-■'V'^^Vt 'V'' ^'-"':"-, lips- LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf ....@.^^J UNITED STATES. OF AMEEICA. W' BY THE AUTHOR OR THIS V0LUM:E. VIOLKT LBK, AND OTHER POEMS. 150 Pages. 12mo. F*rice, ^1.25, " These poems are the first published productions of one who evinces poetic talent of no ordinary degree. They show a deli- cacy of fancy, a tenderness of sentiment, a beauty of conception, and a sweetness of expression worthy of the masters of poetic 2.xvr— Normal Monthly (Pa.). *'I have read some of the poems with pleasure." — John G. Whit tier. "There are bright and sparkling verses among those of Mrs. Oberholtzer, and pleasant thoughts are scattered through the book." — Watchman and Reflector (Boston). " The poems have the merit of a natural delight in the objects and emotions that form the staple of poetic composition." — New York Evening Post. " A neat and interesting volume for the parlor library. The typographical part of the work is executed in Lippincott's best style." — New Orleans Times. " Mnny of the poems are delightful. The poet deserves a niche in the Westminster Abbey of America's living writers." — Evening Journal (Chicago). " It is simple, unpretending, and home-like. The moral and religious tone is unexceptionable." — Baltimore Gazette. " The volume contains some beautiful thoughts." — Herald and Free Press (Pa.). " It is a rare book, and should be found on every parlor table." — Smith's Bazaar (N. Y.). "The author has the divine gift of poesy." — Village Record (Pa.). " The book is well fitted to be the companion of a long and beautiful summer day in the country, when the mind is attuned to peace and beauty." — The Joiirnal (Philadelphia). J. B. LippiNCOTT Company, Publishers, PHILADELPHIA. BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. COME FOR ARBUTUS, AND OTHER WILD BLOOM. ISO Pages. 12nao. Price, $1.2S. " Mrs. Oberholtzer's poems are mostly from inspirational sources." — Atlantic Monthly. " The volume possesses much merit, and the subjects are treated in an able and attractive manner." — Baltimore Evening News. " The poems are full of tender sentiment exquisitely expressed." — American Bookseller. " A volume of musical verse." — Philadelphia Inquirer. "The poems are unpretentious, but are characterized by much grace of fancy, delicacy of sentiment, and felicity of expression." — Bostofi Saturday Evening Gazette. "A volume of merit." — New York Graphic. " They are pleasant, musical, and show poetic sensibility and taste." — Louisville Commercial. " Many of the poems have been set to music. The author is already known to fame." — Pittsburg Evening Telegraph. "They are well worth reading; reveal true poetic feeling." — New Haven yournal. " Touching and impressive because of their natural responsiveness to the ebb and flow of human passion." — Phrenological Journal (N. Y.). " They have the genuine ring, and deserve cordial praise." — Church Herald. J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, Philadelphia. A BURIAL ODE FOR BAYARD TAYLOR. " Your verses have touched me deeply, and the tribute paid at the grave was soothing to my unspeakable sorrow." — Marie Taylor. " Thy dirge for dear Bayard is very sweet and tender." — yohn G. Whit tier. "If the music of the Ode is as good as the words I am sure to be pleased with it." — Henry IV. Longfellow. " Your Ode sounded exceedingly well at poor Taylor's funeral, and I'm sure we are all greatly obliged to you for it." — Whitelaiv Reid. "The sweetly sad words were a beautiful and fitting requiem for the dead." — Philadelphia Press. " Pennsylvania's tribute to her dead poet was a rarely beautiful funeral ode." — Chicago Tribune. * Published in ^^ Come for Arbutus," also separately with tnusic BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. Hope's Heart Bells. % Qual^er Storxf. 282 Pages. 12mo. Price, $1.2S. " A fine picture of the people and their surroundings in Eastern Pennsylvania. As I read it I seem to see old Chester County and listen to the talk of its inhabitants." — yoAn G. Whittier. " The story is interesting and the characters well grouped. Mrs. Oberholtzer handles her material with a delicacy which renders her work worthy of high praise." — Baltimore News. " A really charming Quaker story, full of the author's pleasant character-painting and some very wholesome philosophy." — Courier (Cincinnati). " Mrs. Oberholtzer's novel has the same tender sentiments, purity, and earnest purpose that mark her poems." — Boston Globe. " I drank in Mrs. Oberholtzer's novel as the water of a pure, cool mountain spring, imbibed it eagerly as one of the very few true reflections of life amidst the best and purest social elements which constitute the foundation and strength of the American nation. All earnest inquirers of the reasons of the nation's growing prominence in the world I would heartily recommend not only to read this book but to study in it the graceful pictures of American home-life, which is the primitive and natural agent in producing the great men of which not only the United States, but the entire civilized world ought to be proud." — Mrs. B. MacGahan^ Special Correspondent of the ^^News,^'' St. Petersburg, Russia. " The narrative is animated, and the book characterized by a vivacity and force that make it eminently readable," — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. " The story is a pleasant one. Hope, the pure little Quakeress, a most interesting maiden." — Chicago Evening Journal, " One can almost see the bright faces of the boys and girls as one reads, almost enter into their gay and affectionate raillery as though present." — Monthly Review (Philadelphia). " Mrs. Oberholtzer has clustered together gems of thought in telling a most charming story of real life, which, while it com- mends itself to the young, at the same time endears itself to the middle-aged and old." — Local A^ezvs (Pa.). " ' Hope's Heart Bells' ring out a sweet, rather unusual, love story." — Boston Journal, " A romance of domestic life pleasingly told." — Evening Call (Philadelphia). " The tone of the book is high and refined, but not in any re- spect prosaic or preachy. Hope's sweet character illuminates the incidents, which are actual and vivid." — Phrenological Journal (New York). " The author has enviable fame. Her work has had high com- mendation from many of the severest critics. The present novel has a most natural and agreeable style." — Progress (Philadelphia). " This is a sweet story of a quiet life in a Quaker community." — St. Louis Republica7i. PUBLISHERS, DAISIES OF VERSE. MRS. S. L. OTERHOLTZER, AUTHOR OF "violet LEe/' " COME FOR ARBUTUS," " HOPE'S HEART BELLS," ETC., ETC. 33 PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1886. 75 2^4-s^ .04- J? ^ Copyright, 1886, by Mrs, S. L. Oberholizer. ,<0- -'i^-.:'f^'lNTERSl |l|. THESE DAISIES, GATHERED AT WILL ALONG LIFE'S HIGHWAYS AND BY-WAYS, I HAVE GLADLY GARLANDED IN LEISURE HOURS FOR MY BEST FRIENDS. ^SARA LOUISA OBERHOLTZER. CONTENTS. PAGE A New Year on the Coast . . . , . . -9 The Coal-Pickers 13 A Bi-centennial Poem . . . . . . . -19 The Rose of Thirteen 24 A March Sonnet 26 Beside our Soldiers' Graves ....... 27 The Distant Burial . . . ~ 28 Encouragement ......... 30 Beside the Sea 32 Exotics 3S The Girls' Echo 33 An Interview with the Spring Wind 34 A Cry for Sympathy 36 Only the Kiln, Stranger 37 My Creed 41 The Human Riddle 41 The Lunar Rainbow ........ 43 The Woodman's Midnight 45 The Fallen Waldren in May 48 Hyacinths in Winter 49 By an Humble Couch ........ 5° 5 6 CONTENTS. PAGE The Gala Days . .51 On the Beach 52 Rosalie 53 Indecision .......... 54 An Indian Summer Rose ....... 55 Valentines .......... 57 The Organ-Grinder ........ 58 Autumnal . • • • 59 Beside a Lonely Grave ....... 60 Bird Songs Translated ....... 63 Sour Grapes (A Late Spring) ...... 66 A Spring Idyl ......... 67 Silver Wedding Lines . . . . . . . -67 Never Now . . . . . . . . .69 The Autumn Parable 71 The Tulip-Wild 72 Human Nature ......... 80 April ........... 81 A Laborer's Reply ........ 82 The Centenarian '84 A Gathering Edge of Storm ....... 85 Fancy's Aftermath ........ 86 The Absent 88 The Flower of Kindness . . . . . . ' . 89 My Boys 90 Under the Lilac ......... 92 Death's Door 93 A Birthday Letter 94 A Refusal 95 Sixtv 96 CONTENTS. 7 * PAGE Awakened ......... 98 December ......... 99 "Who has Prayed for the Murderer? . ... . .100 Keep the Bulkheads Closed 10 1 Alice ........... 102 To the Roses on my Bridal Veil . . . . .104 A Winter Jingle . . . . . . . . 107 A Sea Bauble 108 Memoriams : Mother . In Memoriam . Another Mrs. Dr. John C. Lord A Tribute S. M. P. William H. Vanderbilt General W. S. Hancock III 112 "3 114 115 116 117 118 Hymns : Thy Will 119 Jesus Loves the Lambs . . . . . . .120 Many Mansions . . . . . . . .121 Worms of the Dust 122 Jesus Came . . . . . . . . .123 Charity 124 The Sabbath Milestone 125 A Burial Hymn . . . . . . . .126 The New Commandment 127 Closer, Father 128 8 CONTENTS. Decoration Hymns: PAGE Thanks foi- Decoration . . . . . . .129 By the Ashes of our Altars . .' . . . .130 We Remember Abram Lincoln . . . . -131 For Children : Thoughtful Blue Bonnet 133 The Pendulum 134 Clover Bloom . . . . . . . -135 The Climbing Duck 136 Churning 138 Polly Pipkins 139 A Word to Boys ........ 140 Visiting with a Kitten ....... 141 The Violet's Song 143 Push Along ......... 144 The Little Hucksters 145 King Pride ......... 147 The Sky Woman ........ 149 Sledding . . . . . . . . .150 Stop and Think 151 A NEW YEAR ON THE COAST. I STOOD beside the beautiful sea While the New Year rose with May-day glee. The air was soft as the breath of flowers, And the breakers sang of summer hours. The sea-gulls hovered or dipped at ease, Charmed by the waves' low symphonies ; The white sails lifted ; the eastern sky Drew back its blushes ; the sun rose high, And the New Year, fairly awake and grand, Looked proudly over the sea and land. "Where is the winter," he asked and smiled, " That ever waits to be reconciled? " Where is the snow the Old Year said I should find asleep on my lily bed ? The icicle-beard on the cedar trees The storm would twist till they sought their knees ? '' The winter wind I was warned to check? The sea-lashed vessels preserve from wreck ? And the frozen balls of crested spray With which I should pelt the holiday ? lO A NEW YEAR ON THE COAST. *'The world moves evenly, calm, and true. There's little or nothing for me to do. The ocean is peaceful and quite in place, The land looks up with a winsome face, *' And I wonder, indeed, Last Year should be So ready to abdicate for me ; That he talked of sorrow, of death, and cold. I'll weave for the earth a veil of gold." So the New Year threw out his warp so bright In the loom of morning. The woof was light And the sparkling gauze was woven at will, ShotHhrough with promise of daffodil. The ocean and land were veiled with gold, And the world was beautiful to behold. The New-Year sun in a mid-day sky Basked at ease in his throne on high. Then clouds crept under the glittering veil. A gust of wind and a dash of hail Broke the meshes ; and discords dire Rang from the strings of the storm-elf s lyre. The North Wind swept o'er the ocean blue And challenged the East, till tears he drew. Together they mocked the sparkling veil : *' A coat of beauty, but not of mail ! ** We'll sing for the year a different tune, — For January is never June. We'll rock the sails of the pleasure-ships, And freeze the words on the sailors' lips. A NEW YEAR ON THE COAST. n *' We'll tangle the waves in rocks and sand, And whiten the cheeks of the smiling land. We'll trip the sea-gulls upon the wing, And thwart all visions of blossoming." The New Year sat on his throne of gold Close to the sun ; over sea and wold The darkness hung like a funeral pall. *' Old Year," he said, with a vigorous call, " Loan me your glasses ! I cannot see Into the world you have given me. I covered it soft with a golden veil ; Now it is black as a Hades jail. '* You have left, I fear, your rats and mice To gnaw the threads of my best device." The Old Year, never a word spoke he. Safe in the boundless eternity. But Time made answer, and slowly said, "Young man, you must learn to earn your bread. There are rats and mice that wait for you, And storms to riddle all gold veils through." "Of course, I looked for the storms you know, But I didn't expect them to come just so," The New Year answered with ready ease, " I thought they'd swing in the cedar trees. " And, close in the threads of my shining gold, I had woven a charm for days untold ; Rainbow prayers for a judgment good To treat the earth as a New Year should." 5 A NEW YEAR ON THE COAST. " Well planned !" old Time replied, with a cheer ; ''You'll be, I think, an acceptable year. Just make the best of each single day, Remembering none of them come to stay ; •'And don't complain when the ills you find That vanished years have left behind. Weave golden veils to your heart's content, Renewing the fabric whenever rent. " Come down from your seat beside the sun ! On the moving earth must your course be run. Do better work than the dear years past, That your name and honor increase and last." Then the New Year sprang from his glittering throne. The sun departed, — he stood alone. "In light and darkness I am," said he, " The year that is, and that is to be." The cold rain fell on the ocean's breast. The night-winds whistled nor sought their rest. I stood by the lashing, foaming sea, With the thoughtful New Year close to me. THE COAL-PICKERS. They hunger on the railroad track Where lines of coal-cars glisten, And for the fall of treasure black Industriously listen. They glean and gather, grab and keep The scraps of anthracite, That slip the collier's shovel deep, From early dawn till night. Old men and women, boys and girls, With bucket, bag, and basket. Quite force enough to house a car Should any dealer ask it ; A motley group of scavengers, Tired, flurried, or defensive, — We watch to find a wand that stirs Sweet mid the sounds offensive. We hear the jargon words and strife Of some unruly creatures Who want the whole (or peace in life), And see the woe-pinched features 2* 14 THE COAL-PICKERS. That struggle paints and labor pales; The forms that nature slighted ; The faces, old before their time, That youth has not delighted. Dame Poverty's Red Riding-Hood Among the motley number Comes, scarlet cap and tattered gown, Two buckets to encumber. One is so wide the child might sleep Within it, if permitted ; Instead, her hand, so wee and soiled, Around the bail is fitted ; While on the other five-year arm A battered pail is swinging. She seems but a red -blossomed vine Frost-nipped, between them clinging. And yet her coming brings a hush Amid the imprecations. '* How's yer dad?" an old man grunts. " Yer goin' to warm the nations !" A lame boy calls in grudging voice And tone he means for joking, " Ne'er mind, ye tend yer own affairs, Er I'll give yer a choking !" A withered bunch of wires replies Whose mouth and eyes are human, "Yer mither tends yer fires at home," Added a stalwart woman. THE COAL-PICKERS. " You pick on, that's a lass ! now come !" The collier says, while throwing A shovelful of coal quite near Where Red Hood's dress is blowing. She sits upon a shining rail, The buckets rolled beside her ; Her wee soiled hands are on her face, She thinks of love denied her : Her mother whom the word recalled, A silent broken lily ; Her father sick, ill clad, forlorn. Beside the presence chilly ; The sorrow and the death at home, — The coldness of the weather, — She sobs, amid a rain of tears, *' I wish we'd die together !" The scavengers look up abashed, Half helpless at each other. *'I'm 'fraid the little gal 'ill freeze," The lame boy tells his brother. As awkwardly, with ill-clad foot. He sends his basket reeling. Scattering its contents near the girl. A generous heart revealing. " Cheer up. Red Hood !" a woman calls, "Yer fire 'ill burn the brightest. And when ye fill yer buckets up Ye'll find them not the lightest." 1 6 THE COAL-PICKERS. But, little Red Hood lower droops, Till on the track she's lying. Her little hands upon her face, ''Well, Where's the use o' crying?" An old man growls, and moves away To catch the bits that glisten. " 'Twon't feed our fires er warm her dad Fur us to stand an' listen." '' Here's for the lass !" the collier adds. ''Stand up the buckets, fellows !" And in he throws as shining coals As any winter mellows. "That's for a nest-egg." He resumes His labor hard and steady, Turning neither right nor left, For time is lost already. A little later, as he goes To dump his cart o'ertopping, Red Riding-Hood still hugs her face, And yet her sobs are stopping. Her buckets full beside her sit. "A nuisance !" growls a gleaner ; " But if I hadn't helped a bit I b'lieve I'd a felt meaner." " An' next we've got to git her hum," Vouchsafes a wizzen creature, " Er she'll be kilt wi' cumin keers And need a grave an' preacher." THE COAL-PICKERS. 1 7 Nobody answers. '' Can't ye move? Stir up, stir up here, lassie ! We've filled yer buckets, an' I think Yer sartain won't be sassy." '^ You're all so kind," says Red Hood low ; I doubt if many hear it. '' What's that she mutters, Jim ? Speak out ! Or good or bad don't fear it." '' She says you're all so kind." '' Hump ! hump !" The old man grunts, " no dosing ! We filled the buckets, now git home !" The generous hour is closing. " So kind." The child arises, bows, The tears still downward stealing To meet the smile upon her lips. Her sorrow half concealing. ''God filled 'em up," in faith she lisps. 'Tis onlj Jim who listens; The motley crowd who showed their heart Have turned where new coal glistens. '' I s'pose He'll carry 'em," mutters Jim, '' But guess He'll need a porter ! I'd better stop an' help the gal. Although I hadn't oughter." The little hands half washed by grief, Palms white with dappled backing. Reach out to catch the battered bails. ''They're heavy. Red Hood, whacking !" ,8 THE COAL-PICKERS. Vouchsafes lame Jim, who sees her strength Is as a breath beside them. "You'd better let me lug 'em in ; You go behind an' guide 'em." And so she guides them, while the street With limping pace he hobbles. " Now, Red Hood, can't you stay away From where the pickers gobbles?" He asks, half wondering, as we do When screening blossoms fairest, How we forbear to close at times Windows with scenery rarest. "You might git hurt," the boy explains ; "An' all the rough an' tumble Ain't meant fur gals as is like you, So little, good, an' humble." "You are so kind, an' you help God," The child replies demurely. "I jes help you," the boy returns. " But we must be there surely." He sets the buckets in by death, Anear the sick man weary. And hears, while shuffling quickly out, "I thought the time long, dearie." " But see the coal !" the child replies, Her parent's cheek caressing. " The Lord is good," the parent sighs ; " He'll give that boy His blessing." A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. Perhaps the blessing o'ertook Jim ; Some rainbow lights are shining, About his soul and through his clothes Their seven-fold colors twining. 19 A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. READ AT THE BI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF WILLIAM PENN'S LANDING IN CHESTER, PENNSYLVANIA, OCTOBER 22, 1882. The broad and placid Delaware glides on its outward way, To meet the vessels that anon come sailing up the Bay. Two hundred years ago, the same, its silvery ripples met The good ship Welcome and the Friends whose foot- steps halo yet Their landing place. The Autumn wood, though nearer then and dense. Waved with its banners, bright as now, salute of defer- ence. Calm Nature's pulse beats ever on to the same measure true; 'Tis only we who come and go, meet, love, and bid adieu. Favored are we, whose ancestors paused here with William Penn, To see the soft October light fall on the place, as when They from the vessel reached the shore and thanked the living Lord That He unto the friends of peace such haven did accord. 20 A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. I see them now, through fancy's mist, upon the river's breast Lower their sails, and near the land with relief manifest. The mute thanksgiving of their souls I seem almost to feel, As land is reached and on the sward they press posses- sion's seal. It was then Chester, christened fair, assumed her Eng- lish name, At Penn's desire, when Pearson said he from that city came. And peace, transplanted, grew apace, philanthropy bloomed free. Unfolding and expanding fast within the Colony. The Friends in Pennsylvania had right of thought and speech ; No prison bars their spirits tried, but conscience wrought for each. They founded homes with altars wide, wherein the in- ward light Burned as love's incense, and illumed privation's darkest night. They founded temples plain of prayer, where words were sometimes given To lead the pilgrims, meeting there, closer to Christ and Heaven ; They blessed the State, which blessed again the stranger in its turn, They pushed the forest from the shore and bade the corn sojourn. Early, 'neath Shackamaxon's elm of shadows soft and brown, Good William Penn the fragrant piece of olive branch laid down. A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. 21 The Indian chiefs inhaled its breath, and each, with smiling face, Acknowledged friendship's covenant for the Algonquin race. The treaty, perfect in its bonds and wise in every clause, Was more effectually kept than any modern laws. The Algonquins loved William Penn and all his colony, Their better natures he unlocked with his great kind- ness key. For love is best and peace is safe whate'er we wish to gain. And balm is better cure for ill forevermore than pain. His ''Golden Rule" they understood through intel- lectual night. And kept the friendly promises close as a sacred right. Penn planned the city of his love, a "country towne and greene," Where the glad Schuylkill waters with the Delaware's convene. He left the garden-plots, the squares, which rest our eyes to-day As we walk down the pavements red of Philadelphia. Dear city, she with pageantry and pardonable pride Now celebrates her Patron's care through a vast human tide. The plain, the wise, the Christian man would scarcely know his own If he could see his fair " greene" towns their limits long outgrown. 3 22 A B I' CENTENNIAL POEM. His broad Sylvania's forests wide hemmed in by well- tilled fields To playtime patches, which no game from the late sportsman shields ; His land abloom with villages; his rivers glad and rills Low-voiced, their merriment gone out to quench the thirst of mills ; His people sown, as by the wind, about the broad domain, Not always marked by cut of coat, yet of religion plain ; His mountains broken in their height, tunnelled for ore or trade ; And far beneath the surface line the thud of miner's spade. The coal, the iron, the oil, and more, earth's jewels hidden then, Are burnished now and beautiful with light and warmth to men. Could the great founder of our State, whose memory we revere, Have foreseen these developments the day he landed here, His thanks to kindly Providence that, sailing perils o'er. He and his fellow-pilgrims were safely upon the shore, Had been e'en greater than they were, albeit, they were great, For in the Union arch I ween there is no richer State. A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. 23 And we, whose fathers came with Penn, take voice for them to-day, Feeling their thoughts within us live though they have passed away \ That thanks we give and prayers we breathe are sup- plement to theirs. Although two hundred years have slept safe in their silent lairs. The years must sleep as Winters come, and so it seems with men. We lose them in the snows of time to meet in Heaven again. Our gratitude for blessings great we thread on passing air, Dear Lord of hosts ! dear Lord of love ! our thanks are everywhere. We feel Thy watchfulness and care, Thy mercy when we err, Thy omnipresence, the rewards Thou dost administer. Our ancestors were safe with Thee, upon the ocean wide. Before the steamships ploughed the main or wrestled with the tide. Our love for Thee, our pride in them, we blend to- gether here. And thank Thee we are spared to see this Bi-Centen- nial year. O may our State grow worthier still of vast and full increase, 'Till, all wrong thrown aside, she wears the rose of righteous peace ! THE ROSE OF THIRTEEN. The fair and beautiful angel Of Life, one autumn day, Gave us a blossom immortal, Set in the frailest clay. We cherished and watched it fondly, Through clouded months and clear, Our prayers the cords that held it. Two angels waited near. We felt the thrill of their presence, The angels of Life and Death, And feared the flower God loaned us Would vanish at a breath. But its opening leaves grew stronger, The autumns glad became. Till our blossom tall, expanding, Can full existence claim. The ''Red Riding-Hood" October Has vanished oft away, This one, our first-born darling, here Drops thy thirteenth birthday. 24 THE ROSE OF THIRTEEN, 25 We give thee no gold nor honor, Chant thee no empty praise, We only bid thee remember The sweet and early ways. We cull thee a rose from the garden, Perfect in form and strong. Portraiture of unfoldings fair That to the earth belong. There's thought in the opening rosebud : Wait 'till it opens, dear. And speaks with its gold-lipped petals Unto thy inner ear. Wait till it tells thee, around it Were thorns and dust and leaves, That only by innate patience And power it bloom achieves. The world is of broken shadow ; The edges of storm and sun Will often wound and caress thee Before thy height is won. O let that height be purity ! Thy footsteps good to man, And in the end may some one be Glad that thy life began. 'Tis not how much we hold, dear son, That counts as loss or gain. But what we give sheds light abroad To fall on us again. 3* 26 A MARCH SONNET. There's nothing really valuable But love, and good we do. Man comes but as a rose to bloom And fade from earthly view. The Lord smiles on the opening rose Christ lays His hand on thee : We kiss it down, and humbly pray From blight it keep thee free. loth mo. 5th, 1881. A MARCH SONNET. No cry shall pass unheeded, Howe'er small. Some ear, when it is needed. Hears us all. • The Winter snow, embracing Winter air. Is but the ermine facing Of life's prayer. Though we forget the roses Of last year. Time, ripe with warmth, discloses Colors clear. BESIDE OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 27 Nature throws back her wrapping Of white fur With March ; and hears the tapping, Close to her, Of unseen lives awaking. Slumber done. The light of bloom is breaking To the sun. No cry shall pass unheeded, Howe'er small. Some ear, when it is needed, Hears us all. BESIDE OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. Our marshalled hosts have gone To dreamless slumber. And we sing, '* Braves, sleep on ! Your graves we number And with fair bloom encumber." The rites of peace are ours ; 'Twas you who crowned us. We give your memories flowers That blush around us ; A country's thanks for freedom's hours. 28 THE DISTANT BURIAL. We know not what is best ; Watching and waiting, Here on the earth's warm breast, We are relating The olden lullaby of rest. 'Tis thus we understand God's best bestowing. And recognize His hand The blossoms sowing Upon the stirred and pulsing land. It is not we who sing Of rest's perfection ; But echo answering With Heaven's inflection. Is God's own voice resounding. We are the instruments Of song and labor. In God's accomplishments ; The reed and sabre, Wherewith He rounds fulfilments. Decoration Day, 1885. THE DISTANT BURIAL. The kindly face, so dear to me, I see in death's embrace, And note the plate-laid casket frame. The white-lined satin space, THE DISTANT BURIAL. 29 Wherein we shelter mortals For the galleries of earth ; And watch it lowered to the niche That waited since her birth, To hold the silent statue, Which He who fashioned knew Would need a place with kindred, When spirit flesh outgrew. I see, though lengthening miles away, The tears of mourners fall. And feel 'twould be a comfort slight If mine were on the pall. The dear old aunt ! my mother's aunt, So tender, warm, and true. Whose words of love fell on me oft, As sweet, refreshing dew. Who lived a life of love and home. Of blessed self-content. To whom the household stars were more Than outside firmament. Who held through fully-ripened years A true religious sense Of conscious duty, wrought with most Unconscious excellence. Hers was a peaceful morn, and yet A not unclouded day. For the Lord's flower-gatherer took Some of her blooms away. 30 ENCO URA GEMENT. All through the evening hours of calm She held their memories sweet. Dear aunt, she stoops to kiss them now, Close to the Saviour's feet. These loans God makes of placid lives, Whose lights are perfect love, Illuminate our darker ways With brightness from above. They give us satisfying proof That peace, the breath of Heaven, Is wafted down in human souls, And love is earth's best leaven. ENCOURAGEMENT. Whatever tends to crush out wrong And decrease sin and sinning, God and His angels smile upon As in the world's beginning. 'Tis we who fail, and not God's plans For full regeneration. 'Tis idle hearts and idle hands That vilify the nation. We all know better than we do. We think to act to-morrow, 'Till lo I the sunny days are past, And night is dark with sorrow. ENCO URA CEMENT. 'Tis our to-days the cause requires. The wheel of fate is turning ; And we, to guide its motion right, Must be alert, discerning. It is not luck, but human skill. Which bends it back or forward. A steady hand and heart and will Incline the leverage starward. Good nature is the common oil Required in every movement ; It lightens motion, stirs the cogs. And hastens all improvement. Never moan idly by a wheel Considered dead to action, But oil and push, and oil again. At last, with satisfaction, You'll hear it moan and swag and turn With natural locomotion. The world will say, " It ran itself;" Perhaps deny you potion Of rightful praise ; but wherefore care If you but keep it jogging? There's He who marks the hearts and hands That hinder wheels from clogging. And if the cause of right achieve A notch by your endeavor, While other hands are trained to push, Your efforts live forever. 31 32 BESIDE THE SEA. Fame is a flower that withers oft, And gold's chained to her mother. No wings uplift a rising soul As kindness done another. BESIDE THE SEA. We stood by the sea, my love and I, When the waves beat high and strong. We stood by the sea, my love and I, When the beach looked wide and long. Our hearts beat high if the tide was in. And high if the tide was out ; We were together and knew God's hand Encompassed the sea about. We stood together, my love and I, When the dunes upon the shore Were hushed to rest by a whispering breeze We thought would shout no more. Then we saw them waked by an angry wind. And scattered so far and wide ; The countless sands and the nameless sands At the beck of a fitful tide. Together, together, my love and I, Stood firm, and we stand to-day ; The tides may waver, the dunes may shift. My love is my love for aye. EXOTICS. The fair and rare exotics Beneath the hot-house pane Feel not the wind's caressing, Or sweetness of the rain ; Know not the dews delightful Of violets in the lane. Smooth-breasted as flamingoes, And warm with southern dyes, Azalias, rhododendrons, Camellias lift their eyes. My own half pitying meet them. And thought to wild bloom flies. THE GIRLS' ECHO OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES'S " LOVING-CUF SONG." How sweet the summer long ago That kissed you with its blossom snow And gave you perfect bloom, dear boys ! 4 33 34 AN INTERVIEW WITH THE SPRING WIND. How fresh each rose and pink appears, Immortal with the dew of years, Emitting love's perfume, dear boys ! Emitting love's perfume. We girls, whom slumber held too long For blossom shower or blue-bird song, Enjoy them both through you, dear boys. The lilac crowns of our delight We reach, on tiptoe, to the white That marks you tried and true, dear boys. That marks you tried and true. The rusty scythe of Time we'll sheathe, While you with pink and rose-bud breathe. And quaff the loving cup, dear boys. Glad, if our precious Lord agrees, To go instead, when He may please To call you softly up, dear boys, To call you softly up. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE SPRING WIND. Combing out the gold-brown tresses Of the mosses I met the Air, that each year blesses Some hope renewed, and kindly presses Down the crosses. AN INTER VIE W WITH THE SPRING WIND. And of the Air I questioned, smiling At our meeting, ^' What are you, gentle Wind, beguiling, With voice and bloom so reconciling And entreating?" With her long comb the Wind proceeded To card the mosses ; Sort out the tangles, that impeded. With liberal hand, I as unheeded As the losses. " You waste the good and bad together," I persisted ; *' Rake bud and bramble from the heather ; The brush of Summer best knows whether Strands are twisted." The Wind her face, in ire and wonder, Now uplifted ; She snapped her pretty comb asunder And screamed, ''Alack, how men will blunder ! You're not gifted !" 35 A CRY FOR SYMPATHY. The world is a beautiful place indeed When one of heart sympathy has no need, Then the smiles and frowns which pass us by Are as stars or clouds in a far-off sky. But when sorrow falls with its weight to crush A sensitive soul, there comes a hush, And our quickened senses more closely note The visions and sounds which seem less remoje : The discords jar, and the rough blasts chill ; The wheels grow heavy of destiny's mill, While the grist in the hopper, sinking slow To the jaws of the ponderous stones below, Loses the gloss of the golden grain. And is ground to flour with a moan of pain. The streamlet, that used to dance and play Through the meadow-land, has lain joy away As a bridal veil, and weak with tears. Can scarcely turn in her bed of years. The hours of the morning, the noon and night, Are not illumed by the olden light; For no one pauses to see that we Are down in the harness, or set us free. Our hearts grow weary of vain essays To time their throbs to the passer's gaze ; Our quivering lips can scarce beguile To their storm-beat petals the olden smile. 36 ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. 37 Perchance through the daylight we bravely keep Back sorrow's torrent, but when we sleep The flood-gates open, the soul outcries, And the clamorous waters unseal our eyes. We seem to be drowned, but strand at last On a rift of daybreak, and anchored fast By labor and will, for another round Of mid-day struggle are equal found. Ah, ye who have never known sorrow's sting, Or felt the ache of a broken wing ; Who have never kept a torrent of tears Prisoned till night ! God bless you, dears ! God bless you, and keep you forever free From a sensitive nature's misery ! Teach you to scatter your peace as flowers Of loving-kindness through darksome hours. The roses of life are sweet, so sweet ! We catch their breath, though at sorrow's feet. Our quickened senses untaught can tell With whom they opened, from whom they fell. ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. There's a stranger's foot on the threshold, And a stranger's voice on the air; A stranger's smile at the window, And a stranger's child on the stair. 4* 38 ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. Our lease on the sylvan shade over, The house where light came to me first Tangles the rainbows for strangers And beckons their blossoms to burst. The vines that trail over the arbors Laugh out with the spring, unaware Of Time's hypocritical changes, And that they will miss the long care. I know it is old ! well it might be, Having stood sixty years in the name. And spread from one broad-rooted house-tree To grouping the mosses now claim. But a stranger, reckless of mosses And reckless of memories sweet, Bares the roots of the trees for redressing. And renders the group incomplete. Changing the aspect and colors, Transforming the uses of each ; — 'Tis a blessing at once and a sorrow Inanimate nature lacks speech. Else would the ware rooms converted To kennels for horses and kine, Groan out with a longing aesthetic. For pottery, line upon line. Which faced and crowded their stories, With blossoms of amber and wine ; And the shop with its merry wheels broken. Chant dirges of culture's decline. ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. 39 The clay mills are ghosts of the brightness, The kiln, of round masonry firm, Stands stolid and grim in the silence, As serving a banishment term. It was there we roasted the chestnuts-, And ears of the brown silken corn ; And there our dear father fed fire-light At intervals, eve, noon, and morn. There can be naught nearer and dearer To me, in the home we outgrew. Than the old kiln, hugging its silence, That then whistled flame from each flue. It was there I crept to my father Before I had found strength of limb ; And there of his nine, though the eldest, I still seemed the baby to him. The wings of the kiln have been crippled. For useful is lumber to men ; But leave the sound masonry, stranger. So filled with the memories of then ! The apple- and cherry-trees lower ; Reset the stray fences and vines. Time's hand has lain heavily on them ; — The past to the future resigns. Curtail the old number of buildings. For we death and distance have kissed Until of the flock I but linger To care what is taken or missed. 40 ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. I ask but this monument, stranger, This round tower gray of our trade, That sits as of old by the roadside In the arms of the tall hickory shade. The dwellings may crumble or brighten As best pleases you and grim Time, But spare the old kiln, I beseech you. Where we and the smoke used to climb ! The setting, the smoking, the burning. The cooling, when up through the air, The rays sprang, seeking their level, As swift as the breath of a prayer, I see, and the mid-years forgotten, The door of the kiln is unsealed, The slugs and the tiles of protection Removed, and the new ware revealed. Ah ! then, it is carried and carried. As colors and blossoms of wine. And placed on the long shelves for market, - Did ever such earthenware shine ? The days of my people are over. And I am their remnant of clay ; So leave the round monument, stranger. Until I have passed on God's way. MY CREED. Although I mourn that sin walks free, That beauty is misshapen, While some gnarled limbs mark every tree, And right's for wrong mistaken, I cannot feel the plan is God's, That He, from the beginning, Intended us to merit rods And take delight in sinning; I only understand His love. His mercy overgrowing Our broken efforts ; see Him, dove And olive branch bestowing. THE HUMAN RIDDLE. No man can fully know his brother, Or well interpret for another. And why? Because I've late discerned Scarce any man himself has learned. 41 42 THE HUMAN RIDDLE. We know our childhood when 'tis done, The way to victories we have won ; The little threads of circumstance, That gave us hindrance or advance ; Our fond ambitions of a day, The potter's unformed vase of clay; Our broken moulds, whose depths within We kept for thoughts exempt from sin. We know our failures ; possibly A few of us least blind may see Our faults. We cannot comprehend Our capabilities, or bend Our best emotions to a plane Unchangeable. The sun and rain, The wear of sorrow and delight. Affect us each at different height ; And as our souls increase in strength, Endurance reaches greater length. Man fails to fathom his own mind. Which is a riddle undefined. And can but vainly hope to read The impulse of another's deed. THE LUNAR RAINBOW. 43 Self-Study in the motive line, Is better than outside design, For he who so knows his own as pure. Will find his fellow's less obscure. THE LUNAR RAINBOW. On the sea the mist lay lightly, Veiling fair and things unsightly From our view. As a mid-air dew, the vapors Drape about our evening tapers Clouds of blue. We are short of sight ; enveloped In a film the night developed, Beauty blind. And the sky has gathered round us With her ashen cords, and bound us From our kind. We can hear the sea-waves breaking ; Feel the beads of mist shape taking In our hair ; 44 THE LUNAR RAINBOW, Catch the dune deeps on our sandals ; Chase the crab-faced border vandals Unaware. Turn we from the night a minute, And the darkness that is in it, Unto friends. There the gas-jets flame and glisten, Laughingly we talk and listen ; — Time distends, And our minute, like a lover's, Soon a half-hour sweetly covers, Then we rise. Lo ! the mists of night are lifted, And the moon with fulness gifted Rides the skies. She, the queen of transformation. Bends the bow of reformation In the west ; And from out her haloed quiver Takes the arrow, which the Giver Marks as best. Silver, and with promise pointed. Sends it, flashing light anointed. Through the air. At the lunar rainbow's motion Beauty wakes upon the ocean. Saintly fair. THE WOODMAN'S MIDNIGHT. The night is white, and the night is cold. Gray silence her midnight bell has tolled. The wind, an oft unwelcome guest, Has locked her passions in her breast, And rests at ease beneath the trees. No buttercups in the earth or sky. Only the white mists low or high. No lark, devoid of compass, crosses My lighted pane ; mistaking mosses Of shroud-like snow for wild flowers' blow. God's bloom and His birds are all asleep. Naught but a dream to-night may creep Under or over the snow so white ; The snow so deep, and the snow so light, The snow so still guarding the hill. Within and without the stillness reigns. Vainly I bear on the icy chains j And stir the logs in the chimney small. Till the shadows dance upon the wall. Each spike of flame traces her name. 5 45 46 THE WOODMAN'S MIDNIGHT. The room seems empty : a vague unrest Pervades the silence and fills my breast. The room seems narrow : the white and gray Drift in the corners, nor melt away At touch of life. My wife ! my wife ! I lift the latch of the door so low ; Into our other apartment go, To see my darlings in sweet repose. Three little sleepers, how sweet God knows. Dream together the winter weather. Matilda, Howard, and bonny Bess Cuddled together in sleep's caress. Tangled tresses of chestnut hues Shade the pillow in wealth profuse. And wee hands toss the golden floss ; For our baby Bess is half awake. Some troublous dream her slumbers break. She sobs and turns, and a moment more Is sleeping as soundly as before. Rest peacefully, my babies three ! Your mother's hand, like a fallen rose Of slender petals, lies on the clothes Of the pallid bed, on the other side Of the chamber, neither high nor wide ; Within the reach of her buds each. The lily of death on wings of snow Was borne to us with the morning's glow. THE WOODMAN'S MIDNIGHT. She, with it softly against her cheek, Smiles serenely but will not speak To waiting cares, though shrined in prayers. The feet so willing, the lips so free, Lost, with the lily, sweet motion's key. The heart, that thrilled at our faintest word, Is now by our mournful wail unstirred, And cannot wake, though ours may break. I reach and listen ; no sound is near, Save the breath-beats of our children dear; That seemed to us, together, the best Of human music for human rest. But which alone falls as a moan, The pitying crying, the hopeless need Of unfledged birds, whom none may lead, With mother wisdom, to try their wings, And soar, at last, when gladness clings As beads of dew to fringed clouds blue. Matilda, Howard, and bonny Bess, Cuddled together in sleep's caress, The dear Lord bless you, and comfort me! The way is trackless, I cannot see Where weary feet a path may meet. Yet He who watches the sparrow's fall. And lifts with Spring earth's funeral pall, Mayhap will a footway break for me Wherein to guide my motherless three, And some light find who now am blind. 47 THE FALLEN WALDREN IN MAY. Rich and ripe keepsake of Autumn, Blushing yet haloed with gold ! Souvenir most perfect of fruitage, Remnant of barrels we've sold ! Fragrant and round as October, Past the long Winter you've bowled Safe into May, and the blossoms Meet you when snowing the wold. Satin your cheek and unwrinkled, Perfect your stem deep and straight. Queen of the orchard, reviewing The realm of your smiling estate ! Eve-like, I smooth your bright garment. Kiss you, and then hesitate ; — Longing, yet fearing, to claim you Lest my Eden too have a gate. 48 HYACINTHS IN WINTER. Ye perfumed miracles of Spring ! Why breathe this month of snow? My thoughts outreaching to you cling About the window low, Where I have prisoned you, dear flowers, And you have wondering seen The narrow light of winter hours Upon your swords of green. Fringed bells of odor ! perfect shades Of summer hues you hold ; And ring your fragrant serenades Through February cold. Together housed, through wind and storm. Hyacinths, you and I May safely trust ; our hearts are warm, Our sun is in the sky. 49 BY AN HUMBLE COUCH. I TAKE between my softer palms The dear hands hard with toil ; I smooth the ridged worn finger-nails, And brush some specks of soil From the old-fashioned coverlet That shields the slender form Of the tired laborer, whose heart Cannot yet long be warm. Within her narrow bosom throbs A loving, generous soul, Ever alert to kindly thought And purity's control. Unknown to learning. What are books ? I ask with tear-blind eyes, Kissing the friend I fain would keep Still longer from the skies. They are but shadows, and, though set In loveliest rainbow hues, Are powerless as defence in storm. Or veil against death's dews. 50 THE GALA DAYS. 51 Learned or unlearned, shod, silken hose, Or with our torn feet bare, In earth's wine-press of suffering Alike we tread our share. No breadth of understanding wide, No narrow gauge of feet. Exempts us from our turn to press Life's dregs, when life's complete. The wild rose blooms as does the tea, As sweet its odorous breath. The pink leaves and the creamy fall Alike at touch of death. And I half question, lingering here Beside this couch of pain. Whether contentment hath not worth Beyond ambition's gain. THE GALA DAYS. SEPARATING CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR. The Violet held her breath long ago That the full Rose of Summer smile and blow. The Sweet Rose, chastened by the Golden-Rod, Wept all her petals on the Autumn sod. g2 ON THE BEACH. Then Winter's-Herald pushed with heavy hand Aside the Rod, assuming all command ; Bleaching the year's bright colors out with snow, A purification for the soft glow That marks the dawn of Christmas, Christmas fair. The Pine and Holly wreathe with eager care Garlands for Winter. The Responsive Breeze Touches the harp-strings of a thousand trees. And chants the ritual of gala days. Glad gala days ! the parting of the ways. Glorious gala days of perfect joy. In which the passing bells fond tones employ To reconcile the Old Year to the New, And blend with exultation fond adieu ! The violets, roses, and the golden-rod Are in a folded letter on the sod ; Bearing the cross of Christmas, waiting seal Of the Inevitable to conceal Their brightness from the fresh white-sandalled Year, The stars caress, and Bethlehem lingers here. ON THE BEACH. The waves dash in, and the waves roll out. They toss, they tumble and frisk about. The sea is broad and long and wide, We on the beach note but its tide ; ROSALIE, 53 The ermine edge in its rise and fall Fringing the sand ; a mermaid's shawl, Losing its pendants of shells and pearls On the silvery line where sea-weed curls ; Note but the billows' broad expanse Beyond, where the white-winged vessels dance ; The restless pulse of a power sublime That heeds no season and knows no time. We reach for the snowy flakes that yearn For the undercurrent's backward turn. And catch but a breath of saline air, While a wave runs out to sing '' beware !" Break on, O sea of the ages past ! Our thoughts you anchor and bind them fast ; While you are deaf and blind that we, Mites of a day, are your lovers, sea ! ROSALIE. Dovi^N where the cedars stoop to the lea ; Down where the meadows look to the sea ; Down where the breakers laugh in their glee. Stands on the white sand sweet Rosalie. Pure as a snow-flake her robe of white ; One pale day lily her wand so slight ; Watching the ocean lose stands of light, "Boatman," she whispers, "come! it is night." 54 INDECISION. No boatman listens, sea-gull and tern Swing where the embers of sunset burn. Sandpipers only watch, wait, and yearn Over the wave's hem with like concern. Rosalie heeds not sandpipers near, Only the distance seems to her clear. Out where the shadows stoop and appear Notes she a dim sail rise and career. There, with her blue eyes shaded of hand. Long in the twilight looks she from land. Sandpipers guarding close on the strand Detect a footfall, lift wings, disband. Far in the distance through the gray air Lingers the white sail, while unaware A step is nearing, answer to prayer, — Rosalie's lover stands by her there. INDECISION. A MAID I knew had lovers two, And both were quite respected ; But to decide to be the bride Of one, left one neglected. And so she hung her doubts among Until she grew dejected. AN INDIAN SUMMER ROSE. " There's John," she said, '^ has got a head That ne'er will be directed. But he is wise, has lovely eyes. And is so well connected. I love him too, of course I do ! And he shall be selected. '' How James would start ! He has a heart So easily affected. He's fond and fair, has curling hair, And manners quite perfected. He's rich as well. I cannot tell Why he should be rejected." So James or John, it balanced on, Each judgment new corrected, Until the maid began to fade, Her thoughts still uncollected ; And both the men proposed again To girls, while she reflected. 55 AN INDIAN SUMMER ROSE. The soft November days are here. The aftermath of blossom's year, When all the verdant wreaths are dead, And crimson banners float instead. 56 AN INDIAN SUMMER ROSE. When Summer, sorry she has gone, Turns sadly back to look upon Her fading kingdom, smiles and throws Into earth's lap a brilliant rose. This morn, before the frost's white face Was touched with Indian Summer's grace. Before the hum of voice and feet Had broken silence on our street, I stepped without to break my bread With Nature, who my soul has fed Since childhood with communion grand, And took a closed bud in my hand. * Despite the thorn the rose-tree thrust The bud grew warmer in my trust : I kissed and bound it to my throat. And for an hour forgot to note Its presence, save that on the air Floated familiar fragrance rare. I paused before a mirror then To smooth my wind-blown hair again. In glad surprise I saw my guest A full-blown rose upon my breast ; The creamy petals, waxen, fair. Perfect as Heaven within my care. Imprisoned beauty, innate power Had freed in that unconscious hour. My brooch, full many a flower's tomb, Held proudly the pure Autumn bloom. VALENTINES. 5 7 And never rose-tree felt as I In all the blossom years gone by, So thankful, reverent, and blessed To have a rose wake on its breast. VALENTINES, Sweet, sweet Valentine, Snow-fringe on the pine Beckons the columbine. Beneath the touch of rime I hear the bluebells chime And see the daisy shine, Knowing that I am thine, And, love, that thou art mine, Sweet, sweet Valentine. Dear Heart, good-day; I called to say. That if I may, I'll gladly stay For life your Valentine. THE ORGAN-GRINDER. Gilding the November air Falls the sunshine everywhere, Laughing through the leafless trees, Dancing on the empty breeze ; Mocking aftermath of days Sweet and fair with summer's ways. On the chill November's breast Withering flowers are closely pressed. All the songs are hushed and still That of bud and blossom trill ; And the morning, coming late, Misses birds that used to wait. 'Neath the clear November skies Warblings come in odd disguise, And upon the busy street We the organ-grinder meet, Tossing out his tunes in time, Gay, mechanical, sublime. Fragrant on November air Rises the Italian's prayer. 58 A UTUMNAL. He for nature would atone. Organ-grinder strange and lone ! Your worn melodies instil Warmth into November's chill. Weather on the blast and cold ! Repeat airs a hundred-fold, Merry, national, and grand. Turning with your good right hand. He who grinds the sweetest tunes Brightens most November noons. 59 AUTUMNAL. Softly the Pickering flows On through the meadows. Brightly the autumn glows, Despite its shadows. Golden the ripened corn Peeps from its easing ; Brown verdant fields are worn. Fulness displacing. Yearly the birds depart. Song and toil over ; Bees' sweetened hive and heart, Rest from the clover. 6o BESIDE A LONELY GRAVE, Yearly the blossoms fade With their perfection, Leaves hide where silent glade Waits their collection. Passing on swiftest wings, Time beauty follows ; Autumns are close to springs, We flit as swallows. BESIDE A LONELY GRAVE. Near the meadow and rippling sun In laughter interlacing, A belt of woodland breaks the sun With leafy shadow tracing. Fine wide-boughed trees, with naught to cross. Stretch out their arms caressing. The hillocks fringed with grass and moss. And give the grave their blessing. Dear silent grave, that fifty years The shadows have protected ! The clear-cut tombstone scarce appears To have been long neglected. BESIDE A LONELY GRAVE. I climb upon the broad stone wall That, my own height exceeding, Surrounds the grave enclosure small, And seated, pause, while reading, ''Rebecca Marshall S«iith. Who died June, 1830," follows. ''Aged 21." I push aside Bramble and nest of swallows To see what words of love and fame Are written on the marble ; But this is all, date, age, and name. No broken praise or garble. She died away from friends and home, And chose this lonely sleeping, Where sunsets fall and shadows come. While Nature guard is keeping. Unbroken rest. Tired stranger, take A blossom that I throw thee ! If thou could'st at its touch awake The sylphs alone would know thee. I read thy name, and still thou art To me the same as nameless. A lass perhaps of bravest heart And fond ambitions blameless. I speculate upon thy life Here on death's strong enclosure, Trusting some wall barred out all strife And shielded from exposure. 6* 62 BESIDE A LONELY GRAVE. Thy loves and griefs alike to me As thy young life are hidden. Only the rain-washed mound I see, As I sit here unbidden, The mildewed marble, and a growth From thy still grave uplifting Gaunt fibrous hands, leaf-fingered both. To catch the light down sifting. My childhood's harp of broken strings The slight breeze sways inviting : It *' Cruel Barbara Allan" sings, My memory ear delighting. Surely Rebecca Marshall Smith, With name so plain and comely. Could not have been a vagrant myth, Loveless, or lorn, or homely. Neither, I trust, for love's sweet sake Has she thus early slumbered. Each fancy that my thoughts awake Is by some doubt encumbered. I only know she lived, she died. The common fate of mortals ; That I sit here her grave beside. At vague conjectures' portals ; That in the years, whose pulses now Beat swift with breath of roses, There is a pallor for my brow, A seal that time imposes. BIRD SONGS TRANSLATED. ^t^ Ah, when my grave has fifty years Lost shape in Nature's keeping, Who in this vale of smiles and tears Will note my silent sleeping. And wonder if my staid long name Denotes one rough or tender, Whether life valuable became Before its long surrender? How little are we of the whole Of the vast plan unfolding ! Only a passing bloom each soul Is for life's moment holding. Then as a sigh the blossom fades. And on earth's bosom lieth. The world forgets its finest shades, And so its memory dieth. BIRD SONGS TRANSLATED. THE blue-bird's. It is not mine, you understand. To drive the Winter from the land. But as it goes my voice and wing Are notes and beckon-wands of spring. 64 BIRD SONGS TRANSLATED. THE robin's. I KNOW the world loves me ! This brand on my breast The poet well reckoned : I bless and am blessed. THE wren's. Come into the garden, Maud, In fair or falling weather, My Quaker mate and I abroad, Or in our house together. THE woodpecker's. I like to pick the locks of trunks, Twack, twack, twack ! And find my food and nest as well. This bark is hard to crack ! THE ENGLISH SPARROW S. They called us scavengers. Imported us to cleanse the trees, And now shout " lepers !" That we claim earned homes in these. THE blue-jay S. Color, beauty, and grace are mine ; The sky, the snow, and the columbine. Born with a tufted crown, a king, Why should I trouble my voice to sing ? BIJiD SONGS TRANSLATED. 65 THE SONG martin's. A GARLAND of music and summer, The leaves and blossoms of song, We toss o'er men's temples and murmur, ' " The summer is perfect and long." THE CROW blackbird's. We are the black, black minstrels. The choir of wood and lea. The great troupe uninvited Who render concerts free. THE owl's. Toowoo ! toowoo ! tewee. The darkness covers me. Toowoo ! toowoo ! tewee. When man is blind I see. THE sea-gull's. I HOVER, dip, and skim Along the ocean's brim. Then lift my wings and rise Into the artist's skies. THE quail's. Bob White ! Bob White ! Bob White ! The autumn's robes are bright. Bob White ! Bob White ! Bob White ! The long grass hides me quite. SOUR GRAPES. A LATE SPRING. Who cares for Spring and warm close weather ? The spread of wing, the bloom of heather, The hum of bees, the scent of flowers, The green of trees, the lazy hours Which marked of old the golden days When April sang of Summer's ways? We like the cold sharp winds that whistle. That puff and scold. The frosts that bristle Their spikes of white our gardens over. Although not quite so sweet as clover, Are useful blooms and health inspiring ; And we half wonder, while admiring The sombre hues that robe the season. Whether we choose, and for what reason. The drowsy days with color crowded ? Whether it pays to have views clouded With velvet leaves and birds and bugs And trip in grass-fringed clover rugs ? 66 A SPRING IDYL. *' Chung !" said a frog in the Schuylkill's bank, " I'm wellnigh smothered. Woodchuck, I'd thank You to walk out again and see If there's to be shadow or warmth for me." '' Neighbor," the woodchuck said, and sighed, ''I've had my trip and am satisfied ; Resume your silence and court repose Till March her thirty-one bugles blows." SILVER WEDDING LINES. READ AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF J. AND C. E., TENTH MONTH, 13th, 1883. We recognize the silver chain That binds your lives together, And stamp the links with wishes true, This fair October weather. The years have borne their blooms of joy. And sorrow's dew perchance Has strewn the way in nights that marked The summer's swift advance. 67 6S SILVER WEDDING LINES. But ever rosy, sunlit morn Absorbed the dew again; For flowers of bliss spread perfumed leaves To cover scars of pain. There is no cloudless stretch of years, No perfect, settled calm For human kind. Through hopes and fears We search and gather balm. If love be true, what matters else The toss and touch of weather ? For every path is kin to Heaven Where fond hearts walk together. And what is love? Ah, you can tell Who've known earth's best affection. And hand in hand gone down the years That meet our retrospection ! It is no empty bauble meant For early pastime clever, But love is love ; the gift of Goci, The one bloom sweet forever. The perfect, fadeless Eden flower. Whose petals at the *' fall" Escaped the gate by angel's care To blossom for us all. God bless your blossom ! Watch the chain Of silver, that together Binds all its sweetness till the links Grow gold through autumn weather. NEVER NOW. A FANTASY. There's mist on the face of morning, And over the marriage vow A drift of ^olian sadness Sweeps, murmuring, '^ never now." Far into the noonday sweetness Of love's blest garner day, I hear, with regret's completeness, A dear heart's broken lay. Again in the perfumed glowing Of orange-blossomed light, I smile at the guests outgoing From our reception night. I smile, and the farewells utter ; Wishes that fall like dew On bridal petals, flutter And rest on bound lives true. A strong hand clasps and claims me, — He lingered beyond the rest ; Though the midnight hours are breaking, I sit at his still behest, 7 69 70 NEVER NOW. And listen to late the story I would not hear before ; He whispers, love's sweet glory Can touch him never more. He gives me his parting blessing At last, when the talk is done ; He trembles, — and I speak softly Of fair maids yet unvvon. There is pain in his eyes desponding, The red blood leaves his brow, And his pale lips twitch, responding, "Having loved thee — never now." I turn to the warmth of love-fires, And he to the winter blast. I turn to my chosen shelter : He is alone to the last. In years, that ripen and gather Our hopes into silver sheaves, I beg the Lord to remember The bruised and broken leaves ; To give them high expansion. That they were crowded here. And allow our sheaves, the richest. To them for endless cheer. THE AUTUMN PARABLE. The high noon bloom and fragrance done, Dame Nature sows the seeds Of color caught from summer's sun, Of beautiful vines that smile and run, And, freer than all, of weeds. She never neglects a wayside plain. Which we by chance forget When drilling with care our cultured grain, And sighing because the drouth and rain Will come the wrong time yet. She plants the carrot and yarrow pods, The mullein, the elder fair, The everlastings and golden-rods, And watches close by the pining sods To place the plantain there. She sows the daisy and thistle-down. The aster royal and white, The brier seed and the beech-nut brown. Covering them with her satin gown Safe from the season's night. 71 72 THE TULIP-WILD. Shredding and painting her own array In dainty lap-robes leaves, She shields and hushes with promise gay Each nucleus frail she tucks away, And miracles achieves. The ground is filled with germs in store For weather foul and fair. Earth reproduces us o'er and o'er The parable of the seed and sower ; Proof perfect of God's care. THE TULIP-WILD. A DAY of sultry summer Strayed out by some mischance Into the sweet May weather, A picket with scorching glance. We drove into the country. Where birds and blossoms swung. And where the river wandered The velvet green among. The stream stooped low and narrowed, A mill the water caught, Upon its wheels revolving. And it to service brought, THE TULIP-WILD. 73 While, trickling down the dam breast, The crystal tears were wept, Because the volume prisoned Could not escape, except It tarry in the mill wheel And nerve the ponderous arms That crush to flour the product Of Perkiomen farms. A barefoot boy was angling Along the velvet bank ; A girl, half wistful, watching His movements from a plank. '' Come over here ! It's cooler," He called with rustic grace. And she advanced, half shyly. Till willows fringed her face. Three ducks, of snow-flake whiteness, Floated below the fall. Their action scarce was swimming, They barely moved at all ; But midway in the water, . As bits of down on air, They drifted with the current Quite lazily and fair. We sought in vain a shadow Beside the ancient mill ; And hitched in the broad sunshine. There, while our horse stood still, 7* 74 THE TULIP-WILD. I heard the old mill's clatter; I saw the water-fall ; The lad and lass who angled ; The brown up-reaching wall. I climbed down from the carriage, (My escort, gone before, Left me, books and lilac bloom, Beside the mill's low door.) The summer's picket drove me Close to the water's edge ; And, underneath a half-dead tree, I found a broken ledge That jutted out. Accepting The promised breath of air, I fancied hung about the tree, I sat with comfort there. % My thoughts found shape, and rhythm Grew as it will apace, 'Till, at pit-a-pat of feet, I turned my heated face To see two human jewels Almost within my reach. Boy of three and girl of two. As pure as jasper each. They curiously approached me Touching the lilac bloom Resting near my busy hand. The purple and perfume. THE TULIP-WILD. 75 '*Yes, take it, dears," I answered, Offering the tasselled flower ; '' You are the fairer blossoms : It withers in an hour." The wee girl looked affrighted. And backed a yard away, To where the boy stood solemn. '• You wonders of a day ! *' You like me better voiceless." I thought, and dropped my eyes Down from the startled picture To fancy's self-surprise. I wrote on verse and verses, Translations odd and wild ; The children touched my elbow And at my lilacs smiled. Such wee brown hands ! Their owners Breathed not a single word ; They bore away the lilacs, I heeded nor demurred. My pictured thought I finished, Pronounced it passing fair ; Forgetting half the outward view While shading it with care. The ducks the shallow water Still floated lazily ; The boy and girl at fishing Sat 'neath the willow tree. 76 THE TULIP-WILD. A string of fish between them Lay panting on the grass ; The slender, foolish fishes ! Sparkling like bits of glass. The mill craunched on with clatter, A pleasing, wholesome sound ; The water's grief o'er dam breast Continual egress found. Beyond the Perkiomen Were rocks and straggling trees. With wilding vines and bushes Which clung about their knees ; A foothold bare of grasses, A dash of hardy weeds, That ever in waste places The finer growth impedes. The leaves were all half drooping, Discouraged that the sun Should light the fires of summer Before their robes were spun And glossed with satin varnish. To hide the tender veins Which had been interlacing Their hopes with early rains. On some old rocks the mosses Had donned their hats of green. To coquet with the lichens Where fairy cups are seen. THE TULIP-WILD, The dainty plumes were wilted ; The mosses whispered, ^' Wait ! The fiery color bearer Will pass the western gate." I heard complainings echoed From, rounded hills beyond, "The day is out of season^ And should, abashed, abscond." The half-fledged, half-dead shade limbs Were shelter full for me ; — Again I fell to dreaming. Content beneath the tree. And there, amid the silence The mill wheel only stirred, The timid pit-a-patter Of feet again I heard ; The little ones returning To take another look And see if I made lilacs With pencil in my book. "They think me an odd creature. And voiceless like me best." I made no turn or movement, A statue was, at rest. The curious, trustful children, I felt them smooth my dress And twitch the skirt-folds slightly With quaint complaisantness. 77 78 THE TULIP-WILD. "They're going to build a playhouse, My skirt the carpet fair," I thought, for they were laying A train of flowers there. And seeing, without seeming, Their turns of natural grace, I felt, at last, a tiny hand Touch timidly my face. ''She seep," the boy said, tersely ; And then, with chirp and smile, The little things came nearer To trim my hat awhile. Their garniture was tulips, As brilliant as e'er blew. Gold, royal shades and scarlet, And combinations new. An armful in profusion. Each glittering quill of green Flamed out a torch of color Upon the novel scene. Those children decked and trimmed me As long as I could be A tableau or a statue Or silent tulip tree ; But, when I made a movement My merriment was plain ; They ran, like fawns affrighted. Into a roadside lane. THE TULIP-WILD. I bunched the royal trophies Besprinkling my array; Looked where our horse was stamping At heat and dust and May ; Smoothed out my ruffled plumage, Secured my book of rhyme, And rose with my experience And tulips just in time To see those wee ones scamper Along the sunny lane, Where, lost in trees and distance. They disappeared again ; To see a woman coming. Who laughed at their affright. And called to me, *' Come hither,. And see the tulips right." The tulips, and the tulips, Oh, they were fair to see ! The lane broke to a garden Whither she guided me. A garden full of tulips, A square of flame and gold. As free as yellow daisies They blossomed on the wold. " They grow as wild as clover," She answered my delight, "And even in our grass-plots We can't destroy them quite." 79 8o HUMAN NATURE. The royal color-bearers ! I seem to see them yet. Crowned regiments of tulips I never shall forget. Whene'er the May sun touches My brow with shafts of flame, My fancy seeks the streamlet Where tulip envoys came. HUMAN NATURE. Rare clusters of grapes are trailing The wall with purple and pink ; A child on the lower railing Sighs, ''The highest are sweet, I think." The grass its tangle of fringes Combs over the rounded lawn. And a cow with longing cringes By the gate at earliest dawn. It is so the wide world over, We crave what the lines debar ; The kine the forbidden clover. And mankind the unreached star. APRIL, 8 1 We are blind to bloom the nearest While looking for buds unblown, Neglectful of what is dearest For that we should let alone. APRIL. The April wind is singing, Can you catch her tune? Her changeful notes are ringing Wild from noon to noon. To-day I watched and listened To a thousand strains, While sunbeams chased and glistened Quite a dozen rains. Curious tones and winning, Wilful tones and weird ; A shrew, in the beginning Angel-like appeared. The crocus pale or yellow, April's favorite child, Casts longing glances mellow Towards her mother wild ; A kiss and shake together. Answer she receives. I wonder whether weather Constancy believes ? A LABORER'S REPLY. " Rest thee, daughter. Do not be Troubled for humanity. " Take thy ease, and take thy joy. What to thee each growing boy? *'What if he should from the moil Bear the rough and scars of soil ? ** And if from his heart and lips Time the sweetness early sips? ** Save thine own and duty's done ; Rest thy form mid comforts won. " Teach thy reaching soul content, Which is faith's embodiment." Thus I heard a counselling voice, Tender ; but I made ray choice. Never wanting rest and ease, Or the peaceful symphonies 82 A LABORER'S REPLY. 83 Of contentment's witching tune; Rather strength to importune Satan to depart below While our human blossoms blow. Action is not trouble's twin. Duties that at home begin May embrace, by fond desire, Those without the household fire ; And whatever grain of good Falls where it is understood Is not threshed and sown in vain. But will reproduce again. It is not enough to live Holding ease, with none to give. Better offer friendship free Unto all humanity Than withhold one breath of cheer That had reached an open ear. As no outward comforts can Fashion the immortal man ; As no restful ease can bring To desire the strength of wing ; 84 THE CENTENARIAN. Let us press our open hands Forward as the need demands ! Age may chant her roundelay Softly when our powers are gray. Mine to work while God allow ! Humbly, if He teach me how, — And if one life purer grows I am satisfied. He knows What in every way is best, Safe in Him my faith I rest. THE CENTENARIAN. Seamed is his brow as an oak tree, And shrivelled his cheeks as the bark. Age touched him when I was a baby. And gave him a silver mark. But he thrives, while we pass over, The man who is never old. And he marvels that late exotics Droop at the touch of cold. There is no life unvexed by vain endeavor. No thorn less roses that bloom on forever. A GATHERING EDGE OF STORM, The waves run high, the clouds stoop low ; A storm is brewing ; rude breezes blow. A narrow belt of light is seen The heavy drapery and sea between. The storm blows fiercer; the gray clouds roll ; The sky, like a great inverted bowl, Is mottled and flecked with smoke of pearl ; While, under its rim, the loose sands whirl. The porpoises swim in dire affright ; The ship-sails lower and sweep from sight. The sword of lightning the dark cloud gores ; The lion of thunder groans and roars. The shells and sea-foam strike the sand With an angry dash from the ocean's hand. And, '' Keep the coast line clear for me !" Bellows the voice of a rising sea. 8* 85 36 FANCY'S AFTERMATH. The sword of lightning that rends the sky Strikes the water and rebounds high. Time after time on the deep it falls, As crash of mortars bombarding walls. In torrents of rain the clouds descend. And the angry elements wild contend. My muse and I forsake the door, For the waters drench us as they pour. FANCY'S AFTERMATH. When I had no hours to cage them, Fancies clustered ever near. Ripe and luscious swung inviting, Sweetening all the atmosphere ; Dreaming not of vague elusion. For no winds now south, now west. Tossed them with uncertain motion ; They were every moment's guest. See I yet their waiting fulness As they cluster ripe for wine; Reach my leisured hand to catch them. Find them palled upon the vine. FANCY'S AFTERMATH. 87 Not forever could they bide me ; While I stooped to lesser things, Their rare essence has escaped me, Risen upon ether wings. And whatever fruit remaineth I must pluck with closer care, One by one the grapes examine. That half withered yet look fair j Slowly press the poor reversions Of the long neglected vine. That had yielded in its fulness Purest elixir of wine. Time, though he subserves, is patient, Prescribes limits for us all. And we suffer loss who slowly Answer, or neglect his call. Circumstances, webs as spiders, That encompass us as flies, Weigh not in his balance poising 'Twixt God's footstool and the skies. They are ours. The snares he counts not, But relentless in his beat Presses on and on, ignoring Tangles which entrap our feet. Gifts he offers luscious, golden, Clusters faultless in extent. Can I murmur that I reap not 'Till the harvest's best is spent ? gg THE ABSENT. Can I murmur that I tarried, In the web of duty caught, Just in sight of perfect fancies Which illumined every thought ? No ! a thousand noes together. They have sweetened all my hours, And with grateful hand I gather Those that wait my weakened powers. THE ABSENT. I LIVE with my friends and love them, Though they are far away ; The joy of their speaking presence Hallows each passing day. I see their faces and greet them At morning, noon, and eve. I gather their best thoughts to me And mine around them weave. Friendship ignoreth all distance, And love outweareth time. The features of those we love best Are with us in every clime. THE FLOWER OF KINDNESS. The beautiful flower of kindness Sheds a perfume rare and sweet ; Its petals fall as snowflakes Of rest 'round weary feet. The creamy exotic of culture Smiles in. the scale of thought, But the little flower of kindness, With simple prayers fraught, Outweighs in the angels' balance Grace, culture, fame, and gold ; For kindness is immortal, The best bloom on the wold. He who gathers and garlands. With generous thought and aim. The blossoms in wreaths for shorn ones 'Till hope revives her claim ; Who shields the dumb from sorrow With loving care humane, Who scatters words of comfort, Has never lived in vain. 90 MV BOYS. Who bears the flower of kindness, As signet on his breast, And loveth all God's creatures. In blessing them is blessed. MY BOYS. The shimmering hair of your blithesome girls Is soft, I make no doubt. Beneath the drapery of glistening curls The violet stars peep out ; Bloom of the lily, blush of the rose, Blended delicate sweets ; You half fear to touch them, as I suppose. Dainty elysian treats. Prefer I the less ethereal boys, That shout around my barque, And fill my heart and my house with noise From early dawn till dark. Tangible beings, with light-brown locks Innocent all of curl; At the age of four ignoring frocks. And making bonnets whirl. Their eyes are mirrors of mirth and fun. And velvet scarlet lips Are full of kisses, as sky of sun When summer nectar sips. AfY BOYS. 91 Their cheeks, that I take between my palms, The wind has touched before ; They are warm with the breath of nature's psalms, The gold has tinged them o'er. Ruddy and brown are the fingers ten, Which count the lapse of years That will lift them to the height of men, Beyond the reach of tears. The lithe little arms that hold me in, Or catch me as I go. Are firm as the feet whose gladsome din Follows me to and fro. Angelic lilies are sweet, I know. In faultless raiment clad ; Afar, in the distance, I see them glow. Without them earth were sad ; But for the touch and the toss of life Give me the stronger blooms. That stand through sunlight, and storm, and strife, When the smoke of battle looms. Give me the mirthful, frolicsome boys. That draw my age away. And thrill me through with their boisterous joys. Till I am as young as they. Give me the boys, the boys, the boys, The boys the Lord calls mine. They pay me in love for all the noise ; 'Tis recompense divine. UNDER THE LILAC. Robed in purple the lilac Catches the sun's gold kiss ; Touched by her queenly raiment Dreameth a maid of bliss. Dreameth the breath of lilac, Lading the amber air ; Filleth the dim, dim vista Of years, excluding care. Sweet, oh, sweet is the lilac. Royally kissed of sun ; Sweet are the dreams of maiden ; This is the sweetest one. Under the fringe of purple Stoopeth a manly form ; The fancy blossoms real. Her dreams with life are warm. The lilac time forever ! The purple, gold, the breath ; The dreams, the true, true living, Stranger to fade and death. 92 DEATH'S DOOR. I HAVE been close to death's door, When I scarce cared how it swung ; I've touched the ponderous hinges Upon which its weight is hung. I've seen the light beyond it, I have heard the noiseless key Turned by the guardian angel, An entrance debarring me. I've knocked and found it fastened, And aweary backward turned. When the fires on earth's altar Seemed all into ashes burned. I've wandered from its portals With a slow and lingering tread, And hushed, lest late it opened And I yet might join the dead. I've journeyed onward, onward, Till the fires of life glow bright. The door at which I waited Grows dim and is lost to sight. 9 93 A BIRTHDAY LETTER. TO A FRIEND, FEBRUARY 28, 1882. The winter, robed in down and lace, With glittering crystals on her breast, Loses her prestige, and the space Snow garments trailed and diamonds pressed Is marked by narrow shreds of lace. Sweet breath and golden wings of Spring Are near, that toss the threads with grace And troll for Summer's blossoming. With all the Winter gone, and all The Spring to come. A birthday blessed Each year by words and deeds that fall Into surrounding lives as rest. Herald of birds are long, sweet hours, A smile of promise true. Dear friend, may Time's best passion-flowers Be woven in a wreath for you. 94 A REFUSAL. And you have said you loved me ; Perhaps believed it true, When all the lawn was sparkling Beneath the moon-kissed dew. And if I half consented To weigh your eager plea, Smiling, because 'twas moonlight, I trust you'll pardon me. For, with the sunshine's dawning, I know you meant it not ; And what I say by moonlight By morn I have forgot. Your love is like the rainbow. And mine? Perhaps like dew. For, if you thought you loved me, I know I don't love you. 95 SIXTY. LINES WRITTEN FOR AND READ AT THE BIRTHDAY CELEBRA- TION OF I. T. L., AUGUST 23, 1885. Sixty summers and winters have harvests been gath- ered and spent, Sixty blossom and frost times the Lord in mercy has sent, Since into this sphere of action thee came, a tiny child Awaiting the crown of manhood that has thy days be- guiled. Sixty years is a journey the youthful scarce hope to take ; But, walking quietly forward, stepping from break to break, The way grows shorter and shorter, until, all unaware, The goal is reached ; the traveller smiles, and ques- tions, "Am I there?" The miles grow dim behind him, and the crags which cut his feet Are overgrown with roses, while all the past is sweet. It should be so at sixty, I ponder in looking on, The best of the day is over, the mid-day sun is gone. 96 SIXTY. 97 The burdens carried should lighten, rewards of labor look in ; The rest and play of the afternoon their concert of ease begin ; The hands, inured to action, fold, and the softening palnas Reach out to soothe and lessen the mid-day traveller's qualms. For many are spent and weary who have gone not half so far ; And he, who has travelled the road, full well knows where the quicksands are. The mornings are often cloudy, the high-noon sun is hot, The way seems long to sixty to those who have stepped it not. Cheering words are beams of gold that ray from the afternoon. 'Tis strings that are worn by service that ring in per- fect tune. The tried, the true, and the willing, who've marched with feet unshod O'er lawn and stubble and broscage, full threescore years for God, Must know the secret of living, the secret of motion and rest. And where the cooling shadows of summer are deep and best. 98 A WAKENED. But for the family record, with its lettering clear and black, On the good old Bible-pages, we'd think Time off the track, When he reckons thee at sixty. Yet the cane and arm- chair show That others than he remember how fast the years outgo, And that dear ones are planning for thy pleasant after- noon. May it be long, my uncle, as the rosiest one in June ! AWAKENED. It broke upon the autumn air A sharp, imperious peal, And snapped the cord of slumber short That bound my mid-day zeal. It rang again, ah, bells and doors A hundred feet apart ! Ah, servants out ! But I must go To welcome the dear heart. A spectacle forlorn and wan Beyond my worst conceit Stands crouching on the marble step, And begs, with naked feet ; DECEMBER. 99 A woman with a tiny life Beside her own to keep, — A haggard wanderer of the dust, With unborn babe asleep. *' No food, no clothes !" A contrast wide Between thy life and mine. Some surplus ray of ease I bid Go drifting into thine. Though disappointed not to greet The warmth of loving arms. Recoiling to see on the street Such absence of all charms, The peal and plea awake my heart From mid-day slumber's spell. I know the dear Lord asks of me, "Are all my children well?" DECEMBER. Bleak December, I remember There is Christmas 'neath your folds, And these chilly winds are trilling Of the halo that it holds. In your keeping 't has been sleeping Since the blessed Christ was born. And but yearly wakens clearly. Thus to crown His natal morn. lOo ^^O HAS PRAYED FOR THE MURDERER? Gather round it, as you've bound it With your whitening garments in, All the glory of the story That has lifted us from sin. Dear December ! Christians' ember Of the peace of long ago. Christmas holding and enfolding It in robe of spotless glow. While embracing, oh, be tracing On our souls the season's snow ! Let our breathing be a wreathing Of Divine love's overflow. WHO HAS PRAYED FOR THE MURDERER? Who has prayed for the soul that sinned? Who, of the multitude. Has felt in his heart for the Judas dark A Christian solicitude? Who is there that gave love for hate ? Blessing to him who cursed. As the dear Christ bade, on the olden plain. Ere the multitude dispersed ? KEEP THE BULKHEADS CLOSED. loi Who has said, twixt the pangs of grief, Forgive him, Father in Heaven ! As Christ in His Mountain Sermon taught, As we would be forgiven ? Retribution is sure and swift. And bitter the fruit of wrong ; But who has prayed, through the Autumn days. Lord, make the weak one strong? KEEP THE BULKHEADS CLOSED.* Sailing in the open sea. Or along the channels gray. Keep your bulkheads closed, and be Ready for a storm or stray. Keep them closed, albeit now Clouds and dangers are afar; Ere tlie morrow storm or prow May your assured safety mar. Better that a thousand times You should have them needless closed. Than that once the death-wave climbs Where security reposed. * Suggested by the loss of the " Pomerania." I02 ALICE. Navigators of the deep ! Like are you to we of land, Careless in the watch you keep, And the precious freight you strand, All are voyages of fate, Baffled by uncertainty, Overconfident till too late. Open bulkheads, death, we see. Sailing channels, sailing space. Where the breezes fan or chafe, Where fleet joy and sorrow race, With closed bulkheads we are safe. ALICE. Bright-eyed, dark-eyed Alice, Blossom of sunny days, Charming the gray old Winter With your impulsive ways. Facing the eddying snow-flakes, Tracking the depth of down Several squares, with dainty feet, To reach a friend in town. Deeper than peach bloom, Alice, Fairer than jacqueminots, Roses linger, on your cheeks Satin as apricots. ALICE. Ripe lips, snow-flakes melted, And hair of blackest brown. Out of the storm, sweet Alice ! I am your friend in town. Graceful and loving Alice, Close in your warm embrace. Already I've forgotten The storm you had to face. There's sunshine in your kisses, And bird songs in your voice ; Your laughter is a ripple Whose burden is, ''rejoice!" Bright-eyed, dark-eyed Alice, Blossom of summer days, Charming the hearts that love you With your impulsive ways; May all the storms be snow-flakes That edge your pathway, dear. And like this, in your sunshine, As quickly disappear. 103 TO THE ROSES ON MY BRIDAL VEIL. Wreaths of roses, pure as snow, Smiling yet as long ago ; With your silken petals set Thick as bloom on mignonette, O'er the length and breadth of lace That obscured my younger face. How you mock the flight of time ! Trailing, budded branches climb Up, as then, to kiss my hair, While the wreathed edge sweeps the stair. Not a thread has changed its space In my veil of bridal lace. Perfect every fold has kept ; Not a shade of age has crept O'er the fabric's snowy bloom. Catch I still the faint perfume Of the silken roses' breath. As they murmur " Until death." See I, though it may not be, Earthly privilege granted me, 104 TO THE ROSES ON MY BRIDAL VEIL. 105 All the guests who faced the bride And her lover, side by side; Hear his voice and mine repeat Words which crowned our lives complete ; Feel the veiling roses sway Backward, and a ripe kiss lay Softly on my trembling lips. Then my courage ebbs and slips Quite behind my pride of place, And I seek my father's face, Hungry for an old-time rest On his broad and faithful breast ; Catch his tender, warning glance, Note his leisurely advance. Feel him clasp my hand and bless. While eluding my caress. Till my surging heart recedes Equal to the moment's needs. By his forethought, ever wise, I am saved in others' eyes From the bursting sob that hung My new happiness among ; And the smiling scene goes on. Perfect as a blissful dawn. Wishes fond as incense rise To illumine later skies. And, " How calm the bride appears !" Through the roses greets my ears. io6 TO THE ROSES ON MY BRIDAL VEIL. While I see approval dance In my father's tender glance. I am veiled to others' eyes 'Neath the bridal mist's disguise; But he knows the yearning life Of his child who is a wife. Bridal veil of snowy lace, Now again upon my face, Perfect in your roses white As upon my wedding night ! You may deem me older now, And touch lines upon my brow ; Catch some rose-threads in my hair Colorless as yours and fair; Count me not the girl you wed. But a woman in her stead. Outward, inward life at odds; No eye truly reads but God's. I am young in heart as then. Stronger of my walks with men ; Better equal to life's needs As my wedding day recedes ; Gladly saying doubly now O'er and o'er my wedding vow ; Trustful, happier than the bride Trembling at her lover's side. Silken roses, fresh as dew, I have kept as well as you ; And, the moment's weakness told, You and I together hold. A WINTER JINGLE. How the bells a-tingle, jingle ! They are stopping at the gate. And 'tis Harry, hitching, coming. He shall never know I wait. " Is Miss Edna in ?" I hear him. "I will ask," the girl replies. But the servant finds me reading, And I scarcely lift my eyes. We are sleighing ; jingle, tingle. How the merry clappers ring ! While the fleet steed moves as gladly As a bird upon the wing. Sleighing, — ^jingle, jingle, tingle. Is it Harry's voice I hear? " Don't you wish," he whispers softlvj "It was always sleighing, dear?" Possibly my face responded. For I had to look, you know, Just to see if it was Harry, Or an echo of the snow. 107 io8 A SEA BAUBLE. And whate'er it said or said not, I can never, never tell ; But I hear the jingle, tingle Of a happy wedding bell. A SEA BAUBLE. Of course you have been to Brighton, To breathe the salt sea air ; Of course you have been to Brighton, The lovely Vanity Fair. It was there I lost my sweetheart. Oh, Coney Island, why Did you grow so close the ocean. Where billows blind the eye ? My love, a beautiful sunbeam, Flitted the beach about. I learned her brilliant toilets. Followed them in and out. The brightest star of the evening, Saturn, with belts of gold. Mine 1 I should never have lost her. But for the sea waves bold. Of course, if you've been to Brighton, You know the bathing there ; The lengthy, inclined gangway Down from Vanity Fair. A SEA BAUBLE. To the saving ropes of Brighton I clung that summer day, For the novelty of tasting My first of ocean spray. There were odd and curious creatures, A myriad on the tide ; I called my graceful sweetheart. But only waves replied. The mermaid witches of Brighton Confused and puzzled me. Oh, luckless moment, when I clasped Some one and thought it she ! "Too rough is the sea, beloved," And sweeter words I said ; Kissing, with each receding wave. The wet hat on her head. To the balustrade I led her. Along the gangway's side. Declaring I'd not trust again To ocean my pledged bride. Then a half-drowned mermaid passed us, With pale face bleached and blue ; Salt-dripping and scorn-withering. She made a curt adieu. It was my then lost sweetheart. Disguised in orgie's dress ; She proudly walked the gangway up. Farewell to loveliness ! 09 A SEA BAUBLE. Of course, if you've been to Brighton, To worship Vanity Fair, You've had your disappointments And can guess my despair. " You've my wife !" an irate bather Gasped to my surprise. As he took/rom me his sweetheart And took me otherwise. Of course, if you've been to Brighton. You know that I left there A sadder, more enlightened man Than went to Vanity Fair. MEMORIAMS. MOTHER! APRIL 20, 1883. Ye Bluebells that ring out the triumphs of spring ! Ye Flame-Breasted Robins that lift a glad wing 1 Ye Grasses that stretch up the lilacs to meet, And dream of the clover asleep at your feet ! Oh, hush ! For your sweetness, your music, and bloom Seem discordant mockery over the tomb. Oh, let me keep silence ! Life's well spring is dry ; Its fountain is buried or caught up by sky. And this is thy birthday ! The rose at my breast Is shrinking with sorrow to be memory's guest. And we, we are orphans. No garlands to weave For the brown satin hair we smoothed last Spring eve. Thy children in Heaven, far fairer than ours Are the offerings they bring thee of immortal flowers ; All thornless and perfect, the blossoms of joy. Thee smiles to receive from thy girls and thy boy. 2 IN MEMO R I AM. But we bow in silence. The Autumn was cold. Our buds were wrapped with thee under her fold. The Springs may awaken, the Summers roll on, And we but remember that thou, dear, art gone. IN MEMORIAM. BISHOP MATTHEW SIMPSON, D.D., LL.D., WENT TO HIS REWARD JUNE l8, 1884. The fairest rose that blossoms To purify the air, To strengthen and to sweeten, Cannot escape death's care. It fades and leaves its fragrance, A sanctifying breath Of endless June to human hearts, Impenetrable by death. The petals fall and scatter Upon the earth's broad breast ; The soul of grand expansion Becomes God's favored guest. Ours are the grateful memories Of life and gifts sublime, And ours a depth of sorrow Unreconciled by time. ANOTHER. 'Twas his to bless the labor Of regeneration here ; To render all the Christ light More beautifully clear. 'Tis ours to touch his mantle, As rich and ripe it falls, And say, with tear-choked voices. The Lord, who gave, recalls. ANOTHER. Another has lain down life's armor. Wed in the year I was wed ; Folded her hands skilled and willing ; Gone into rest with the dead. Another ! 'Tis thus we go over Single file, privates in line. Numbered by God ; but we knew not. Friend, the next number was thine. We know not, we see not beyond us. Rank in earth's army is naught. No trophies we bear from the warfare Save the rare jewels of thought. We march for raiment and rations, Stopping in turn at the gate ; While those who stand as we falter Cry sadly, hopelessly, "wait !" 113 MRS. DR. JOHN C. LORD. A LIFE of humane, fine intent Receives rest as its complement. A woman the world loves, reveres. Lays down the garland of her years. To us she leaves as dower fair The speechless creatures of her care. Commended by example grand That we protect and understand. Her organism, strength, and soul Combined to make a perfect whole. Her generous, loving works and ways Shed over us refulgent rays. No narrow boundaries hemmed her in, To her all cruelty was sin ; And yet her charity complete Was as Christ's at the mercy-seat. She does not die in losing breath. Such lives and memories baffle death. The great soul gone to its reward, She still is our dear Mrs. Lord. May 26, 1885. 114 A TRIBUTE. SARAH T. LEWIS, DIED FEBRUARY 29, 1884. Nearer and nearer we press To the gate of shining gold, While the rays of blessedness Brighten life's darkest fold. Our angel has passed within, But the gate is left ajar ; There is light where she has been And Heaven is not afar. A myriad memories sweet The glorious halo blends ; We approach the Master's feet By perfect rays He sends. We reach our hands to Him With thanks, and faith, and praise, That our picture cannot dim, Of our grandmother's ways. A charity pure and rare Perfumed her life and soul ; A blossoming sweetness fair Of patience and self-control. "5 S. M. P. Nearer and nearer we press To the gate she left ajar ; Her smile of peacefulness Can never seem lost or far. She would turn, dividing her bliss With us, did God allow ; We are rich in the thought of this, Kissing her death-cold brow. S. M. P. A LIGHT of merriment And generous nobility gone out ; A loving heart grown still ; An active mind which our thoughts twined about Withdrawn from earthly will. A life completed, Strong in its fulness, tender in its ties ; A soul uplifted to A realm unfathomable to mortal eyes ; One precious lost to view. And we, thy kindred, weep, Although we knew the sorrow blight must fall (For suffering heralds death). Time ne'er is ripe for parting, and we all Mourn thy departed breath. WILLIAM H. VANDERBILT. As a train in fullest motion Holds its breath at unseen signal, Nor regains ; As a track, refusing pressure, Parts, and leaves its pulseless burden On the plains, So he died, the railroad magnate, While the flush of ripest action Seemed unspent. With his hands upon the lever, And his thoughts on locomotion's Broad extent. Pausing, as a clock at noonday. Stopped by some supernal power While it beat Out the hour, to which we listened With a confidence implicit On the street. Only this — a sudden silence. As the motive force controlling Lost its sway, And the democratic Croesus, Dear to friends and world-respected, Passed away. December 9, 1885. 11 117 GENERAL W. S. HANCOCK. As a mother to her bosom Takes at eventide her child, Or the grateful earth the petals Of a regal rose she smiled, We receive in tender keeping Now the casket of our son : The immortal jewel lifted. Has a fairer setting won. With the strife of battle over, And eternal peace at hand. The General heard the order And marched on, at God's command. 'Tis the empty, empty armor That they bring us back to-day, As a memory of our soldier. Whom they early beck'ed away. It is all they have to offer To our lingering, last embrace. With our best and dearest treasures We accord it honored place. As a mother to her bosom Takes at eventide her son, We receive our hero's armor. For the battle day is done. February 13, 1886. 118 HYMNS. THY WILL. Let me be earnest, patient ; Let me be watchful, Lord ! Bending my every motion Unto Thy best accord. Let me be zealous, yielding, Blending the firm and meek : Crushing the germs of evil. While glad of good to speak. Let me be strong for action : A hardy wayside flower. Gathering dew to sprinkle through The mid-day's dusty hour. Let me be pure, and worthy The blessings loaned to me ; Generous and wise to scatter As seemeth best to Thee. Let me be persevering, Untiring to distil Sweetest wine from every grape ; But let me do Thy will ! JESUS LOVES THE LAMBS. Jesus loves the little children. He remembers all the lambs. He will gather us together, Singing some sweet shepherd psalms. Hear Him ! hear Him ! We are near Him. Hark ! He says He loves the lambs. Jesus keeps the little children In His fold and pastures green ; Gently leading and instructing ; Keeping us and ill between. Hear Him ! hear Him ! We are near Him. Hark! He says He loves the lambs. Jesus blesses little children, Suffering us to come to Him. In His arms we find protection, While all earthly cares grow dim. Hear Him ! hear Him! We are near Him. Hark ! He says He loves the lambs. Jesus saves the little children From the blasts of storm and cold ; Tenderly the news confiding That He has a higher fold. Hear Him ! hear Him ! We are near Him. Hark ! He says He loves the lambs. 1 20 MANY MANSIONS. Christ has said that many mansions Are His Father's house within. He departed to prepare them For the travellers cleansed from sin. Many mansions, many mansions, Clasp we the assurance sweet. Wanderings ended, Christ attended, We will find a rest complete. Although earth is green and pleasant. Floral as a camping-ground. Full of sunlight, full of starlight ; Far above is true rest found. Many mansions, many mansions, Clasp we the assurance sweet. Wanderings ended, Christ attended, We will find a rest complete. God who lives is omnipresent ; Gleams of Him we daily see. In Christ's words the freshness lingers That outspread on Galilee. Many mansions, many mansions, Clasp we the assurance sweet. Wanderings ended, Christ attended. We will find a rest complete. II* 121 WORMS OF THE DUST. Worms of the dust are we ; Worms of the dust. Lord, we would creep to Thee ! Blindly we trust. Blindly we trust and pray That we may find the way Trod by the just. Worms of the dust designed For later wings. Lord, we would be refined From dross that clings ! Humbly Thy feet would near. Untouched by thought of fear, Or trifling things. Worms of the dust, and yet But for a time Are we by ills beset Ere we can climb. Creep, climb, or fly to Thee. Lord, we would meet Thee free From vain regret. 122 JESUS CAME. I AM COME THAT THEY MIGHT HAVE LIFE, AND THAT THEY MIGHT HAVE IT MORE ABUNDANTLY." Jesus came ; ah, blest assurance That He came for you and me. Jesus came with sweet endurance To unbind and set us free. Came to give us life abundant ; Came to give us life divine. Came with wondrous loving kindness To fulfil a grand design. Jesus came, the true, true shepherd, Came to take within the fold Every sheep that strayed or wandered, To protect from wolf and cold. Came to give us life abundant ; Came to give us life divine. Came with wondrous loving kindness To fulfil a grand design. Jesus came to all believing : Came to great protection give. Jesus came that we, receiving Of His precious care, might live. Came to give us life abundant ; Came to give us life divine. Came with wondrous loving kindness To fulfil a grand design. 123 CHARITY. Though we the tongues of angels know, And every language, high and low ; The gift of prophecy possess, And have both faith and faithfulness. We nothing are or e'er can be Without the flower of Charity. Charity suffers long, is kind ; To vaunting envy disinclined : Beareth, hopeth, endureth all : Faileth not when misfortunes fall. We nothing are or e'er can be Without the flower of Charity. Charity seeketh not her own ; Over iniquity maketh moan. Faith and Hope belong to the three, The greatest of which is Charity. We nothing are or e'er can be Without the flower of Charity. [24 THE SABBATH MILESTONE. Gladly we the Sabbath meet ; Prayerfully its dawning greet. Earth is richly, richly blest Once a week with such a guest. Milestone on the heavenly way, Blessed, blessed Sabbath-day, Guide us onward, lest we stray ! Milestone, yes, with figures dim ; Blind are we, yet close to Him, Trusting, when the journey's done, We may have the distance won. Milestone on the heavenly way, Blessed, blessed Sabbath-day, Guide us onward, lest we stray ! God, in days or years to be, Whiche'er portion pleaseth Thee, Let us know Thy milestones well That of Christ and glory tell ! Milestone on the heavenly way. Blessed, blessed Sabbath-day, Guide us onward, lest we stray ! 125 A BURIAL HYMN. One by one we lay them down, Loved and true-hearted, One by one the angels crown Our dear departed. One by one our hopes must fade, Wake to be blighted. One by one our souls in shade Be sorrow-plighted. Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts, Jesus is here ; Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts, Comfort is near. One by one, in nature's plan. Brief days are given : One by one vouchsafed to man To climb to Heaven. One by one our darlings go ; Grieved are we, weeping. Even when the souls we know Safe in God's keeping. Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts, Jesus is here ; Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts. Comfort is near. 126 THE NEW COMMANDMENT. One by one we give them o'er, Our precious treasures ; Feeling Heaven holds in store Our vanished pleasures. One by one, dear Lord, to Thee Do we consign them, — Craving strength more trustingly, God, to resign them. Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts, Jesus is here ; Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts. Comfort is near. 127 THE NEW COMMANDMENT. 'Tis a glorious new commandment Jesus left to you and me ; Few have caught and few have kept it, As He bade us, perfectly. Love ye, love ye one another. Was the new command He gave ; Make mankind your friend and brother, Comfort kindly, love, and save. We would take the new commandment Closer to our hearts to-day. Praying that we understand it And perform it in Christ's way. Love ye, love ye one another, Was the new command He gave ; Make mankind your friend and brother, Comfort kindly, love, and save. 128 CLOSER, FATHER. May this glorious new commandment Bud and blossom in our souls ; May the fruit it bears be pleasing To the Lord who all controls. Love ye, love ye one another, Was the new command He gave ; Make mankind your friend and brother, Comfort kindly, love, and save. CLOSER, FATHER. Earth and earthly lights are fading As we near Eternity; We are toiling through the labyrinth That is never sorrow-free. With Thy outstretched hand, dear Father, Draw us closer, closer Thee ! We revere Thy loving kindness. Angels cross Thy golden sea ; Loosing thorns that fain would stay us From Thy pure futurity. They're returning, and we follow; Take us, Father, closer Thee ! We have known Thy wondrous goodness. We have seen Thy charity ; We have heard Thy promised blessings, Felt their sweet reality. We can touch Thy hand, dear Father, As it takes us closer Thee. DECORATION HYMNS. THANKS FOR DECORATION. t While the brilliant flags of Summer Turn their colors to the breeze, And the music of the seasons Drops from bird throats on the trees, We, a free, united nation. Garland thanks for decoration. While the plains and wilds are royal In their panoply of green, And the days are books of sunshine With a wealth of bloom, between. We, a free, united nation, Garland thanks for decoration. While our souls remembering sorrow, As the storms of Winter past, Hear the winds of desolation Hushed to perfect peace at last. We, a free, united nation. Garland thanks for decoration. 12 129 I30 BY THE ASHES OF OUR ALTARS. With our tribute songs and blossoms Resting on the mounds of sod, While our fallen heroes, risen. Cluster round the throne of God, We, a free, united nation. Garland thanks for decoration. BY THE ASHES OF OUR ALTARS. Abraham laid upon the altar Isaac, long ago. Raised his hand, without a falter. Till the Lord said, '^No." Backward from Moriah's mountains Abram blessings brought. Faith has still her unspent fountains That are found, when sought. Lately we to Freedom offered Fairest sacrifice. She accepted, what we proffered, Liberty's great price. Backward from the fallen altars We with victory tread. But each suffering heart cord falters As we count our dead : Our own dead, whose graves we yearly Garnish fresh with bloom ; Our own dead, we love so dearly, In the silent tomb. WE REMEMBER ABRAM LINCOLN. 131 Ours and not ours. God uplifted From the fire each gem, While the ashes downward drifted ; Turmoil's requiem. WE REMEMBER ABRAM LINCOLN. We remember, we remember The internal struggle gone. And the gloomy, gloomy darkness That preceded later dawn. We remember Abram Lincoln, We remember, we remember. We remember, we remember All those anxious months and years. When the men had days of bloodshed And the women nights of tears. We remember Abram Lincoln, We remember, we remember. We remember, we remember We've a country sorrow sealed, And that through internal struggle Was the freedom light revealed. We remember Abram Lincoln, We remember, we remember. 132 IV£ REMEMBER ABRAM LINCOLN. We remember, we remember All the sad forgiven past. It is not what we've forgotten, But forgiven, counts at last. We remember Abram Lincoln, We'remember, we remember. FOR CHILDREN. THOUGHTFUL BLUE BONNET. I WENT into the garden, The dew and bloom among, And caught the morning-glories That from the lattice swung. I flung their smiling colors In handfuls on the grass. And said to wee Blue Bonnet, " Don't crush them as you pass !" The human morning-glory- Paused, with a quaint surprise. And questioned, rather stoutly, *' Why don't 'oo wait t'em dries?" " They can't endure the high sun, Wise little Bonnet Blue. I'll snow them down in showers That you cannot pass through. 12* 133 134 THE PENDULUM. "Lift up your feet so dainty, And see if you can walk, Without harm to a blossom. Here to the glory stalk. ** There's white, and pink, and sky-like. You must not step on one. Don't want to? Why, I thought you Would deem it rarest fun." I scatter on Blue Bonnet Fresh handfuls in my glee Until, in troubled treble. Her words float up to me. She sobs, '' 'Oo vere naughty ! How bees do now, 'oo finks ? 'Tause 'oo breaked up all 'e cups 'At holds 'er mornin' drinks." THE PENDULUM. " Come and go," the pendulum says. Steadily even and fast ; Marking the present a passing gleam. Rocking it into the past. ** Come and go," the pendulum says; Come and go, — and it's gone. The present is only a second of time. And it is galloping on. CLOVER BLOOM. 135 "• Come and go," the pendulum says, Beckoning the future dim. All the time that we really own Is between the tick and tim. * "■ Come and go," the pendulum says, Preaching a sermon great ; '< Whatever you have to do, go on ! And never a moment wait." CLOVER BLOOM. *' It is coming !" so the leaves say, " With its blossoms pink and white. It is coming, full of honey. When the days are long and bright." ''It is coming!" so the bees think, A.S they hum a hopeful tune. "■ It is coming !" shout the children. In the rosy lap of June. " It is coming !" Glad we'll gather All the sweet that it contains. We will garner in the summer For the winter gloom and rains. Bees will hive and keep the honey To consume when falls the snow ; Children store in heart and memory Sweets of clover bloom I know. 136 THE CLIMBING DUCK. Though it is not always summer, And we have no constant bloom ; Let us garner from the blossoms, Have each heart a honey-room. THE CLIMBING DUCK. ''It's just as well, I'm sure," said the duck. As she wiped on the grass her bill ; ''As I'm fond of water, it is my luck To live by the meadow and mill." She walked around and was quite content Till a drake, who had visions ill, Because the strength of his webs was spent. Quacked, "I'll not be happy until " I can reach the top of the apple tree And swing with a robin's skill. The air is sweeter up there, you see, Than here with the daffodil." The duck, who had no mind of her own, Tossed proudly her topknot and frill. Said she, " I can climb that tree alone, And, if it's so clever, I will." She waddled up, like an ambling stork. On a board, a long wooden hill The boys had set in the apple fork. And stood on a trunk limb, still. THE CLIMBING DUCK, 137 '' Ha !" quacked the drake in a taunting way, " Move faster, love ! You'll have a chill, Or you'd better come down awhile, I say, From that sky-parlor and make your will." The duck, ignoring these side remarks, Moved on a little, with timid skill. Vaguely wondering how robins and larks Avoid descents which surely kill. A boy, who had watched the duck's essays To find her level above the mill. Sprang up the tree and said, '' My ways Are swifter, duckie, if you hold still." He carried the duck to the broad tree-top ; Lodged her safe where the robins trill ; And hastened down, with a spring and hop, To see how she liked the blossom hill. She thought the blossoms were sweet, but high ; She quacked a whisper, then kept still ; She feared her topknot would brush the sky, And wished herself in the shining rill. At last, with courage, she spread her wings. Oiling with care each unused quill. "There's much in growing accustomed to things. Oh, if my feet had broader sill !" She tried to settle and plume for flight \ But, alas, could not her wish fulfil ! She flopped, and flapped, and fell outright Unto the ground, with quacking shrill. 138 CHURNING. Her crippled pride a lesson learned That we, the gazers, may too distil ; Prattle and pride should be overturned, And wise contentment each bosom fill. CHURNING. Flipety, flapaty ! to and fro, Over and over the dashers go. Flipety flap, and drip, drip, drip ! The cream is dancing a hop and skip. Flipety, flapaty ! flump, flump, flump ! Now it falls with a duller thump. Flipety flap ! I can scarcely hear ; Swollen with conceit, — isn't that queer? Flipety, flapaty ! chink, chink, chink ! Now it is breaking I really think. Flipaty, flapety ! chink, chink, chump ! There ! it is gathered into a lump. Flipety, flapaty ! chump, chump, chall ! A mound of butter the dashers stall. Flipety, flapaty ! Labor done ; Reward is golden and churning fun. POLLY PIPKINS. A pigeon's homely, widowed bride Was scolding Polly Pipkins. A Grosser bird than all beside Was our gray Polly Pipkins. And yet because by chance she died, The children mourn unpacified. A pigeon of ungraceful mien Was scolding Polly Pipkins; Crooked of beak, half feathered, lean, Was our queer Polly Pipkins ] Her movements each an odd careen ; A stranger she to ease serene. She ate with our canary bird, Poor, scolding Polly Pipkins ! Her food with silver spoon was stirred. Ungrateful Polly Pipkins, She patronizing was, absurd. And gave no pleasant chirp or word. She'd push our hands from china plate. Monopolizing Pipkins. And o'er her sweets expostulate, Indulged and homely Pipkins. Most pompous was her curious gait ; Most discontented was her prate. 139 I40 A WORD TO BOYS. But she is dead. The children cry And kiss their Polly Pipkins. Wondering why the life should fly From their dear Polly Pipkins. Her very homeliness they try To smooth with love and glorify. A WORD TO BOYS. Of all the needless, useless things Which man presumes to do, I think indeed the ugliest one Is to tobacco chew. It may be he was made to mill ; But this continual grind Was scarcely Nature's grand intent In fashioning mankind. If it had been, then, like the kine, Some self-sufficient cud Had been provided for the want, Both innocent and good. But, as it is, we all discern A most perverted plan. The grinding of the weed alone Degenerates the man. VISITING WITH A KITTEN. 141 I do abhor it, to be plain, And, speaking through the pen, I wish to say to eve^y boy It don't make gentlemen. VISITING WITH A KITTEN. I'm visiting my Aunt Pauline, And with her lives Aunt Dora. The others, of the household, are The parrot and Old Nora. 'Tis fun to visit, I have heard ; But so I do not find it. It's lonesome here, away from home. I thought I should not mind it ! My kitten, in a basket, I Brought carefully and tender To while the time and show my aunts What cats the town could render. A sweet Maltese it is, you know, And used to being petted ; But Pretty Poll dislikes it so, It's grown quite thin and fretted. It has to stay outside the door Because she screams so at it ; And I must sit upon the porch Whene'er I feed or pat it. 13 142 VISITING WITH A KITTEN. It rains to-day, it rained all night ; I think 'twill rain to-morrow. I wish my kitten was at home, Away from mud and sorrow ! My auntie's porch has painted floor, And kittie tracks it over ; So broad and brown the marks she makes Are, like the four-leaved clover. Old Nora frowns, and then she scolds To see this need of scrubbing ; My Aunt Pauline, upon her knees, Is at the footmarks rubbing. Aunt Dora raises hands aghast. The parrot screeches ** Murder !" While aunt's words fall upon the cat As if it, not I, heard her. I wish the cat had wiped her feet ! I wish 'twas Nature's fashion ! But still I think it better to Leave prints of foot than passion. It's nice to be so very clean ; My mamma taught me neatness. But then I think, when I'm an aunt, I'll mix it with home sweetness. THE VIOLET'S SONG. 'Neath the brown earth-quilt of Winter And a coverlet of snow, We've been sleeping, we've been waiting For the horn of Spring to blow. March is here, with airy trumpets. To awake a slumbering world. Up the coverlet is gathered, Back the brown earth-quilt is hurled. We our hands are stretching sunward. And our blossom eyes of blue Will soon shine along the pathway That is greening, girls, for you. We will see your merry faces As you romp amid the grass ; You will find us softly smiling If you look down as you pass. May your hearts, like ours, be waking With the Spring to sun and joy. And a happy, happy summer Come to every girl and boy. '43 PUSH ALONG. In whatever you are doing, Push along ! To be cheerful, while pursuing, Makes boys strong. There are drones enough without you In the hive. So, have energy about you, — Be alive ! 'Tis the bees that make the honey. You must know ; Honest, active men the money, As they go. Then be youth that are worth owning, Push along ! Have no time for idle groaning. Or for wrong. You will gain with each endeavor As you go, And about your path forever Roses blow. 144 THE LITTLE HUCKSTERS. The fitful tinkle of a bell Upon the evening air : A wagon load of apples halts ; Our merry hucksters' care. The wagon is a crude affair, Constructed by our boys, Whose years have been but six and eight, To gather trade and joys. They are the horses, men, and all. The younger, spokesman brave, Shouts out, '* We've apples, sour and sweet ; Come buy, and money save ! *' Ten for a cent ! We've sold a lot. One good man bought us out. And now we've loaded up again, To cart them all about." We make our purchase ; kiss the pair. *' Say, mamma, may we go To the next house and sell a few ? The folks are kind we know. 13* 145 146 THE LITTLE HUCKSTERS. ''We just have been to Papa's store: That's where they bought them all. Please let us go ! We won't be long, . Because our load is small." Adown the road the tinkling bell And chirping voices go. I see their forms, and hear the cart, From where the roses blow. A minute later, all is changed ; The tender child of eight Comes, full of tears and bitter grief, Home from the neighbor's gate. The little Bravo tugs the cart Until the load upsets ; Then loudly calls for comfort, aid From the frail child who frets. We gather up the broken cart ; Replace the scattered freight ; Pressing the dear boys to our heart To learn their trouble great. "The man was cross. He heard the bell. But didn't laugh a bit. He called ' Go home !' and scolded so, And we ain't used to it." " The man is old. Perhaps he's deaf," We soothingly suggest. **That need not make him cross," they sob; ** Our own house is the best." KING PRIDE. 147 Dear little hucksters ! such is life. Defeat quick follows gain ; And parents, though their arms reach far, Cannot long shield from pain. Kind words are better. There you're right, And smiles are cheap, we vow. The children soon will be the men. **Come, pets, it's bedtime now." KING PRIDE. The peafowl stood on the strawberry bed And wide his brilliant feathers spread ; For he was as proud as proud could be. So proud, indeed, that he could not see The scarlet strawberries at his feet. Or the meek-eyed fowls that stooped to eat : Then he tossed his crested head so high, And thought his feathers would sweep the sky. Nobody noted the spread so free. Or cared a rush for his brilliancy. The chickens ate to their full content. Then wandered off where shadows went ; 148 KING PRIDE. The birds, the butterflies, and the bees Made gay with beauty and song the trees \ The geese and ducks, with a medley tune. Went down to the brook to take their noon ; Each guinea hen shyly sought her nest, And called, *' Karack ! Here thirty eggs rest !" The cows in the meadow were half asleep ; Buttercups laughed at the browsing sheep. The robins finished the strawberries red. While the peafowl dined on pride instead ; For when, at last, on the ground he gazed, To find them gone he was quite amazed. "Ungrateful people, and rude," quoth he, '' Could you not homage my majesty? "I filled the world, and I touched the sky. That you might gaze with admiring eye." A chorus came from the shade and brook, " We might have starved while we stopped to look. *' As to the strawberries, turtle and toad, If we had not, would have found the road. " We are not wise, but we all intend To be prudent, and not on pride depend." THE SKY WOMAN. " Mamma, what makes the sky look cross Whenever it goes to snow, And wind give clouds an angry toss ? Tell me, for thou shouldst know." *' Because at every fall of snow Come clouds, my child, and winds to blow ** Mamma, that is not what I mean. What makes the gray clouds grow Sullen and cross in their careen Whenever it goes to snow?" ^'Because, my dear, the flakes of snow, Tossing about, disturb them so." *' Mamma, I'll tell thee my belief. The sky girl's old and slow ; She frowns and gets all cross with grief Picking the geese for snow: Because — it is no wonder though — She picks ten thousand for every snow." 149 SLEDDING. It's more fun riding down the hill Than pulling up the sled. " I wish, Bob, you would pull it up And let me ride," said Ned. " 'Twould not be fair," said bright-eyed Bob, '•That you should have the fun, While I take all the tug and work To let you downward run." No, Ned; I'm sure it is not fair To ride without you earn. Each one must pull his sled through life. To labor you must learn. There's many hill-tops we may reach If we pull with our might, And many pleasant slopes glide down If we can steer aright. But, if we wait for other boys To pull our sleds and steer. We gain no strength, and rides are scarce For lazy boys I fear. 150 STOP AND THINK. While your life is full of motion, Stop and think. You may see the waves of ocean From the brink. Thought will often win salvation By the way ; Light a blinded man or nation Back to day. It will never long delay you If you're right ; And from some mis-step may stay you Towards the night. If you find your temper rising, Seek the cause, Which will often seem surprising As you pause. Thought and time improve our vision Till we see, If we'd tread a path Elysian, We must be 151 152 STOP AND THINK. Energetic, even, tender, In our way. Stop and think, if we would render Deeds that pay. THE END.