word have I repented of, yet now 
 
 I grant thee this by way of aftersign. 
 
 Thou'lt know by this that I had cared for thee, 
 That I had loved thee as my very own; 
 
 And I had builded castles fair to see — 
 Alas! but they have all been overthrown. 
 
 45 
 
Sometimes in fancy I can feel the touch 
 Of thy dear hand, as on that fatal nig:ht; 
 
 Then, lest I dwell upon thee overmuch, 
 
 I cast the thoughts of thee to left and right. 
 
 It seems so hard to tear myself away 
 From all the tender memories of thee — 
 
 From all thy smiles and favors (blest be they!). 
 But heaven wills it so, and it must be. 
 
 Things have so changed, and in so brief a space! 
 
 It sets me wondering whether I am sane — 
 The thought that I shall never see thy face, 
 
 Nor hear the music of thy voice again. 
 
 But thou wouldst not that, closed to all beside, 
 The portals of thy soul swung wide for me; 
 
 Fain wouldst thou, wanton one, thy love divide, 
 And scatter smiles on all who came to thee. 
 
 And I, who hold that in such lavish state 
 Thy heart can harbor nothing that is true, 
 
 Turn, with disdainful bearing, from thy gate, 
 And bid thee, as it shuts, my last adieu. 
 
 I go not, as the thwarted lover goes. 
 
 Reeling with frenzy to some midnight den, 
 
 To curse my cruel fate and nurse my woes, 
 But as a man into tlie midst of men. 
 
 4:Q 
 
A BUNCH OF VIOLETS. 
 
 Oh, you little purple poems, 
 Smiling at me from the dresser, 
 
 Cora wore you on her bosom — 
 Her dear bosom — heaven bless her! 
 
 Little purple heads protruding 
 From the water in the vase, 
 
 You've a smile of fragrant freshness, 
 Like the smile on Cora's face. 
 
 Though your little necks are slender, 
 And your heads had not a hat, 
 
 You have braved the frosts of Autumn, 
 And I love you more for that. 
 
 Thus I get a lesson from you — 
 Namely, that my sweetheart-wife 
 
 Will retain her bloom and freshness 
 Through the Autumn of her life. 
 
 Sit there, little violet sisters, 
 
 Where she placed you on the dresser; 
 I must go and kiss my darling, 
 
 And with lovinsf arms caress her. 
 
 4:7 
 
THE NIGHT. 
 
 The Night is an ardent lover, 
 
 His lady the Earth; 
 And steadily hath he woo'd her 
 
 Since time had birth. 
 
 The Night is a sad musician, 
 
 His harp is the wind; 
 And the sear leaves dance to the music 
 
 Till their ranks are thin'd. 
 
 So the Night hangs up his lantern — 
 
 His lantern, the moon — 
 And he sings for the Earth, his lady, 
 
 A slumbrous tune. 
 
 He hath the stars for his jewels, 
 And the dew for his tears. 
 
 And hath wept on his lady's bosom 
 For a million years. 
 
 The Night finds the lady waiting 
 
 At the trysting place. 
 And he sprinkles the moonbeams over 
 
 Her sleeping face. 
 
 And there by his lady's bower 
 
 Safe watch he keeps. 
 Till the wind-harps cease their sighing, 
 
 And the hoot-owl sleeps. 
 
 48 
 
LUCILE. 
 
 The love which once thou gavest rae 
 
 I hold in sacred trust; 
 My vows I'll twine in the lonesome vine 
 
 That wanders above thy dust. 
 
 No other love can win my heart; 
 
 'Tis buried deep with thine; 
 It will not bow to the music now, 
 
 Nor the flow of Egyptian wine. 
 
 I loved thee more than life, Lucile; 
 
 I wept in the bitter hour 
 When death lay cold on thy locks of gold, 
 
 And scorned me with its power. 
 
 For we had grown up side by side. 
 And like of thought were we; 
 
 Our friendship grew to a love more true 
 Than love was known to be. 
 
 Together read we Nature's truth 
 
 In forest and in dell; 
 We spent long hours with the birds and 
 flowers. 
 
 We knew their language well. 
 
 But dark, with the passing of thy smile. 
 The radiant morning grew; 
 
 49 
 
Soft words of cheer to my pulseless ear 
 Were senseless jargons, loo. 
 
 When I would joy in what of good 
 
 The passing seasons bring, 
 I remember in tears that the cruel years 
 
 Were all too swift of wing. 
 
 And thus bereft of every tie 
 
 That bound me unto time, 
 In silence I bow by thy sepulchre now, 
 
 And weave this mournful rhyme. 
 
 A CHILD'S CRY TO NATURE. 
 
 Sing to me. Sweet, of the Lullaby Land, 
 
 Sing me a song to bring sleep; 
 Sing of the mountain peaks solemn and grand, 
 
 And of the billowy deep. 
 
 For I am weary with work and with play, 
 Tired of the strain and the slack— 
 
 Tired of the life that gives all things away, 
 And never gets anything back. 
 
 Rock me to sleep on your beautiful breast. 
 
 Nature, my Love, my Sweet; 
 Sing me a song that will lull me to rest, 
 
 And make me a grave at your feet. 
 
 50 
 
THE WOMAN SERVANT, 
 
 Once on a day there came to earth, 
 From out the gates of paradise, 
 
 A hnmaH soul of rarest worth, 
 To g-ive itself a sacrifice. 
 
 It was a woman-child that lay 
 Neglected on a bed of straw, 
 
 With face as radiant as the day — 
 A perfect face without a flaw. 
 
 That tiny face, so fair and white, 
 Into an artist's model grew, 
 
 And in those eyes of dreamy light 
 The poet-soul was shining through. 
 
 But cruel Circumstance had set 
 The seal of doom upon the child; 
 
 Her path of life was rough, and yet 
 She struggled o'er it undefiled. 
 
 For being born a beggar- maid 
 Her queenly life could not atone; 
 
 The world condemned her still, and laid 
 On burdens till it made her groan. 
 
 Her life, though gall'd by Labor's, yoke. 
 Betrayed no impulse low or mean, 
 
 51 
 
And every deed of hers bespoke 
 The stately bearing of a queen. 
 
 Yet she was ''low" in worldly eyes — 
 
 Polite society must frown; 
 And though she ever prayed to rise, 
 
 The world conspired to keep her down. 
 
 And having given up the quest 
 For sympathy in humankind, 
 
 She carries in her sunless breast 
 A soul submissive and resigned. 
 
 Her nerves are racked and tortured by 
 The grind of Labor's cruel mill, 
 
 And, living, she must daily die, 
 A servant — but a vvoman still. 
 
 THE BUILDING OF DELPHA. 
 
 The first who came to Delpha was good Ebe- 
 nezer Grimes, 
 
 Who immigrated hither in the Puritanic times. 
 
 He walked into the ancient wood with courage 
 and with pride, 
 
 Hew'd down the trees and built a house to shel- 
 ter his young bride. 
 
 And then he settled down to work, to plow and 
 plant and reap; 
 
 52 
 
His days were filled with honest toil, his nights 
 
 with peaceful sleep. 
 He cleared the pines from off the hill that 
 
 slopes up to the west; 
 Then he was old and full of years, and he laid 
 
 down to rest. 
 
 r»ut there were Abner, Seth and Will to take 
 their father's place. 
 
 To propogate the species and to multiply the 
 race; 
 
 And so they built them each a house and mar- 
 ried each a wife, 
 
 And settled down there side by side to meet 
 the needs of life. 
 
 The fields were broadened year by year fast as 
 
 the children grew, 
 And soon the little settlement had numbered 
 
 thirty-two; 
 For while the old men bent with age up rose 
 
 their gallant sons — 
 The young men took the old men's place, and 
 
 thus the story runs. 
 
 The little church you see out there was built in 
 
 years long gone. 
 When Abner's grandson, Malachi, was full of 
 
 life and brawn; 
 
 53 
 
But he has g^one to take his place in silence 
 
 long and deep, 
 In that old graveyard near the church where 
 
 all the Grimeses sleep. 
 
 But stranger folk from distant parts had come 
 
 to Delpha then — 
 A troop of slender little dames and anxious, 
 
 bustling men — 
 And they had laid out splendid streets across 
 
 the goodly fields, 
 And there were hammers keeping time to hum 
 
 of factory wheels. 
 
 And I, Rudolphus Kastus Grimes, the great- 
 grandson of Will, 
 
 Am creeping up and down among these modern 
 wonders still; 
 
 But soon there'll be another mound beneath 
 the churchyard tree, 
 
 And then proud Delpha will forget her ances- 
 tors and me. 
 
 54 
 
THE DEATH OF A CENTURY. 
 
 December 31, 1900. 
 
 Let a solemn prayer be said, 
 
 And let holy incense rise; 
 Weave ye garlands for the dead, 
 
 For to-night a century dies. 
 
 Let a funeral bell be toll'd 
 When the evening sun is low, 
 
 For its crimson and its gold 
 Are the harbingers of woe. 
 
 Nineteenth Century, we mourn 
 That thou art no more to be, 
 
 And as thou art sk^- ward borne, 
 We will kiss our hands to thee. 
 
 For a hundred seasons past 
 
 Thou hast seen great deeds transpire- 
 Seen the nations overcast 
 
 With a net of living wire. 
 
 Thou hast seen the farthest isles 
 Greet each other face to face, 
 
 By the new-invented wiles 
 Of a bold inquiring race. 
 
 55 
 
But thy last triumphant flight 
 
 Hath been heralded afar, 
 And thou goest out to-ni^^ht. 
 
 Like the fading of a star. 
 
 THY PROMISE. 
 
 Yea, thou hast promised me, and I believe; 
 
 I could not doubt thee for a moment, dear; 
 Thine honest lips ne'er practiced to deceive, 
 
 And of thy constancy I have no fear. 
 
 Thou art my own henceforward — only mine, 
 And in exchange I giv^e myself to thee; 
 
 Our lives shall be all glorious, all divine, 
 And perfect as two earthly lives may be. 
 
 Apart, and all unconsciously, we grew. 
 
 Till, 'neath the golden radiance of Love's sun. 
 
 Our kindred souls each to the other drew 
 Their separate beings and became as one. 
 
 Awhile I knew not, nor so much as dreamed. 
 So fair a human flower on earth could bloom; 
 
 And yet my soul e'er sought thee, and it seemed 
 To hold sweet converse with thee through the 
 gloom. 
 
 56 
 
To-night I take thee in my arras and press 
 Upon thy lips the fond betrothal kiss; 
 
 Because those precious lips have whispered, 
 *'Yes," 
 And our two lives are one in mutual bliss. 
 
 A LYRIC OF LOVE. 
 
 Come sit here on my knee the while 
 
 I sing my lyric to thee. 
 Of all the empty days I met 
 
 Before I ever knew thee. 
 
 Of all the aimless, empty days 
 That crept so slowly by me, 
 
 With only vague, uncertain peace 
 To promise — and deny me. 
 
 Before the light of angel eyes 
 Drew heaven closer to me, 
 
 And banished all the clouds of doubt 
 That erstwhile did pursue me. 
 
 Now let us hope that they are done — 
 Those days of stormy weather — 
 
 And let us take each other's hand 
 And march along together. 
 
 57 
 
A LULLABY SONG. 
 
 Don't weep, now, but sleep, now. 
 And rest your tired eyes; 
 
 And wake, then, and take, then, 
 Fair beauty's first prize. 
 
 Where life is, there strife is, 
 Yet sleep's soothing wine. 
 
 So dream-like, doth seem like 
 A nectar divine. 
 
 THE EMPTY BOAT. 
 
 Broken and bruised on many a cruel bar, 
 Over dark waters far. 
 Hither alone, in midnight cast afloat, 
 Drifteth an empty boat. 
 
 Slowly the waves retire — the storm has ceased. 
 And from the waking East 
 Dawn's radiant finger, poised in ambient air. 
 Points to the wreckage there. 
 
 An empty boat and one poor broken oar 
 Cast out upon the shore; 
 
 Answer, O wandering winds of the hungry sea— 
 Where may the boatman be? 
 
 58 
 
STKOLLING IN THE STARLIGHT. 
 
 Very, well do I remember, 'twas an ev^ening in 
 September, 
 
 Such an evening as you fancy might in every 
 way compare 
 
 With a clump of ruby roses leaning all in per- 
 fect poses 
 
 In the middle of a desert that is desolate and 
 bare. 
 
 Kow the sun was slowly sinking, and the day 
 and night were linking — 
 
 IMarching arm in arm together through the 
 misty mountain wood; 
 
 Through the oak-boughs arching o'er us rang 
 the night-bird's nimble chorus. 
 
 And the church-bell sent its summons to a com- 
 mon brotherhood. 
 
 In my soul was something sweeter than all 
 outward earthly meter, 
 
 As w^e marched amid the music of the moun- 
 tains, you and I, 
 
 And the thousand silent voices that are heard 
 when earth rejoices. 
 
 Wafted to us endless echoes of a blessed by- 
 and-by. 
 
 59 
 
Hotel Lithia, calm and queenly, on the Brusliies 
 
 sat serenely, 
 Lifting up her tapered turrets far above the 
 
 mountain mist, 
 And the sig-ht grew fainter, fonder, as we 
 
 gazed away off yonder, 
 Where green verdure clothes the valley and 
 
 the hills are heaven-kissed. 
 
 In my bosom darts and dances millions of fan- 
 tastic fancies, 
 
 As I hear again the music of the vocal village 
 band; 
 
 Then across the dewy heather, and we mount 
 the steps together, 
 
 And we see the village preacher as he rises in 
 the stand. 
 
 All his face is smoothly shaven, and his locks 
 are like the raven; 
 
 He is dressed in neat apparel; he is hand- 
 some, as a whole; 
 
 'Tis the Father's gracious greeting that thc3 
 preacher stands repeating; 
 
 'Tis a comfort to the conscience and a solace to 
 the soul. 
 
 60 
 
'Tis the speaking of the Spirit, and you hold 
 
 your breath to hear it, 
 Until all the earth about you is forgotten, for 
 
 the time — 
 Until every nerve and sinew that is hidden deep 
 
 within you 
 Is a-trenobling with the tremor of the language 
 
 so sublime. 
 
 Preaching done, the village pastor prayed the 
 blessings of the Master 
 
 On the souls of all the sinners who were look- 
 ing for the light; 
 
 Then, 'mid people thronging thickly, down the 
 steps we ventured quickly. 
 
 From the gaudy glare of lanterns to the balmy 
 breath of night. 
 
 I am dreaming — (Bless the vision! 'Tis trans- 
 porting — rapt — Elysian!) — 
 
 How I drew you close beside me, how I held 
 your little hand; 
 
 How my heart would fairly flutter with the 
 thoughts it dared not utter, 
 
 But I pressed you closer — closer, and you 
 seemed to understand. 
 
 61 
 
Ah! that Pxight was truly splendid, but alasl too 
 
 soon it ended — 
 Ended in a painful parting 'neath the dropping 
 
 of the dew; 
 Nothing can its memory smother, and I sigh for 
 
 such another; 
 May the Lord be pleased to send it, and to send 
 
 me there with you. 
 
 A POEM TO THE POE L S. 
 
 Brother, if you would be wise 
 
 As a modern poet, 
 Clothe an old thought in sucli guise 
 
 That no one v, ill know it. 
 Everything has once been said, 
 
 Many times been stolen; 
 Thus the stream of books is spread 
 
 To a flood high-swollen. 
 Notwithstanding this is true, 
 People read and call it new. 
 
 Rhyming brother, hear my song: — 
 
 If you wish to capture 
 Everyone who comes along 
 
 With your rhythmic rapture, 
 Be not over-apt to pen 
 
 Everything so plainly; 
 
 62 
 
Drop a hint just now and then — 
 Leave it guess-work mainly. 
 He is counted great who sings 
 Unintelligible things. 
 
 SONG TO OLD GLORY. 
 
 O flag, w^ith thy stars that are emblems, each 
 
 one, 
 Of a free commonwealth that is rivalled by 
 
 none. 
 We lift our eyes upward, and, seeing thee ride 
 So light on the free wind — our national pride — 
 We halt in the midst of our labor to-day 
 Our tribute of love and devotion to pay 
 For what thou now art and for what thou hast 
 
 been 
 To us and our fathers in war's angry din. 
 
 Thy stripes that are crimson, in token, no doubt, 
 Of many a life that went thankfully out 
 To raise thee and keep thee unsullied and fair — 
 We boast thee and toast thee, beholding them 
 
 there. 
 Wherever thou goest, on land or on sea. 
 In fair or foul weather, our hearts are with thee. 
 We call thee Old Glory, and fervently trust 
 Thy glory shall never trail low in the dust. 
 
 63 
 
THANKS. 
 
 For love that holds our human ranks 
 
 United in an equal bond, 
 
 That looks the silent grave beyond, 
 Accept, dear Lord, our humble thanks. 
 
 For all the mercy we have met, 
 And all the passion we have slain; 
 For all the good we hope to gain 
 
 Beyond the silence of regret. 
 
 For strength in every time of need, 
 To stand serenely and to trust. 
 As all Thy chosen people must. 
 
 And follow where Thy footsteps lead. 
 
 For sun and shower ever blent 
 To crown our labors with success; 
 And we would thank Thee none the less 
 
 For all the trials Thou hast sent. 
 
 For these, and all good things beside, 
 We come to render thanks to-day— 
 We come to thank Thee and to pray 
 
 Thy peace among us to abide. 
 
 64 
 
A DROP OF DEW. 
 
 There is a tiny blade of grass 
 That grows upon a desert plain, 
 
 Away from where the rivers pass 
 With borders dense of shrub and cane. 
 
 I saw it bow its head one night, 
 I heard it pra^^ **0 Heaven, do, 
 
 From thine abundance of delight, 
 Please send me one sweet drop of dew." 
 
 My heart is like that blade of grass, 
 That sighs amid the summer heat; 
 
 It fain would tip love's magic gla.ss, 
 And quaff its nectar cool and sweet. 
 
 The holy heart of heaven bent 
 In kind regard to heed the prayer. 
 
 And down the twilight shadows sent 
 A mist of dewdrops rich and rare. 
 
 And thus I know, my bonny lass, 
 
 I could a life of bliss pursue, 
 Were I a tiny blade of grass. 
 
 And thou my only drop of dew. 
 
 66 
 
THE ORGAN OF LIFE. 
 
 Over and over and over monotonous voices 
 
 call, 
 Till weariness creeps upon us and slumbrous 
 
 eyelids fall; 
 And dreamily then we finger the dissonant, 
 
 raspin^j keys, 
 And little we think of the terror that trembles 
 
 along the breeze. 
 
 On the organ of life we are playing — each life 
 
 is a separate tune. 
 And one is a dirge of the winter, and one is a 
 
 carol of June; 
 But all of our chords are minor — there are notes 
 
 that we cannot reach 
 Till we finish the lesson that only the Master 
 
 of Life can teach. 
 
 There might have been more of music if we 
 
 had but taken heed 
 To the hungering eyes that question and the 
 
 sorrowful hearts that bleed; 
 There might have been more of sweetness to 
 
 mellow the harsh discord, 
 If we had thought more of the service and less 
 
 of the servant's reward. 
 
 66 
 
Kut over the battered keyboard our faltering 
 hands must run 
 
 Till the last faint notes are sounded— till the 
 cantata, Life, is done; 
 
 And then may the Lord have mercy on our 
 poor blinded souls, 
 
 And pilot us home to the land where the heav- 
 enly music rolls. 
 
 TO CORA IX FLORIDA. 
 
 I am thinking of my sweetheart in Orlando far 
 away, 
 Down between the great Atlantic and the 
 Gulf of Mexico, 
 In the land of Ponce de Leon, where the month 
 is ever May, 
 Where the orange blossoms flourish and the 
 healing breezes blow. 
 
 Yes, 1 know that she is resting in fair Florida 
 to-night. 
 After all the weary journey through the in- 
 tervening states. 
 And my very soul is hungry for the letter she 
 will write 
 When she rises in the morning and unlocks 
 her castle gates. 
 
 67 
 
In the morning when she rises from her coach 
 of sweet repose, 
 Lo! the tropic sun will greet lier with a smile 
 so warm and sweet; 
 She will walk amid the orchards where the 
 luscious orange growls, 
 And a wealth of tropic flowers will be scat- 
 tered at her feet. 
 
 J am praying, ever pra^dng, that my darling- 
 Cora may 
 Be rewarded with the treasure she has gone 
 so far to seek; 
 May disease and its attendants all be driven far 
 away, 
 And a fresher glow" be added to the roses on 
 her cheek. 
 
 Dearest, bravest little angel, 1 admire and love 
 you so, 
 For your womanly attainments and your 
 strength of mind and soul; 
 And my heart will travel with you in whatever 
 way you go. 
 Till the glory gates are opened and we reach 
 the shining goal. 
 
 68 
 
SONNET— TO A SCIENTIST, 
 
 Thou wan-eyed, wakeful scientific man, 
 That shuttest up thyself from day to day 
 Within thy laboratory, where, they say. 
 
 Thou shapest many a scientific plan — 
 
 Where many a modern miracle began — 
 What latest wonder sleepeth in the toils 
 Of these old jars and batteries and coils? 
 
 What centuries might they in a moment span? 
 
 We all may dream of things that never were — 
 Impossible conceptions — which, of course, 
 Come still-born from their visionary source; 
 i»ut Science is thy queen, and unto her 
 Thou makest thine appeal, nor dost demur 
 Until thy dream becomes a living force. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF PAYNE. 
 
 I went out early this morning 
 
 To take a leisurely stroll, 
 And to give the breath of the springtime 
 
 A chance to breathe into my soul. 
 
 I passed by the Treasury Building, 
 And then through Lafayette Square, 
 
 Where the dear little violets nodded 
 Their heads in the amorous air. 
 
Tlien up Connecticut Avenue 
 
 I walked for several squares, 
 Past many a palace of brownstone — 
 
 The homes of tiie millionaires. 
 
 Turned westward at Dupont Circle, 
 And crossed over llock Creek bridg'e. 
 
 Ascended the heights of Georg'etown, 
 Where the cemetery lies on the rid^'-e. 
 
 And there, like an army all marshalTd, 
 The tombstones and monuments stood, 
 
 Impressive and solemn and silent, 
 
 Far down the long slope throug-h the wood. 
 
 I passed through the iron gateway. 
 Beneath the great arch overhead, 
 
 And down the long, angular pathways 
 That run through tlie field of the dead. 
 
 In front of a modest chapel 
 
 That faces the open west, 
 Beneath a tall shaft of marble. 
 
 There John Howard Payne is at rest. 
 
 In life he was sad and lonely, 
 
 And knew not a home of his own; 
 
 But a song was born out of his sadness— 
 A song more enduring than stone. 
 
 70 
 
The iiigh and the lowly have sung it 
 With tremulous voice and low, 
 
 And the hearts of the nations have melted 
 In the warmth of its musical flow. 
 
 The pilgrims of earth journey hither 
 
 To stand for a moment beside 
 The grave of the singer who moulded 
 
 His life into music, and died. 
 
 Before him the numberless millions 
 
 Had wandered from home and returned; 
 
 Had felt a great voiceless longing, 
 
 And for adequate language had yearned. 
 
 But never a tongue was able 
 
 To voice the immortal strain, 
 Bespeaking the depth of the home love, 
 
 Till the coming of John Howard Payne. 
 
 Though dead, yet he lives, and more truly, 
 For, back from eternity's shore, 
 
 His soul, now transformed into music, 
 Doth brighten and bless us the more. 
 
 Henceforth I will carry with me. 
 
 In whatever land I roam, 
 A feeling of deep veneration 
 
 For the author of '*Home, Sweet Home." 
 
 71 
 
A BED-TIME SONG. 
 
 She went off to bed; 
 
 I sat by the fire; 
 Through my bosom sped 
 
 A passionate desire. 
 While sitting there alone, 
 Beside the warm hearthstone, 
 
 I missed her; 
 So, creeping to the bed, 
 I stroked her darling head, 
 And kissed her. 
 
 Taken by surprise 
 
 At such kiss applied, 
 Two sweet, soulful eyes 
 Opened big and wide. 
 Two loving arms and true, 
 Down to the pillow drew 
 
 And bound me; 
 Earth had no other charms 
 While I could feel those arms 
 Around me. 
 
 72 
 
THE STEM OF A ROSE, 
 
 Faded — the scent and the savor, 
 
 The bloom and the beauty that made 
 
 The weary heart kinder and braver, 
 And much of its grieving allayed. 
 
 Faded, but yet more endearing. 
 Like last-uttered words of a friend 
 
 Who hails the death-angel's appearing. 
 And whispers of hope to the end. 
 
 The red rose smiled in the morning. 
 And nodded its sisters ''Good-day!" 
 
 But a sweet hand came without warning 
 And bore the fair jewel away. 
 
 Yet, robed in a halo of splendor, 
 It rose and it fell with the beat 
 
 Of a heart that was gentle and tender, 
 On a breast that was sinless and sweet. 
 
 Its memory I fervently cherish — 
 
 O Destiny, how may it be? 
 Pray how could that love-token perish, 
 
 When given so kindly to me? 
 
 The long-ago memories muster, 
 The olden sensations revive; 
 
 Y3 
 
Around me they cling and they chister, 
 As when the dead rose was alive. 
 
 But now in the mist of the morning, 
 And now at the evening's close, 
 
 I turn from a world full of scorning, 
 And worship the stem of a rose. 
 
 THE APPROACH OF NIGHT. 
 
 The golden sun is in the west, 
 Now hanging o'er the mountain's crest. 
 And soon the world will sink to rest. 
 Just like a squirrel in its nest. 
 
 The evening sky a mirror seems; 
 
 It catches all the slanting beams. 
 
 And all the many-colored gleams. 
 
 And sprinkles them o'er fields and streams. 
 
 The shadowy mountain grows more dim; 
 I scarce can see its ragged rim; 
 The forest pines, so tall and slim. 
 Fade out of sight, both trunk and limb. 
 
 The day is gone and night is here, 
 And every object far and near 
 By slow degrees will disappear. 
 All swallowed up in darkness drear. 
 
 74 
 
I've got the cows and horses fed, 
 And piled some wood beneath the shed; 
 The supper table now is spread, 
 And soon I'll tumble into bed. 
 
 OH, TO BE MAKIUED IN MAY. 
 
 Tjove, from the South returning, 
 With all of your wandering o'er, 
 
 1 give the glad hand of the dear native land. 
 And bid you a welcome once more. 
 
 My love has been faithful and constant, 
 1 have dreamed of 3'ou night and day; 
 
 And, oh, the sweet bliss of the welcoming 
 kiss! 
 And, oh, to be married in May! 
 
 To have lived in the shadow of sorrow. 
 
 To have seemingly loved in vain; 
 To have wept bitter tears through the joyless 
 years — 
 
 ^rii rough the pitiful years of pain; 
 And then to pass from the shadows 
 
 And stand where the sunbeams play; 
 And, oh, the sweet charms of your circling 
 arms! 
 
 And, oh, to be married in May! 
 
 7)5 
 
THE MYSTERY OF MAN. 
 
 There is a mystery that broods 
 About the life of every man, 
 
 Though walk he in the solitudes, 
 Or march he with the crowded van. 
 
 He is the creature of a day, 
 
 Who Cometh forth to live and die, 
 
 To be, and then to pass away — 
 
 Blind tool of sin — not knowing why. 
 
 He is an atom of the force 
 That palpitates among the spheres, 
 
 Uncertain of his being's source. 
 And only sure of death and tears. 
 
 LOOKING BACKWARD. 
 
 From out the mould'ring casket of dead years, 
 That, wrapped in dust, has long and lonesome 
 
 lain 
 Within some unlit closet of the brain. 
 
 There peeps a boyish face, all wet with tears. 
 
 He turns upon me with an eager gaze, 
 
 And cries, ''Oh, Sir, why knowest not thow 
 
 me?" 
 I look — and in that simple face I see 
 
 And recognize myself of former days. 
 
 76 
 
THE BOOK OF TRUTH. 
 
 Through all the labyrinth of human thought, 
 And all the vistas of the mortal mind, 
 1 souj^ht for Truth, but never once did find 
 
 The fullness of the treasure that I sought; 
 
 For all the efforts that the seers have brought 
 To bear upon the problems of the soul 
 Kebound again, and in their frenzy roll 
 
 I>ack into darkness and become as naught. 
 
 But lo! a pilgrim journeying through the earth, 
 And rugged is the way that he must plod. 
 But he is leaning on a faithful rod; 
 Within his soul the light of second birth, 
 And in his hand a gem of rarest worth. 
 
 The Book of Truth— the Holy Word of God. 
 
 MY LOYE-SHIP. 
 
 I launched my little love-ship out 
 
 Upon life's placid sea. 
 And vowed it would, beyond all doubt, 
 
 Bring good gifts home to me. 
 
 1 waited long for its return, 
 
 Nor spied its silver sail; 
 My heart did for that love-ship yearn, 
 
 And hope was like to fail. 
 
 TT 
 
T (Ireamefl I saw rn.y love-ship fair. 
 
 That sailed so far away; 
 1 looked into my heart, and there 
 
 It close at anchor lay. 
 
 Oh, there were gifts of rare design, 
 And smiles of love and peace, 
 
 That brighter o'er my pathway shint; 
 When other pleasures cease. 
 
 That ship now saileth far and wide. 
 Through every sleeping sea. 
 
 And back across the tranquil tide 
 Brings good gifts home to me. 
 
 TEN THOUSAND YEARS AGO. 
 
 1 think the little boys an' girls 
 
 Ten thousand years ago 
 Had thes the nicest time at school, 
 
 'Cause there weren't much to know 
 
 They didn't have to read an' write 
 
 An' add up figures then, 
 Ner learn the tables all by heart. 
 
 Like '^Ten times one is ten."' 
 
 They hadn't any blackboards then. 
 Ner chalk ner dunce's stool; 
 
 78 
 
I think 'at I would like to be 
 In that kind of a school. 
 
 Columbus hadn't never said 
 But what the world was flat, 
 
 An' so they had no g'ographies, 
 An' all sich things as that. 
 
 They didn't study history then, 
 Because the world was new. 
 
 An' all the noted men they had 
 I guess was mighty few. 
 
 They had no grammars in them days 
 To tell the parts of speech; 
 
 'Twas fun to be a teacher then, 
 'Cause there weren't much to teach. 
 
 It's awful how the people grows 
 
 In knowledge, anyhow; 
 I'd hate to be a little boy 
 
 Ten thousand years from now. 
 
 'Cause I would be so busy thes 
 
 A-learnin' every day, 
 I wouldn't have a bit o' tim^ 
 
 To run about an' play. 
 
 79 
 
THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 One, crowned with roses in their richest bloom, 
 Stood, heavenly fair, beside the ahar rail; 
 
 The air was heavy with a dense perfume 
 That clung to silken gown and bridal veil. 
 
 Beside her, in the glory of his strength, 
 Apollo-like, and comely to behold, 
 
 A prince of men stood waiting, till at length 
 Arose the preacher, venerable and old. 
 
 Each golden chandelier was in eclipse 
 Before the greater radiance of her brow, 
 
 When, deep and solemn from his holy lips. 
 The man of God pronounced the marriage 
 vow. 
 
 And there was music by the solemn choir, 
 The organ thundered from its deep recess; 
 
 The voice of heavenly harp and liquid lyre 
 Fell 'round the people like a god's caress. 
 
 Then fared they forth across the radiant earth, 
 Twin souls of dual bodies wove in one; 
 
 Kt has been thus since Life and Love had birth; 
 It will be thus till Love and Life are done. 
 
 80 
 
MY MUSE. 
 
 O frenzied singers, calling loud and long 
 For heavenly muses to inspire your song, 
 Come hither and behold my skill applied 
 In measured rapture to mj^ muse — my bride. 
 
 Ye would not call for vain and empty names 
 To fan to life your dead poetic flames, 
 If by your side there sat a muse divine — 
 A living, loving, human muse — like mine. 
 
 She came to me with eyes that smiled and 
 
 beamed — 
 Two little heavens verily they seemed — 
 And begged of me a poem writ in haste, 
 And I got busy — had no time to waste. 
 
 And from her heart to mine the music ran 
 In swelling strains, and ere I drew the plan. 
 The poem shaped itself like unto this. 
 And ended with a rich, ripe, ringing kiss. 
 
 PROPHECY. 
 
 The word of the Lord, by the mouth of the 
 prophet. 
 
 Descended and came to the people and said, 
 Id the beauty and strength and simplicity of it: 
 
 '*Ye all are My family; I am the Head. 
 
 81 
 
*'Go fell Me the trees of the forest primeval, 
 And build Me a temple all stead.\' and stronjr. 
 
 And shake the old earth with a miohty upheaval 
 Of worship and blessing and music and soni*-- 
 
 ''Go into the horrible slums of the city, 
 And bring out the poor and the sick and the 
 lame, 
 And feed them and clothe them and show them 
 your pity, 
 And teach them to honor My beautiful name. 
 
 ''And so shall your days be as rivers of water 
 Ihat flow^ through a land of perpetual spring; 
 
 And ye shall escape from the places of slaughter, 
 To rest evermore at the feet of the King." 
 
 SOUL-SCULPTUKE. 
 
 See the pale sculptor by his marble block! 
 
 ^J'he mallet and the chisel long he plies; 
 mow strangely disappears the rugged rock! 
 
 How strangely doth the speaking image rise! 
 
 O foolish man that cleavest to the clay, 
 Thy soul is on the selfsame basis built; 
 
 'Tis thine to hew the offending parts away, 
 'Tis thine to shape into what form thou wilt. 
 
 8i 
 
THE DANCING MEN. 
 
 The Dancing ^len of Skip-Hop Town 
 Have won themselves a great renown, 
 And set the world a-talking free 
 About \^hat kind of men they be. 
 
 For pantomimes and jigs and reels 
 Are shaken from their airy heels; 
 Of kicks and capers, new and old, 
 They have a quantity untold. 
 
 They sing and dance by night and day. 
 
 And always seem exceeding gay; 
 
 With plumes and feathers decked and 
 
 crow^ned. 
 They go their never-ending round. 
 
 Now^ Skip-Hop Town, as you may know, 
 Lies Southward from the Hills of Snow, 
 In a strange country called the Earth, 
 And there the Dancing Men had birth. 
 
 HIS MAJESTY, THE CZAKEVITCH. 
 
 Now the Czar of all the Russians, be it known, 
 Has at last an heir apparent to the throne; 
 
 And he's sending out his runners 
 
 To inform the naval gunners 
 That they'll have to run their bloomin' war alone. 
 
 83 
 
\^es, the Czar is in tlie nursery, mayhap\ 
 With a funny little bundle in his lap; 
 And it nciakes him fairly giggle 
 Just to see that youngster wiggle, 
 And he swears it's just the picture of its pap. 
 
 Oh, his cup of bliss is full up to the brim, 
 And he vows that he is strictly in the swim; 
 When he hears that kid a-squalling, 
 Trifles like Port Arthur's falling 
 Haven't any sort of interest for him. 
 
 Oh, the Czar has gone to singing "Rock-a-Byc," 
 And he's got a happy twinkle in his eye, 
 
 And he doesn't give a kitty 
 
 For the muchly-fallen city, 
 And as for the dying soldiers— let 'em die. 
 
 He has made a *'trotty-hossy" of his knee; 
 
 He's forgotten that the fleets are on the sea; 
 Don't disturb his meditations 
 With your loud "distress of nations;'' 
 
 He is busy with his baby — let him be. 
 
 A BOTTLE OF INK. 
 
 In speaking of authors and writers. 
 The secret of writing, I think. 
 
 Depends a good deal upon knowing 
 Just how to distribute the ink. 
 
 1^4 
 
You purchase a bottle of Carter's, 
 Kemoving the stopper or lid, 
 
 And there in that prison of blackness 
 A hundred great poems are hid. 
 
 But here's what'll trouble you sorely. 
 And fill all your being with doubt — 
 
 The problem of how you shall manage 
 To get all the great poems out. 
 
 First, get you a clean sheet of paper^ 
 Then dip your immaculate pen, 
 
 And keep on just like you were fishing 
 First writing, then dipping again. 
 
 The poem will nibble and nibble. 
 You draw it out line after line; 
 
 And wdien it won't bite any longer, 
 'T'is finished and ready to sign. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S OPINION. 
 
 You may talk about your palace an' your splen- 
 did city halls, 
 
 Ao' the carriage that conveys you to the ban- 
 quets an' the balls; 
 
 B>{.it you're talkin' mighty simple when you un- 
 dertake to tell 
 
 85 
 
That the country ain't a fitten place for {Iec(.^nt 
 folks to dwell. 
 
 Tell me truly, city neighbor, don't you think 
 you'd like to be 
 
 Out among the hills an^ valleys where the cow\s 
 roam fat an' free, 
 
 With the breezes all about you an' the sunshine 
 overhead, 
 
 An' the bees a-suckin' hon(\y from the blos- 
 soms, white and red^ 
 
 Why, you'll never taste the pleasures that are 
 
 showered down to men. 
 If you don't come out among us an' forsake 
 
 your drowsy den. 
 You should see the light spray dashin' where 
 
 the mountain torrent rolls. 
 An' you'd feel a great deal better if you VI sun 
 
 your sleepy souls. 
 
 I have allers loved the country, an' I'll tell you 
 
 good an' plain. 
 When I swap it for the city you may judge that 
 
 I'm insane; 
 For there's nothin' suits me better than to walk 
 
 behind the plow, 
 Urgin' on the faithful oxen — jes' like I'm 
 
 a-doin' now. 
 
 86 
 
TO THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 O a^jcd year, it seeraeth wrong 
 
 For thee, who hast been here so lonjLT, 
 
 To pass away; 
 It seemeth hard to understand 
 How thou'lt be known in all the land 
 
 No more for aye. 
 
 But since it is the will of One 
 Who keepeth us from sun to sun. 
 
 With many tears 
 We bid thee go and make thy bed 
 For evermore among the dead 
 
 And silent years. 
 
 LIFERS LESSONS. 
 
 •Many pages yet to turn, 
 jSIany lessons yet to learn — 
 Lessons both of peace and strife — 
 In this lesson-book of Life. 
 
 As the days go gently by, 
 Each one brings its song or sigh; 
 Each one brings a kindly thought 
 That no other day has brought. 
 
 If there's some one in distress. 
 Learn to comfort and caress; 
 
 87 
 
Ijearn to give some heart relief 
 From the seething pangs of grief. 
 
 Strive to learn the virtue rare 
 Of unceasing, fervent prayer, 
 And submit your every ill 
 To the Great Physician's skill. 
 
 Look not backward on the past, 
 Where the dross of life is cast. 
 But with eager, searching eye 
 Look for blessings by and by. 
 
 If you'd have your name endure 
 Ever spotless, ever pure, 
 With brave deeds of kindness, then, 
 Carve it on the hearts of men. 
 
 THE VERNAL SEASON. 
 
 I'his is the season of the year 
 When vernal breezes bring good cheer, 
 And Nature, in her growing mood, 
 Seems with perennial life imbued. 
 
 1'he snow is gone, and in its place 
 "^rhe fresh green meadow shows its face; 
 I'he tender leaves that feared the cold 
 Are now beginning to unfold. 
 
 88 
 
Once more released, the thankful cows 
 On pasture hills go forth to browse; 
 Then, with their hunger satisfied, 
 They lie upon the warm hillside. 
 
 The farmer, watchful and alert, 
 Throws off his well-worn winter shirt; 
 He hunts up all his plows and hoes, 
 And then into the field he goes. 
 
 The jangling gears, with some repair, 
 Are placed upon the old bay mare; 
 The plowman then, with lusty shout. 
 Begins to turn the furrows out. 
 
 I hail the glad return of spring, 
 When mating birds begin to sing; 
 Of all the seasons of the year, 
 'Tis lovely spring I hold most dear. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 
 
 Not alone within the mansion 
 
 Where the lords of earth reside — 
 
 In the cit^'^'s broad expansion, 
 And the gilded halls of pride; 
 
 But within the rural cottage 
 Where no costly gems abound. 
 
Toiling for their daily pottatje, 
 
 Lovely hands are often found. 
 Beautiful hands are those that do 
 Deeds of love the whole day through. 
 
 Oft the hand by rings encumbered 
 
 Has no charnas for bleeding grief, 
 While the toil-worn hands are num]:>ered 
 
 With the hands that give relief. 
 Wealth and pride can add no beauty 
 
 To the grasping hand of greed, 
 But the hand that does its duty 
 
 Shall be counted fair indeed. 
 Beautiful hands are those that do 
 Deeds of love the whole day through. 
 
 THE WORLD'S DESIKE. 
 
 I'lie world is a- weary of listening long 
 To the hum of the same old tune; 
 
 It sighs for the strains of a new-born song, 
 And gropes for a greater boon. 
 
 The heart of the world leans in to those 
 Who are able to plan and dare, 
 
 And it seeks alway for the man wlio knows 
 How to lighten its weight of care. 
 
 90 
 
DIGGING THE CANAL. 
 
 Away down yonder in Panama 
 Uncle Sara's a-ditcliin' — 
 
 oigljest ditch you ever saw, 
 
 Set your nerves a-twitchin\ 
 
 Dig:, dig, late and soon, 
 
 Unto earth a very boon; 
 
 With the Isthmus cut in two. 
 
 Ships can go a-sailin' through. 
 
 Pick an' shovel he can wield, 
 He's a mighty digger, 
 
 An' the ditch across the field 
 Ever growin' bigger. 
 
 Dig, dig, soon and late, 
 
 We're a nation strong and great; 
 
 P>y our march of progress stormed, 
 
 Earth indeed shall be transformed. 
 
 Mountains high an' valleys low 
 We are not a-dreadin'; 
 
 When the seas together flow, 
 Then there'll be a weddin'. 
 
 Dig, dig, with a will, 
 
 Through swamp and plain and hill; 
 
 All the world of commerce shall 
 
 Bless the Panama Canal. 
 
 91 
 
THE SERVICE OF LITTLE THINGS. 
 
 If I cannot be a sea, 
 
 Surely I can be a spring; 
 Surely, with refreshing flow, 
 To some traveller old and slow, 
 Close beside me bending low, 
 
 I can some small comfort bring. 
 
 If I cannot be a sun, 
 
 Surely I can be a star; 
 Surely, with my little ray, 
 I can light some mortal's way, 
 And the nearer darkness slay. 
 
 If I cannot shine afar. 
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE RUBAIYAT. 
 
 Old Omar, frothing by his cup of wine, 
 Grew tired of riddles human and divine; 
 
 He cast them all as motes upon the wind. 
 And drank to Bacchus from the purple vine. 
 
 A seer that grappled v;ith the stars of night. 
 And read the language of their wheeling flight, 
 He yet grew weary of the soul's high quest. 
 And sought in maudlin revel his delight. 
 
 A Sufi wailing in a wounded tone 
 
 Of hidden things that never can be known; 
 
 92 
 
Then in a breath denouncing every faith 
 And scorning every purpose but bis own. 
 
 The Lethean cup made all his senses swim, 
 Till Memory died and Reason's light grew dim; 
 He held high revel through the present hour — 
 There was no past or future tense for him. 
 
 Mohammed grew a shadow of desire, 
 The Koran lost its power to inspire, 
 And Omar trusted only in the love 
 That bound him to his fount of flowing fire. 
 
 His genius soured in his drunken brain. 
 Which caused him thus severely to maintain 
 
 That man should revel for a night, and pass. 
 And nothing but an empty cup remain. 
 
 MEMOlilES. 
 
 Sweet Memory, take m^^ hand in thine, 
 And lead me gently through 
 
 The mystic ways of former days 
 That my young fancy knew. 
 
 Oh, let me steal away with thee 
 
 To days forever gone, 
 And let me feel again the zeal 
 
 Of childhood's golden dawn. 
 
 93 
 
The empty school-house lonely stands 
 
 Upon the wooded hill; 
 Its inmates gay have roamed away, 
 
 Tlieir noisy feet are still. 
 
 I pause upon the battered step 
 That marks the silent door, 
 
 And sadly here I drop a tear 
 For those I see no more. 
 
 I see within the dusky room 
 Their names upon the wall. 
 
 And from the floor they walk no more 
 The strange, wild echoes call. 
 
 And drifting down the dusky way 
 That seems so sad and long, 
 
 I hear again the glad refrain 
 Of childhood's early song. 
 
 O'er many a golden head I watch 
 The sunlight dart and gleam; 
 
 The shadows pass, and then, alas! 
 'Tis all a transient dream. 
 
 O sacred visions of delight, 
 
 I bless ye, one and all, 
 For sunny skies and beaming ey^s 
 
 That ye so oft recall. 
 
 94 
 
THE OLD TURKEY GOSBLER. 
 
 How clear to my heart is the day of Thanks- 
 giving, 
 When time rolls around and presents it to 
 view; 
 Jt makes a man feel that it's good to be living. 
 
 It cheers a man up if he sorter feels blue. 
 The wide-spreading oak, with its leaves crisp 
 and 3'ellow, 
 The barn, and the cattle all sheltered again; 
 The crow of the rooster — a jolly old fellow — 
 And e'en the old gobbler that lives in the pen; 
 The old turkey gobbler, 
 The red-headed gobbler, 
 The Thanksgivinggobbler that lives in the pen. 
 
 That old turkey gobbler I hail as a treasure, 
 
 For often at noon when I feed him his bread, 
 1 find it a source of exquisite pleasure 
 
 To think how I'll catch him and cut off his 
 head. 
 How ardent I'll seize him with hands that are 
 glowing, 
 And quick to the chop-block I'll carry him 
 then; 
 One severing stroke, and the blood will be 
 flowing — 
 
 95 
 
The blood of the gobbler that lives in the pen; 
 
 The old turkey gobbler, 
 
 The red-headed gobbler, 
 
 The Thanksgiving gobbler that lives in the pen. 
 
 How sweet from the hands of the cook to re- 
 ceive him. 
 
 As out of the dish he rolls into my plate! 
 Ah, verily, nothing could tempt me to leave him, 
 
 For he's the best turkey that ever I ate. 
 And when far removed to the days dim and 
 murky. 
 
 The tears of regret will be plentiful then; 
 When fancy reverts to the Thanksgiving turkey, 
 
 I'll sigh for the gobbler that lived in the pen; 
 
 The old turkey gobbler. 
 
 The red-headed gobbler. 
 
 The Thanksgiving gobbler that lived in the pen. 
 
 LIFE AND PEACE. 
 
 This is life — to gaily plod 
 
 Where deep the plowshare turns the sod, 
 
 And scatter seed; 
 And garner safe with thankful hand 
 The well-earned product of the land 
 
 For future need. 
 
 96 
 
This is peace — the toil that brings 
 Content, with all the simple things 
 
 That life requires — 
 Sufficient food, a home, a friend, 
 And, crowning all, the abundant end 
 
 Of small desires. 
 
 THE OLD SWEET STORY. 
 
 Last night as I conversed with thee 
 
 On themes of lovx and friendship true, 
 I thought: "How old a thing can be, 
 And yet be newT' 
 
 From Adam down the line of time, 
 
 In prophet's creed and poet's dream, 
 "True love" has been the one sublime, 
 Undying theme. 
 
 As if by magic nations grow. 
 
 And boast of temporary power; 
 And then perhaps they're lying low 
 Within an hour. 
 
 Great men and greater epochs rise 
 
 To flourish briefly and to fall; 
 But Love, that angel of the skies, 
 Survives them all. 
 
 In every age he's played his part, 
 97 
 
And yet his arrows fly as true 
 As when he aimed at Adam's heart 
 And pierced it through. 
 
 And in this present day of grace, 
 
 When man and maiden chance to meet, 
 Dan Cupid shows his roguisli face, 
 And things get sweet. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 1 built a palace long ago, 
 With towers passing fair: 
 
 I gave it to my love, and so 
 She dwells in beauty there. 
 
 Upon the North 1 built a wall — 
 A massive wall of stone; 
 
 'Tis moss-grown now, and over all 
 Full many suns have shone. 
 
 Go out, my Valentine, and long. 
 
 On tireless pinion soar; 
 Fly to my love and learn what song 
 
 She singeth evermore. 
 
 Go bear to me, like Noah's dove, 
 A message from her hand. 
 
 Writ in the dialect of love, 
 Which all men understand. 
 
 98 
 
A PENSIVE POETICAL PROPOSAL. 
 
 little maid, don't be afraid 
 Because I send you this eif usion; 
 
 1 don't intend it shall offend 
 By indirection of allusion. 
 
 I simply long to tell in song 
 
 The story of my burning passion — 
 
 My mad desire to soon acquire 
 A little wife and be in fashion. 
 
 Each day that comes my former chums 
 Are marching up to Hymen's altar; 
 
 They bear their yokes as married folks, 
 And here I stand and blush and falter. 
 
 Oh, why should I both live and die 
 A lonely bach with none to cheer mei 
 
 I long to woo and marry you, 
 And always have your presence near me, 
 
 I'm sure that we could quite agree 
 In all the problems of existence, 
 
 And better, too, than we can do 
 By keeping at so great a distance. 
 
 Therefore, sweet girl, my heart I hurl 
 In supplication down before you; 
 
 99 
 
Oh, grant, I pray, that some sweet day 
 My roof may form a shelter o'er you. 
 
 I'il wait for you to answer true, 
 
 And thus our course will be decided; 
 
 Our joys, you see, will doubled be. 
 While all our cares will be divided. 
 
 'Twill all be well if you will tell 
 
 My poor sad heart to cease from doubting; 
 And when I hear those words so dear, 
 
 I'll rise and go my way a-shouting. 
 
 THE MEN OF MECKLENBURG. 
 
 Ring out! ring on! ye bells of fame, 
 And publish far with loud acclaim 
 The names of those who dared to speak 
 When Hope was dim and Justice weak. 
 
 Through misty years we backward gaze 
 Upon our country's infant days, 
 Ere yet the angel. Freedom, spread 
 Her holy wings above its head. 
 
 The tyrant king, with heart of stone, 
 Was glad to hear the people groan; 
 He bound them in unrighteous laws 
 To thwart their just and holy cause. 
 
 100 
 
But, fearless of all earthly foes, 
 The sons of Mecklenburg arose, 
 With pen of fire and muscle bare, 
 Their independence to declare. 
 
 All honor crown each faithful brow. 
 And glory rest upon them now, 
 And hallowed be the grass that waves 
 Above their long-remembered graves. 
 
 Lift up thy head, thou granite peak, 
 And to the coming ages speak 
 Of deeds of daring nobly done. 
 And freedom for our nation won. 
 
 Ah, suffer not their names to die 
 Who raised for us the battle-cry — 
 Who raised the arm and dealt the blow 
 That put to flight the British foe. 
 
 Sleep on, ye braves, until the day 
 When called to brighter fields away. 
 Where heavenly roses smiling nod 
 Upon the holy hills of God. 
 
 101 
 
TRANSCENDENTALISM. 
 
 I^eyond the pales of speech I wandered far, 
 Under the Evening Star, 
 And held sweet converse with the spirit band 
 That guards the Sunset Land. 
 
 For where the human tongue is speechless, there, 
 Hard by the Mount of Prayer, 
 The Universal Soul, unfettered, springs 
 Straight to the heart of things. 
 
 Transcending every tie that men have known, 
 Mounting aloft, alone, 
 To the far heaven-land of spirit-thought 
 Where carnal things are naught. 
 
 And there, transfigured past all human ken, 
 Shaming the dreams of men, 
 The soul its true affinity may find 
 In the Eternal Mind. 
 
 For lo! the shapes that bind us to the earth 
 Are of so little worth, 
 Compelling us as prisoners to grope 
 Unto the gates of hope. 
 
 What need to fret behind the prison bars 
 When there are suns and stars, 
 
 102 
 
And Wisdom, standing in her palace gate, 
 l^eckoRs us while we wait? 
 
 There is a deptli of consciousness profound 
 That only God can sound; 
 There is a heiglit overtopping human speech, 
 That only God can reach. 
 
 And in this fuller presence of the truth 
 
 I find perpetual youth, 
 
 And there my dreams are ripened, and my soul 
 
 ^Mounts to its truer goal. 
 
 THE POLITICIAN'S CHOICE. 
 
 The local politician 
 
 Ain't runnin' any more; 
 He's simply gone a-fishin' — 
 
 A-loafin' 'long the shore. 
 
 He don't attend the speakin' 
 
 To hear the boys shout; 
 He's on the bank a-seekin' 
 
 To catch the frisky trout. 
 
 And when election's over 
 
 And all the countin' done, 
 The candidate's in clover — 
 
 Because he didn't run. 
 
 103 
 
ADMIEAL McGINTY. 
 
 Oh, Admiral McGinty in the bottom of the sea 
 Commands a great navy and proud is he; 
 No matter what wars are wa^^ed in vain 
 Upon the mighty bosom of the surging main, 
 The old man ''Mac" from his watery fort 
 Looks up and smiles at the deadly sport; 
 ''Whoever wins out, I win,-' says he. 
 Does Admiral McGinty in the bottom of the sea. 
 
 A big gun booms and a vessel will reel 
 With a horrible wound in its side of steel; 
 A few more cracks from the death-machines, 
 And the vessel goes a-kiting to the submarines. 
 When all th.e mighty wars of the world shall 
 
 end. 
 And the nations join hands, as friend with 
 
 friend, 
 I wonder what pastime there will be 
 For Admiral McGinty in the bottom of the sea. 
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 There is a law that governs all the earth, 
 
 And likev/ise governs everything that's in it; 
 
 That makes death follow on the heels of birth, 
 And changes our position every minute. 
 
 104 
 
The world is not the same for us to-night 
 That we beheld it when we woke this morning; 
 
 New scenes have come, and old ones taken flight, 
 And oft the change occurs with little warning. 
 
 Where once the forest lifted up its head 
 In proud defiance, now there lies a city; 
 
 The voice of all the old things, long since dead, 
 Cries from the ground in tearful tones of pity. 
 
 For change has left its footprints everywhere, 
 And business is most sadly out of socket; 
 
 And this is why 'tis all so hard to bear — 
 
 There's change in everything — except my 
 pocket. 
 
 GETTING DOWN TO BUSINESS. 
 
 I've bin a-comin' here, you know, fer quite a 
 
 lengthy while, 
 An' settin' up with you o' nights in reg'lar 
 
 courtin' style; 
 We've talked about the '*buddin' rose," an' 
 
 "childhood's happy days," 
 An' every heart-endearin' theme the poets like 
 
 to praise. 
 
 But now the time has fully come to let sich 
 matters be. 
 
 105 
 
An- talk in more conclusive terms concernin' 
 
 you an' me; 
 Fer naught shall cast a frown across the smilin' 
 
 face of life, 
 If you will heed my anxious call— if you will be 
 
 my wife. 
 
 A NIGHT IN JUNE. 
 
 The June-bug roosted under a leaf, 
 And the fire-fly wunked at the cricket; 
 
 The bull-frog sang from the lily-pond 
 To the owl in the ivy thicket. 
 
 The old mule switched his bushy tail, 
 Now free from the tiresome crupper; 
 
 The toad licked out his long red tongue 
 And caught him a fly for supper. 
 
 The whippoorwills met in the twilight air 
 And there held a conference, maybe; 
 
 The old cow stood by the pasture fence 
 And low^'d to her bovine baby. 
 
 The house-dog howled at the rising moon 
 
 By simply the force of habit; 
 The fox crawled through the old brush fence 
 
 And raised his hat to the rabbit. 
 
 1()6 
 
GRIEF AND GLADNESS. 
 
 Some lives are clad in mourning 
 And grieve themselves away, 
 
 If one brief night approaches 
 To mar their constant day. 
 
 While other lives are thankful 
 
 To see one gleam of light 
 Break through the dark horizon 
 
 Of their cold, cheerless night. 
 
 A SONG OF MYSELF. 
 
 I laugh to scorn the social plan 
 
 That calls me an inferior; 
 I recognize no mortal man 
 
 As being my superior. 
 
 I know that God, the Perfect Whole, 
 The Omnipresent Trinity, 
 
 Has planted in my human soul 
 Some measure of divinity. 
 
 And hence I challenge all the past, 
 And all unknown futurity. 
 
 One shadow of reproach to cast 
 Upon my manhood's purity. 
 
 107 
 
Your fawning minions may dissent 
 And taunt me with disloyalty; 
 
 But never shall my knee be bent 
 To worship blooded royalty. 
 
 I am a king, and here erect 
 
 I stand in high authority; 
 Though slaves and senates may object, 
 
 I am a large majority. 
 
 No bloated lord of high degree, 
 With motives dark and sinister, 
 
 Shall ever dare to summon me 
 Unto his will to minister. 
 
 For I am broader than the creeds, 
 
 And greater than society; 
 I make the bound of human needs 
 
 The measure of propriety. 
 
 I heed not custom's siren song, 
 Nor fashion's vaunted vanity; 
 
 I bring to bear on right and wrong 
 The laws of sober sanity. 
 
 The world and its conventions may 
 
 Denounce me as fanatical; 
 But I shall go my wonted way 
 
 In power calm, Sabbatical. 
 
 108 
 
OCT iei9Ud