LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA. 
 

 

 isss. 
 
 ( SEP 17!8>' 
 
 
"PS I ?. 4-0 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 WEEKS & CAMPBELL, 
 
 li;'-!51 CHURCH ST. 
 N. Y. 
 
 C0Tyf^>c;hT I8I!?& U^ JX.Hj^RvEY- 
 
A ROMAN LEGEND. 
 
 Hour by hour, with skillful pencil, wrought 
 
 the artist, sad and lone. 
 Day by day, he labored nobly, though to all the 
 
 world unknown. 
 He was brave, the youthful artist, but his soul 
 
 grew weak and faint, 
 Ashe strove to place before him, the fair features 
 
 of a saint. 
 Worn and weary, he strove vainly, for the touch 
 
 of Heavenly grace. 
 Till one day, a radiant sunbeam fell upon the 
 
 upturned face, 
 And the very air was flooded with a presence 
 
 strangely sweet. 
 For the soul, within the sunbeam, seemed to make 
 
 the work complete. 
 Swift as thought, the artist's pencil deftly touched 
 
 the features fair. 
 Night came down, but one bright sunbeam left its 
 
 soul imprisoned there. 
 And around his dingy garret, gazed the artist, 
 
 w^ondering. 
 For the work sublime illumed it, like the palace 
 
 of a king. 
 And within the artist nature, Hamed his first fond 
 
 love divine. 
 Which bewildered all his senses, as with rare, 
 
 old, ruby wnne ; 
 Yearningly, he cried ; " I love thee," to the 
 
 radiant, saintly face, 
 But the never-ceasing answer was a look of 
 
 Heavenly grace. 
 
Out into the world he wandered, questioning, 
 
 searching everywhere, 
 And the stars above, full often, heard his soul 
 
 burst forth in prayer; 
 "God in Heaven, in mercy, hear me! Hear thy 
 
 suppliant's pleading cry. 
 Lead, Oh I lead my footsteps to her; grant but 
 
 this, or let me die." 
 Friends forsook, and want pursued him, still he 
 
 struggled on, alone. 
 Till, at last, outworn and trembling, reason 
 
 tottered on its throne, 
 And he seemed the helpless plaything, of some 
 
 mad, relentless fate. 
 Till the Sisterhood of Mercy found him lying at 
 
 their gate ; 
 Made him welcome, gave him shelter and with 
 
 ever-patient care, 
 Bathed his brow and brushed the tangled, matted 
 
 tresses of his hair. 
 Long he lingered on the borders of the holy-land 
 
 of death, 
 One fair Sister, by his bedside, counting low each 
 
 fluttering breath. 
 Softly fell the evening shadows, shutting out the 
 
 golden glow, 
 Of a gorgeous, lingering sunset, gilding all the 
 
 earth below. 
 When, upon his pillow turning, swift came to 
 
 him, hopes bright gleams. 
 For the anxious face, above him, was the loved 
 
 one of his dreams. 
 But her life was one of mercy and the band, 
 
 across her brow. 
 Gave the spotless testimony of a maidens', holy 
 
 vow. 
 " Is this Heaven? Are you an angel ? " wSwift he 
 
 questioned her,the while 
 She smoothed back his wavy tresses, only 
 
 answering with a smile, 
 
" Tell me truly, coulds't thou love me, since thou 
 
 woulds't not let me die?" 
 But she pointed to the band about her brow and 
 
 breathed a sigh. 
 In her hours of patient watching, she had learned 
 
 the bitter truth, 
 That the Sisterhood of Mercy has its anguish and 
 
 its ruth, 
 Never more she came, well-know4ng, from 
 
 temptation she must fiy. 
 For his eager, tender questions, in her heart had 
 
 found reply. 
 Every morning, he would question ; " Will she 
 
 come to me to-day ? " 
 And the tender, truthful sisters, shook their heads 
 
 and turned away, 
 For adown his classic features, passed the shadow 
 
 of his pain. 
 As he closed his eyes and murmured ; ''She will 
 
 never come again," 
 In his dreams, one night, he fancied, she had 
 
 bent above his bed. 
 And his longing arms reached upward, but the 
 
 vision sweet had fled. 
 Hopeless, in his great heart-hunger, through a 
 
 storm of wind and rain. 
 To his picture turned the artist, bowing low with 
 
 grief and pain; 
 Open wide, he threw the shutter of his garret 
 
 casement high, 
 Heeding not the vivid lightning, as it flashed 
 
 athwart the sky. 
 On his lowly couch reclining, soon in weariness, 
 
 he slept. 
 While the storm clouds o'er him thundering, 
 
 long and loud their vigils kept. 
 Wilder grew the night and fiercer blew the winds, 
 
 until, at last. 
 Like a bird of prey or demon, through the 
 
 shattered casement passed. 
 
The old shutter, rending, tearing every 
 
 wondrous touch and trace 
 Of the artist's patient labor, from the radiant, 
 
 saintly face. 
 And the jagged bands of lightning, as they 
 
 flashed along the floor. 
 Lit the crushed and crumpled canvas, worthless 
 
 now, forevermore. 
 And the artist, slowly rising, groped his way 
 
 across the room. 
 Feeling, knowing he had lost her, though 
 
 enshrouded in the gloom, 
 Then he sought his couch and murmured; " It is 
 
 well ; Godknoweth best," 
 And the sunbeams of the morning found a 
 
 weary soul — at rest. 
 
 AT THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 The curtain had fallen, the lights were dim, 
 
 The rain came down with a steady pour, 
 A white-haired man, with a kindly face. 
 
 Peered through the panes of the old stage doc 
 " I'm getting too old to be drenched like that," 
 
 He nuittered and turning, met, face to face. 
 The woman whose genius, an hour before, 
 
 Like a mighty power, had filled the place. 
 
 *' Yes, much too old," with a smile, she said, 
 
 And she laid her hand on his silver hair ; 
 " You shall ride with me to your home to-night, 
 
 For that is my carriage standing there." 
 The old door-tender stood, doffing his hat 
 
 And holding the door, but she would not stir. 
 Though he said it was not for the ^' likes of him 
 
 " To ride in a kerridge with such as her." 
 
"Come. Put out your lights," she said to him, 
 
 " I've something important I wish to say, 
 And I can't stand here in the draught vou know — 
 
 I can tell you much better while on the way," 
 So into the carriage the old man crept. 
 
 Thanking her gratefully o'er and o'er. 
 Till she bade him listen while she would tell 
 
 A story, concerning that old stage door. 
 
 " It was raining in torrents, ten years ago 
 This very night, and a friendless child 
 
 Stood, shivering there, by that old stage door, 
 . Dreading her walk, in a night so wild. 
 
 She was only one of the " extra " girls, 
 
 But you gave her a nickel, to take the car 
 
 And said ' Heaven bless ye, my little one, 
 Ye can pay me back if ye ever star.'" 
 
 " So you cast your bread on the waters then. 
 
 And I pay you back, as my heart demands, 
 And we're even now — no ! not quite," she said. 
 
 As she emptied her purse in his trembling hands 
 " And if ever you're needy and want a friend. 
 
 You know where to come, for your little mite 
 Put hope in my heart and made me strive 
 
 To gain the success you have seen to-night." 
 
 Then the carriage stopped, at the old man's door. 
 
 And the gas-light shone on him, standing there ; 
 And he stepped to the curb, as ,she rolled away, 
 
 While his thin lips murmured a fervent prayer. 
 He looked at the silver and bills and gold, 
 
 And he said ; " She gives all this to me ? 
 My bread has come back, a thousand fold, 
 
 God bless her ! God bless all such as she ! " 
 
WHY ? 
 
 Wliy do I love thee ? Ask the flower, 
 
 That nods by the woodland stream, 
 Why it loves the light of the morning sun 
 
 And kisses each golden beam. 
 Ask of the blushing clover bloom, 
 
 In tlie light of the dawning day. 
 Why it presses the dew-drop close to its breast 
 
 And dro(;ps when it steals away. 
 
 Ask why the moonbeams kiss the sea ; 
 
 Why the lily loves the rain ; 
 Why the morning-glory bares its breast. 
 
 When the sunshine comes again ; 
 Ask why the song bird loves its mate ; 
 
 Why the daisies love the lea ; 
 And learn from them ; they'll tell thee true. 
 
 Why thou art dear to me. 
 
 IMPERFECTUS. 
 
 I wonder if ever a song was sung, 
 
 But the singer's heart sang sweeter ! 
 I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung, 
 
 But the thought surpassed the meter ! 
 I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought, 
 Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought ! 
 Or if ever a painter, with light and shade. 
 The dream of his inmost heart portrayed ! 
 
 I wonder if ever a rose was found. 
 
 And there might not be a fairer ! 
 Or if ever a glittering gem was ground, 
 
 And w^e dreamed not of a rarer ! 
 All ! never on earth do w^e find the best, 
 But it waits for us, in a Land of Rest, 
 And a perfect thing we shall never behold, 
 Till we pass the portals of shining gold. 
 
I WOxNDER ! 
 
 I wonder if, under the grass-grown sod, 
 The weary, human heart finds rest ! 
 
 If the soul, with its woes, when it flies to G(jd, 
 
 Leaves all its pain, in the earth's cold breast ! 
 
 Or whether we feel, as we do to-day, 
 
 That joy holds sorrow in hand, alway. 
 
 I wonder if, after the kiss of death. 
 
 The love that was sweet in days of vore. 
 
 Departs with the last, faint, fleeting breath. 
 Or deeper grows than ever before ! 
 
 I wonder if, there in the great Unknown, 
 
 Fond hearts grow weary, when left alone, 
 
 I think of the daily life I lead. 
 
 Its broken dreams and its fitful starts, 
 
 The hopeless hunger, the hearts sore need, 
 
 The joy that gladdens, the wrong that parts. 
 
 And wonder whether the coming years. 
 
 Will bring contentment, or toil and tears. 
 
 PRIORITY. 
 
 In her cozy little chamber, with her feet upon the fender, 
 Slie was reading Walter Scott, the while her husband, voung 
 
 and tender. 
 Wore a smile upon his lips that neither tongue nor pen coidd render. 
 
 " Not one person out of twenty, with the first, fond lover marries,' 
 So she reads and o'er the sentence, for a passing moment 
 
 tarries, 
 While her question, with a subtle subterfuge he quickly parries. 
 
 " Was your ardent protestation unto me your first confession ? " 
 And ; " Was your beloved admission, your initial concession ? " 
 So they questioned 'till it promised to become a stormy session. 
 
 " Well ! I married my first love, providing you did " she said 
 
 faintly, 
 " If you didn't — why — I didiit,'' with a smile serene and saintly, 
 Thus by woman's wit the quarrel was averted very quaintly. 
 
THE NAMELESS GUEST. 
 
 I wonder if ever the Angel of Death 
 
 Comes down from the great Unknown, 
 And soars away, on the wings of night. 
 
 Unburdened and alone ! 
 I wonder if ever the angels' eyes, 
 
 Are filled with pitying tears, 
 As they grant to the souls, unfit for flight, 
 
 A few more weary years. 
 
 For it seems, at times, when the world is still. 
 
 And the soft, night winds are whist. 
 As though some spirit were hovering near. 
 
 In folds of dream-like mist. 
 And I feel, though mortals are nowhere near. 
 
 That I am not quite alone, 
 And, with dreary thoughts of dying and death. 
 
 My heart grows cold as stone. 
 
 But whether 'tis death that hovers near. 
 
 And knocks at the door of my heart. 
 Or w^hether 'tis some bright angel, come 
 
 To be of my life, a part, 
 I cannot tell and I long in vain, 
 
 The secret strange to know. 
 While the moments of mirth and grief and pair 
 
 Move on in their ceaseless flow. 
 
 And at night when I kneel to a Higher Power 
 
 And ask his tender care, 
 One yearning cry, of a wayward life 
 
 is the burthen of my prayer. 
 That I mav bend, with willing lips. 
 
 To kiss the chastening rod, 
 And learn the way, through the golden gate. 
 
 To the great, white throne (^f God. 
 
TWO ROSES. 
 
 Beneath thy open ^\indow, sweet, 
 
 I stood, last night, the stars, on high, 
 Peeped through the rift clouds, sailing by, 
 To light my wandering, love-led feet. 
 
 Along the path, where roses white, 
 Gave to the breezes of the night 
 A kiss of fragrance, soft and light, 
 Witii which thy sleeping smile to greet. 
 And as thy curtains softly swayed. 
 With fervent lips, sweet love, I prayed. 
 The warm, night wind w^ould breathe to thee 
 How^ Heavenly dear thou art to me. 
 
 I plucked two roses, blooming there. 
 One, purest white, one, deepest red. 
 Thy love and mine, interpreted. 
 And tlung them through the odorous air, 
 
 Naught thinking, caring naught, but this. 
 One bore to thee, a lover's kiss. 
 To tinge, perchance, a dream of bliss 
 And nestle in thy golden hair, 
 
 The rich, red rose, thy heart would keep. 
 It told of passion, strong and deep. 
 And well I knew thy lips would find 
 The kiss within, though love be blind. 
 
 And while I lingered, lovingly, 
 
 Content w^ith thoughts that thou wert near. 
 E'en though thy voice I could not hear, 
 
 A sweet surprise flew forth from thee, 
 
 The pure, white rose that I had thrown. 
 Against my breast w^as gently blow^n. 
 And bore a kiss from thee, my own. 
 
 To gladden and enrapture me. 
 
 Swift lips against the petals fair, 
 Pressed close the kiss, imprisoned there. 
 And down the path, the roses white. 
 Heard whispered low ; "My love. Good-night. 
 
AT SUNRISE. 
 
 Over the green grass, wet with dew, 
 Lightly tripping, a maiden flew. 
 Eyes alight with the gleam of love. 
 And the golden sunlight fair above. 
 
 Now she stops, and o'er the wall. 
 
 Dainty fingers and nimble feet 
 Cautiously climb, where wild vines crawl, 
 
 Plucking a nosegay, fresh and sweet, 
 " If you wouldn't be plucked from your mossy bed. 
 You never should be so swxet;" She said. 
 
 Over the fields, w4th a sturdy stride, 
 A yeoman stepped to the maiden's side. 
 And over the cheeks, that flushed so red, 
 With a tender smile, he bent his head. 
 
 And his arm stole gently 'round her there, 
 
 While the nosegay fell to the ground unseen, 
 
 And the song-birds warbled a sprightlier air, 
 
 For he kissed her a hundred times, I ween. 
 
 '* If you'd keep your kisses, dear lips so red, 
 
 You never should be so sweet ; " he said. 
 
 A CHOICE. 
 
 'Tis weak to love, if all the world 
 
 Is fickle, false and vain, 
 'Tis sweet to love, though all the world 
 
 Knows well that love is pain. 
 
 'Tis vain to love, if love must change, 
 And fill the eyes with tears, 
 
 'Tis wise to love, e'en though love range, 
 And rack the heart with fears. 
 
 'Tis vain, 'tis wise, 'tis weak, 'tis strong, 
 
 We know not what to do, 
 We only know the days are long, 
 
 When loving words are few. 
 
To love is pain, Ah ! yes, 'tis true, 
 
 And ever so 'twill be, 
 But not to love and not to woo. 
 
 Is greater, all agree. 
 
 So give me love, and let me find, 
 
 The sweeter, lesser woe. 
 Love, fillet-bound, shall lead me, blind, 
 
 Wherever he may go. 
 
 LET SILENCE FALL. 
 
 Let silence fall, across the past. 
 
 Its fitful moods of storm and rain, 
 
 Its weary hours of jealous pain. 
 Let never heart or speech recall. 
 
 If memory needs must break the spell. 
 
 Remember— that I loved you well. 
 And o'er the rest -let silence fall. 
 
 Let silence fall, between our lives. 
 
 The one, sunlit, with youthful dreams. 
 Flushed, with the future's hopeful gleams. 
 
 And held in proud ambition's thrall; 
 
 The other worn with anxious tears, 
 And tired grown, with gathering years, 
 
 Between them now — let silence fall. 
 
 And let us part, as those who love. 
 Are parted, by the hand of Death, 
 And one stands, hushed, with reverent breath. 
 
 Gazing on funeral bier and pall, 
 
 But ere we close the coffin lid. 
 Let bitter memories all be hid. 
 
 And o'er the grave — let silence fall. 
 
THE RING. 
 
 A band of burnished gold. 
 
 My fingers gently hold, 
 And through the magic circle of its rim, 
 
 Before my dreaming eyes, 
 
 A thousand memories rise. 
 And fill my soul with longing, vague and dim. 
 
 I seem to see the gate. 
 
 At which I used to wait. 
 For her, who gave to me this token sweet, 
 
 I feel a tender thrill, 
 
 That calls to mind the hill. 
 Where hours, like moments, fled on pinions fleet. 
 
 The form of youthful grace, 
 
 The smiling tender face. 
 Is near me still, in spirit, though the years 
 
 Have slowly come and fled. 
 
 And cherished hopes lie dead 
 Along my way, too thickly strewn for tears. 
 
 Oh ! little band of gold ! 
 
 A wealth of joy untold. 
 Your shining circle conjures to my mind, 
 
 And will— until my breath 
 
 Shall meet the kiss of Death, 
 And all the pain of earth is left behind. 
 
 AN OLD SKULL, 
 
 Under a tree, in a grassy glade. 
 Delved I deep, with a well-worn spade. 
 And there, half-hid in the soil, I saw 
 A row of teeth and a lower jaw ; 
 
 'Twas a skull all gray and grinning. 
 
 With a bit of a glass, I scraped it clean, 
 'Twas the first of its kind I had ever seen, 
 So I fixed the jaw with a piece of twine, 
 Hung the skull on a climbing vine. 
 And said, with an accent winning : 
 
" I say, old skull, you've a happy face, 
 I thought that the grave was a dismal place, 
 I'll wager a hat that when on earth, 
 Vou liadn't that permanent look of mirth, 
 And frowned as you went about, sinning. 
 
 Confess if you're happier now than then 
 And I'll put you back in the earth again, 
 Refuse and your future shall surely be. 
 In the dusty den of an old M. D." 
 The old skull kept on grinning. 
 
 A CHALLENGE. 
 
 " Good-night," he said, and lie held her hand. 
 
 In a hesitating way, 
 And hoped that her eyes would understand 
 
 What his tongue refused to say. 
 
 He held her hand and he murmured low : 
 
 " I'm sorry to go like this. 
 It seems so frigidly cool, you know. 
 
 This ' Mister' of ours, and ' Miss.'" 
 
 " I thought — perchance " — and he paused to note 
 
 If she seemed inclined to frown. 
 But the light in her eyes his heartstrings smote, 
 
 As she blushingly looked dow^n. 
 
 She spoke no word, but she picked a speck, 
 
 Of dust, from his coat lapel ; 
 So small, such a w^ee, little, tiny fleck, 
 
 'Twas a wonder she saw so w^ell ; 
 
 But it brought her face so very near. 
 
 In that dim, uncertain light. 
 That the thought, unspoken, was made quite clear. 
 
 And I know 'twas a sw^eet " Good-nig^ht." 
 
A LEGEND OF THE IVY 
 
 I 
 
 In a quiet village of Germany, once dwelt a fair haired maiden, 
 Whose eyes were as blue as the summer sky and whose hair with 
 
 gold was laden, 
 Her lips were as red as a rose-bud sweet, with teeth, like pearls, 
 
 behind them ; 
 Her smiles were like dreams of bliss, complete, and her waving 
 
 curls enshrined them. 
 Fond lovers thronged to the maiden's side, but of all the youth 
 
 around her. 
 One only had asked her to be his bride, and a willing listener 
 
 found her; 
 "Some time, we'll marry," She often said, then burst into song 
 
 or laughter. 
 And tripped away, while the lover's head hung low as he followed 
 
 after. 
 Impatient growing, at last he said; "The spring-time birds are 
 
 mating. 
 Pray whisper, sweet, our day to wed, warm hearts grow cold from 
 
 waiting," 
 " Not vet," She smiled, with a fond caress, but he answered ; 
 
 " >sow or never! 
 I start for the Holy War unless, I may call thee mine forever," 
 " For the Holy War ? Farewell !" she cried, with never a 
 
 thought of grieving, 
 His wish, so often had been denied, she could not help believing 
 His heart would wait, 'till her budding life had blown to its full 
 
 completeness; 
 She did not know that a wedded wife, holds a spell in her 
 
 youthful sweetness. 
 But Alas! for the " Yes " too long delayed, he fought and he 
 
 bravely perished. 
 And Alas! for the heart of the tender maid, and the love it fondly 
 
 cherished ; 
 Her smile grew sad for all hope was gone ; life's sands were 
 
 swiftly fleeting. 
 
And just at the break of a wintry dawn, her broken heart ceased 
 
 beating. 
 And when, on her grave, at the early spring, bright flowers her 
 
 friends were throwing. 
 They knelt and there, just blossoming, they saw a strange plant 
 
 growing. 
 Its tender fingers, at first, just seen, crept on through the grass 
 
 and clover, 
 'Till, at last, with a mound of perfect green, it covered the whole 
 
 grave over, 
 And often, the village youth would stand, by the vine clad mound, 
 
 in the gloaming. 
 And holding a maiden's, willing hand, w^ould tell that the strange 
 
 plant, roaming, 
 Was the maiden's soul, which could not rest and with fruitless, 
 
 fond endeavor. 
 Went seeking the heart it loved the best, but sought in vain, 
 
 forever. 
 
 
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