I i !> I 
 
Classic 
 
 Book 
 
 rmiyriW 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/poemsOObalc 
 
GEORGE B. BALCH 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 GEORGE B. $ALCH 
 
 Illinois Pioneer 
 
 Edited by his daughter 
 MRS. FRANK McCRORY 
 
 BOSTON 
 SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 
 
 1912 
 
Copyright, 1912 
 Sherman, French &» Company 
 
 <gCI.A314031 
 
TO 
 
 OUR MOTHER 
 
 WHO TAUGHT HER CHILDREN TO 
 
 FIGHT AGAINST WRONG AND FOR 
 
 THE GOOD, THE TRUE AND THE BEAUTIFUL 
 
 THIS BOOK IS REVERENTLY DEDICATED 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BIOGRAPHY 1 
 
 GEORGE B. BALCH 6 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 8 
 
 THE POET'S APOLOGY 
 
 THE POET'S APOLOGY 13 
 
 PATRIOTIC POEMS 
 
 THE HAND OF GOD IN AMERICAN HIS- 
 TORY . 19 
 
 LINCOLN 35 
 
 THE LAST WORDS OF GENERAL "STONE- 
 WALL" JACKSON 40 
 
 A POEM 42 
 
 WASHINGTON MONUMENT 47 
 
 GARFIELD 49 
 
 THE BURIAL OF GENERAL GRANT ... 53 
 
 FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS 56 
 
 PERSONAL POEMS 
 
 TO J. F. CAMPBELL 61 
 
 TO DARTHULA CAMPBELL 65 
 
 A LETTER FOR ONE OF HIS LITTLE GIRLS 
 
 TO HER COUSIN 67 
 
 AN ACROSTIC 68 
 
 THE RHYMING PARSON AND HIS AF- 
 FLICTED FLOCK 69 
 
 TO THE VENERABLE FATHER ROBB OF 
 
 MATTOON 71 
 
 TO "CAP" ROBINSON 72 
 
 SHADOWS AND FACES 73 
 
 TO AN AGED CHRISTIAN 75 
 
 TO MY MUCH VALUED FRIEND THEOPHI- 
 
 LUS VAN DEREN, ESQ 78 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PIONEER POEMS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE COMING OF THE PIONEERS .... 85 
 
 THE SPINNING WHEEL 96 
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE PRAIRIE 97 
 
 ALONE 103 
 
 THE GRAVEYARD OF THE PIONEERS . . 106 
 THE GRAVE OF THE FATHER OF ABRA- 
 HAM LINCOLN Ill 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE OLD SETTLERS . . 113 
 
 NATURE POEMS 
 
 FLOWERS 127 
 
 THE TWO RIVULETS— A CONTRAST . . .130 
 
 DAY-DAWN IN THE FOREST 134 
 
 A SPRING IDYL 136 
 
 TEMPERANCE POEMS 
 
 WARFARE 139 
 
 THE RUMSELLER'S HOME 147 
 
 THE SAD BY AND BY 150 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 THE PROFESSOR'S RIDE 153 
 
 DO RIGHT 157 
 
 TRUTH THE ONLY CITADEL OF SAFETY . 159 
 A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW AT HOME . . .160 
 WOULD'ST THOU PRESERVE THY MOTH- 
 ER'S FACE? 162 
 
 DESPONDENCY 164 
 
 TIME 165 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 169 
 
 THE PARTING HOUR 170 
 
 TRUTH AND LOVE 172 
 
 A LOST COMPANION 173 
 
 THE GRAVE OF NAPOLEON 176 
 
 THE DECLINE OF POETRY 178 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ON THE COMPLETION OF THE G. & M. 
 
 RAILROAD 180 
 
 NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS 183 
 
 REFLEX LIGHT 188 
 
 THE G. & M. RAILROAD 191 
 
 NEWSBOY'S GREETING 197 
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS 
 
 LIFE'S WORK 207 
 
 THE BENDING CHRISTMAS TREE . . . .209 
 "WE ALL DO FADE AS A FLOWER" . . .210 
 
 GOLDEN NOTES 212 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 215 
 
 1834— GOLDEN WEDDING— 1884 217 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE DEATH OF A BE- 
 LOVED DAUGHTER 223 
 
 THE CALL OF THE DEPARTED 225 
 
 EPITAPH— OUR MOTHER'S GRAVE . . .226 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIE LYNCH 227 
 TO MR. AND MRS. BENJAMIN D. MINER . 229 
 
 DEATH OF HAMILTON ROBB 230 
 
 LITTLE NATIE NOYES 231 
 
 EMMA WALKER 233 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MYRON J. GLENN . . 234 
 
 ISRAEL J. MONFORT 235 
 
 EPITAPH— MRS. MORRISON 236 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER . 237 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. KATE McDON- 
 
 ALD 239 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 241 
 
BIOGRAPHY 
 
 "The words which thou hast uttered, 
 
 Are of thy soul a part; 
 And the good seed thou hast scattered, 
 
 Is springing from the heart." 
 
 George B. Balch was born in Bedford 
 County, Tennessee, November 1, 1828. His 
 father was Alfred M. Balch. His wife was 
 Margaret Walker. Twelve children were born 
 to these most worthy Christian parents, who 
 excelled in their love of their children and in 
 their devotion to their welfare, temporal and 
 spiritual. And all of these children now liv- 
 ing are esteemed most useful citizens. 
 
 His parents moved to this county when he 
 was two years old, since which time he has 
 dwelt amid its early pioneer scenes, and 
 through its era of remarkable development — 
 those things he so delighted to mark, and clothe 
 with the genius of his pen in words of beauty. 
 
 In his early life he joined the Cumberland 
 Presbyterian church in which he was an elder. 
 In a few years he united with the Old School 
 Presbyterian church of Pleasant Prairie known 
 as the "Indian" church, and was a member and 
 one of its elders at his death. As a neighbor, 
 a friend in sickness, a helper in affliction of 
 
 [i] 
 
whatever kind, the place made vacant by his 
 death cannot be filled. 
 
 Ready with his hand and comforting by his 
 counsel, he was always a most welcome visitor 
 to the sick or otherwise afflicted. He stood 
 not upon the ceremony of his going, but him- 
 self sought earnestly by inquiry and effort the 
 opportunity whereby he might do good, and 
 when found he did his noble duty with Chris- 
 tian cheerfulness, inspiring the brightest and 
 the most blessed hopes. 
 
 As a citizen, by precept and example he was 
 always found on the right side of everything. 
 He was the zealous friend and helper of 
 churches, schools, and of all enterprises for the 
 betterment of man. His heart and purse 
 would always open to relieve distress wherever 
 found and to encourage the right in all things. 
 He was generous of his means; in his opinion, 
 charitable towards others ; but himself aggres- 
 sive for the right as he understood it. For his 
 fellow-men, he exemplified in his life Paul's 
 charity that "believeth well, thinketh no evil. 55 
 He knew the heart is human, and he admitted 
 
 "There is some soul of goodness in things evil 
 Would men observingly distil it out." 
 
 His loyalty to truth not only made him a 
 [2] 
 
fervent follower of Christ, but it made him a 
 staunch patriot. He [Loved his country, his 
 country's flag, his country's hopes, and had 
 unalterable faith, under the providence of God, 
 in the glorious destiny of the United States ! 
 During the dark days of the late war, he saw 
 a silver lining to every cloud. When the senti- 
 nels from the outer posts of the enthralled Re- 
 public were asking of the North athwart the 
 thickening sky, 
 
 "Watchman^ tell us of the night? 
 What its signs of promise are?" 
 
 many a despairing patriot at home went away 
 comforted by the upholding words of George 
 B. Balch. 
 
 George B. Balch knew himself a bard or- 
 dained, and 
 
 "His countrymen came a thousand strong 
 
 To weep o'er his narrow bed; 
 And tears they gave to that child of song, 
 
 Who was best known to them when dead." 
 
 Sunrise or sunset or noonday was to him 
 different than to the ordinary observer. All 
 things about him had for him a congenial, lov- 
 ing spirit ; and one cannot help but love the 
 things he so lovingly delineates. This is re- 
 [3] 
 
markably true of his "Pioneers," a poem 
 abounding in delightful sentiment and poetical 
 figure from the first line to the last line. His 
 great, good heart was so much at home in this 
 world and his sincerity so communicable that 
 he makes his reader feel at home too. He 
 was never overwhelmed with astonishment, but 
 came upon his scenes so naturally that he makes 
 them natural to his reader, who cannot but love 
 the author that paints things with such ac- 
 curate details and in such charming colors. 
 It is this spontaneity of his effusions that 
 gives them their charm, so freshly do they 
 seem to flow from a rich spring of a joyous 
 nature. 
 
 His facility of versification was marvelous ; 
 and he had a rare geniality and a wealth of 
 kindly wit and humor that made him a favorite 
 of the young and of the old, and a welcome 
 guest at all gatherings of the people whether 
 private or public. He had a keen sense of the 
 humorous, whether originating in himself or 
 in others. On meeting him the first time, he 
 having seemingly a wagon full of children go- 
 ing to Sunday school, the writer, struck with 
 the unusual number of children for one family, 
 asked, "Are these all your children?" "No," 
 said he, "I left some of my children at home." 
 
 No one can read his poems appreciatively 
 [4] 
 
without pronouncing him a poet of rare com- 
 bination of head and heart — especially admir- 
 ing the purity of thought and goodness of 
 heart discernible in every line of his poems. If 
 the name Longfellow, or Tennyson, or Whit- 
 tier had gone out as expressing the author- 
 ship of some of his idyls, these would have 
 world-wide reading and confessed appreciation. 
 
 The "Pioneers" is replete with exquisite gems 
 of thought and diction rarely equaled in our 
 literature; and in its delightful mingling of 
 the ideal with the real, it is throughout the 
 three unities charmingly true to nature. 
 
 It is hoped that someone will gather into 
 orderly arrangement the literary works of 
 George B. Balch, and with proper editing have 
 them republished and preserved in a suitable 
 volume. The man is dead; but his good work 
 remains. And it is to assist others to the 
 helpful lesson of his useful life that the under- 
 signed pays his tribute to the memory of his 
 friend. 
 
 T. J. Lee. 
 
 Lee's Academy, 
 
 September 4th, 1886. 
 
 [5] 
 
GEORGE B. BALCH 
 
 A man of genius gone. As I was absent 
 when the funeral of our esteemed fellow citizen 
 Mr. George B. Balch took place, I would like 
 to add a few words to the many appropriate 
 things already said. We look back a half 
 century and see a little boy with the coming 
 pioneers who settled down in this part of the 
 then "far west." The schoolhouse, the church, 
 the newspaper were the missionaries yet to 
 come. The poem entitled "The Coming of the 
 Pioneers" tells you of the trials, privations, 
 perseverance and achievements of that whole 
 class who accomplished so much and are now 
 numbered with those who are beyond "the 
 flood." 
 
 The glitter of gold had no charms for him. 
 For many years before his death he stood as 
 a lone pine upon the mountain. Father, 
 mother, brothers and sisters all called to the 
 "Hesperides" and George stands alone. Eleven 
 sad and lonely years have passed since the wife 
 of his youth (a woman whose worth cannot be 
 told) was taken up higher. Three of a large 
 family of children also preceded him many 
 years to the "home beyond." 
 
 Then he stood amidst the clouds and storms 
 as they swept the mountain around him. Alone 
 [6] 
 
and unfavored does he stand? No! There is 
 a light around his head and a lyre within his 
 hand which seems to be attuned for strains far 
 above the level of poetic genius. How strange 
 to us do seem the dealings of Him whose ways 
 are past finding out. A few days ago there 
 stood a man among us, a man whose literary 
 genius was just beginning to attract the at- 
 tention of men and women of intelligence. 
 
 To-day no thought lights up that once 
 mighty brain, and his pen, as though conscious 
 of power gone, lies motionless by. What shall 
 be the fate of those pages, the number of which 
 we had thought so small in contrast with those 
 to come, we know not. 
 
 His work is done in the literary field. Let 
 someone of taste and order group those gems 
 of thought that they may shed their luster in 
 every library in our land. 
 
 J. W. Woods. 
 
 [7] 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
 (Of Geo. B. Balch, author of "Alone.") 
 
 They told me not that thou wert dead, 
 
 But pointed to cerulean skies above, 
 And said, "He liveth evermore." 
 
 The unseen lyre the minstrel swept, 
 Still wakes some sweeter song on high, 
 
 Tho many a tear for thee is wept, 
 And to thy memory many a sigh, 
 
 Thou hast thy harp, oh, loved of heaven, 
 Not e'en a single chord is riven. 
 
 Sometimes thy harp on willows hung, 
 Attuned to saddest notes of woe; 
 
 Sometimes a grief thy bosom wrung, 
 Too deep for mortal friends to know, 
 
 Save in thy Father's ear thy moan 
 Was uttered in the words "Alone." 
 
 And then again angelic wings 
 
 Were lent thee in thy heavenly flight, 
 
 To bear thee up from earthly things 
 Beyond the ken of mortal sight, 
 
 Where visions of ecstatic bliss 
 
 Dawned on thee in a world like this. 
 
 [8] 
 
Oh, sweet transition of thy soul, 
 
 What heavenly bliss to thee it brings, 
 
 Joy of all joy to crown the whole, 
 The presence of the King of Kings 
 
 With saints and angels who adore 
 Forever and forevermore. 
 
 C. M. Caven. 
 
 [9] 
 
THE POET'S APOLOGY 
 
THE POET'S APOLOGY 
 
 I am so wedded to my lute, 
 That all things else are dumb and mute ; 
 There's nothing gives such high employ 
 Or brings such sweet and holy joy. 
 I love the birds because they sing, 
 And love them most whose airy wing 
 Can bear their light but fearless forms 
 Above the clouds — above the storms — 
 
 Above the mountain's frowning brow, 
 Above where bolts of lightning plow, 
 And there amid unclouded rays 
 Can warble forth their Maker's praise, 
 Unawed by frenzied foes who meet 
 And rend each other at their feet ! 
 Who would not love like them to soar, 
 Above the conflict's fearful roar! 
 
 It is not far ! I almost hear 
 
 The music of the upper sphere; 
 
 'Tis but a step, I almost see 
 
 The hand that holds the harp to me. 
 
 A wavy mist, a gauzy veil, 
 
 As fickle and as light and frail 
 
 That I can almost brush away, 
 
 Is all that hides the inspiring ray. 
 
 [13] 
 
I look, — expectant, look again, 
 To see the shadow rent in twain, 
 And light, effulgent beams of light 
 Come bursting on my raptured sight 
 In streams of empyrean fire 
 Till I become a living lyre, — 
 All tuned and set to music grand 
 When touched by the Almighty's hand. 
 
 May this not be? To Him belongs 
 The power to wake the sweetest songs, 
 From coffined clay, or silent graves, 
 Or sleeping rocks, or roaring waves, 
 Or cooing doves or warbling birds, 
 Or bleating flocks or lowing herds, 
 Or purling brooks, or angry seas, 
 Or sighing boughs or waving trees, 
 Or whirling orbs that roll in fire, 
 As well as from an angel's lyre ; 
 
 And may not I, a living soul, 
 Of Him a part, and Him the whole, 
 May not I sing? I am His son, 
 For me Redemption's work was done; 
 If all things else can sing for joy 
 Then what should be my high employ ? 
 The angels that forever wait 
 About his throne in holy state, 
 And fly to me if he commands, 
 
 [14] 
 
To bring a blessing from his hands, 
 Or guide my feet in wisdom's way, 
 And guard me lest I go astray, 
 Or watch my pillow while I sleep, 
 Or o'er my faults and follies weep, 
 Are only creatures — nothing more — 
 Who live to love, obey, adore. 
 
 A high and holy state is theirs, 
 But they are neither sons nor heirs, 
 And I am both, if God has given 
 To me a "title clear" to Heaven! 
 If they can sing the lofty strain, 
 May I not chant the meek refrain? 
 If servants fill all Heaven with praise 
 What joyful notes should children raise! 
 
 And if our God is pleased with song, 
 Will he esteem a mortal wrong 
 Who longs to clutch the sacred lyre 
 That filled Isaiah's soul with fire, 
 Or sing the songs the Psalmist sung, 
 When on his lips God's praises hung? 
 Or, if he holds such yearning wrong, 
 Then why, oh why this love of song? 
 
 [15] 
 
Why give the bird a voice and wing, 
 Except that it may soar and sing; 
 Why Niagara's awful roar 
 Unless He loves to hear it pour; 
 Why wake in me this burning flame, 
 Except that I may praise His name ! 
 Farewell all else, I'll take the lyre 
 And sweep its chords with keys of fire. 
 
 [16] 
 
PATRIOTIC POEMS 
 
THE HAND OF GOD IN AMERICAN 
 HISTORY 
 
 (A centennial poem, read at Charleston, Illinois, July 
 4th, 1876) 
 
 From this high stand-point in the march of 
 
 time, 
 Where the blazing rays of the centuries shine, 
 Let us turn, and read the lesson so grand 
 Spread out on the past by a Master's hand. 
 
 Let us learn, if we will, that we may know 
 From where we have come, and whither we go ; 
 We are on the high sea, far out from the bay, 
 A century's sail, where we are to-day ! 
 What is the sounding, and how stands the book ! 
 Where points the compass, and what the out- 
 look! 
 
 And as over the rolling cycles past, 
 
 From this towering hill our eyes are cast, 
 
 Four centuries back, we behold a time 
 
 When the earth is burdened with kings and 
 
 crime. 
 The nations were fettered in iron bands, 
 And tyranny reigned supreme in all lands ; 
 The eagle of freedom had taken his flight, 
 And the earth was wrapped in monarchy's 
 
 night. 
 
 [19] 
 
Over matter, and mind, and spirit, all, 
 The ruler of darkness had spread his pall; 
 For Priest, and Devil, and tyrant combined, 
 Had enslaved the body and chained the mind. 
 Then God, the great Architect, formed the 
 
 plan, 
 Of building a temple of freedom for man, 
 And the Kings, and Priests, and Tyrants of old, 
 Were set to prepare the vessels of gold. 
 
 These were the workmen, both cunning and 
 
 skilled, 
 That God employed his temple to build, — 
 To heat the furnace and polish the glass, 
 To garnish the silver and burnish the brass, 
 To pressing the brick and burning the kiln, 
 And hewing the cedars with workman skill, — 
 Made to furnish the stones, all plumbed and 
 
 squared, 
 With beams and pillars already prepared. 
 
 For God was building a temple more grand 
 Than ever had entered the mind of man ; 
 He was building it deep, and wide, and tall, 
 With freedom for each and room for all! 
 
 And as this temple was built to endure, 
 The stones must be tried, the gold must be pure, 
 The cedars must come from a far-off land, 
 Being cut and carved by a master hand. 
 [20] 
 
In lone dark valleys of sorrow and tears, 
 Where liberty wept in fetters and fears, 
 In forests, and quarries, and murky caves, 
 Where the red dragon poured relentless waves, 
 And followed all those who abhorred his name 
 With fetter and chain, and fagot and flame, 
 The columns, and beams, and pillars were 
 
 made, 
 On which the temple's foundations were laid. 
 
 And while man was bound in chains as a slave, 
 Abhorring his life and courting the grave, 
 In bondage to tyrants, by kings oppressed, 
 Columbus oped the gates of the West ! 
 When lo ! an asylum from sea to sea 
 Where freedom's lovers could go and be free. 
 
 Thus God was revealing his God-like plan, 
 Of building a temple of state for man, 
 The silver, and pearls, and vessels of gold, 
 And cedars, and stones, a treasure untold, 
 Were all shipped on board the gallant May- 
 flower, 
 When she waved adieu to a Despot's power ; 
 And when she had touched Columbia's strand, 
 The work of building the Temple began. 
 
 [21] 
 
Then twelve strong pillars, ay ! twelve and one 
 
 more, 
 As if God would make his covenant more sure, 
 Were laid at the base, a foundation grand, 
 On which the Temple of State was to stand. 
 And twelve welcome gates on our eastern 
 
 shore — 
 As the Prophet saw them in days of yore, 
 Turning wide to the sea, and bade the op- 
 pressed 
 Of every nation to come and find rest, 
 In bands they come to the land of the free, 
 Like doves to their windows, across the sea. 
 
 Thus God in wisdom was building a state 
 Of the noble of earth — the good and great — 
 And spite of devils, and tyrants, and thrones, 
 Was building a Temple of living stones. 
 
 But the work was hindered by freedom's foes, 
 Who burdened the people with heavy woes, 
 They were taxed and oppressed with cruel laws, 
 And tried and imprisoned without just cause, 
 They petitioned and plead, but all in vain 
 Their cries for justice but tightened their chain, 
 And armies were sent to keep them in awe, 
 And compel subjection to foreign law. 
 
 [22] 
 
Then a dark cloud of war began to lower, 
 And the people arose in might and power, 
 And resolved their earthly all to resign 
 In one offering grand, on liberty's shrine. 
 
 At Lexington's altar the victims stood 
 When our land received her baptism of blood ; 
 The fires of freedom arose from a spark, 
 Till the red cloud of war grew deep and dark. 
 The nation was filled with fearful alarms, 
 The drum beat of freedom, the call to arms, 
 The rallying shout, the tolling of bells, 
 The roaring of guns, the bursting of shells. 
 
 The shrill bugles' blast, the shouts of the brave, 
 Who craved to live free or sleep in the grave, 
 A father's commands and a mother's fears, 
 A warrior's frowns, and a maiden's tears, 
 All, all was war, deep, dark, vengeful strife, 
 A nation struggling for freedom and life. 
 
 What a fearful tale to monarchs was told, 
 When from Bunker Hill the deep cannon rolled, 
 In deafening peals and flashes of light, 
 That broke the long spell of monarchy's night, 
 Proclaiming in thunder from sea to sea, 
 That God must be honored and man be free. 
 
 [23] 
 
Then Congress assembled, those noble men 
 Whose praise can never be wrote with a pen, 
 Great brave-hearted men who dared to do right, 
 Wise headed men on whom Heaven shed its 
 
 light. 
 Who, relying on God without debate 
 Had met to act for the good of the state. 
 
 &■ 
 
 No sickening impeachment trials on hand, 
 
 No great whiskey rings disgracing the land, 
 
 No frauds to cover, nor rascals to find, 
 
 No wires to pull, nor axes to grind, 
 
 No franchise to sell, nor salaries to raise, 
 
 No subsidies to give — the more their praise — 
 
 But, like men determined to act their part, 
 
 Having God and their country's good at heart. 
 
 No other hopes in view, or ends to gain, 
 They had met to finish freedom's proud fame. 
 And with holy hands to lay the capstone, 
 And bind our land to the eternal Throne! 
 And one hundred years it has been to-day, 
 Since this Congress of great men bowed to pray. 
 And here we will leave them, and soaring afar 
 Will stand at the Temple whose gates are ajar. 
 
 [«*] 
 
There was gloom in Heaven — deep sorrow for 
 
 men — 
 If bliss ever weeps it surely wept then, 
 With sorrowful look and low drooping wing; 
 The Angels of light had refused to sing, 
 Their sweet golden harps were silent and still 
 And the Harpers refused their chords to trill, 
 For in olden times they had heard God say 
 That man was but little lower than they ; 
 
 And man was a slave to despotic rule, 
 
 Of monarchs the dupe, of tyrants the tool, 
 
 Was bound and oppressed, and bartered and 
 
 sold 
 For paltry amounts of cankering gold, 
 The victims of Priests and Tyrants combined, 
 The captive of Satan in chains confined, 
 And the Angels wept, if the Angels can, 
 That they were but little higher than man; 
 And with anxious look and tear-burdened eye, 
 Each leaned o'er the battlements high. 
 
 And while peering thus thro' the boundless blue 
 They beheld an Angel who nearer drew; 
 Towards Heaven he came in his fearless flight 
 On pinions as swift as the morning light. 
 They knew 'twas Gabriel ! — so swift he flew, 
 Who often had winged the deep realms of blue, 
 To bear glad tidings of joy to the earth, 
 He published the news of the Savior's birth — 
 [25] 
 
They knew by the flash of his shining wing 
 That he bore a message up to the king; 
 And as they admired the messenger bold, 
 They beheld him poising a trump of gold. 
 
 O'er the high jasper wall the Angels bent, 
 And eagerly listened with ear intent, 
 All anxious to hear from a fallen race 
 As the notes rolled up, through the realms of 
 space. 
 
 How they leaped for joy, when they heard him 
 
 say 
 With the voice of a trump, "Behold they pray !" 
 "They pray ! they pray !" sing the glad Angel 
 
 throng 
 Till the Heavens are filled with the lofty song. 
 
 The glad notes roll on thro' the golden way, 
 The bending arches re-echo, "They pray!" 
 The saints in white sing the lofty refrain 
 Till the jasper walls re-echo again. 
 
 Then Gabriel arrived on flashing wing, 
 Nor slackened his flight till before the king, 
 When in pleading terms, on his bending knee, 
 He cried, "Oh God ! they are praying to Thee ; 
 They ask Thee to come in thy might and power, 
 And be their saving strength in this dark hour." 
 
 [26] 
 
Then the deep foundations of Heaven were 
 
 moved 
 With great concern for the people she loved, 
 And Michael was called, that Angel brave, 
 Who had bound the Dragon in chains a slave, 
 And hurried him down to the depths of Hell, 
 With furies and fiends forever to dwell! 
 
 "Michael! Michael! brave servant fly, 
 
 And fight for thy people, behold they cry, 
 
 Hasten, O warrior, on dashing wing, 
 
 Fly swift to do the commands of thy king." 
 
 "Ay ! Ay !" cried the warrior, grasping a sword, 
 
 "I'm ready to do thy behest, O Lord!" 
 
 As a shaft of lightning plumed for a race, 
 Or a comet that mocks the bounds of space, 
 As true as an arrow, as swift as light, 
 The warrior sped on his dauntless flight, 
 The Heavens, in wonder beheld him fly, 
 A meteor shot from the bow in the sky. 
 
 Onward he swept in the strength of his ire, 
 His breast beating war, his eye flashing fire, 
 Nor slackened his wing nor halted his flight, 
 Till he planted his feet on "Cambridge Height," 
 Where, with an Angel's grace, in martial 
 
 pride, 
 He belted his sword to Washington's side! 
 
 [27] 
 
He also brought with him, fresh plucked from 
 
 the sky, 
 Yon starry old banner still waving on high, 
 Unstained by treason, unfaded by time, 
 Liberty's emblem in every clime. 
 
 He flew o'er the camp when the soldiers slept, 
 Entered each lone home where a mother wept, 
 Gave trust to all hearts, and strength to all 
 
 hands, 
 Into one binding all with golden bands ; 
 Forming this strong union wherein we dwell, 
 That has safely defied the assaults of hell. 
 
 Onward he flew to the city of love, 
 Where prayer was still rising to God above, 
 And nerved those great heroes of deathless fame 
 To write on that parchment each peerless 
 
 name; 
 And pledge their fortunes, their honor, their 
 
 all, 
 To stand by the right and conquer or fall. 
 
 All over the land, he passed in his flight, 
 Nerving the brave to engage in the fight. 
 His voice was heard in the roar of the gun, 
 The shriek of the fife, the tap of the drum, 
 In the victors' shout as on to the fray, 
 With bayonets fixed, in battle array, 
 Freedom's great army was gaining the day. 
 
 [28] 
 
O'er the army he hovered day and night, 
 Suppressing the wrong, defending right, 
 Or inspiring brave men to cross the sea 
 And battle for those who dared to be free; 
 As the brave De Kalb, who fell on the field, 
 Liberty's sacrifice, rather than yield; 
 And the brave son of France whose peerless 
 
 name 
 Will live co-equal with freedom and fame. 
 
 After seven long years of carnage and strife, 
 Costing untold treasure in blood and life, 
 Old monarchy paid the terrible fine 
 And Tyranny bowed at Liberty's shrine. 
 
 Seven victims of old, in sacrifice given, 
 
 Failed to buy for wrong the favor of Heaven, 
 
 So seven great armies that crossed the deep 
 
 sea, 
 All failed to enslave whom God had made free; 
 It took seven years for a Priest's consecration, 
 So it took seven years to baptize our nation; 
 Those seven years passed, that strange number 
 
 complete 
 And monarchy's sword fell at Liberty's feet. 
 
 [29] 
 
Then Congress adjourned to the house of 
 
 prayer, 
 And poured out their hearts in thankfulness 
 
 there, 
 And people and army, with one accord, 
 United to praise Jehovah the Lord. 
 
 Then the Angel passed to his home on high, 
 Above the planets and beyond the sky, 
 To tell that a nation had come into birth, 
 The joy of all Heaven, the wonder of earth; 
 That they honored God and reverenced his son 
 And received the plaudit of Heaven, "Well 
 done." 
 
 Then the Heavenly host were arrayed on high, 
 All laden with blessings and bid to fly 
 And pour them over the land of the free, 
 Crying, "Honor to them who honor me." 
 
 And our land is honored from pole to pole, 
 And ever will be while the cycles roll, 
 If we are but true to the God above, 
 Who has made our land an object of love. 
 
 [30] 
 
He has given us peace in our land to-day, 
 The dark clouds of war have all fled away, 
 The fraternal strife by Satan evoked, 
 When our land had sinned and God was pro- 
 voked, 
 Has all passed away by the will of Heaven, 
 And our sins, as we trust, have been forgiven. 
 
 And now all over this glorious land, 
 Along the Atlantic's loud roaring strand, 
 Up through the mountains, that point to the 
 
 skies, 
 Where the west flowing rivers take their rise, 
 Thro' this great valley, this home of the free, 
 Where the Father of Waters flows to the sea; 
 Along the great mountains that rise so bold, 
 Where the plains are dappled with fields of gold, 
 And on, and on, to the far reaching west, 
 Where the great Pacific is lulled to rest 
 By the song of the great Yosemite, 
 Whose anthems echo the voice of the free, 
 
 All over the nation from west to east, 
 The people have met at Liberty's feast, 
 Meet to rejoice in our freedom to-day, 
 As the century grand now rolls away! 
 To all its cares and joys we bid adieu, 
 And turn with outstretched arms to greet the 
 new. 
 
 [31] 
 
And as we launch out on the coming years, 
 Say, what are our hopes and what are our 
 
 fears ! 
 Will the flag still wave over your grave and 
 
 mine ? 
 In the years to come will its stars still shine? 
 Will our sons revere it when we have gone, 
 For a hundred years will it still wave on, 
 Our nation's proud flag, the hope of the free, 
 Honored and feared on the land and sea! 
 
 Or shall Mammon or Molech take the reign 
 
 And plunge us in anarchy's night again, 
 
 Shall political strife and public fraud 
 
 Bring down on our land the vengeance of God ! 
 
 Shall a Bible despised, a God disowned, 
 
 A spirit insulted, a world enthroned, 
 
 A Sabbath profaned, and banished away, 
 
 Blot from our land the bright sunlight of day 
 
 As we start again on our new career? 
 
 May our laws be wise, our rulers be just, 
 Our people be true and worthy of trust, 
 May the era now entered exceed the old, 
 In all that is noble, a hundred fold; 
 May knowledge increase, and virtues extend 
 Thro' Columbia's land till time shall end. 
 
 [32] 
 
And when the great Angel shall take his stand 
 With one foot on the sea and one on the land, 
 And swear that time shall end and be no more, 
 May our banner still wave from shore to shore. 
 May its influence reach from sun to sun, 
 Respected by all, dishonored by none. 
 
 And so backward thro' the century past, 
 One thoughtful and lingering look we cast, 
 On the scenes that crowd in the teeming years, 
 That are fraught so deeply with hopes and 
 
 fears ; 
 Or look on the vict'ries of mind and thought, 
 Or the works by art and by science wrought, 
 Or the splendid cities that gild the plain, 
 Where the savage once held his regal reign. 
 
 Or the bands now binding our land in one — 
 Of all other lands the central sun — 
 Or behold the power where men all free, 
 Their low whispers passing beneath the sea. 
 Look on our happy land, in peace to-day, 
 A hundred years along her upward way, 
 Her lofty mountains, hills, and vales, and 
 
 plains, 
 O'erspread with happy homes where freedom 
 
 reigns. 
 
 [33] 
 
Look on the wealth spread out on every hand, 
 With schools and churches dotting all the land, 
 The cycle closed with blessings so replete, 
 God's faithful signet ring it stands complete; 
 Look on it all, spread out before our eyes ; 
 Our nobler nature's powers instinctive rise, 
 With hands upraised, and heart and soul and 
 
 thought 
 We cry aloud, behold what god hath 
 
 WROUGHT. 
 
 [34] 
 
LINCOLN 
 
 The readers of the Springfield (111.) Register who at- 
 tended the seventh annual memorial service conducted by 
 the Lincoln Guard of Honor, in this city, on the 15th 
 of April last, which was the twenty-first anniversary of 
 the death of President Lincoln, will no doubt remember 
 the beautiful poem, entitled, "Is Lincoln Dead?" read 
 by Mr. George B. Balch, of which he was the author. 
 
 Is Lincoln dead? What means this solemn 
 
 throng ? 
 This drapery and this funeral song? 
 What mean these gathering bands of soldiers 
 
 brave? 
 Come they to weep around their chieftain's 
 
 grave ? 
 And is he dead? 'Tis true the crumbling urn 
 In which his lofty spirit used to burn, 
 Within this mausoleum vast must stay, 
 'Till angels come and roll these stones away; 
 But even death is powerless to bind 
 With bolts and granite walls so great a mind ! 
 The vile of earth in unknown graves may lie, 
 But Lincoln and his deeds will never die. 
 
 He lives in every patriot heart enshrined, 
 A star of hope to all as slaves confined, 
 Inspiring all the weary sons of toil, 
 To win the race and gain the victor's spoil. 
 
 [35] 
 
His deeds, deep burned on history's fairest 
 
 page, 
 Will brighter shine in each succeeding age; 
 And nations yet to be will shout his name 
 And future bards arise to spread his fame. 
 "Lincoln" will be the watchword of the brave 
 On every field where freedom's flag shall wave, 
 And down through all the cycles yet to come, 
 His name will gladden many a heart and home. 
 
 When freedom's bells rang out upon the air 
 Like roar of lions in some lofty lair, 
 Proclaiming loud to all beneath the skies, 
 That "Truth, tho' crushed to earth would soon 
 
 arise ;" 
 Pealing in rhythmic notes from shore to shore, 
 The joyful news that treason was no more, 
 That God, by him, a wondrous work has done — 
 A house, divided, had been joined in one — 
 'Twas Lincoln's voice we heard, the bells were 
 
 still 
 Had he possessed a less heroic will. 
 
 And down among the fields of cane and corn 
 The hounds are hushed, and hushed the waking 
 
 horn; 
 Decay and rust have claimed the cruel chain, 
 At rest the lash, and hushed the cries of pain. 
 
 [36] 
 
The hound, the horn, the lash, the cries, the 
 
 tears, 
 Were buried 'neath the sweeping flood of years ; 
 And shouts as if the brazen gates of Hell 
 From off their massive hinges swung and fell. 
 And those so long in darkness there 
 Had once more breathed sweet freedom's balmy 
 
 air, 
 Arose from all the liberated throng 
 "Like sound of many waters" joined in song. 
 'Twas Lincoln's voice, the slave were still a 
 
 slave, 
 Had he not stretched his generous arms to save ! 
 His voice still rings in Freedom's jubilee, 
 As sung by those his matchless will made free. 
 
 Our starry flag were in the dust to-day 
 Had he like others basely turned away ; 
 Its stars were wandering orbs in unknown space 
 Had he not fixed them in their changeless place; 
 The brightest gem in all the shining host, 
 Without his matchless power the rest were lost, 
 But now they brightly beam o'er all the land, 
 He Orion fair, they his shining band. 
 
 But here he sleeps the sleep that waits us all, 
 That knows no waking till the trumpet call, 
 Walk softly then, for here the angels stay, 
 Whom Heaven appoints to watch the sleeping 
 clay. 
 
 [37] 
 
Here love keeps constant vigil o'er his dust, 
 And guards with sleepless eyes her sacred trust ; 
 And it is well to keep with ceaseless care 
 A casket which contains a gem so rare. 
 
 At morning's early dawn may sweet perfume 
 From pageant flower embalm this honored tomb, 
 While warbling wild birds sweetest songs arise 
 In morning anthems to the bending skies. 
 Else, filled with sadness, may they cease to sing, 
 And pass this sacred place on silent wing. 
 
 At noon may softest sunbeams kiss the place 
 Where sleeps the noblest of our age and race, 
 While trees of fadeless green their shadows 
 
 spread 
 Around this mansion of our mighty dead. 
 May silent dews descend from evening skies 
 And all this monumental pile baptize, 
 While all the stars in silent wonder gaze, 
 Upon the homage man to greatness pays. 
 
 When midnight hangs her sable curtains round 
 This silent sepulcher and hallowed ground, 
 May naught be heard except the ceaseless tread 
 Of those who keep this palace of the dead ; 
 With sleepless eyes may they their vigils keep 
 While o'er this tomb Pleiades shall weep. 
 
 [88] 
 
But tho' these stones may sink beneath the sod, 
 Yet Lincoln lives, and dwells in light with God ; 
 A seraph, winged, he waits before the face 
 Of Him whose awful presence fills all space. 
 He still broods o'er this free, united land, 
 Bearing sweet olive branches in his hand; 
 And as he wings the continent he cries, 
 "Arise, O fairest of all lands, arise, 
 Thy higher, nobler calling to fulfill ; 
 A grander destiny awaits thee still. 
 Light thou the path of all who dare be free, 
 And live for God and crushed humanity." 
 
 [39] 
 
THE LAST WORDS OF GENERAL 
 "STONEWALL" JACKSON 
 
 In his tent on the field the hero was lying. 
 
 While his thoughts were leading the battle, 
 And his comrades knew that their chieftain was 
 dying; 
 
 They knew by the ominous rattle. 
 
 The firm hand of skill with affection was warm, 
 
 And vainly endeavored to save, 
 While over him love bent her holiest form, 
 
 And by him in tears were the brave. 
 
 The lifeblood was ebbing away from his breast, 
 His dark eyes were losing their glow, 
 
 His brave willing arms were fast sinking to rest 
 And his clarion voice was low. 
 
 "Let us cross the river," he whispered and said, 
 "I'm weary of carnage and strife ; 
 
 Let us cross the river and rest in the shade 
 Of the trees by the river of life." 
 
 'Twas not the Shenandoah's bright rippling 
 wave 
 That the hero beheld in his vision ; 
 But the stream that washes the cradle and 
 grave 
 And sweeps to the fields of Elysian. 
 [40] 
 
On this side the river are red battle-plains, 
 And the thundering billows of war, 
 
 But over its waters sweet peace ever reigns, 
 And he longed to rest over there. 
 
 Then he crossed the river, the cold narrow 
 stream 
 
 That bears the weary to Heaven, 
 Where the sunlight of love forever will beam, 
 
 And crowns to the righteous be given. 
 
 And oft in the springtime's soft balm-laden 
 hours, 
 
 The stricken will visit his grave, 
 And o'er it will scatter the sweetest of flowers, 
 
 And weep at the tomb of the brave ! 
 
 [41] 
 
A POEM 
 
 (Read at Charleston, July 4, 1879) 
 
 A charioteer with restless steeds 
 
 Is passing by once more, 
 And time, in silence, counts his beads 
 
 Nor e'er recounts them o'er, 
 But onward moves with scale in hand 
 
 To weigh the works of all; 
 
 Nor hastes for those who, waiting stand, 
 
 Nor waits for those who fall ; 
 But, like the restless storms that sweep 
 The foam from off the billowy deep, 
 Resistless time still moves along, 
 Heedless alike of right and wrong. 
 
 The beads are but the teeming years 
 
 That one by one are given, 
 Once used, and then returned with tears, 
 
 And laid away in Heaven; 
 One hundred years, and now three more 
 
 Have thus been laid away 
 Like books with pages written o'er 
 
 And sealed against "That day." 
 What truths their silent pages fill, 
 What record there, of good, or ill, 
 Will still remain for woe or weal 
 Until the breaking of the seal! 
 [42] 
 
To-day another book is closed; 
 
 The record has been made, 
 The trust in each and all reposed 
 
 Is in the archives laid. 
 Time counts a bead and onward flies, 
 
 Nor counts one backward look ; 
 The record passes thro' the skies, 
 
 And angels seal the book. 
 
 With ready pen and scroll in hand 
 Another writer takes his stand 
 
 To pen in lines of deathless hue 
 
 The works that each and all shall do 
 
 While we look on with wondering eyes 
 
 And scan each moment as it flies. 
 
 A nation's birthday dawns again 
 Upon a people who are free, 
 And dove-like peace and plenty reign 
 
 Through all the land of liberty. 
 The three dread bolts so often hurled 
 From Heaven upon this Babel world, 
 Have all been stayed, and dreadful war 
 Has elsewhere drove his flaming car. 
 
 And pestilence with wings of gloom, 
 And fetid breath, and raven plume, 
 And vulture eye, and yawning maw, 
 Has fled the land where love is law — 
 
 [43] 
 
— When brothers late were bowed in grief, 
 'Twas love that sent a sweet relief! — 
 Gaunt famine, too, that fearful rod, 
 Oft wielded by an angry God, 
 Has been withheld by that kind hand 
 That loves to bless a Christian land. 
 Nor has some blood-nursed tyrant come 
 To rob sweet freedom of her home, 
 And bind her sons with cruel chain, 
 Then o'er them as a despot reign ; 
 Such monsters vile, with bannered host, 
 Have scourged full many a trembling coast 
 Their van well marked with patriot graves, 
 Their rear with burning homes and slaves. 
 
 Such tyrants oft have cursed the earth 
 Since first was sung creation's birth, 
 As he who wept for one more world 
 On which his armies might be hurled; 
 Or he who knew his all was lost 
 Unless the Rubicon was crossed; 
 Or he whose armies vast and grand, 
 Were buried 'neath the eddying sand, 
 That, lifted by the whirlwind's blast, 
 In wheeling islands back was cast, 
 Till horse and rider, lord and slave, 
 Were buried 'neath the lowering grave! 
 
 [44] 
 
Or he who never more will wake 
 
 To hear the rhythmic roar 
 Of angry waves that fall and break 
 
 On St. Helena's shore; 
 He should have read his fearful doom 
 When Moscow mocked Aurora's bloom, 
 And from the fields of strife withdrew 
 And saved the blood of Waterloo. 
 
 Then let one lofty anthem pour 
 
 From lake to gulf, from shore to shore; 
 
 Let belfried bells peal forth in song 
 
 While rolling drums their notes prolong ; 
 
 Let banners wave and bugles ring, 
 
 And guns the diapason sing; 
 
 Let bright bonfires with flashing light, 
 
 And blooming rockets stay the night; 
 
 Let happy homes, and shady bowers, 
 
 And spreading lawns and deathless flowers 
 
 O'erspread this glorious land of ours ; 
 
 From every heart, by every tongue, 
 
 Let freedom's jubilee be sung, 
 
 Till peace shall spread from shore to shore 
 
 And earth be cursed with war no more. 
 
 [45] 
 
Fly swift around, ye cycles, then, 
 
 Unveil the auspicious scene, 
 When naught shall rule the hearts of men 
 
 But Christ the Nazarene; 
 Whose throne is in an olive grove 
 
 Where strifes forever cease, 
 Whose wish is law, whose law is love, 
 
 And all his realm is peace. 
 
 Then let the cannon hush its roar, 
 The drum beat war alarms no more, 
 Let swords be sheathed or idly rust, 
 And ramparts molder back to dust. 
 Let mothers quell their rising fears, 
 And still their hearts, and dry their tears ; 
 Let children leap for joy, and sing, 
 Until Columbia's land shall ring, 
 For battle fields no more shall be, 
 And peace shall flow from sea to sea. 
 
 [46] 
 
WASHINGTON MONUMENT 
 
 Arise, peerless shaft, arise 
 Above all other piles that men have reared, 
 
 And ever witness to the wise 
 That he who serves the best is most revered. 
 
 And may thy shadow ever fall 
 Upon a free, united, peaceful state, 
 
 Whose sons will rush at Freedom's call, 
 To guard this patrimony of the great — 
 
 Washington. 
 
 Arise, O peerless shaft, arise, 
 And like the brazen type upon the plain, 
 
 May all who turn to thee their eyes 
 Be freed from vile oppression's cruel chain, 
 
 And may Columbia's fair and brave, 
 Above the groveling love of self aspire, 
 
 And dying, fill as sweet a grave, 
 As Vernon's sage — our country's noble Sire- 
 Washington. 
 
 Arise, O peerless shaft, arise, 
 In mem'ry of our nation's mighty chief, 
 
 And stand till love of freedom dies, 
 And Liberty shall bow her head in grief ; 
 
 And through the ages yet to come, 
 When all who love thy stones are in the grave 
 
 Still tell that this was Freedom's home 
 Where all who hated tyrants loved the brave- 
 Washington. 
 
 [«] 
 
Arise, peerless shaft on high, 
 And hold communion with the clouds above, 
 
 And tell those couriers of the sky 
 Thy deep foundation stones were laid in love ; 
 
 Aye, tell the dreadful thunder there 
 To hurl no bolts upon thy sacred head, 
 
 And charge the mighty winds to spare 
 The pile we raise in memory of our dead — 
 
 Washington. 
 
 [48] 
 
GARFIELD 
 
 He lives no more, the nation's honored chief, 
 And at his tomb love pours her deepest grief! 
 Struck down by dastard hands and frenzied 
 
 brain, 
 Low laid upon his couch and racked with pain, 
 For him the faithful prayed and prayed again ; 
 The north, the south, the east, the west, 
 United made the same request. 
 
 A million praying hearts, all bound in one, 
 Lay pleading at the feet of Him whose Son 
 On Roman cross had felt the dreadful blow 
 Of that same hand that laid our Garfield low ; 
 
 The orisons arose on high 
 
 And incense to the Deity ! 
 The lightning leaped along the trembling wire 
 And told that all earth's altars gleamed with 
 
 fire 
 From distant lands beyond the rolling wave, 
 Where willows droop o'er many an honored 
 
 grave, 
 From continents and islands, hills and dales, 
 The prayers went Heavenward on the passing 
 gales ! 
 
 No eye but shed a tear of grief; 
 
 No heart but longed to send relief; 
 
 All, all in supplication bow, 
 
 Each heart a Nain widow's now. 
 [49] 
 
In cloistered homes fair Albion's daughters 
 wept, 
 
 While Scotia's sons their solemn vigils kept ; 
 
 From monastery vast and gilded fane 
 
 Along the Rhine and by the babbling Seine ; 
 
 From out the vales o'erhung by Alpine snows, 
 
 And e'en from where the far off Volga flows ; 
 
 From courts and cots alike the cry arose. 
 On every tongue, from every soul, 
 The heart's deep diapasons roll 
 Till earth was girdled with the prayer 
 That Israel's God would hear and spare. 
 
 When all was hushed, a still small voice, 
 Bade every saddened heart rejoice, 
 
 And trust th' Almighty king; 
 And Love and Science, hand in hand, 
 With art and gold at their command, 
 
 Were sent on trembling wing. 
 
 Beside his couch grave Science stood 
 With thoughtful brow and pensive mood, 
 
 And gave the wise command, 
 While Love, an angel from the skies, 
 Stood near his side with streaming eyes, 
 
 And held the sufferer's hand. 
 
 [50] 
 
But still the sinking chieftain neared the tomb 
 Till all that's bright on earth was robed in 
 
 gloom ; 
 E'en Science quailed, and turned away and 
 
 wept, 
 While Love alone the midnight vigil kept ; 
 A dread suspense hung o'er the anxious world, 
 While sable grief her starless flags unfurled, 
 All, all hung trembling on the breath of fate, 
 While God taught man, impatient man to wait, 
 And in the dust and ashes learn to love 
 The chastening hand of Him who reigns above. 
 
 Then Love assumed the scepter and the sway, 
 
 And sea and land and winds and waves obey ; 
 
 The hoary ocean hushed his awful roar 
 
 And stretched his arms in vain to help restore, 
 
 While gentle gales from many a spicy plain, 
 
 Blew softly to impart new life again, 
 
 But no ! "Death loves a shining mark," 'tis said, 
 
 And Elberon, at midnight, mourned her dead. 
 
 'Tis sad that one so pure, so wise, so great, 
 So fit to guide the mighty ship of State, 
 Should fall by one so mean that e'en his name 
 Will ever make the vilest blush for shame. 
 But hush ! and humbly turn we back to God, 
 Ashamed our nation needs his chastening rod ! 
 And at the grave of our most gifted son, 
 We kneel in tears and pray "Thy will be done." 
 [51] 
 
Once more, Holy Father, save 
 Our native land from ruin's grave ; 
 Aye ; save us from our dazzling name, 
 Our lust of gold, our love of fame, 
 And cause the States once rent in twain 
 To seek the beaten paths again, 
 And humbly rising from this rod, 
 To Emmaus walk in peace with God. 
 
 Lerna, 111. 
 Oct. 5th, 1881. 
 
 [52] 
 
THE BURIAL OF GENERAL GRANT 
 
 (Poem read by Geo. B. Balch, at Charleston, on the 
 occasion of memorial services, Aug. 8, 1885) 
 
 To-day Columbia weeps around 
 
 Her great field-marshal's grave, 
 And bathes with tears the hallowed ground 
 
 Where slumbers Grant, the brave. 
 Keep thou, O grave, the sacred trust, 
 
 Which 'neath thy bars we lay, 
 For earth ne'er closed o'er braver dust 
 
 Than rests in thee to-day. 
 
 Insatiate grave! and must we give 
 
 Our noblest sons away? 
 And must we on thy margin live, 
 
 And only live to-day? 
 E'en yet, this mighty nation weeps 
 
 That Lincoln is no more, 
 And that the gallant Garfield sleeps 
 
 Where Erie's waters roar. 
 
 And once again, O dreadful king, 
 
 We hear the funeral knell, 
 And on each breeze we catch the ring 
 
 Of sadly pealing bell ; 
 For in the silent tomb is laid 
 
 A statesman without stain, 
 Who weighed his words as gold is weighed 
 
 Nor drew his sword in vain. 
 [53] 
 
He measured swords with high renown — 
 
 With men as brave as he — 
 And bore from every field the crown 
 
 And palm of victory. 
 Till aJl the monarchs of the earth 
 
 Revered his potent name, 
 And men of rank and royal birth 
 
 Admire his rising fame. 
 
 The eagle bold, with bending beak, 
 
 Whose wings refuse to fly, 
 Ascends some lofty mountain peak, 
 
 On which, in peace, to die. 
 So Grant, when called to heaven above, 
 
 Went up the mountain height, 
 And from McGregor's peaceful grove 
 
 His spirit took its flight. 
 
 An exile on a foreign shore, 
 
 Where none could bring relief, 
 Surrounded by the ocean's roar, 
 
 Napoleon died in grief. 
 'Mid wine-cups Alexander died, 
 
 Unwept by classic Greece, 
 'Mid treason's dagger Caesar cried, 
 
 But Grant expired in peace. 
 
 [54] 
 
No statesmanship is truly great 
 
 That heaven has never blest ; 
 Our hero gained this high estate, 
 
 And entered into rest; 
 Rest then, O hero, rest ! thy grave 
 
 Is all the continent, 
 Thy praise the starry flags that wave ; 
 
 History, the monument. 
 
 [55] 
 
FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS. 
 
 Bring flowers, bright flowers, and garland each 
 grave, 
 
 Where a martyred hero is sleeping. 
 For the honored dust of the noble and brave 
 
 Was entombed and left in our keeping. 
 
 'Tis meet that we gather the beauties of May, 
 
 With the silent hand of affection, 
 And garland the place where the sentinels lay 
 
 Who stood as our wall of protection. 
 
 They fought in defense of the flag of the free, 
 When red-handed treason disdained it, 
 
 And waved it aloft o'er the land and the sea, 
 And the graves of those who had stained it. 
 
 They met their dark foemen in battle array, 
 Where treason and death held communion, 
 
 And died on the field in the midst of the fray, 
 And left us their graves and the Union. 
 
 Their comrades who stood on the same gory field 
 When the dreadful messenger met them, 
 
 And remained until treason was forced to yield, 
 Will never, no never, forget them! 
 
 [56] 
 
Full long is the time since the last bugle-call 
 
 For freedom's defenders to rally, 
 And yet there are tears that continue to fall 
 
 And feet that are still in the valley. 
 
 The widow oft weeps by the grass-covered 
 mound, 
 With sorrow's dark mantle spread o'er her, 
 While hopes that were broken and dashed to the 
 ground, 
 Tho' ruined, are ever before her. 
 
 The glories she saw in her orient sky, 
 
 When life's maiden day was just dawning, 
 
 And the rainbow that gladdened her love-lit 
 eyes, 
 All vanished away in the morning. 
 
 O war ! merciless war ! thy sword shall be turned 
 By the King who "cometh from Edom," 
 
 Thy horses and chariots shall all be burned 
 To light up the pathway of freedom. 
 
 And even to-day there is peace in our land, 
 And with hearts upraised to the Giver, 
 
 We will hope that the long-wished day is at 
 hand 
 When our "peace shall flow as a river." 
 
 {57] 
 
The thunder of cannon has all died away, 
 
 The war-drums have ceased their loud rattle ; 
 
 But love is as warm in all true hearts to-day 
 As it was in the days of the battle. 
 
 The plowshare has passed over the blood- 
 sprinkled plain 
 And covered the grass that was gory, 
 But memory still watches the graves of the 
 slain, 
 And guards both their dust and their glory. 
 
 How peaceful they rest 'neath the blossoms of 
 Spring 
 
 In this balm-breathing hush of the even, 
 While o'er them the wild birds in melody sing 
 
 The songs they have borrowed from Heaven. 
 
 Then scatter sweet blossoms all over each grave, 
 That the heavens may know we will love them, 
 
 While the banner baptized in their blood shall 
 wave 
 In star-spangled glory above them. 
 
 And e'en when the springtime shall burst into 
 bloom, 
 And the birds return in their season, 
 We'll entwine sweet garlands 'round each mar- 
 tyr's tomb 
 Till honor forgets to hate treason ! 
 [58] 
 
PERSONAL POEMS 
 
TO J. F. CAMPBELL 
 
 February 23, 1877. 
 Mr. J. F. Campbell, 
 
 Dear Brother and Friend: — 
 
 In this my first effort to write you a letter, 
 I think that to rhyme it will be all the better, 
 for rhymes are remembered much longer, you 
 know, than things that are prosy and sluggish 
 and slow. I think I have tried many hundreds 
 of times, to get my mind rid of the silliest 
 rhymes, but they will come back and remain 
 with me still, such as "Old Uncle Ned" and 
 poor "Jack and Gill," who absurdly seek water 
 by going up hill. But tho' this may prove 
 that rhyming is better, it is not writing 
 you much of a letter. And if you quit busi- 
 ness my notes to peruse, altho' you like rhym- 
 ing you'd rather read news. So then, to be- 
 gin with, the children are well and in this sickly 
 world that's good news to tell, and more, by 
 great odds, than many can say ; for there's a 
 good deal of sickness down this way, and 
 mortality too, for many have died, at Neoga 
 Long Point and Mule Creek this side. In 
 some neighborhoods I suppose a full score have 
 folded their tents and are camping no more. 
 
 Tell William Dryden that his uncle is dead, 
 Uncle Samuel you know, with the snowy head; 
 but his aged sire, at about eighty-four, still 
 [61] 
 
firmly walks on the storm-beaten shore, and his 
 Uncle William still firm in his tread, tho' eighty- 
 two winters have passed o'er his head ; when 
 Samuel was buried, there followed the corse 
 these two aged Brothers, each riding a horse. 
 
 But I suppose that your near kin down this 
 way, post you up each week on the news of 
 the day. 
 
 The winter thus far, since the first of No- 
 vember, has been much the finest since I can 
 remember. The roads are as smooth as your 
 front door-yard, but there's little to market, 
 and times are hard; e'en poetry, however 
 rhythmic and sage, wouldn't bring in the 
 market but two cents a page. Our dear old 
 Church, whose sweet memories we cherish, is 
 sickly and feeble and likely to perish. 
 
 For where in His chariot Jehovah did ride, 
 Now Mammon walks forth in the strength of 
 
 his pride — 
 Since the Fathers have slept, the unguarded 
 
 fold 
 Have wandered away and are out in the cold, 
 In the wilderness waste where the wild-wolf 
 
 howls, 
 And the roaring lion and the leopard prowls. 
 It makes my heart sick to behold its decline, 
 And in bitterness fear that the fault may be 
 
 mine; 
 
 [63] 
 
And unless God revives us, I greatly fear 
 That the time is at hand, its coming is near, 
 When some Poet whose soul is flaming with fire, 
 Will in bitterness wring these lines from his 
 
 lyre: — 
 Farewell to the Church where our forefathers 
 
 dwelt, 
 The alter and shrine where in childhood we 
 
 knelt, 
 The cherished endearments we fondly recall, 
 The gravestones and hillocks — farewell to them 
 
 all; 
 Our temple in silence will sink to decay, 
 And Baal's adorers in mockery say, 
 "Where now is thy God? O Israel, where 
 Is the One at whose feet ye offered your prayer? 
 Doth He hear when ye call, the Mighty to 
 
 save, 
 And where is the vict'ry He gained o'er the 
 
 grave?" 
 Then the ashes will speak, the dust will arise, 
 For God will still love us tho' Baal despise, 
 Thus Hope with her pinions fresh plumed for 
 
 the flight 
 Can wing her glad way through the regions 
 
 of night, 
 And beyond the decay, in spite of the rod, 
 Can clasp to her breast the Promise of God. 
 
 [63] 
 
I know that your cheeks will be moistened with 
 
 dew 
 When you think of the time my words may be 
 
 true; 
 But tho' tears unbidden profusely may roll, 
 They will be the upheavings of love in the soul. 
 But this topic is sad, let us turn away, 
 And tune our dull harp to a happier lay. 
 Then turn we away from the ills of to-morrow, 
 Nor of trouble and fear one drop will we borrow. 
 And use but the moments — each one in its 
 
 turn — 
 That the Master in mercy lets fall from his urn. 
 And have the more faith for the gloom that en- 
 shrouds, 
 For the bow will not shine, except there be 
 
 clouds. 
 Then how foolish our wish, that the clouds 
 
 would retire, 
 For the Promise will stand tho' the world were 
 
 on fire ! 
 
 Well, I commenced rhyming just for the fun, 
 And behold what a rhythmic jungle I've spun. 
 For my pen glides rapidly over the scroll, 
 To coin into numbers the thoughts of my soul ; 
 But now you may rest, in this sweet land of 
 
 "Beulah," 
 While I change my numbers and write to 
 
 Darthula. 
 
 [64] 
 
TO DARTHULA CAMPBELL 
 
 Dear Sister: — 
 
 In these humble lines, 
 My friendship with my love combines, 
 To write you a word of cheer. 
 For we are only pilgrims here 
 And children too, and often need 
 Some other child to say, "God Speed." 
 Our hearts are often filled with fear, 
 Because the way is dark and drear; 
 And we should always go in bands, 
 And hold each other by the hands. 
 
 'Twould for our sadness much atone, 
 To know that we were not alone. 
 For tho' our Elder Brother stands, 
 With open arms and outstretched hands, 
 To lead us through the lonely way, 
 And guard us from the beasts of prey, 
 Yet we — how childlike — often roam, 
 Away from Him, away from home; 
 But tho' we stand close by his side, 
 We oft must breast the angry tide. 
 
 [65] 
 
For Earth and Hell are well combined, 
 To spoil what God himself designed. 
 Our fathers fought the battle sore, 
 But they have gone — their warfare o'er, 
 And we with trusty sword and shield, 
 Are soldiers on life's battle field. 
 The conflict sharp indeed may be, 
 Our barks may float a stormy sea. 
 
 [66] 
 
A LETTER FOR ONE OF HIS LITTLE 
 GIRLS TO HER COUSIN 
 
 My Dearest Cousin Mary Jane: — 
 I'll write a line or two, 
 To let you know that we are well, 
 And hope the same of you. 
 
 Uncle Davy's very sick; 
 
 Some say they think he'll die; 
 
 The old you know must pass away, 
 
 And so may you and I. 
 
 Uncle Wilse's Little Jim, 
 
 The romping little lad, 
 
 Did tumble down the stairs one day, 
 
 Which hurt him very bad. 
 
 Pa says when summer comes 
 And the roads are like a floor, 
 He'll take us in a car some day, 
 And dump us at your door. 
 
 [67] 
 
AN ACROSTIC 
 
 'Tis autumn now; her robe of leaflets sere, 
 Her mellow days and brown-clad fields appear, 
 Enrobed in garments rare, of crimson dye ; 
 October, queen of months, is passing by. 
 Peaceful and slow, like one o'ercome with years, 
 Her morning sun in silver sheen appears ; 
 In golden robe he sinks adown the west, 
 Like one who folds his arms in peaceful rest. 
 Uran'i* leads his flocks through fields of blue, 
 Sweet emblems they of those whose hearts are 
 
 true; 
 Visions of glory sweep before our eyes 
 As star on star mounts up the bending skies ; 
 Noble the mind that grasps the lesson taught, 
 Divine the pages and the pictures wrought ; 
 Each wheeling sphere aloud proclaims the word, 
 "Remember thy Creator and thy Lord !" 
 Each smiling day speaks forth his lofty praise, 
 Night unto night gives knowledge of his ways. 
 
 * Uran'i — Fabled god of astronomy. 
 
 [68] 
 
THE RHYMING PARSON AND HIS 
 AFFLICTED FLOCK 
 
 With a musing parson the church is afflicted, 
 And afflictions are always double ; 
 
 For to writing rhymes he is greatly addicted — 
 Only rhymes ! ah, that is the trouble ; 
 
 And when we expect some good old-fashioned 
 prose, 
 
 He mounts old "Pegasus" and away he goes. 
 The gods must be mad 
 That would send such a teacher, 
 (The church would be glad 
 They would send her a preacher) 
 
 'Tis said we must bear what cannot be cured ; 
 
 But how shall we bear what can't be endured? 
 
 His flock would be led into pastures so fair, 
 Where the tall cedars wave in the soft balmy 
 
 air, 
 Where, 'mid their cool shadows the bright 
 
 waters flow, 
 And the roses of Sharon in loveliness blow; 
 With joy would they follow their shepherd 
 along, 
 And cheer all his way with their jubilant 
 song. 
 But alas ! alas for this sad fate of ours ! 
 O Muses ! come forth with your all-healing 
 powers 
 
 [69] 
 
Come laden with clysters, and catsups and 
 
 thymes, 
 And our parson cure of his mania for rhymes ! 
 Or is there no help for this rhyme-ridden flock, 
 No balm in the trees nor sweet oil in the rock ? 
 And must we submit to this sorrow and woe, 
 'Till o'er the dark river with "Charon" we 
 go? 
 How long, O Lord, how long till we 'scape to 
 Heaven, 
 Until seven times, or till seventy times seven? 
 
 Miss Gray: 
 
 At your earnest request I send you the above 
 prescription for your afflicted friend. It will ef- 
 fect a speedy cure unless the fellow has 'em real 
 bad. But should he relapse and green vomit again 
 recur, you will please notify me at once, and I will 
 send a more vigorous remedy. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 Dr. Esculapius. 
 
 [70] 
 
TO THE VENERABLE FATHER ROBB 
 OF MATTOON 
 
 'Tis Sabbath eve and all is still as death, 
 Among the trees there is no mournful wail, 
 
 'E'en hoary winter holds his icy breath 
 And sleep has overcome the weary gale. 
 
 Thus may it be with thee when life shall end 
 Amid stern winter's hoary frosts and snows, 
 
 The storms all hushed, the holy silence lend 
 Its powers to waft thee to thy last repose. 
 
 In distant lands the song-bird wakes its lyre 
 Where orange blossoms are forever seen, — 
 
 Where winter's frost erects no mournful pyre, 
 Amid the fields that wave in changless green. 
 
 And so, when life's chill winter days have come, 
 The weary pilgrim soars to sunnier skies, 
 
 And sings his songs within a brighter home 
 Amid the fadeless fields of Paradise. 
 
 [71] 
 
TO "CAP" ROBINSON 
 
 (After the contesting of his election to a county office) 
 
 Well, Cap, you've got the office now, 
 And no mistake about it; 
 And Clark steps down and makes his bow, 
 And goes away without it. 
 
 [72] 
 
SHADOWS AND FACES 
 
 (Dedicated to C. R. Briggs) 
 
 We look upon our chamber wall 
 Through burning tears of sorrow, 
 
 Then restless walk the silent hall 
 And try some joy to borrow, 
 
 But see no cheerful ray of light 
 Without a sweet to-morrow. 
 
 'Tis true, the wall is richly hung 
 
 With sweet, familiar faces, 
 The pictures of the old and young 
 
 And paintings of the Graces. 
 With scenery of distant lands, 
 
 Now cold in death's embraces. 
 
 But mother with her face so fair, 
 Beneath the green is sleeping, 
 
 And father with his brow of love 
 Her company is keeping. 
 
 And when they crossed the narrow sea, 
 They left no portraits here for me; 
 
 Therefore, my bitter weeping. 
 
 [78] 
 
And as the years go sweeping by, 
 
 Leaving their frosty traces, 
 We, too, beneath the green will lie 
 
 All cold in death's embraces ; 
 And lest like us our children mourn 
 When we have crossed the silent bourne, 
 
 We will forestall their bitter woe, 
 
 By seeking out your studio 
 And have you paint our faces. 
 
 [74] 
 
TO AN AGED CHRISTIAN 
 
 (Respectfully dedicated to Rev. George W. Coons, D. D. 
 of St. Louis) 
 
 My gifted friend, and aged sire, 
 Whose hand has touched the sacred lyre; 
 Whose soul has scaled the mountain's height, 
 And roamed amid the fields of light, 
 And breathed the pure, unpoisoned air 
 That flows in streams of sweetness there ; 
 I hail thee with this humble lay, 
 To cheer thee on the heavenly way. 
 
 Hail, father, hail! elate with hope, 
 Adown life's grand Pacific slope; 
 With trustful staff and cheerful feet, 
 Life's journey now almost complete. 
 You soon will hear the rhythmic roar 
 Of waves that wash life's western shore; 
 How soft they break, how calm the sea, 
 'Twixt time and vast eternity. 
 
 How sweet from some "Mount Pisgah" here, 
 To view the promised land so near; 
 'Tis nearest those who soar and sing, 
 On Contemplation's tireless wing; 
 Ascending still, they find that light 
 Increases with increasing height. 
 
 [75] 
 
It is not far, the heavenly land; 
 
 To where the saints, a blood-washed band, 
 
 Forever pour a lofty song 
 
 That rolls the golden streets along, 
 
 In praise of Him who stooped to save 
 
 His people from a self-made grave. 
 
 'Tis but a step ; we almost hear 
 The music of the heavenly sphere; 
 A wavy mist, a gauzy veil, 
 As fleeting, and as light and frail, 
 That we can almost brush away, 
 Is all that hides the inspiring way. 
 
 We look expectant, look again, 
 To see the shadow rent in twain; 
 And light, effulgent beams of light, 
 Break in upon our raptured sight, 
 In streams of empyrean fire; 
 Till every heart becomes a lyre, 
 All tuned and set to music grand, 
 When touched by the Almighty's hand; 
 Aye, more! a holy temple, where 
 Devotion breathes her sweetest prayer. 
 
 [76] 
 
How sweet on silent wings to roam, 
 Unhindered to our future home, 
 Intent to hear the great new song, 
 As sung by all the ransomed throng. 
 How blessed to be allowed to soar 
 Above where sin-born tempests roar; 
 For they who find the highest life 
 Are farthest from the scenes of strife. 
 
 In vain the poisoned arrow flies 
 Toward the bird that mounts the skies ; 
 And birds that wing the purest air 
 Are farthest from the fowler's snare; 
 E'en eagles build their airy home 
 Where hissing serpents never come ; 
 And man who builds upon the "Rock," 
 Is safe from e'en the earthquake shock. 
 
 Return, O wandering Muse, return, 
 And wait within this crumbling urn, 
 Content if when the urn shall fall, 
 Thy wings shall scale the jasper wall; — 
 And find a heart of sweeter tone, 
 Awaiting by the "great white throne." 
 
 [77] 
 
TO MY MUCH VALUED FRIEND 
 THEOPHILUS VAN DEREN, ESQ. 
 
 You can't go Grant! 
 
 Of course you can't, 
 The hydrophobist loathes the antidote, 
 And, tho' dying, thinks that death is still re- 
 mote; 
 
 And fumes and writhes, 
 
 And yelps and cries, 
 
 With horrid eyes, 
 
 And thus he dies. 
 
 You can't go Grant? Suppose you don't, 
 The will is wanting, and you won't. 
 And with ass-tounding ass-onance, 
 Now write down sixteen whining cants ! 
 
 Now straighten up 
 
 And drink this cup ; 
 
 Yes, spread your bill 
 
 And take this pill. 
 
 Now be a man, and say I can, 
 I can, I can. 
 
 Can't go for Grant? Why yes you can, 
 For he's like you, a working-man, 
 And you and he should go in halves 
 And run a shop together, 
 For you could kill and skin the calves, 
 And he could tan the leather. 
 [78] 
 
"I can't go Grant!" cried Beauregard, 
 "The pill is just a mite too hard;" 
 "No more can I," said General Lee, 
 "The dose is most too big for me ;" 
 
 "I can't go Grant," Jeff Davis cried, 
 "I guess you will!" "Old Abe" replied. 
 Then Jeff his valediction wrote, 
 And crawled into a petticoat! 
 
 Now stop your can't, 
 And go for Grant ; 
 My "working-man," 
 You know you can, 
 You can, you can. 
 
 "I can't take that," the sick man said, 
 
 And gaped and gagged, and shook his head ; 
 
 "I can't ! I can't ! I'm almost dead, 
 
 Doctor, let me back to bed ;" 
 
 "You'll take this dose, or I'll be cussed 
 
 If you aint gone, for die you must," 
 
 (The doctor said) "And I propose 
 
 For once to hold your 'awful nose' " ; 
 
 There now, 'tis down ! 
 
 It makes you frown 
 But then you'll soon be out 
 To hang your gates and mend your plows, 
 And fix your fence and milk your cows, 
 [79] 
 
Half-sole your boots, your wagon mend, 
 Or write a song that has no end, 
 Or drive your geese about. 
 
 Now don't say "can't" to me again 
 As long as juries count you sane; 
 While God is God, and you're a man, 
 Hold up your head and say "I can !" 
 I can, I can. 
 Yes, that's the plan 
 And Grant's the man, 
 Hurrah! I can, 
 I can, I can. 
 
 Can't go the "boom?" 
 
 Well, then, make room 
 
 For it is sure to swell. 
 And as the mountain torrents rush, 
 Or Alpine avalanches crush 
 A pathway down the dell. 
 
 The mighty boom 
 
 Will seal the doom 
 
 Of paper bugs 
 
 And Yazoo Thugs 
 And ring their awful knell. 
 
 [80] 
 
And you, with knife and gun, and trusty hound, 
 Will seek the "Arcadian" hunting-ground 
 Where Grant and Sherman ne'er can come, 
 With shrieking fife and rolling drum, 
 And gleaming lance and waving plume — 
 To scare you with a first-class boom! 
 
 You can't go Grant? 
 
 Now be a man, 
 
 Don't say "I can't" 
 
 But say, "I can!" 
 I can, I can. 
 
 If working-men like you and I, 
 
 Who write such gushing poetry, 
 
 Will help to send the boom along 
 
 And boost it with a first-class song, 
 
 When Grant returns and takes the "Chair" 
 
 He'll make us each a millionaire; 
 Make me a Knight, and you a Squire, 
 And let you ride his elephant 
 Till you forget your whining "can't," 
 And scream just like a "little man," 
 
 "I can, I can, I can, I can ! ! ! 
 
 Hurrah for the brave I can." 
 
 Another Workingman. 
 
 [81] 
 
PIONEER POEMS 
 
THE COMING OF THE PIONEERS 
 
 The eastern sky was streaked with gray, 
 Pale heralds of approaching day — 
 Reminder that the ashen hue, 
 And marble brow, and death-cold dew 
 That fall upon the Christian's face 
 When struggling in death's cold embrace 
 Portend that on his raptured eyes 
 A glorious sun will soon arise. 
 
 The prairie cock had waked his horn 
 To usher in the coming morn — 
 The pioneers, refreshed with rest, 
 With health and vigor doubly blest, 
 Arose with thanks to eat the bread 
 The hand of heaven had once more spread. 
 
 The day was opening fair and bright 
 As e'er was seen by mortal sight; 
 The morning stars their song had sung, 
 The eastern gate wide open swung, 
 And through it in a flood of gold, 
 The orb of day in splendor rolled. 
 
 When o'er the earth his light was shed, 
 To caverns deep the darkness fled, 
 Or else beyond the hills withdrew — 
 And e'en the shadows westward flew, 
 For there remains no shade of night 
 Where God had said "Let there be light." 
 [85] 
 
A myriad sparkling gems of dew 
 A bridal veil o'er nature threw ; 
 As if "the groom" from out the east 
 Had come to eat the marriage feast. 
 
 The pioneers were all amazed 
 As on th' enchanting scene they gazed, 
 For views so vast and scenes so grand 
 Made this appear a fairy land. 
 
 The prairie, stretching far away, 
 In undulating beauty lay, 
 Just like the ocean gone to rest 
 With billows sleeping on its breast; 
 Or like some ancient graveyard vast 
 Where slept the cycles of the past ! 
 
 No rugged hills, like "Ben Venue" 
 Arose to hide the charming view, 
 But far as human eye could sweep 
 The prairie seemed a rolling deep ; 
 While here and there, to gild the scene, 
 There wound a sweetly fringed ravine 
 Where shrubs in springtime beauty drest, 
 Bowed o'er a silver brooklet's breast — 
 With blossoms white as arctic snow, 
 Bright gleaming in the morning's glow — 
 Much like foam that fills each wake 
 When steamers plow the tranquil lake. 
 [86] 
 
But pen nor pencil e'er can trace 
 A landscape of such native grace. 
 And he who paints it o'er again, 
 Must write with more than poet's pen. 
 
 'Twas in the balmy days of spring 
 When larks and linnets sweetest sing 
 And honey bees were on the wing, 
 To drink the nectar from the flowers 
 That bloomed in more than Eden bowers. 
 
 For here before their gaze there lay 
 A garden stretching far away 
 Beyond the reach of human sight, 
 With blossoms waving in the light 
 As beautiful as e'er was seen 
 Within the garden of a queen. 
 
 And poising now on glossy wing 
 The prairie birds were heard to sing 
 In warbling notes their matin lays — 
 Sweet echoes of their Maker's praise. 
 And sporting on the flowery lawn 
 They saw the deer and spotted fawn, 
 For tho' the wild beasts all withdrew 
 The deer returned the scene to view ; 
 How great is nature, and how grand 
 Before 'tis touched by ruthless hand ! 
 
 [87] 
 
Then peering through the mystic blue 
 Which half obscured the distant view, 
 I saw why all the beasts of prey 
 Arose in haste and fled away ; 
 For ever since the sword was hung 
 At Eden's gate when Time was young, 
 The beasts have shunned the fallen race 
 And fled in fear before its face. 
 
 Then in the distance far away, 
 
 Like schooners floating on the bay, 
 
 I saw a slowly moving train 
 
 Of wagons winding o'er the plain, 
 
 Whose covers swelling with the breeze 
 
 Appeared like sails upon the seas ; 
 
 Reminding us that long before 
 
 In search of some more friendly shore, 
 
 Alone and frail, the Mayflower bold 
 
 Plowed pathless seas in days of old. 
 
 Right onward still they kept their way 
 Towards the setting orb of day, 
 And traveling near and nearer drew 
 Until without the mazy blue, 
 I saw that men with brawny arms 
 With partners blest with lovely charms, 
 And little "tots" of tender years 
 Composed a band of Pioneers, 
 Whose jaded teams essayed to haul 
 Their wagons and their earthly all. 
 [88] 
 
No wealth had they in herds of kine — 
 No bleating flocks nor droves of swine. 
 No gold had they — the shining pelf — 
 The wealth of each was in himself; 
 'Twas honest hearts and willing hands — 
 Worth more by far than gold or lands, 
 By nature brave, and good, and great, 
 The kind of men to make a state. 
 
 What though in humble homespun drest 
 These pilgrims sought the pathless west, 
 What tho' each coat and frock and gown 
 Was dyed an humble walnut brown ? 
 What tho' each suit, both warp and woof, 
 Was made beneath a cabin roof? 
 Yet each contained within its fold, 
 A heart as pure, as warm, as bold, 
 As ever beat within the breast 
 Of those in royal splendor drest. 
 
 What tho' the sun has left its trace 
 Of somber on each honest face? 
 It had not robbed them of one grace, 
 But these in fairest print were seen, 
 Drawn o'er each brave and lofty mien. 
 In lines which God's own hand well drew, 
 A seal of love and friendship true; 
 
 [89] 
 
A smiling face, a beaming look 
 Which guilt and treason might not brook, 
 A purpose fixed, a courage true 
 With hearts to dare and hands to do, 
 Of each, in truth it might be said, 
 "The noblest work that God had made." 
 Come, lift the hat, ring out three cheers, 
 They come, they come, the Pioneers ! 
 At God's all-wise and fixed behest 
 To build an empire in the West. 
 Thus ever since old time began 
 To measure out his days to man, 
 
 When e'er a trouble crossed his breast, 
 That robbed his soul of peaceful rest, 
 He turned and viewed with hopeful eyes 
 The gold that gleamed in western skies. 
 For o'er its calm and peaceful bar 
 With silver rays that reach afar, 
 Best seen through sorrow's bitter tears, 
 A hope-inspiring star appears 
 That softly calls to all who roam, 
 "Come hither, come and find a home." 
 
 The "wise men" journeyed west to see 
 The lowly one of Galilee 
 Whose love-lit banner, still unfurled, 
 Moves west to bless and light the world. 
 
 [90] 
 
And freedom when denied a home 
 
 Within the realm of papal Rome — 
 
 Ejected from her place of birth 
 
 Like some proud eagle perched on high 
 
 Surveyed the wreck with mournful eye. 
 
 Awhile she wept — if Freedom can — 
 
 The cruelty of man to man; 
 
 Then turned and scanned the rolling deep 
 
 O'er which her weary wing must sweep. 
 
 Awhile she paused before she flew, 
 As if to search the ocean blue, 
 Perchance to find some brighter shore 
 Where men are trembling slaves no more; 
 Then plumed her wings and bared her breast 
 And chased the sun towards the West. 
 
 'Mid crimson clouds far down the west, 
 The glowing sun was robed for rest, 
 While all his shining shafts of light 
 Conspired to stay approaching night, 
 And in the east, with hidden sheen, 
 The goddess of the night was seen, 
 
 Too modest to unveil her light, 
 Until her lord has passed from sight. 
 
 [91] 
 
The weary day being almost spent, 
 The pilgrims paused and pitched their tent ; 
 'Mid trees which graced a gentle hill 
 That rose beside a babbling rill, 
 Where savage hands in other days 
 Beheld their cheerful camp-fire's blaze, 
 And round it danced in savage glee 
 To songs of weird minstrelsy. 
 
 Their jaded steeds were loosed at will, 
 To crop the herbage from the hill, 
 Or drink from out the babbling rill ; 
 Their neighings and their tinkling bell 
 Awoke strange echoes from the dell. 
 Their sparkling camp-fire's cheerful light, 
 Kept back the gathering shades of night, 
 Which drew their sable curtains 'round 
 The lonely tent and camping ground. 
 
 Full many a league behind them lay 
 Their native land far, far away, 
 Their childhood home their place of birth, 
 Their father's and their mother's hearth. 
 Before them stretched the boundless west, 
 In all its native grandeur drest ; 
 Where from the Almighty hand, 
 There lay a second promised land. 
 
 [92] 
 
Before them then were bending skies — 
 Behind them now proud cities rise. 
 And where the father's cabins fell, 
 The sons in stately mansions dwell. 
 Before them leaped the prairie fires ; 
 Behind them now are gleaming spires ; 
 And where the panther made his lair, 
 The godly meet for praise and prayer. 
 
 Before them all was waste and wild, 
 Where lovely gardens since have smiled ; 
 And where the thorn and thistle grew 
 The dahlias drink the morning dew. 
 Before them stretched the pathless plain, 
 Behind them waves the golden grain ; 
 And where the wild beasts roamed and fed 
 The toiler eats his daily bread. 
 
 Before them was an unknown land, 
 A million homes behind them stand ; 
 And where the hissing serpent crept, 
 The little child in peace hath slept. 
 Before them silence held her reign, 
 Behind them whirls the thundering train; 
 And what was then the boundless west 
 Is now a Paradise confessed. 
 
 [93] 
 
To her the nations come for bread, 
 
 And at her table all are fed. 
 
 Their frugal meal of honest bread, 
 
 By faithful hands was once more spread, 
 
 Then gathering 'round the lonely fire 
 
 Before the pioneers retire, 
 
 They talk of scenes in other years, 
 
 Of rising hopes and boding fears ; 
 
 Of childhood's home that sacred place, 
 
 Which memory holds in fond embrace, 
 
 In fancy saw the schoolhouse still, 
 
 With schoolmates playing on the sill, 
 
 While in its shady groves they strayed, 
 
 And "hide-and-seek" in fancy played, 
 
 With those who now, with sword and shield 
 
 Were soldiers on life's battlefield. 
 
 But darker drew the shades of night, 
 The evening star had passed from sight, 
 The Pleiades shone in fields on high, 
 Like liquid diamonds in the sky; 
 While higher still Orion swung, 
 And sweeter evening anthems sung. 
 
 [94] 
 
And with the lesson nature taught, 
 That God was all and man was naught, 
 They knelt beneath the bending boughs, 
 And paid to him their evening vows. 
 And then retired to peaceful rest, 
 With naught but joy within each breast. 
 Then all was dark, and hushed, and still, 
 Except the plaintive whippoorwill, 
 Or saucy fox far down the rill. 
 
 [95] 
 
THE SPINNING WHEEL 
 
 I have been charmed by the sweet-sounding 
 
 lute, 
 Oft been entranced by the organ and flute ; 
 These things I heard, but the music I feel 
 Is the far-off roar of my mother's wheel, 
 As with midnight lamp by its side she stood, 
 Still spinning the yarn to clothe her dear brood. 
 
 Its echoes still float up through the long years, 
 To solace my heart and sweeten my tears ; 
 And as down life's stream my little bark sails, 
 Sweet sounds may often be borne on the gales ; 
 But sweeter by far, on my soul will steal, 
 My childhood's music — my dear mother's wheel. 
 
 The old log cabin with its puncheon floor — 
 The old log cabin with its clapboard door! 
 Shall we ever forget its moss-grown roof, 
 The old rattling loom with its warp and woof? 
 The old stick chimney of "cat and clay," 
 The old hearthstone where we used to play? 
 
 No ! we'll not forget the old wool-wheel, 
 Nor the hank on the old count-reel ; 
 We'll not forget how we used to eat 
 The sweet honey-comb with the fat deer-meat ; 
 We'll not forget how we used to bake, 
 That best of bread, the old Johnny-cake! 
 [96] 
 
THE QUEEN OF THE PRAIRIE 
 
 Come, give me the harp and the timbrel to-day, 
 And let all the muses my mandates obey ; 
 
 My theme is a city — a damsel in age — 
 
 Whose worth should a mightier pencil 
 engage. 
 
 A poet whose muse has the pinions of light 
 To bear him away from the shadow of night, 
 
 Where sun never sets on his heart nor his mind, 
 And beauty and order are sweetly combined. 
 
 Where the dark-skinned warrior wandered in 
 pride 
 With the dusky maiden he claimed for his 
 bride 
 And gathered the roses, wild roses so fair, 
 To braid in her long raven tresses of hair. 
 
 Or the prairie wolf sought a place of retreat, 
 For the lynx-eyed whelps that crouched at 
 her feet, 
 Or the wild deer gathered to gambol and play, 
 
 Mattoon is before us in beauty to-day; 
 The fairest and brightest in all her domain, 
 The Queen of the Prairie at rest on the 
 plain. 
 
Where a great iron way from the northern 
 plain 
 Meets one from the deltas of cotton and cane ; 
 And another one still, from the great northwest, 
 Where the rivers are nursed at the lakelet's 
 breast, 
 Meets one from the orange and pine, 
 
 Where fruitage and flowers adorn the same 
 vine. 
 
 And another one still, from a rock-bound coast, 
 
 Where the Mayflower landed the Puritan 
 
 host, 
 
 Meets another that came from the golden gate, 
 
 Where nature created the boundless and 
 
 great ; 
 
 Where the steeds of these great iron highways 
 meet 
 To unload the wealth of the world at her feet. 
 The Queen of the Prairie reclines on her 
 throne, 
 Receiving the tributes of every zone. 
 
 The smoke from her furnaces, mounting on 
 high, 
 Unites with the clouds that are sweeping the 
 sky, 
 Like the smoke of the battle as seen from afar, 
 When fanned by the thundering pinions of 
 war; 
 
 [9* ] 
 
Where foeman meets foeman with saber and 
 gun, 
 Till a blush of shame hides the face of the 
 sun. 
 
 'Tis Peace the great victor that's leading the 
 van 
 
 Of a host that is fighting the battle for man ; 
 His division commanders, Labor and Skill, 
 
 Can sway their invincible legions at will. 
 
 The anvil and hammer, and lever and beam, 
 The wheel and the pulley, and engines of 
 steam, 
 The great iron shaft and the bellows and forge, 
 Are wheeling their squadrons and making the 
 charge. 
 
 And the wood and the iron, the copper and steel, 
 Are conquered and chained to the conqueror's 
 wheel ; 
 And forth from the furnaces, gleaming with 
 light, 
 The engines are leaping all plumed for the 
 flight. 
 
 [99] 
 
And down in the earth, in the murky mine 
 Where the springs are hid and the black dia- 
 monds shine 
 A great toiling army is seeking with care 
 
 For the treasures of wealth that are hidden 
 there. 
 
 And over the path where the pioneer toiled, 
 And the wild wolf screamed and the rattle- 
 snake coiled, 
 The long rows of maples and evergreen trees 
 Now wave their sweet boughs in the soft 
 balmy breeze. 
 
 And where the wild goose sought a place for her 
 nest, 
 And the stork and the crane sought refuge 
 and rest, 
 The great halls of learning in majesty stand, 
 The pride and the glory and hope of the land. 
 
 And higher, still higher, almost to the skies, 
 Like the fingers of Hope, her church steeples 
 rise, 
 And her church-going bells, each calling to 
 prayer, 
 Ring out their glad notes on the still morning 
 air. 
 
 [100] 
 
Where the warriors met in madness and wrath, 
 And marched and re-marched on their blood- 
 sprinkled path, 
 Are vineyards and gardens of beautiful flowers, 
 That brighten and gladden home's love- 
 lighted bowers. 
 
 And down the dim vista we look with delight 
 On the picture of gladness that looms in 
 sight ; 
 And the trees have grown till their soft shadow 
 falls 
 On dew-sprinkled gardens and white marble 
 walls. 
 
 We see sparkling fountains that gleam in the 
 sun 
 Where the toilers meet when their toiling is 
 done, 
 And the damsels, unharmed, draw water and 
 give 
 To the weary and thirsty and bid them live. 
 
 We look once again and the streets are all laid 
 
 With the flintiest rock that nature has made, 
 
 And the walls are all marble and beautiful 
 
 stone, 
 
 That the highways have brought from every 
 
 zone. 
 
 [101] 
 
And the ignorant ones that in blindness go 
 In the rear to the church, in front to the 
 show, 
 Have all vanished away as the morning dew, 
 And their homes are filled with the noble and 
 true. 
 
 And we hear all the children in gladness sing, 
 And feel the soft brush of the great angel's 
 wing 
 
 As he sweeps to the earth and hails with delight, 
 A people so happy, an Eden so bright. 
 
 [ 108 ] 
 
ALONE 
 
 Alone, on the banks of a dark rolling stream, 
 Where the scenes of the past sweep by as a 
 
 dream, 
 I'm standing and watching the dip of the oar 
 Of a boatman whose bark is nearing the shore. 
 
 On its cold, cheerless banks I often have stood, 
 As the near and the dear have entered its flood 
 Until one by one they have crossed the cold 
 
 wave, 
 And I am left standing alone by their grave. 
 
 The last words have been spoken, and the last 
 
 hand shaken, 
 The last locks have been smoothed, and the last 
 
 look taken ; 
 The last grave has been closed, I've heard the 
 
 last knell, 
 The last parting is o'er, and the last farewell! 
 
 For up in the bright shining portals of Heaven, 
 No partings are known, and no farewells are 
 
 given ; 
 But when friends meet there on that radiant 
 
 shore, 
 They will clasp hands again to part nevermore. 
 
 [103] 
 
Fond parents crossed over, but cheerfully 
 
 crossed, 
 Nor cared for the billows that 'round them were 
 
 tossed, 
 Nor cared for the summons for them to depart, 
 For with staves in hand, they were ready to 
 
 start. 
 
 Then I bade the last sister a long adieu, 
 As she floated away in her white canoe, 
 Away to that land where are pleasures untold, 
 And the harpers are harping on harps of gold. 
 
 Then the last brother went; — I bade him fare- 
 well, 
 
 When he crossed the cold river and went to 
 dwell 
 
 Where the fadeless flowers forever will bloom, 
 
 On the sweet fields of light in a cloudless noon. 
 
 But there still lingered one, an angel of light, 
 That held to my hand in the darkness of night, 
 And walked by my side as we journeyed along, 
 To bless me with smiles and cheer me with song. 
 
 And the days flew swiftly and sweetly away, 
 And the months and the years, how short was 
 
 their stay, 
 'Till an angel came to our home in disguise, 
 And bore her away on his wings to the skies. 
 [104] 
 
And thus, one by one, they have left me and 
 
 fled, 
 Until all that I loved now sleep with the dead, 
 And my longing eyes are now sweeping the sea, 
 Where the boatman is bending his oars for me. 
 
 But why should I weep on the desolate shore, 
 As tho' I would meet them and greet them no 
 
 more ? 
 Or grieve that our Father has taken them home, 
 And left me to finish the journey alone? 
 
 Dark clouds are about Him that dwelleth in 
 
 light. 
 Around him the darkness and shadow of night, 
 But tho' all may be dark, I know He is just, 
 And leads me in darkness to teach me to trust. 
 
 Strange, passing strange, are the dealings of 
 
 God, 
 The children he loves feel the sting of his rod, 
 But stranger by far that, when cast in the fire, 
 He should bid me to sing and give me a lyre ! 
 
 Then awake, O harp! every chord will I string, 
 And from out the deep vale the anthems will 
 
 ring, 
 Until music's sweet charms turn night into day, 
 And my sonnets have driven the darkness awav. 
 [105] 
 
THE GRAVEYARD OF THE PIONEERS 
 
 Alone I wandered 'mid the graves of those 
 Who long since laid their bodies down to rest 
 
 In death's sweet sleep of undisturbed repose, 
 As children on a loving mother's breast. 
 
 I, musing, walked the silent aisles and read 
 Upon each sculptured stone the age and name 
 
 Of those who filled this city of the dead, 
 And who by this alone were known to fame. 
 
 Nor was I quite a stranger here, but could 
 Recall to mind full many a loving form 
 
 Who by my side in trials sore had stood, 
 
 And with me faced and braved full many a 
 storm. 
 
 One stone told where an angel mother slept 
 In holy peace beneath the grassy sod, 
 
 O'er which her loved ones oft had met and wept, 
 And poured their hearts in prayer and tears 
 to God. 
 
 And by her side, in peaceful quietude, 
 
 Where love and hope their constant vigils 
 keep — 
 And naught but these should ever dare intrude — 
 My aged sire reposed in solemn sleep. 
 [ 106 ] 
 
At one dear grave I paused, in pensive mood, 
 To read upon the stone my grandsire's name, 
 
 And weep, that one so wise, so pure, so good, 
 Should pass away from earth unknown to 
 fame. 
 
 For I remembered how, in ancient days, 
 
 'Mid groves that bowed with reverential nod, 
 
 He lifted up his voice in songs of praise, 
 
 And there, "leaning on his staff, worshiped 
 God" ! 
 
 And further on were stones, and myrtle vines, 
 And grassy mounds, and flowers of fairest 
 hue, 
 
 And evergreens, and dove-like columbines, 
 To prove that memory lived and love was true. 
 
 And I was there alone above the green, 
 Beneath it all I loved was now asleep, 
 
 And at a grave where shaft nor stone were seen 
 I sat me down upon the turf to weep. 
 
 'Twas where a little sister slept alone 
 Beneath a pale aspen's quivering shade, 
 
 And forty times the birds had come and gone 
 Since loving hands her coffin robes had made. 
 
 [107] 
 
And forty times at sound of April rain, 
 
 The flowers had bloomed above that little 
 mound, 
 And forty times the summer's golden grain 
 Had called for reapers with a rustling sound. 
 
 \ 
 But I remembered still her fragile form, 
 
 Her auburn curls, and face with love o'er- 
 spread, 
 The same in sunshine or in angry storm — 
 The same in joy or when the joy had fled. 
 
 Hand in hand we oft had roamed the wild 
 Where massive trees in solemn grandeur 
 stood, 
 And flowers peeped up from out the ferns and 
 smiled, 
 And startled fawns went bounding through 
 the wood. 
 
 We oft had tripped adown the lovely dell 
 
 When lengthened shades foretold the close of 
 day, 
 
 And harked to hear the far-off tinkling bell 
 Of truant kine that wandered far away. 
 
 [108] 
 
Then hasted on in fear, and drove them home, 
 
 As evening hung her dusky curtains round, 
 
 And prowling wolves went forth in stealth to 
 
 roam, 
 
 And whippoorwills piped out their lonely 
 
 sound. 
 
 But when a time had come for leaves to fall, 
 And birds to seek a brighter land to sing, 
 
 And flowers to hide 'neath autumn's funeral 
 pall, 
 An angel came for her on silent wing. 
 
 Around her lowly couch were broken hearts 
 That beat with grief of which no tongue can 
 tell, 
 
 For who can stand where child and parent parts, 
 Or paint in verse a mother's last farewell. 
 
 And oh, how passing keen the shaft that fell 
 Upon the one who pens this mournful lay. 
 
 For he was left in tears, alone to dwell, 
 Alone to pass the weary years away. 
 
 Yet not alone, for tho' enrobed above, 
 She often comes, and with her lily hand 
 
 Parts back my locks and whispers words of love, 
 Of heaven, of home, and of the better land. 
 
 [ 109 ] 
 
I hear her voice in every cooing dove, 
 
 Her soft footfalls within my silent room, 
 
 And see her form in every thing of love, 
 Her beaming smile in every rose's bloom. 
 
 Full oft do roses bloom in lonely bowers, 
 And pour their "sweetness on a desert air;" 
 
 But deserts need the fairest, sweetest flowers, 
 And God in love oft plants and trains them 
 there. 
 
 And when he takes the lovely flowers on high, 
 He does it with a Father's tender love, 
 
 And though to us they seem to fade and die, 
 They bloom more brightly on the fields above. 
 
 But still their sweetness lives and loads the air, 
 And gives the deserts wild a rich perfume. 
 
 Oh say not that 'tis lost or wasted there, 
 Nor vain that roses in the desert bloom. 
 
 The inspiring smile that lights Truth's earnest 
 face, 
 The love that beams from Virtue's trustful 
 eye, 
 The gold that gleams from every angel grade, 
 Tho' in a desert wild will never die. 
 
 [110] 
 
GRAVE OF THOMAS LINCOLN 
 
 (See explanatory note, page 58) 
 
THE GRAVE OF THE FATHER OF 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 The grave described in the following lines is situated 
 in Coles Co., Illinois. The lines were written in 1876 
 and at that time were literally true. But soon after, a 
 monument was erected over the grave. The person rep- 
 resented in the picture of the monument is the author. 
 He was instrumental in raising part of the funds with 
 which to pay for the monument. 
 
 In a low, sweet vale, by a murmuring rill, 
 The pioneer's ashes are sleeping; 
 
 Where the white marble slabs so lonely and still, 
 In silence their vigils are keeping. 
 
 On their sad, lonely faces, are words of fame, 
 But none of them speak of his glory ; 
 
 When the pioneer died, his age and his name, 
 No monument whispers the story. 
 
 No myrtle, nor ivy, nor hyacinth blows 
 
 O'er the lonely grave where they laid him; 
 
 No cedar, nor holly, nor almond tree grows 
 Near the plebeian's grave to shade him. 
 
 Bright evergreens wave o'er many a grave, 
 O'er some bow the sad weeping willow ; 
 
 But no willow trees bow, nor evergreens wave 
 Where the pioneer sleeps on his pillow. 
 
 [in] 
 
While some are inhumed with honors of State, 
 And laid beneath temples to molder, 
 
 The grave of the father of Lincoln, the great, 
 Is known by a hillock and boulder. 
 
 Let him take his lone sleep, and quietly rest, 
 With naught to disturb or awake him, 
 
 When the angels shall come to gather the blest, 
 "To Abraham's bosom, they'll take him." 
 
 [112] 
 
AN ADDRESS TO THE OLD SETTLERS 
 
 (Read at Charleston, August 28, 1879) 
 
 Within this calm and cool retreat, 
 An honored, hoarj-headed band 
 
 Of Pioneers, now gladly meet 
 
 To clasp each other by the hand. 
 
 And Fathers, we have come to-day 
 
 To cheer you on your honored way. 
 
 Then come and let us take a walk 
 
 'Mid hills, and groves and stones that talk, 
 
 Where lie in sad confusion cast 
 
 The upturned ashes of the past. 
 
 Methinks our mem'ries will reclaim 
 From out the fiery furnace flame, 
 Full many a gem of purest ray, 
 Untouched by fire or time's decay ; 
 Some towering landmark that appears 
 Above the sweeping flood of years, 
 Some verdant trees, whose lofty forms 
 Still stand erect, unbent by storms ; 
 Ay, find some rich and fragrant bowers, 
 Where we can sit in fond delight 
 And reproduce, in colors bright, 
 The faded pictures that are hid 
 Beneath time's dusty coffin lid. 
 
 [113] 
 
And now, in fancy come with me 
 To where the hills, the vales, the sea, 
 The desert, and the sky so blue, 
 Are all spread out in grand review. 
 Ay, come with me and we will climb 
 Some Moab mountain peak sublime, 
 And from its lofty, towering crest 
 That stands in moral grandeur drest, 
 Above the storms, in peace serene, 
 We'll calmly view the fading scene. 
 As eastward now you lift your eyes 
 To where your life's sun took its rise, 
 The crowded scenes of three score years 
 With all their wealth of toil and tears, 
 Lie spread along the checkered road 
 O'er which your weary feet have trod. 
 
 And at each cherished camping-ground, 
 You see, perchance, a stone or mound 
 That marks the place where you have laid 
 Some treasure 'neath the cypress shade. 
 
 You see the homes where once you dwelt, 
 The altars where in love you knelt; 
 See vales thro' which you walked in fear, 
 See hills on hills in ranks appear; — 
 Ay, see the desert far away 
 Where once you bore the heat of day ; 
 See mountains where your feet have trod, 
 See in it all the hand of God. 
 [114] 
 
God always had his pioneers, 
 
 Whose forms, unblanched by craven fears, 
 
 Have ever filled the dauntless van 
 
 In all the walks and ways of man. 
 
 The first great pioneer and sage, 
 Whose name is burned on history's page, 
 Was Abraham, the eastern seer, 
 Of faith and trust the pioneer. 
 The next, a pilgrim people led 
 Where e'en the sea, astonished, fled, 
 And flinty rocks at his command, 
 Gave water to his pilgrim band; 
 His bones by holy hands were laid 
 Beneath Mount Pisgah's solemn shade. 
 
 E'er since his day when God designed 
 
 To pour some blessing on mankind, 
 
 Some truth implant, some hope inspire, 
 
 Dispel some cloud, or light some fire, 
 
 Remove some veil or ope some door, 
 
 Some sea or continent explore, 
 
 Or make some hidden light appear, 
 
 He made a dauntless pioneer, 
 
 And sent him forth a soldier brave, 
 
 A sailor on a pathless wave. 
 
 [115] 
 
This nation, now so vast and grand, — 
 The beacon light of every land, 
 Was by a trembling shallop bore 
 On seas no bark had plowed before; 
 Ay, borne across the stormy wave 
 In search of freedom's home or grave. 
 The pilgrims in that fragile bark 
 Like those within the ancient ark, 
 Were God's appointed pioneers, 
 Who triumphed over foes and fears, 
 And knelt upon New England's coast, 
 The bold vanguard of freedom's host. 
 
 So these gray locks and furrowed cheeks 
 
 That late have crossed life's mountain peaks, 
 
 And gathered up the flecks of frost 
 
 That time's rude winter winds have tossed, 
 
 And now descend — from fields of strife, 
 
 The grand pacific slope of life, 
 
 Were pioneers appointed, sent 
 
 To pitch in western wilds your tent, 
 
 And wrest this broad and fertile land 
 
 From nature's grasping, iron hand; 
 
 And with strong arms at God's behest, 
 
 To build an empire in the west. 
 
 [116] 
 
Your work is done; and nobly done — 
 
 The battle has been fought and won ; 
 
 'Twas yours to bear the soldier's toils, 
 
 To you belong the victor's spoils. 
 
 You planted here the fruitful seed, 
 
 A bending harvest is your meed; 
 
 For where your little cabins stood, 
 
 Yon mansions rise in stately mood, 
 
 And yonder lofty gleaming spires 
 
 Arise where burned your lone camp-fires; 
 
 And where the wild deer skimmed the plain, 
 
 You now behold the whirling train. 
 
 The little school-house made of poles, 
 Whose window panes were only holes, 
 With clapboard roof and puncheon floor, 
 And chimney rude, and rustic door, 
 Where barefoot boys and girls once met 
 To learn the English alphabet, 
 Has passed away; and in its stead, 
 Yon massive structure lifts its head. 
 
 But in that cabin, tho' so rude, 
 Some valiant boys and girls once stood; 
 And from its walls the great have sprung 
 Whose praise the poets well have sung; 
 And from its door brave man came forth, 
 To lead great armies through the earth, 
 Whose valor and whose rising fame 
 Brave men have owned with trembling shame. 
 [ U7 ] 
 
'Twas here our Lincoln, wise and great, 
 First learned to guide the ship of State. 
 And Douglas, who was born to rule, 
 First taught a common county school; 
 And if, from it, no poets came, 
 The cabin should not bear the blame. 
 
 But you have reached the distant west, 
 The long sought goal, the place of rest ; 
 Your feet now mark the golden sand 
 That forms the great Pacific's strand ; 
 Your tents are pitched so near its shore 
 You hear its gentle billows roar. 
 
 These thoughts give no sadness, but rather give 
 
 joy, 
 
 For soon you'll be called to a higher employ ; 
 Be removed from the strife and the conflict 
 
 here 
 To join the grand army in a higher sphere. 
 Like a soldier who long has been in the strife, 
 And for truth and freedom imperiled his life ; 
 Oft been in the conflict reeking with blood, 
 Oft been on the march, all weary and worn, 
 Oft bearing great burdens hard to be borne. 
 In conflicts by land, in perils by sea, 
 He longs for the time when he .shall be free. 
 But the conflict closed, the fighting all done, 
 Being weary with war, he starts for his home,, 
 
 [118] 
 
His form being bent with many a stroke, 
 His vision dimmed with the hot battle smoke. 
 Foot sore and weary he bends on his way, 
 His heart is at home, O, how can he stay; 
 And when he has reached the top of some hill 
 To see through the mist beyond a dark rill — 
 His hearthstone and home where his loved are, 
 Waiting for him to come home from the war, 
 A thrill of delight enraptures his soul 
 While tears of pure joy unbidden now roll. 
 Forgetting his pains, unheeding his wounds, 
 O'er the dark streamlet he joyfully bounds, 
 And clasps in his arms those dear to his heart, 
 From them and their love never more to part. 
 
 So you have long been in the conflict of life ; 
 Oft been on the march or engaged in the strife ; 
 Assailed by strong foes from without and 
 
 within, 
 The flesh and the world, and Satan, and sin. 
 Oft burdened with sorrow and cumbered with 
 
 care, 
 Almost ready to yield in utter despair. 
 But the conflict is closing, just one more foe, 
 And then away homeward how gladly you'll 
 
 [119] 
 
To meet with dear ones who have fought the 
 
 good fight, 
 And have long ago entered the home of light, 
 And see the Great Captain, and lean on his 
 
 breast, 
 And hear his sweet voice saying, — "Enter my 
 
 rest." 
 
 Like a ship that has sailed far over the seas, 
 Unfurling her flag to the sun and the breeze, 
 Pursued by wild pirates, o'er-taken by storms, 
 Facing danger and death in all their dread 
 
 forms. 
 But her mission accomplished, her work all 
 
 done, 
 The last battle fought, the great victory won, 
 The billows outridden, outweathered the gales, 
 Now homeward, right homeward in grandeur 
 
 she sails. 
 
 How proudly her pennon streams out from on 
 
 high, 
 Like a meteor coursing its way through the 
 
 sky; 
 How boldly her prow cuts the snowy white 
 
 foam, 
 As homeward she bounds no longer to roam; 
 How eager her sailors look o'er the wide sea 
 For a sight of that home where they shall be 
 
 free. 
 
 [120] 
 
How their hearts beat with joy, and leap with 
 
 delight, 
 As their dear native land comes looming in 
 
 sight. 
 
 How soft are the breezes that lift the white sail, 
 How sweet are the strains that are borne on the 
 
 gale; 
 How gentle the billows, how hushed is their 
 
 roar, 
 How bright is the beacon that gleams on the 
 
 shore. 
 And when the red rocket the signal has given, 
 That the long gone ship is now nearing her 
 
 haven, 
 In haste to her moorings the populace come 
 With shoutings and greetings to welcome her 
 
 home. 
 
 So you have long sailed on the wild stormy wave 
 Of the ocean that washes the cradle and grave ; 
 Great rocks have oft raised their dark forms in 
 
 your path ; 
 Huge billows oft rolled in strange madness and 
 
 wrath ; 
 Wild storms have oft tried in their fury and 
 
 might, 
 To drive your frail barks to the regions of 
 
 night. 
 
 [121] 
 
But a pillar of cloud in the distance was 
 reared, 
 
 That was changed into fire when darkness ap- 
 peared ; 
 
 And then, no longer in darkness to grope, 
 
 You steered your frail barks for the polar-star 
 hope. 
 
 And now you have entered the calm of the bay, 
 The dark billows and storms have all fled away. 
 How gentle the billows that ripple the breast 
 Of the ocean that washes the Christian's west; 
 You see in the distance the turrets arise 
 O'er the home of the blest that is built in the 
 
 skies ; 
 And o'er it, still shining, the bright morning 
 
 star, 
 And the gates of its temple all standing ajar; 
 While round its bright portals a glorified 
 
 throng 
 Are waiting and watching with trumpet and 
 
 song, 
 For you to cast anchor within the bright bay, 
 When shining winged angels will bear you 
 
 away 
 To join in a song on that evergreen shore, 
 With loved ones of earth who have gone on be- 
 fore. 
 
 [ m ] 
 
Go on, then, ye Pilgrims, go joyfuly on; 
 While we guard you with love and cheer you 
 
 with song, 
 Until, one by one, you shall cross the dark 
 
 bound, 
 And lay by the cross to put on the crown. 
 
 [123] 
 
NATURE POEMS 
 
FLOWERS 
 
 'Tis a beautiful gift from a hand so kind 
 
 We esteem it more precious than gold, 
 A soft silken cord that our friendship will bind 
 
 Tho' the world be so dreary and cold. 
 Flowers, bright flowers, what wonders they tell, 
 
 How exalting and charming their powers, 
 For in their sweet presence no mortal can dwell 
 Without sharing the sweetness of flowers — 
 Beautiful flowers in morning light, 
 Beautiful still in the noon-day bright, 
 Delighting us most when evening comes ; 
 Beautiful flowers, beautiful homes ! 
 
 The rocks are less rugged where flowers abound, 
 
 The Valley of Life is less dreary ; 
 And deserts, less sterile if one can be found 
 
 To solace the soul of the weary. 
 They gladden the heart and the home and the 
 hearth, 
 And bind us with magical powers, 
 For who would dare wander away o'er the earth, 
 If home were a garden of flowers — 
 
 Beautiful flowers, bright'ning the home, 
 Beautiful promise of days to come; 
 Beautiful blushes of rainbow hue, 
 Beautiful children born of the dew. 
 
 [127] 
 
When nature is locked in rude winter's em- 
 brace, 
 No beautiful flowers appear ; 
 And in hearts that are cold with never a grace, 
 
 'Tis winter, cold winter, all year ; 
 But in homes where beautiful flowers are found, 
 
 How cheerful the long winter hours, 
 And in hearts where all the sweet graces 
 abound, 
 The soul hath a palace of flowers — 
 Beautiful flowers of God's design, 
 Beautiful tokens of love divine, 
 Beautiful angels in mercy given, 
 To brighten the way that leads to 
 Heaven. 
 
 The notes of the lyre fall dull on the ear, 
 
 And poetry loses its powers, 
 When the wild, warbling birds in springtime 
 are here, 
 And the landscape blushes with flowers ; 
 But the "pure in heart" have perpetual spring, 
 
 Refreshed by continual showers, 
 And, "though the almond tree fall" their hearts 
 can sing 
 Sweet thanksgiving songs for the flowers — 
 Beautiful flowers our lives to bless, 
 Beautiful tho' in a wilderness, 
 Beautiful still on the coffin lid 
 Beneath whose seal a treasure is hid. 
 [ 128 ] 
 
On life's troubled ocean our barks may depart 
 
 Far away from their moorings to-day, 
 But thoughts of the giver will dwell in my heart 
 
 Tho' her bark may be wafted away. 
 And tho' we be tossed on the treacherous wave, 
 
 'Mid their foaming this joy will be ours, 
 To remember the friend who in kindness gave 
 This beautiful gift of Autumn flowers. 
 
 Joy to the heart who conceived the 
 
 thought 
 Rest for the hand which tastefully 
 
 wrought 
 Love for the love which gave the 
 
 bouquet ; 
 Its mem'ries sweet we'll cherish for aye. 
 
 [ 129' ] 
 
THE TWO RIVULETS— A CONTRAST 
 
 In spring-time beauty and loveliness drest 
 Two rivulets flowed from a mountain's breast, 
 Purling, and rushing, and sparkling with glee 
 These rivulets rippled towards the sea. 
 
 Leaping and laughing with childish delight, 
 Like song birds as sweet, like moon-beams as 
 
 bright, 
 They merrily murmured their mountain lay 
 As with joy they sped on their arrowy wa}^. 
 
 Like dutiful children engaged in prayer, 
 They poured their sweet songs on the morning 
 
 air, 
 And whispered their vespertimes in the even', 
 As they mirrored the silent stars of heaven. 
 
 But one grew weary and hushed its sweet song, 
 Neglecting the right, it learned to do wrong, 
 And became a dark pool, a loathsome place, 
 Where Joy came not with her radiant face. 
 
 No sweet birds gladdened the desolate trees 
 That swayed their dark arms in its balmless 
 
 breeze ; 
 Nor bright flowers bloomed in the pestilent air 
 That waved its pale wings of leprosy there. 
 [ISO] 
 
'Twas a horrid place, where the wild beasts 
 
 stayed, 
 And the night-birds screamed and the vultures 
 
 preyed ; 
 Where the adder's sting, and serpent's breath, 
 And the lion's roar were preludes of death. 
 
 No church-going bell, nor suppliant prayer, 
 Nor sweet Sabbath song were ever heard there. 
 'Twas a desert waste, a dark solitude, 
 Loathed and detested, and shunned by the good ! 
 
 The other stayed by the mountain's feet, 
 But on to the vale with melody sweet, 
 Like a bird of song, or a child at play, 
 Unwearied by toil, it kept on its way. 
 
 With a shout it passed each frowning cascade 
 And leaped its Niagaras undismayed, 
 And the stones that lay in its mountain road 
 Only swelled its anthems of praise to God! 
 
 The nightingales sang in the forest that 
 
 swayed 
 Its evergreen boughs to lend it their shade; 
 And the weary flocks on its shores found rest, 
 And the wild deer's thirst was slaked at its 
 
 breast. 
 
 [131] 
 
The husbandman's heart rejoiced at its song 
 As over his meadows it rippled along; 
 And sweet flowers smiled at the voice of its lay 
 Which made the whole year as charming as 
 May! 
 
 "Rejoicing always," in sunshine or shade, 
 On the mountain-top, or down the cascade ; 
 Like a child of light, whose songs are the same 
 From a lowly cot or a temple of fame ! 
 
 It became a vast river, deep and wide, 
 Freedom's great highway, the Nation's pride; 
 Where emblems of peace were given to the 
 
 breeze, 
 And white-winged commerce was borne to the 
 
 seas. 
 
 On its shores proud cities in grandeur stood 
 And gathered gold from its wealth-giving flood ; 
 Still onward it flowed, in beauty and might, 
 To gladden all hearts, its highest delight. 
 
 Till it fell, at last, in the mighty seas, 
 Where, warmed by the sun and fanned by the 
 
 breeze, 
 It arose again, as the saints arise, 
 And was wafted back to its native skies. 
 
 [132] 
 
From whence it returned in drops of rain 
 
 To water and gladden the world again; 
 
 Like the souls of the just, whom God sends 
 
 forth 
 As angels of mercy to bless the earth. 
 
 [ 133 ] 
 
DAY-DAWN IN THE FOREST 
 
 The morning breaks afar; 
 At first 'tis but a ray of light 
 That steals upon the place of night 
 
 And lifts his gates ajar. 
 
 The shadows flee away ; 
 While higher still the raylets rise 
 And chase them flying through the skies, 
 
 For night evades the day. 
 
 The birds awake to sing; 
 Each vies with each in lofty song, 
 While listening groves the notes prolong 
 
 'Till hills and valleys ring. 
 
 Far flee the things of night; 
 The eastern gates still wider swing, 
 Expectant of the coming king 
 
 Whose chariot rolls in light. 
 
 All darkness quakes with fear; 
 The birds of night and beasts of prey, 
 In dire confusion flee away, 
 
 As if their doom was near, 
 
 [ 134 ] 
 
At length the sun appears; 
 In gorgeous robes of splendor dressed 
 He guides his car from east to west 
 
 And lights and warms and cheers. 
 
 When lo, what joys arise ! 
 The earth is spread with life and bloom 
 Where naught had reigned but dark and gloom ; 
 And purling brooks and babbling rills, 
 And lovely vales and vine-clad hills, 
 And joyous birds and fragrant flowers, 
 With boughs and shrubs and shady bowers, 
 
 All greet our wondering eyes. 
 
 Faint emblem this, and poor, 
 Of that blest morn that soon shall rise, 
 In splendor on the joy-lit eyes 
 
 Of all whose hearts are pure. 
 
 [135] 
 
A SPRING IDYL 
 
 Our old friend, George B. Balch, who was attending 
 the Presbytery here, took advantage of our absence 
 from the desk one day, and "threw off" the following 
 bit of Spring poetry. — Paris Gazette. 
 
 Old Winter and Spring have kissed and parted, 
 
 For the parting time will come; 
 And winter has shaken his locks and started, 
 
 Away to his Arctic home. 
 
 And Spring, sweet Spring from a summer land, 
 Where her feet had tarried long, 
 
 Has come with garlands fair in her hand, 
 And brought us sweet birds of song. 
 
 The plow boy's whistle is heard again, 
 And the song of the fair milk maid ; 
 
 The farmer is sowing his fields with grain, 
 And the gardener heaves his spade. 
 
 And the spinning wheel — no that won't do ; 
 
 For the wheel has hushed its roar; 
 But the spinster's voice is tried and true, 
 
 And runs as in days of yore. 
 
 [136] 
 
TEMPERANCE POEMS 
 
WARFARE 
 
 A hateful foe, with vile intent, 
 On dreadful war and rapine bent, 
 Once took possession of a pleasant land ; 
 His name was Legion, and he came 
 With gleaming lance, and fire and flame 
 And flashing battle-blade, and daring band 
 To mar and spoil the beauty of the land. 
 
 He built a massive fort, that stood 
 Amid the land in frowning mood, 
 With moat, and parapet, and brazen wall ; 
 And hither came the teeming host 
 From every land, from every coast, 
 Quick moving at their daring leader's call, 
 With scoffs, and jeers and menace to appall. 
 
 Against this host a feeble band 
 Of patriots went with life in hand, 
 To fight for homes and all that makes them 
 dear; 
 Valiant and few they onward moved 
 Between their foes and those they loved, 
 Before them war with many a gleaming spear, 
 Behind them love and prayers of faith to cheer. 
 
 [139] 
 
Thus moving on with bated breath, 
 Those heroes neared the field of death, 
 Where all was still and silent as the grave; 
 Above the wall the banners streamed, 
 Beyond, a myriad lances gleamed, 
 Where foes in mighty millions teemed, 
 While all along its brazen breast, 
 Like death in sullen silence drest, 
 A thousand guns with fiery eyes, 
 In dreadful silence viewed their prize; 
 The bravest hearts more quickly beat 
 At thoughts of hearth and home so sweet. 
 And those they braved the battle-field to save, 
 For hearts that beat with love become the brave ! 
 
 Though strangers quite to craven fear, 
 Their thoughts were with the near and dear, 
 Sweet forms, and loved, they never more might 
 see; 
 But now their leader's voice, so clear, 
 Rings down the line, "No faltering here, 
 No pallid cheek, nor trembling breast nor knee, 
 None but the brave and true can e'er be free !" 
 
 Stung by their leader's stern command, 
 They onward move, in order grand, 
 Until the shadow of the wall 
 Spreads o'er their line its sable pall ; 
 But hark! a sound is on the breeze 
 Much like the voice of angry seas 
 [ 140] 
 
When hurricanes walk o'er their troubled 
 breast ; 
 For like the ocean's dreadful roar, 
 When maddened billows lash the shore, 
 They come, — five hundred thousand more, 
 With waving plumes, in freedom's livery drest, 
 They come to conquer and to sure conquest. 
 
 Again! they hear it still more near, 
 'Tis freedom's drum-tap sounding clear, 
 And backward looking see the flags unfurled; 
 But hark once more ! a sound more loud 
 Seems bursting from a thunder cloud 
 As ranks on ranks the horsemen crowd, 
 Like thunderbolts with swiftness hurled 
 In fury on a trembling world; 
 While loud and long the bugle's blast 
 Told that the fearful die was cast ; 
 And then a booming signal gun, 
 Like freedom's time-piece striking one, 
 Came thundering from a mountain's brow, 
 It spoke one word ; that word was, "Now." 
 Then fear, like flowers of transient hue, 
 Or passing cloud, or morning dew, 
 Or fever-dreams, all fled away 
 As darkness flies at opening day, 
 Or cravens hide when lightnings play ! 
 
 [ 141 ] 
 
As eagles cleave the mountain air, 
 Or lions leap from out their lair, 
 They onward rush at bugle call, 
 And leap the moat and scale the wall; 
 Nor think of home, nor those so dear, 
 Nor blood, nor cries, nor death, nor fear, 
 Till high above the fortress bold, 
 Their starry banner spreads its fold, 
 And o'er the distant plains they see, 
 In broken ranks, their foemen flee, 
 While like an axrowy Alpine stream, 
 In fell pursuit the horsemen teem. 
 
 So o'er this pleasant world of ours, 
 A foe with more than mortal powers 
 
 His rightful reign declares ; 
 He comes to poison all our youth, 
 He gives them vice instead of truth, 
 
 And spreads their way with snares. 
 He comes with chains for willing hands, 
 And prison walls, and iron bands, 
 
 And drunkards' hopeless graves ; 
 And wretched homes, and blinded eyes, 
 And stony hearts, and love of lies 
 
 For all his willing slaves. 
 
 [142] 
 
To-day he comes in silken fold, 
 To-morrow, changed, a lion bold 
 
 He roams the earth at will; 
 To-day he comes with smiling face 
 And sparkling eye and angel grace, 
 
 To-morrow seeks to kill! 
 
 This monster vile, with hideous mien, 
 In earth's high places oft is seen, 
 
 When truth and mercy weep; 
 He waves aloft his ebon hand 
 And Ethop darkness fills the land 
 
 As waters fill the deep. 
 
 Of late a frightful fort he built, 
 Infilled with lies, o'erspread with gilt, 
 
 And there he sways his rod, 
 And o'er the hearts of men bears rule 
 With power malign, and like the fool, 
 
 Proclaims, "There is no God !" 
 
 Against this foe a mission band, 
 
 With thoughts of love, at God's command, 
 
 Are moving on to-day ; 
 Their weapons are not carnal, no, 
 But bearing precious seed they go, 
 
 And as they go they pray. 
 
 [143] 
 
Along jour path, with hideous train, 
 The monster vice asserts his reign, 
 
 And rears his dazzling throne, 
 And woos your brothers with his charms, 
 Around them throws his iron arms, 
 
 And claims them for his own. 
 
 'Tis yours to meet this hateful foe, 
 Who long has filled the earth with woe, 
 
 Nor ever fail or fear ; 
 Then onward press along the road 
 That leads through battle-fields to God, 
 Supported by his staff and rod, 
 
 For he is ever near. 
 
 The conflict sharp indeed may be ; 
 Your barks may sail a stormy sea ; 
 Your hearts may bear a heavy load; 
 Your feet may walk a thorny road; 
 But then the rest will be more sweet 
 If gained at last with bleeding feet. 
 
 The soul unburdened of a load 
 Will fly more swiftly home to God; 
 The haven will more calm appear 
 Because of storms that rock you here, 
 And peace be valued all the more 
 Because the battle has been sore. 
 
 [ 144] 
 
But if along the thorny way 
 That leads from night to endless day, 
 Our mission bands could see the throng 
 Come bending on with shout and song ; — 
 See brothers crowding wisdom's way 
 With willing feet that would not stay; — 
 
 See ardent youth with holy zeal 
 Around Jehovah's altars kneel; — 
 See children climbing Zion's hill, 
 Her sacred courts with songs to fill; 
 Or hear the shout from heathen lands, 
 Or hear the islands clap their hands, 
 See multitudes from east to west, 
 In raiment pure and spotless drest. 
 Come rushing on in teeming ranks 
 To swell their brave but weak phalanx, 
 Their hearts would leap with fond delight, 
 While tears of joy would veil the sight; 
 And strengthened by their coming shout, 
 Would put the foes of God to rout. 
 
 They will! the fiat has gone forth 
 That Christian love shall fill the earth. 
 Though we are weak our God is strong, 
 To him almighty powers belong; 
 How small the helm that safely guides 
 The monster ship o'er mountain tides ; 
 Remember that 'twas Gideon's band 
 That drove the tyrants from the land. 
 [ 145 ] 
 
The tears we weep in pity here, 
 On memory's page will reappear, 
 Aye, reappear in Heaven above 
 To swell the ocean of God's love ; 
 The mighty Jordan still is fed 
 By dews that fall on Hermon's head. 
 
 [146] 
 
THE RUMSELLER'S HOME 
 
 'Tis a grand, stately mansion, fair to behold, 
 That rears its proud form like some palace of 
 
 old, 
 With lintels and cornice laid true to the line, 
 And paintings and carvings of latest design. 
 
 His parlors are ample and airy and grand, 
 As if fresh from the touch of a master's hand; 
 And his elegant rooms, appointed with care, 
 Are furnished with furniture costly and rare. 
 
 A smooth shaven lawn, with most beautiful trees 
 That wave their glad arms in the soft summer 
 
 breeze, 
 Surround his grand palace, while column and 
 
 dome, 
 Add beauty and taste to the rumseller's home. 
 
 His table is spread with the daintiest fare 
 The wide earth can produce, or science prepare ; 
 And over his threshold grim want never comes, 
 But seeks for his victims in less favored homes. 
 
 And here, in proud splendor, at peace with him- 
 self, 
 This vice-consul of Satan enjoys his pelf; 
 For all his possession, tho' grand to excess, 
 Was taken from those who were left in distress. 
 [147] 
 
The gold that erected his castle so grand, 
 Was all taken by stealth from poverty's hand — 
 'Twas filched from poor children, whose half- 
 covered forms 
 Are ever exposed to life's merciless storms. 
 
 Each rafter and beam in that roof o'er his head, 
 Was gotten from those who were crying for 
 
 bread ; 
 And a mother's tears, that she wept when alone, 
 Will be found at last in its chief corner stone. 
 
 What more it has cost then our eyes can behold, 
 Can never be known or computed or told ; 
 And the sad scene that lies beyond his dark tomb 
 We will leave overspread with| ( a mantle of 
 gloom. 
 
 But at the last day, while he trembles with fear, 
 The cost of the rumseller's home will appear; 
 This one thing we know, that no drunkard shall 
 
 rest 
 In the beautiful home prepared for the blest. 
 
 O give me a home on some desolate isle, 
 Where the birds never sing and roses ne'er smile ; 
 Where the ocean's sad moan is the only sound 
 That will ever disturb the silence profound; 
 
 [148] 
 
And there let me perish, unwept and alone, 
 My couch the cold rocks, and my pillow a stone ; 
 With no one to wipe the death-damp from my 
 
 cheek, 
 Or catch the last whispering words I shall 
 
 speak. 
 
 No loved one to bid me a parting farewell, 
 When the rocks and the waves shall sound the 
 
 last knell; 
 There banish my soul to where joys never come, 
 But save me, dear Lord, from a rumseller's 
 
 home. 
 
 [149] 
 
THE SAD BY AND BY 
 
 There's a demon abroad in the land, 
 
 And with wine he is poisoning the brave, 
 And enrolling their names in the band 
 Pie is leading awa} r to the grave. 
 O the sad by and by 
 When they stand on the echoless shore — 
 
 O the sad by and by 
 When they part to be gathered no more. 
 
 There are wives who are weary of wine, 
 
 Which has changed their beloved ones to 
 stone ; 
 And with hearts that in sadness repine, 
 They are treading the winepress alone. 
 the sad by and by 
 When they stand on life's echoless shore — 
 
 O the sad by and by 
 When they part to be gathered no more. 
 
 There are mothers whose tears ever fall, 
 
 Over sons who are going astray, 
 And in sorrow they tenderly call, 
 
 But their loved ones still wander away. 
 O the sad by and by 
 When they stand on life's echoless shore — 
 
 the sad by and by 
 When they part to be gathered no more. 
 
 [150] 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
THE PROFESSOR'S RIDE 
 
 (A Romance by a Holz Faher) 
 
 One shining day Professor Lee 
 Went down to town — went just to see 
 How folks were getting on, you know, 
 And buy some books, and so and so; 
 And mayhap find some errant fool 
 Who ne'er had heard about his school. 
 
 He rode a dashing, dappled mare, 
 
 The kind that makes a jockey stare; 
 
 So neat in limb, so fine in form, 
 
 With movement like an April storm. 
 
 Professor lingered long in town, 
 
 Went up the street and then went down; 
 
 He talked with friends, talked long and loud, 
 
 And oft addressed the gathering crowd 
 
 On politics and Mobilier, 
 
 On banks, finance and financier. 
 
 He talked of books, and schools, and pay, 
 
 And thus he spent the livelong day. 
 
 The shades of night had settled down, 
 Ere once he thought of leaving town ; 
 And having now no time to spare, 
 He quickly mounts his dappled mare, 
 And thinks to have a pleasant ride, 
 Now in the cool of evening tide. 
 [153] 
 
But ah! for once a luckless wight! 
 For at the cars his mare took fright, 
 And ran away with all her speed, 
 Impelled with fear, well backed with feed. 
 The noisy curs along the way, 
 Set up a preconcerted bay ; 
 While cow-boys shouted, "Let her rip !" 
 As Mollie o'er the ground did skip. 
 
 The shining stars were all amazed, 
 
 As on the tragic scene they gazed; 
 
 And as the fearful race begun, 
 
 The moon arose to see the fun, 
 
 And smiled to see Tom clutch the mane, 
 
 As Mollie turned the Loxie lane. 
 
 With tail erect, and head as high, 
 On wings of fright she seemed to fly, 
 While Tom held on with deathly hug, 
 But Gilpin-like he'd lost his plug. 
 Due eastward now, with might and main, 
 As reindeer skims the northern plain, 
 Or wild bird cleaves the morning air, 
 So rapid went the frighted mare. 
 
 [154] 
 
The houses went all shooting by, 
 
 As meteors shoot across the sky ; 
 
 The night train swiftly gliding East, 
 
 Did spy this flying man and beast, 
 
 And downed her brakes and stopped her flight, 
 
 To see this phantom of the night. 
 
 The travelers all with eyes astare, 
 Thought sure 'twas Gilp, on Shanter's mare ; 
 But Tom saw not the astonished train, 
 His business was to hold the mane; 
 For Moll was of the Morgan breed, 
 And homeward went with awful speed. 
 
 On hearing Jones' jackass bray, 
 She answered with a joyful neigh, 
 But never slacked her rapid rate, 
 'Till bolt she ran up to the gate. 
 When by the stars poor Tom was seen 
 To land, the house and barn between. 
 
 The frighted house-dog raised the yelp, 
 And Lettie ran and screamed for help. 
 The neighbors came with wonder filled, 
 All thinking sure poor Tom was killed. 
 They took him in — all looked forlorn — 
 And many sighed, "Poor Tom! he's gone!" 
 
 [153] 
 
But Lettie tucked him up in bed, 
 And poured cold water on his head ; 
 With scorching bricks plied his toes, 
 And held the camphor to his nose. 
 The neighbors did some honest scrubbing, 
 And after a while, by patient rubbing, 
 Professor gasped, then caught his breath, 
 And issued from the jaws of death. 
 
 And now he's able to get about, 
 Although he's not entirely stout ; 
 Can eat, and talk, and laugh, 
 And hobble round upon a staff; 
 And says he'll take a ride again, 
 As soon as he gets free from pain. 
 But of horsemanship he does not brag, 
 And says he'll ride a gentler nag. 
 
 [156] 
 
DO RIGHT 
 
 In thoughtful mood, with measured pace 
 We walked the streets with upturned face. 
 To see the sights that far and near 
 In holiday attire appear — 
 To see who begged, or bought, or sold; 
 Who wrought for fame and who for gold; 
 Who led by Love's soft silken cord, 
 Or who wrought only for reward. 
 
 Alas, alas, the fruitless task ; 
 
 For human nature wears a mask ; 
 
 It may be but a silken veil, 
 
 But often 'tis an iron mail 
 
 Through which no human eye can peer, 
 
 Nor reach with hate nor love nor fear. 
 
 We only judge of what we see, 
 
 All else belongs to Deity. 
 
 We see each struggling to arise, 
 Still covered with a strange disguise ; 
 Each vies with each some place to gain, 
 Some stake to win, some height to attain; 
 And whether these or those to please, 
 Give this one pain, or that one ease, 
 Or whether this or that to do, 
 Which to accept, or which eschew, 
 Are questions that forever tease 
 The minds of those that seek to please. 
 [157] 
 
There is a magnet that will guide 
 Directly o'er the darkest tide, 
 One point will lead us safely o'er, 
 The other dash us on the shore; 
 Do right to each and well by all, 
 Nor heed if stones and missiles throw. 
 
 [ 158 ] 
 
TRUTH THE ONLY CITADEL OF 
 SAFETY 
 
 There is a citadel whose massive wall 
 
 Will ever stand secure; 
 A lofty fortress that will never fall 
 
 While endless years endure. 
 
 Its deep foundations have been firmly laid 
 
 In God's unchanging will; 
 Aloft its apex lifts its towering head 
 
 Up to the immutable. 
 
 The flames may drink the sea and burn the land, 
 
 The heavens together roll, 
 But this strong fortress will forever stand 
 
 The bulwark of the soul. 
 
 And those who dwell within its golden gate 
 
 Need fear no dread alarm; 
 Their foes, however strong, or wise or great, 
 
 Are powerless for harm. 
 
 And all who have their lot and portion there. 
 
 Enjoy perpetual youth; 
 And thither all "the sons of God" repair — 
 
 The citadel is truth. 
 
 [159] 
 
A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW AT HOME 
 
 In all the wide world from the east to the west, 
 
 On the land or the wide rolling deep, 
 Or in heaven above where the stars are at rest, 
 
 And the planets in brilliancy weep, 
 Where bright flashing comets oft traverse the 
 skies 
 
 And with splendor array the vast dome. 
 There's nothing so joyful and sweet to our eyes 
 
 As the light in the window at home. 
 
 ; 
 The home may be humble, the window be low, 
 
 And the light a pale flickering ray, 
 But thrilling the mem'ries awaked by its glow 
 
 As it flashes afar o'er the way; 
 The step is more firm and the heart is more 
 light, 
 
 When alone in the darkness we roam, 
 If, amid the deep gloom and shadows of night 
 
 There's a light in the window at home. 
 
 [160] 
 
It tells that some dear loving watcher is there, 
 
 That her heart is still faithful and true, 
 It speaks of her loneness and whispers of prayer 
 
 And of cheeks that are moistened with dew ; 
 'Tis a beacon whose rays sink down in the 
 breast, 
 
 To dispel all its sorrow and gloom ; 
 There's nothing that whispers so sweetly of 
 rest 
 
 As the light in the window at home. 
 
 'Tis a love-lighted lamp whose rays are divine, 
 
 'Tis a light-house of joy to the soul, 
 'Tis a bright morning star, O long may it shine 
 
 On the pathway that leads to the goal; 
 And when we shall stand by Jordan's cold wave, 
 
 And with longing look over its foam, 
 What joy, if beyond the dark gloom of the 
 grave, 
 
 There's a light in the window at home. 
 
 [161] 
 
WOULDS'T THOU PRESERVE THY 
 MOTHER'S FACE? 
 
 "And Rachel died, and was buried on the way to 
 Ephrath, which is Bethlehem, and Jacob set a pillar 
 upon her grave." 
 
 The erections of tombs, temples, monuments and 
 mausoleums over the departed, has been practised by 
 all nations and all religions in all ages of the world. 
 
 The great patriarch, as he journeyed from Padan 
 Aram, when near Bethlehem where the Messiah was 
 born, solemnly halted, and lovingly erected a monument 
 over the grave of his departed wife. 
 
 And against expenditures in honor of the dead, Heaven 
 has laid no prohibition nor uttered a single protest. 
 
 The ancients being ignorant of the art of drawing 
 portraits or tracing the features of the human race 
 upon canvas, embalmed the bodies of their loved ones 
 in a way that defied the ravages of time, that their 
 forms and features might be looked upon in the ages 
 yet to come, and the glorious hope of the resurrection 
 was then kept alive in the human breast. 
 
 The body of Joseph was embalmed and put in a 
 coffin in Egypt as had been that of his illustrious sire, 
 whose bones had been taken from Egypt to the land 
 of promise, and buried with all the pomp and splendor 
 of the orientals whose catacombs still exist, filled with 
 crumbling mummies. 
 
 But how changed the scene in the present age. In- 
 stead of going to silent tombs or ghastly sepulchers 
 and traversing lonely and murky halls and opening 
 grating doors, to look upon the horrid forms of shrunken 
 mummies, we have but to walk into the beautiful parlor 
 and look upon its cheerful walls where science has hung 
 the portraits of our loved ones, with every feature and 
 expression traced in the truest and most delicate lines. 
 What a change! Beauty for ashes, a garden in place 
 of a desert, flowers instead of thorns, a lovely parlor 
 instead of a ghastly catacomb. 
 
 i 162 ] 
 
God stamps his image everywhere; each rock and 
 tree and shrub and flower bears the impress of the 
 Almighty. Each star that glitters in the Heavens is a 
 portrait of Jehovah, hung there for the wonder and 
 admiration of man, and shall not man preserve the 
 features of those whom Heaven has commanded him to 
 honor? 
 
 Wottlds't thou preserve thy mother's face 
 Her loveliness and every grace? 
 Then let some artist paint them all, 
 And hang them on thy chamber wall. 
 
 Or dids't thou love thy faithful sire, 
 His honor and his worth admire; 
 Then let his lofty, manlike mien, 
 Upon thy parlor wall be seen. 
 
 Or dost thou love thy darling child, 
 Whose heart the world has not beguiled ; 
 Then on the canvas paint its face 
 And hang it in the sweetest place. 
 
 [163] 
 
DESPONDENCY 
 
 Arise, O morning sun, arise, 
 Full long has been the dreary night ; 
 Drive back the clouds that veil my skies 
 And pour on me thy cheerful light. 
 
 How dim the twinkling stars do shine, 
 The moon has hid behind the sea, 
 Arise, O sun, with light divine 
 And set no more in gloom for me. 
 
 [ 164 ] 
 
TIME 
 
 Old hoary time, with scythe in hand, 
 Walks onward o'er the sea and land ; 
 His glittering blade like that which hung, 
 At Eden's gate when Time was young — 
 Where Cherubims with flaming sword 
 Watched o'er the garden of the Lord, 
 To guard the tree of life with care — 
 Lest man should pluck its fruitage fair ; 
 
 And co-eternal live with God, 
 
 And thus escape the vengeful rod — 
 
 Sways back and forth with fearful sweep, 
 
 As shafts of lurid lightning leap ; 
 
 And all there is of earth must fade 
 
 Before the tyrants' ruthless blade. 
 
 Time never sleeps ; his searching eyes 
 Are ever fixed upon their prize ; 
 Nor does he rest ; each year his feet 
 The orbit of the world complete; 
 And as he walks, his ceaseless tread 
 Rings hollow o'er his sleeping dead, 
 That man may know that all of earth 
 Begins to fade and die at birth; 
 
 [ 165 ] 
 
Nor satisfied with death alone, 
 
 He claims e'en gravestones for his own, 
 
 And blight and rust and sad decay, 
 
 And crumbling ruins mark his way. 
 
 Yet, time is good! A father he 
 
 Gives man a better legacy; 
 
 Before his scythe all things are slain, 
 
 But truth revives and lives again. 
 
 What mighty changes time has wrought ! 
 What wonders from his store-house brought! 
 To-day beholds a monster reign, 
 To-morrow boasts a monster slain. 
 To-day an empire's shadows fall, 
 On all the earth a blackened pall; 
 To-morrow dawns upon a throne 
 No potentate would dare to own. 
 
 To-day no sails prevent the breeze, 
 To-morrow navies ride the seas ; 
 To-day the "New World" is unknown, 
 To-morrow 'tis fair freedom's own. 
 To-day one look is worth millions worth, 
 To-morrow millions fill the earth; 
 To-day beholds each man a slave, 
 To-morrow sees the oppressor's grave. 
 
 [166] 
 
Foot-sore and sad, and needing rest, 
 To-day man seeks the distant West ; 
 To-morrow iron monsters run 
 Like steeds towards the setting sun. 
 To-day the stake or guillotine 
 In all the courts of earth are seen; 
 To-morrow brings a milder reign, 
 Arid mercy wipes away the stain. 
 
 To-day the Prince of glory dies, 
 To-morrow sees her Lord arise ; 
 A Lord whose glory still appears, 
 Through all the mighty march of years. 
 Time is the ever restless mill 
 That God has built to do his will; 
 Nor will it cease its noiseless round 
 Till all his purposes are ground. 
 
 An angel sent on silent wing 
 
 To do the bidding of a King ; 
 
 Old time performs his task with care, 
 
 And leaves his foot-prints everywhere. 
 
 The world is one vast harvest field, 
 
 And wheat and tares the constant yield ; 
 
 The angel reaps, the sheaves are bound, 
 
 The tares are burned, the wheat is ground. 
 
 [167] 
 
And when the grinding days are o'er, 
 
 Then time himself shall be no more; 
 
 He too must fall beneath the blade, 
 
 By which all else in death was laid. 
 
 Man's life will then have just begun, 
 
 Through all eternal years to run; 
 
 No other change, no higher sphere, 
 
 No sin to shun, no death to fear, 
 
 No friends to go, no foes to come, 
 
 No Home but Heaven, no Heaven but home. 
 
 [168] 
 
FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Friendship is not "A Name" — the poet lied — 
 'Tis gold assayed, refined and purified. 
 
 How bright are the planets that traverse the 
 skies, 
 And flash from the regions of blue ; 
 But brighter by far are the love-speaking eyes 
 
 Of friends when their friendship is true. 
 
 i 
 
 How fragrant the zephyrs that rustle the grove, 
 And leave their sweet balm on each leaf; 
 
 But sweeter by far is the fragrance of love 
 That falls on our hearts when in grief. 
 
 How joyful the song-bird's low warblings as- 
 cend, 
 
 As night hangs her curtains around ; 
 But joyful, more joyful, the voice of a friend, 
 
 When hearts are all crushed to the ground. 
 
 How sweet are the blossoms in June's morning 
 hours, 
 
 When summer's bright roses appear ; 
 But sweeter and brighter the beautiful flowers 
 
 That friendship bestows on us here. 
 
 [169] 
 
THE PARTING HOUR 
 
 (Saturday Evening, Aug. 26, 1876) 
 
 There's something in the parting hour, 
 
 That chills the warmest heart, 
 Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends, 
 
 All have their time to part ; 
 And though the parting make a wound, 
 
 Deep in the heart and mind, 
 Yet they who go are happier 
 
 Than those they leave behind. 
 
 The journey may be lone and long, 
 
 O'er seas or oceans far, 
 O'er mountains, deserts, continents, 
 
 In solitude or war; 
 However lone, or far, or dark 
 
 'Tis true, as you will find, 
 That they who go are happier 
 
 Than those they leave behind. 
 
 The bride goes to the bridegroom's home 
 
 With sad and tearful eyes ; 
 Yet she beholds — e'en thro' her tears 
 
 A rainbow in her skies ; 
 But the mother, left at home 
 
 To sadness is consigned; 
 And she who goes is happier 
 
 Than she who's left behind. 
 [170] 
 
Have you a friend or comrade dear — 
 
 A tried and valued friend, 
 With whom you hope to journey on 
 
 In love until the end? 
 That friend and you will part at last, 
 
 However true and kind, 
 And he who goes be happier 
 
 Than her he leaves behind. 
 
 And is there one far more than friend, 
 
 With warm and glowing heart, 
 The time will come — has come indeed, 
 
 When you and he will part ; 
 Yet if he casts his care on God, 
 
 In humble trust resigned, 
 He thinks — tho' sad — he's happier 
 
 Than her he leaves behind. 
 
 God wills it so : — and so it is, 
 
 The weary pilgrims pray, 
 That he will drive away the clouds, 
 
 Or bring the closing day; 
 And when at last by death subdued, 
 
 The flesh to earth consigned, 
 The soul flies home far happier 
 
 Than all it leaves behind. 
 
 [171] 
 
TRUTH AND LOVE 
 
 The past recedes and fades away, 
 The fairest objects soon decay; 
 The blight, the moth, the worm, the rust, 
 Soon change all earthly things to dust. 
 
 Our childhood home, that sacred place, 
 
 Where memory turns her deathless face, 
 
 Where once we romped in childish glee, 
 
 Like lambs as blithe, like birds as free, 
 
 Where sainted sire's forbidding glance, 
 
 More dreaded than a warrior's lance, 
 
 Oft checked us in our child career 
 
 And filled our hearts with wholesome fear — 
 
 Dear home, fit type of that above, 
 
 With all its memories of love, 
 
 Soon fades away and sinks from view 
 
 And nightshade blooms where roses grew. 
 
 The fairest structures man hath wrought, 
 Full soon decay and come to naught; 
 His thoughts, his words, his songs, his dreams, 
 Like bubbles on the mountain streams, 
 Soon vanish from the sight away, 
 And even man lives but a day; 
 But truth survives the direst ill, 
 And love is indestructible. 
 
 [ 172 ] 
 
A LOST COMPANION 
 
 The spring has come ! I hear the wild bird's 
 
 song; 
 He calls and calls, at length from out the dell 
 The answer comes on zephyrs borne along, 
 I catch these cheerful notes, " 'Tis well, 'tis 
 
 well!" 
 
 Again he sings, and swells the music high 
 
 And plumes his wing, and mounts a loftier 
 
 bough ; 
 The glad response, I hear it still more nigh, — 
 How sweet the notes, "I'm coming, coming 
 
 now !" 
 
 But to my heart no gentle spring appears ; 
 'Tis winter here, I feel the tempest rave, 
 I call and call; my eyes fill up with tears, 
 But I can hear no answer from the grave. 
 
 I listen now, and hear a low, sweet voice, 
 Now calling me to come to her and sing 
 Saying, "Come, come, make my sweet home thy 
 
 choice, 
 There is no winter here, but all is spring! 
 
 [173] 
 
"Once thou didst call, and to thy home I went, 
 Became thy bride — together we did dwell 
 In joy and love, and with our lot content, 
 Amid the storms we knew that all was well. 
 
 "But to our door there came an angel bright 
 And called for me; and o'er the narrow sea 
 He bore me on to dwell with Christ in light, 
 And here I watch and call for thee." 
 
 But who will watch and train our tender brood, 
 If I should go, who guide their little feet 
 Aright, and keep them in the narrow road 
 That leads from earth up to the golden street? 
 
 "Our Father is the orphan's God, and He 
 Will watch and tend the flock, and keep their 
 
 feet 
 From ill, from Satan's bondage set them free — 
 His love and watchful care will never sleep." 
 
 'Tis true, I know His mercy has no end, 
 His word will never fail, His love's sincere, 
 And they who trust will never want a friend, — 
 But, oh ! the way is dark, and lone, and drear. 
 
 [174] 
 
"Nay, nay, 'tis not ! I've crossed the narrow sea, 
 'Tis but a step across its silent wave, 
 And Jesus lighted up the way for me, 
 He conquered death, and triumphed o'er the 
 grave." 
 
 Then when He calls, I'll lay my armor by, 
 And to the earth will bid a glad farewell, 
 On rapid wings to Christ and thee will fly, 
 And, like the bird, will sing, " 'Tis well, 'tis 
 well!" 
 
 [175] 
 
THE GRAVE OF NAPOLEON 
 
 Under the willows the hero lies sleeping, 
 
 In a tomb by the rolling wave, 
 Where the wild gray rocks their vigils are 
 keeping 
 
 Like sentinels over his grave. 
 
 How lonely the moan of the ocean's billows 
 As they lave the desolate strand; 
 
 How mournful the voice that comes from the 
 willows, 
 When swayed by the hurricane's hand. 
 
 'Tis a cry from fields all tarnished and gory, 
 Where carnage has driven his car; 
 
 Where vain ambition has struggled for glory 
 'Mid the yawning billows of war. 
 
 'Tis the voice of the vanquished and flying, 
 When scourged by the conqueror's wrath, — 
 
 The cries of the mangled, the groans of the dy- 
 ing* 
 That fell in his blood-sprinkled path. 
 
 'Tis the grief of mothers when sons expire, 
 Or maidens when lovers are dead ; 
 
 The shriek of despair when homes are on fire, 
 And children are crying for bread! 
 [176] 
 
'Tis the sound of the angel's great petition, 
 
 Ascending for justice divine; 
 O, cruel war ! and hateful ambition ! 
 
 What curses shall ever be thine. 
 
 Ah ! who would covet such ex'crable glory, 
 Or seek for such bloody renown; 
 
 Or ask his place in the pages of story 
 At the risk of Jehovah's frown? 
 
 [177] 
 
THE DECLINE OF POETRY 
 
 I asked the aged sire his name, 
 His calling, and from whence he came; 
 He told that from an Eastern land, 
 Beyond the oriental strand — 
 Beyond the realm of frost and snow, 
 Where orange blossoms ever blow, 
 He came, altho' the way was long, 
 A wandering Bard, in search of song. 
 
 That harp and muse, if muse there be, 
 Had long since crossed the mighty sea — 
 Had long since left the Grecian shore, 
 Their happy haunts in days of yore, 
 To find a place, if such there be, 
 Where Heaven had smiled and man was free ; 
 Where Liberty had found a home, 
 And kings and crowns had never come. 
 
 Where knowledge as a river flows, 
 
 And thought takes root, expands and grows 
 
 Into a tree, whose fruits appear 
 
 In luscious splendor all the year, — 
 
 Where man when e'er he breathes, inhales 
 
 A love of freedom from the gales ; 
 
 And learns that freedom is the will 
 
 To grasp the good and spurn the ill! 
 
 [178] 
 
Time was when on the Grecian shore 
 My lyre her sweetest strains did pour, 
 With music's charms I filled the air, 
 Inspired the brave and won the fair ; 
 To science gave my wings of light, 
 Lured freedom from her mountain height, 
 And wooed her weary wings to soar, 
 From realms where she was loved no more 
 To where Columbia spreads her hands 
 To greet the oppressed of other lands. 
 
 [179] 
 
ON THE COMPLETION OF THE G. & M. 
 RAILROAD 
 
 The G. & M. tho' long delayed, — 
 By friends and foes alike betrayed, 
 
 Enthralled, perplexed, reviled, distressed 
 On every hand and side oppressed — 
 Has triumphed over all at last, 
 
 And left her troubles with the past. 
 
 To those who helped her right her wrongs, 
 
 An humble meed of praise belongs ; 
 For through the sun and through the rain 
 Still onward whirled the thundering train 
 With Shellhorn's hand upon the rein: 
 
 A hand more steady, firm and true, 
 
 The fiery steed never knew. 
 While George stood by the furnace fire 
 To raise or check the monster's ire. 
 
 Bold Harry at the front was seen 
 
 With twinkling eye and thoughtful mien, 
 A very general in command, 
 With long battalions well in hand. 
 
 By night and day, through sun and rain, 
 
 This trio ran the iron train, 
 Nor quailed where other men might quail; 
 And, knowing no such word as fail, 
 In triumph laid the last strong rail. 
 
 And back of them, behind the scene, 
 
 Was Henderson, with quiet mien, 
 
 [180] 
 
And unpretentious air and tone, 
 
 Who spake the word and it was done. 
 And back of him was Fuller Nigh, 
 With stately step and business eye, 
 
 Who had a stake to lose or gain, 
 
 And pushed the work with might and main ; 
 And Bloomfield, too, with heart of steel, 
 Whose willing shoulder pushed the wheel. 
 
 And back of all, a lion bold, 
 
 Sat Herkimer, who seemed to know 
 That money makes a railroad go, 
 
 And had determined, once for all, 
 
 Survive or perish, rise or fall, 
 
 To get this road from out the snarl, 
 Or see the bottom of his bar'l. 
 
 The work is done, the track is laid, 
 
 At rest the wheel, the truck, the spade; 
 At rest the men whose brawny hands 
 Have girdled earth with iron bands ; 
 
 At rest the arm, at rest the brain, 
 
 At rest the engine and the train. 
 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! hurrah again ! 
 
 Three cheers for him whose compass true, 
 The lines and curves so finely drew. 
 
 Three more for those whose sweat and toil 
 
 Hath gained progression one more spoil — 
 Whose willing hands and stalwart forms, 
 Despite the sun, the rain, the storms, 
 
 [181] 
 
Hath laid, at length, the closing rail, 
 
 And drove well home the last strong nail. 
 Three cheers for those whose plans, well laid 
 One other iron band hath made, 
 
 And given our country one more charm ; 
 
 To giant commerce, one more arm. 
 And on this Independence Day, 
 Hath given our state one more highway. 
 
 [lSfcj 
 
NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS 
 
 With arms full of papers, and heart filled with 
 cheer, 
 
 Again I am making my call, 
 To wish all my Patrons a Happy New Year, 
 
 And peace, joy and plenty to all. 
 The year that has passed was a mother indeed, 
 
 In love and bountiful store ; 
 With matronly hand, she supplied every need 
 
 And drove all the wolves from the door. 
 
 Our State, like a giant fresh armed for the 
 fight, 
 
 Is marching along in the van, 
 In all that is noble, and useful and right — 
 
 In all that is worthy of man; 
 Our wide-spreading prairies have groaned 
 'neath the load, 
 
 Of orchard, and meadow, and field, 
 The "Fir trees" that tremble by every railroad, 
 
 Are trembling because of the yield. 
 
 [183] 
 
Our towns and cities are teeming with wealth, 
 
 The plowmen are singing again, 
 And the year brought with her a full cup of 
 health, 
 
 And peace has continued to reign ; 
 With hearts filled with thanks to the giver of 
 bread, 
 
 And all that is noble and true, 
 We bid a farewell to the year that has fled 
 
 And stretch out our hands to the new. 
 
 But before we forget the events of the past, 
 
 Let mem'ry their image renew, 
 Ere the ashes of time on the picture be cast, 
 
 Forever to hide it from view; 
 And as week after week has floated away, 
 
 You have heard my steps on the street, 
 As I bore to your homes the news of the day, 
 
 Till you knew the sound of my feet. 
 
 I have told how Plenty has opened her horn, 
 
 And flooded the land with her wealth, 
 In millions of wheat and ten millions of corn, 
 
 And added the blessing of health ; 
 I have told you the news of far-away lands, 
 
 As well as the doings at home, 
 Of markets and values, supplies and demands, 
 
 And shadowed the events to come. 
 
 [ 184 ] 
 
I have told of the King with the yellow plume, 
 
 Who reigned in a bright, sunny land, 
 And spread o'er its home a dark mantle of 
 gloom 
 
 Wherever he lifted his hand, 
 'Till a stronger than he, with a white cockade, 
 
 Came down from his palace of snow, 
 And with an icy lance and a frosty blade 
 
 Laid the king of the Harpies low. 
 
 I have told how the Fire Fiend traveled the 
 street, 
 
 With a red dappled breast of flame, 
 With the homes of the poor in coals at his feet, 
 
 As well as the temples of fame — 
 Of the balloon, that went on her airy flight 
 
 Far away to the bending sky ; 
 And the heroes she bore to the fields of light, 
 
 And the rainbow's chamber, to die. 
 
 I have chronicled wrecks on the mighty deep, 
 
 When in anger he lashed his sides, 
 'Till the brave sailors sank forever to sleep 
 
 Far down in his bellowing tides. 
 I have told how armies have crossed other lands 
 
 With spear, and with lance, and with plume, 
 Till the good and the vile with each other's 
 hands, 
 
 Have digged for each other a tomb. 
 
 [185] 
 
I have told of the wars in the Zulu land, 
 
 Where the last Napoleon died, 
 And how England has conquered those fields of 
 sand 
 To feed her conquering pride. 
 But the bells with a dirge have girdled the 
 earth, 
 And a birthday hymn have they tolled, 
 The hymn for the New Year that comes into 
 birth, 
 The dime for the death of the Old. 
 
 &' 
 
 And our thoughts return to Columbia again — 
 
 Columbia, the home of the brave, 
 Where a highway is open to all who are men, 
 
 And a beacon shines for the slave ; 
 Where vict'ry oft flies from the grasp of the 
 strong, 
 
 And the swift are often behind; 
 Where Right is the monarch that reigns over 
 Wrong, 
 
 And the cords Fraternal that bind. 
 
 But the old year is closed as a well-written book, 
 
 Its virtues and vices remain; 
 On its unsealed pages we ever may look, 
 
 But never relive them again. 
 
 [186] 
 
With joy for the right and regret for the 
 wrong, 
 
 Reluctant we turn from the past; 
 But the New Year is ours ; let courage be strong 
 
 As our barks on the billows are cast. 
 
 And our sails are all spread, each anchor is 
 weighed, 
 
 The lines have been loosed from the shore, 
 The sea may be stormy, but be not afraid, 
 
 For others have crossed it before; 
 With Right for a pilot and Truth for a guide, 
 
 We launch on its billowy foam, 
 Well assured that our barks in safety will ride 
 
 While our oars are pulling for Home. 
 
 [187] 
 
REFLEX LIGHT 
 
 (Alumni Poem) 
 
 "Where shall wisdom be found," and where 
 
 is her place, 
 That mortals may enter and look on her face? 
 Or has she departed, unwilling to stay 
 In the shadow of death with dwellers in clay? 
 Her light was reflected from age to age, 
 By prophet and scholar — by seer and by sage — 
 And if these had not shined we would grope in 
 
 the night, 
 For darkness is naught but the absence of 
 
 light. 
 'Twere happier far if herself could be seen, 
 In palace and hamlet with Prudence the queen, 
 And if all her reflective splendor were gone, 
 The night would continue with never a dawn. 
 
 'Tis not wholly night when the sun disappears, 
 For his glory is seen in the rolling spheres, 
 And the stars in harmony almost divine, 
 Proclaim that his face still continues to shine. 
 So "The light" that dwelt in the flesh among 
 
 men, 
 And returned to the Heaven of Heavens again, 
 And still shines in the face of the pure and wise 
 As the sun-light beams from the stars in the 
 
 skies. 
 
 [188] 
 
And the Alpine hill tops are grandest by far 
 When the day-god dazzles the west with his car, 
 While he calmly descends, with face all aglow, ■ 
 Intent to depart, yet reluctant to go, 
 Till his splendor is poured in rivers of light 
 From the grand hill-tops on the pathway of 
 night. 
 
 For the Sun would know that his glory remains 
 To gladden the deserts and valleys and plains, 
 And that these with his reflex splendor are blest 
 When his curtains are down and he is at rest ; 
 Aye, he loves to behold from the Heavens afar 
 His grandeur reflected by every star. 
 
 So man, on whose soul is the impress of God, 
 Will relive his life tho' he sleeps 'neath the sod, 
 For the works that men do will remain when 
 
 they're gone 
 And for weal or for woe, will follow them on. 
 
 And the crown that has changed from raven to 
 
 gray, 
 Beneath the kind roof that is o'er us to-day, 
 Like the sun in the heavens is sinking to rest 
 On a couch of repose in life's hopeful west, 
 And shines with more brilliance than ever be- 
 fore. 
 Because it is nearing life's great western shore ; 
 And behold with a joy than all else more sweet, 
 The light on the hills that arise at his feet. 
 [189] 
 
But the sun will go down, and night come apace, 
 For all we behold nears the end of the race 
 And those who abide in the shadows of night 
 Will soon seek for knowledge where knowledge 
 
 was sown, 
 As men look for trees where the acorns were 
 
 thrown. 
 
 And shall it be so? will the hill-tops send forth 
 
 The rays of the Sun to enlighten the earth? 
 
 And will they, like the stars that are ever aglow, 
 
 Reflect the sunlight on the darkness below. 
 
 The world stands expectant and longs to be- 
 hold 
 
 The light on the mountain tops gleaming as 
 gold, 
 
 And the valleys will shout and deserts will 
 bloom 
 
 When their reflex splendor has banished the 
 gloom. 
 
 [ 190 ] 
 
THE G. & M. RAILROAD 
 
 The following poem we clip from the Mattoon Jour- 
 nal, which was written by Geo. Balch (Longfellow), 
 the dignitary who officiates at Selina P. O. in Coles 
 County, on the first excursion over the G. & M. R. R. 
 — Cumberland Democrat (of July 17, 1878 — now called 
 the Toledo Democrat) 
 
 As Herkimer had built the road, 
 And freed his shoulder from a load, 
 He thought to have a little spree, 
 And take his friends out just to see 
 
 How well the work was done. 
 So, gathering all who then could go, 
 
 A crowd of fifty men or so, — 
 With splendid coach and splendid load, 
 He started down the Grayville road, 
 
 To have a lot of fun. 
 
 And as they asked me, in my song, 
 To tell what fellows went along, 
 And how they did, and where they went, 
 And on what business they were bent, 
 
 I'll try to give their names. 
 But, if you publish all my rhymes, 
 I warn you here and now, betimes, 
 To put this under lock and key; 
 And if you have any respect for me, 
 
 Please do not tell their dames. 
 
 [191] 
 
So listen now that you may hear 
 The lowest whisper plain and clear; 
 And if my ink is free to flow 
 I'll write in numbers soft and low — 
 
 That you can always mind. 
 Dan Messer, jolly, fat and fair, 
 With New York aldermanic air ; 
 And Cunningham, on pleasure bent, 
 Whose shirt would make a circus tent, 
 
 Of just the biggest kind. 
 
 And doctors Dora, Fry and Morse, 
 And Charley Dole, the old wheel-horse, 
 With Hasbrouck, mayor of the town, 
 Who ought to wear a cowl and gown 
 
 He looks so like a preacher; 
 And Roosa, he of chicken fame, 
 Went down the road to look for game. 
 And Lennox, Mattoon's foundry boss, 
 Who likes to drive a fancy "hoss"; 
 Oh, Lennox is a screecher. 
 
 And D. D. James — they call him "Dorr," 
 Who lives to smoke a good cigar, 
 And Bennett, with just such a face 
 As makes you think of pins and lace 
 
 He is so fair and tender. 
 And Elder, he of drugs and paints, 
 And Gogin, saint among the saints, 
 
 [192] 
 
And Dunlap, too, among the throng, 
 With courage, will and shoulder strong 
 To help run the bender. 
 
 Mark Kahn and Thielens, hand in hand, 
 Brave sons of far-off "Fatherland," 
 Long may their noble virtues shine, 
 As brightly here as on the Rhine; 
 
 God bless their native shore. 
 And Burgess and Alshuler too, 
 For men more honest, firm and true 
 Have never crossed the rolling wave, 
 To bless the free home of the brave, 
 
 O, Bismarck ! send us more. 
 
 George Shaw, who sells you boots and shoes ; 
 The Sumerlins, who print the news ; 
 Tom Patrick, with his pleasant eye, 
 A friend and chum of Fuller Nigh — 
 
 All helped to swell the crew. 
 And Moneypenny (what a name), 
 And Ira James, well-known to fame, 
 And Stotts, and Billy McKee 
 Were helping J. D. take his spree; 
 
 All these were ginger blue. 
 
 [193] 
 
Then Hinkle, Wallace and Frank Noyes, 
 With Toby, Ham and other boys ; 
 And Ephraim Jennings, old and wise, 
 Who scarce could believe his ears and eyes, 
 
 So smooth a road he found. 
 Tom Woods, of journalistic belief, 
 And Fuller Nigh, the Choctaw chief; 
 And Wilson, from the lower end, 
 Had come, a helping hand to lend 
 
 And see their labors crowned. 
 
 And down the road, near "Elm Flats," 
 Longfellow saw them wave their hats, 
 And thought for sure his shocks of wheat 
 Were by a cyclone tossed and beat, 
 
 And that his "cake was dough." 
 He ran to see if all was gone, 
 When lo ! they stopped and took him on, 
 A prisoner bound for Dixie's land, 
 Where Bloomfield keeps a peanut stand 
 
 And Brookhart runs a show. 
 
 [194] 
 
Arriving at the county seat, 
 
 The town was captured quite complete, 
 
 For all were taken by surprise, 
 
 Some thought the train was from the skies, 
 
 And every bone was shaken. 
 The army marched around the square, 
 While stirring music rent the air; 
 The court surrendered and arose 
 With leave to keep their arms and clothes, 
 
 And forty scalps were taken. 
 
 All on the train, the prisoners soon 
 
 Were hurried off toward Mattoon ; 
 
 Judge Decius with a hitching walk, 
 
 And tongue that never fails to talk, 
 
 But pause we here (please don't disturb us), 
 
 Unfit to do the subject justice. 
 
 Next Brewer, with a smiling face, 
 Who once for Congress ran the race, 
 But some John Gilpin beat him through, 
 And Tom from politics withdrew. 
 Next came Levi, Tom's big fat son, 
 Who looks just like a bunch of fun; 
 Then Mumford, of the "Democrat," 
 With 'broidered shirt, and white cravat, 
 And pebbled shoes, and linen hat, 
 Was brought along to see the folks, 
 And sharp his wits and crack his jokes. 
 
 [195] 
 
Next Henry Grosscup, boss of schools, 
 Whose business 'tis to kill the fools ; 
 Next comes the Court, but we forbear 
 With no more time nor ink to spare, 
 Except that Russell fills the chair 
 With solemn, ministerial air. 
 Some forty men we cannot name, 
 Must still remain unknown to fame ; 
 But when again you take a spree, 
 Please come, or send, or write for me. 
 
 [196] 
 
NEWSBOY'S GREETING 
 
 I come, I come, the Carrier Boy, 
 
 Along the frosty street, 
 My heart and hands are filled with joy, 
 
 For each and all I meet. 
 
 I bring the Journal every day, 
 
 In sunshine or in rain ; 
 And still along the beaten way 
 
 I gladly come again. 
 
 And as I make this daily call, 
 
 My many friends to greet, 
 I wish a "happy" day to all, 
 
 Who read my "New Year's" sheet. 
 
 Some meet the year with smiling face, 
 And some are filled with tears, 
 
 Some leap with joy to run the race, 
 While some go forth in tears ! 
 
 Some homes are filled with joy replete, 
 And some with want and care; 
 
 In some the circle is complete, 
 In some, the vacant chair. 
 
 [197] 
 
But as we bid the last farewell, 
 
 To greet the opening year, 
 Let higher hopes our bosoms swell, 
 
 And brighter prospects cheer. 
 
 The bells of Seventy Seven have tolled ; 
 
 Their joyful peals I hear, 
 Throughout the earth their notes have rolled 
 
 To hail the opening year. 
 
 And Seventy Six has passed away, 
 
 On Time's unwearied wing; 
 And on this happy New Year's day, 
 
 Let earth her praises sing. 
 
 The hundredth year since first was rung, 
 
 The anthem of the free, 
 The hundredth year since first was swung 
 
 The bell of Liberty! 
 
 Those joyful bells again have rung 
 
 In notes so loud and clear 
 That every people, tribe and tongue 
 
 Of Babel earth may hear. 
 
 And Seventy Six in proud refrain 
 
 To Seventy Six of old, 
 Echoes, what was held as sacred then, 
 
 Is still more prized than gold. 
 [198] 
 
That love of Liberty is still 
 
 The Angel of our land, 
 The ballot-box — the people's will — 
 
 The rock on which we stand. 
 
 And firmly stand, unmoved by time, 
 Till rising to height sublime, 
 
 The earth astonished, looks to see 
 The strength and love of Liberty. 
 
 The great Centennial year's no more 
 
 When all the nations came 
 To look upon our peaceful shore, 
 
 And see our rising fame — 
 
 And learn, how in such short space 
 
 Columbia stands before 
 The nations that have run the race 
 
 A thousand years or more. 
 
 They came and saw, and learned and felt. 
 
 That half had not been told — 
 That where the sons of freedom dwelt, 
 
 The mind was strong and bold. 
 
 That with our schools and Bibles free 
 — With those who read the rule — 
 
 And all the powers of soul agree 
 Each mind becomes a school. 
 
 [199] 
 
Where those who run, tho' fools may know 
 
 That ignorance is chains — 
 But where the streams of knowledge flow, 
 
 There freedom's power reigns. 
 
 And from the distant Everglades 
 
 Where orange blossoms blow, 
 Where floral beauty never fades, 
 
 And fruits perennial grow, 
 
 To where Alaska's frosty locks, 
 
 Wave o'er her frozen breast, 
 Or where amid the golden rocks 
 
 The sleeping Sierras rest, 
 
 To where New England's granite hills 
 
 Lift up their flinty hands, 
 And swear that all the nation still 
 
 Is bound with iron bands. 
 
 All o'er the land from East to West, 
 
 In union strong we safely rest, 
 While peace with all her Heavenly band 
 
 Rules o'er our broad and happy land; 
 And woe the hand that draws the sword 
 
 To shed a trusting brother's blood. 
 
 [ 200 ] 
 
But far across the briny deep, 
 List the Bear and Lion growl, 
 
 While rousing from her fevered sleep, 
 Is heard the wounded Dragon's howl. 
 
 The map of Time is fast unrolled, 
 
 And on its crowded page, 
 We see the "Gathering" long foretold 
 
 By Prophet, Seer and Sage. 
 
 And now along the Baltic shore 
 
 The burnished sabers gleam, 
 Where Gog and Magog's legions pour, 
 
 And Meshech's millions teem. 
 
 From far and near the myriads come 
 
 Along the dusky way, 
 With spear and lance and waving plume 
 
 "They come to take the prey." 
 
 But woe the hour and woe the day, 
 
 When on the gory field, 
 The Greek meets Greek in war's array 
 
 And neither dares to yield. 
 
 But in the streams of blood to flow, 
 The thoughful sage beholds, 
 
 The long predicted overthrow 
 The sacred page unfolds. 
 
 [201 ] 
 
And tyrants well may fear the end 
 
 And well may rue the day, 
 When Liberty appeals to God, 
 
 And weeping captives pray! 
 
 And they of weary foot and breast, 
 
 Who roam the earth forlorn, 
 Without a home or place of rest 
 
 Can see the coming dawn; 
 
 When from the mountains, hills and plains, 
 
 And islands of the sea, 
 The captive exiles, long in chains, 
 
 Return to Galilee. 
 
 But far from Armageddon strife, 
 
 Columbia's banner waves, 
 Where Liberty is more than life, 
 
 And union more than graves. 
 
 The Kings of earth now rise to greet, 
 
 This Damsel of the West, 
 And with their scepters at her feet, 
 
 She stands a Queen — confessed! 
 
 And now along the shining plain, 
 
 She holds her upward way, 
 The brightest star of all the train, 
 
 She takes her place to-day. 
 
 [ 202 ] 
 
Her flag is still with stars o'erspread, 
 To cheer the dayless night, 
 
 But soon the blazing sun will shed 
 A more effulgent light. 
 
 And then in vain will traitors call. 
 
 For floods to wash their stain, 
 Or else for mountains vast to fall, 
 
 And hide their guilt and shame. 
 
 With Grant to guide our ship aright, 
 We'll safely ride the wave, 
 
 With canvas spread and armor bright, 
 The stormy deep we'll brave. 
 
 And onward still we'll grandly roll, 
 
 On up our orbit, soon 
 Will reach our high and destined goal, 
 
 The Christian's moral noon. 
 
 And now I've written lots of news, 
 And made it mete and rhyme, 
 
 And when you've made a full peruse, 
 You'll owe the boy a dime! 
 
 [203] 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS 
 
LIFE'S WORK 
 
 (Written on the 21st Anniversary of Coles County 
 Lodge, No. 260, I. O. O. F.) 
 
 Twenty-one ! from natal day to manhood 
 
 grown, 
 Childhood's long school-time years forever 
 flown, 
 With men you take your place; 
 All bound in bonds no earthly power can part, 
 With loins well girt, and vows upon each heart, 
 You now begin life's race. 
 
 Hand in hand 'tis yours to go where mercy goes 
 With alms and prayers and tears for others' 
 woes, 
 And each a Brother prove; 
 'Tis yours by weeping sorrow's side to stand 
 With sympathizing heart and helping hand 
 In fellowship of love. 
 
 When pestilence shall come with poisoned 
 
 breath, 
 And spread o'er other homes the pall of death, 
 
 'Tis yours in love to go ; 
 Ay, go with healing balm, and love sincere, 
 And cooling drink, and loaves of bread to cheer 
 
 Sad hearts that sink in woe. 
 
 [ 207 ] 
 
'Tis yours to cross the ever rolling deep, 
 If on its distant shores your Brothers weep, 
 
 By want or foes oppressed ; 
 'Tis yours to plant sweet flowers to ever wave 
 In love above each fallen Brother's grave, 
 
 As emblems of his rest. 
 
 'Tis yours to cheer the widow's aching heart, 
 And from her door bid every fear depart, 
 
 And joy and peace to stay; 
 'Tis yours to guard with ever sleepless round 
 The lonely homes where orphaned ones are 
 found, 
 
 Nor let them go astray. 
 
 High calling, this, and if well fulfilled, 'twill 
 
 bring 
 From Heaven the welcome plaudit of her King, 
 
 "Well done, thou faithful one;" 
 Then onward press with zeal, and upward too, 
 With hearts to will, and willing hands to do, 
 
 Until life's work is done. 
 
 [ 208 ] 
 
THE BENDING CHRISTMAS TREE 
 
 (Read by the author at the Presbyterian Church in 
 Farmington, Dec. 25th, 1879) 
 
 Again has merry Christmas come 
 And brought her annual bearing tree, 
 To gladden many a humble home 
 And fill the children's hearts with glee. 
 
 It is a time for gifts of peace, 
 
 For holy joy and sinless mirth, 
 
 A time when wrong and strife shall cease, 
 
 Made so by Immanuel's birth, 
 
 Of old the wise men saw a star, 
 O'er Bethlehem it beamed and smiled; 
 They followed on from flocks afar, 
 And found the long expected child. 
 
 With lavish gifts they hailed their King 
 A babe within an humble stall. 
 
 [ 209 ] 
 
"WE ALL DO FADE AS A FLOWER" 
 
 The following poem was written and read by George 
 B. Balch, at the Y. M. C. A. services, in honor of 
 William J. Nash, deceased, who was an active member. 
 
 The grave will find us all! 
 The frailest flower, the ripened sheaf, 
 The grandest tree, the smallest leaf, 
 
 Each has its time to fall. 
 
 This life is but a dream ! 
 The smiling youth and trembling age, 
 The lowest mind, the tallest sage, 
 
 Soon cross the narrow stream. 
 
 Each soul its journey takes! 
 To homes of bliss or scenes of woe, 
 The angel calls — and each must go, 
 
 And God makes no mistakes. 
 
 How hard it oft appears ! 
 The orphan left to weep alone, 
 With none to hear its plaintive moan, 
 
 Pours out to God its tears. 
 
 'Tis well — the blissful end — 
 For He who hears the raven's cry, 
 And notes when sparrows fall or fly, 
 
 Will be their faithful friend. 
 
 [210] 
 
Nor need we fear the tomb ! 
 It is a place of peaceful rest — 
 A safe retreat for all the blest, 
 Where weary hands and bleeding feet 
 Repose in slumbers soft and sweet; 
 If washed in Jesus' precious blood, 
 The joyful soul returns to God, 
 
 To dwell in peace at home. 
 
 [211] 
 
GOLDEN NOTES 
 
 (Celebration of the fiftieth wedding anniversary of 
 Mr. and Mrs. J. G. Morrison) 
 
 From '33 to '83, 
 
 Your wedded bark has sailed 
 Across life's dark tempestuous sea 
 
 Where many a voyager failed. 
 
 But He who walked the stormy wave 
 
 When tempests ruled the tide, 
 Has saved you from the yawning grave 
 
 And kept you near his side. 
 
 How soon the golden moments flee, 
 
 How short their trembling stay, 
 The blushing bride of '33 
 
 Is grandma of to-day. 
 
 And he who stood with form erect 
 
 Before the altar then, 
 And vowed to cherish and protect, 
 
 Is three score years and ten. 
 
 And here, adown life's golden west, 
 God grants you this sweet boon — 
 
 A gift with which so few are blest, 
 A golden honeymoon. 
 
 [212] 
 
And some who saw your bark set sail 
 
 Are standing here to-day, 
 And from this mount they shout "all hail! 
 
 God speed you on your way." 
 
 But Time has fixed his hoary seal 
 
 Upon their every form ; 
 Their rocking barks begin to feel 
 
 The fierceness of the storm. 
 
 And some have crossed the swelling tide 
 And reached their long sought Home, 
 
 And there, in peaceful bliss abide, 
 And wait for you to come. 
 
 And others, still, untouched by age, 
 
 Are with you here to-day, 
 To cheer you on vour pilgrimage 
 
 And strew with flowers the way. 
 
 And some are in a distant place, 
 With leagues on leagues between, 
 
 But love knows neither time nor space, 
 And theirs is here, unseen. 
 
 And children's children, too, are here, 
 
 Like morning stars as bright, 
 And grandma's love and grandpa's care 
 
 Affords them sweet delight. 
 
 [213] 
 
And neighbors too, the kind and good, 
 Who smiled when you were glad, 
 
 And who, like soldiers, by you stood, 
 And wept when you were sad; 
 
 They, too, are with you here to-day, 
 
 As in the days gone by ; 
 They've been your friends along the way 
 
 And will be till you die. 
 
 But golden wedding days will cease, 
 Nor should this give us pain ; 
 
 For we will meet once more in peace, 
 With Christ the Lord to reign. 
 
 And there, with harp and waving palm, 
 We'll eat, 'mid shout and song, 
 
 The marriage supper of the Lamb 
 With all the ransomed throng. 
 
 [214] 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
 (The following lines to the memory of Col. James 
 Monroe, 123rd 111. Volunteers, who was killed in battle 
 at Farmington, Tenn., while leading a charge, were 
 written by George B. Balch, and recited at a reunion 
 of the survivors of his regiment, October 8th, 1879) 
 
 This beautiful sword I now hold in my hand, 
 Was given in love to Colonel Monroe, 
 
 By the gallant soldiers who formed his com- 
 mand, 
 When they followed them on to meet the foe. 
 
 The arm that once wielded this glittering 
 blade, 
 Now quietly rests in a soldier's tomb, 
 Where the evergreens spread their soft cooling 
 shade, 
 And sweet Autumn's flowers in loveliness 
 bloom. 
 
 But fond recollection recalls him again, 
 And Memory, sweet Memory is true, 
 
 And carries us back where he fell with the slain, 
 And nobly died 'neath the red, white and 
 blue. 
 
 [215] 
 
And long will our memories cherish his name, 
 His kindness and love, his valor and worth. 
 
 For these shall all live coexistent with fame, 
 While Freedom and Truth shall dwell on the 
 earth. 
 
 And now we will wreathe it with garlands of 
 flowers, 
 And the sweet cypress that speaks of our woe, 
 While tears from our eyes in love-laden 
 showers, 
 Shall fall on this sword of Colonel Monroe. 
 
 Take it back to the home he loved so well, 
 And hang it again on his parlor wall, 
 
 That his children may love their father, and 
 tell 
 How he gave his life at his Country's call. 
 
 Now on ! Soldiers, on ! in the conflict of life, 
 Though dark be the field, and darker the foe ; 
 
 And fall, if you must, in the heat of the strife, 
 And die at the front, like Colonel Monroe. 
 
 [216] 
 
18S4— GOLDEN WEDDING— 1884 
 
 (Wallace W. and Permelia Balch) 
 
 Just fifty years ago to-day, 
 This hoary-headed pair began, 
 
 To walk the dark and thorny way, 
 That Heaven allots to mortal man. 
 
 United in your hearts and minds, 
 In sunshine and in stormy weather, 
 
 You spun the mystic cords that bind 
 Two loving hearts and lives together. 
 
 Full long the winding road has been 
 O'er which your feet have humbly trod, 
 
 But all along the way is seen 
 
 The love and guiding hand of God. 
 
 When first you built your cabin here, 
 This pleasant land was unsubdued, 
 
 The forest slept in grandeur near, 
 A vast and silent solitude. 
 
 The prairie was the wild wolf's home 
 From whence its midnight cry arose — 
 
 Where flocks of deer were wont to roam 
 Or rest in undisturbed repose. 
 
 [217] 
 
Your cabin was a place more sweet, 
 Than lordly monarchs ever knew, 
 
 Where neighbors came with cheerful feet, 
 And love and lasting friendship grew. 
 
 Your little field afforded bread, 
 
 As fair and sweet as e'er was given, 
 
 And round your home contentment shed 
 A light that seemed akin to Heaven. 
 
 And as the glad years went and came, 
 Your children gathered by your side, 
 
 And waked within your breasts the flame 
 Of pure parental love and pride. 
 
 And some remain, your steps to guard, 
 And cheer your hearts along the way, 
 
 And some within the old church-yard, 
 Await the resurrection day. 
 
 And one who, when our bleeding land 
 To all her daring sons appealed, 
 
 Stepped bravely forth with sword in hand, 
 Sleeps on a distant battle field. 
 
 And still you live, by Heaven's bequest, 
 And watch the mighty years sweep by 
 
 To bear you to your promised rest, 
 A sweeter home beyond the sky. 
 
 [218] 
 
How strange is all your eyes behold, 
 
 How vast and grand the scene appears, 
 
 For all has changed a hundred fold 
 Since you were dauntless pioneers. 
 
 The pathless plain is now a field 
 
 Where peace and plenty jointly reign; 
 
 And e'en the hills are made to yield 
 
 Bright golden ears and sheaves of grain. 
 
 And where you chased the bounding deer 
 Or sought the panther's lonely lair, 
 
 A hundred happy homes appear 
 
 And flowers perfume the morning air. 
 
 And where you saw the prairie fire 
 Sweep madly o'er the homeless plain, 
 
 The lightning leaps along the wire, 
 And you behold the thundering train. 
 
 And where you heard the wild wolf's cry, 
 You since have heard the sacred lyre, 
 
 And where you saw the eagle fly, 
 You now behold the gleaming spire. 
 
 And here, within this sacred gate, 
 
 Where godly men are wont to pray, 
 
 Your friends have met to celebrate 
 Your happy golden wedding day. 
 
 [ 219 ] 
 
To wish its oft return were vain, 
 For it will come to you no more, 
 
 But you may drink its sweets again 
 Upon a far more beauteous shore, 
 
 And there, where holy anthems swell, 
 And golden crowns of life are given, 
 
 You'll walk with those you loved so well 
 Along the golden streets of Heaven. 
 
 And children, friends, and neighbors all 
 On this your golden wedding day, 
 
 With one consent, to Heaven would call, 
 God speed you on your peaceful way. 
 
 [ 220 ] 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
THOUGHTS ON THE DEATH OF A 
 BELOVED DAUGHTER 
 
 There's one less form in the circle dear 
 
 Around the hearth at home, 
 And the way is far more lone and drear 
 
 As o'er the world I roam. 
 
 There's one more lamb in the Shepherd's fold 
 
 Amid the fields of light, 
 And one more saint with a crown of gold 
 
 And raiment pure and white. 
 
 There's one less voice to answer my call 
 
 When I bid the children "come," 
 And one less step in the entrance hall 
 
 When evening brings them home. 
 
 There are two more feet on the golden street, 
 
 Beyond the jasper wall, 
 Where the ransomed ones in glory meet 
 
 With Jesus, Lord of all. 
 
 There's one less part when the loved ones sing 
 
 The songs that cleave the sky, 
 And one less angel the cup to bring 
 
 When fevered lips are dry. 
 
 [ 223 ] 
 
There's one more beacon along the shore 
 
 That lies beyond the grave; 
 Where the barks are moored to sail no more 
 
 Across the troubled wave. 
 
 There's one less strain in the old church choir, 
 
 When holy songs ascend, 
 And one less form in the house of prayer 
 
 When at the cross we bend. 
 
 There's one more star in the purple dome 
 
 Of pure and cloudless ray, 
 To light the path that will lead me home 
 
 Across the dreary way. 
 
 There's one more grave in the old church-yard, 
 
 'Tis cold and damp I know, 
 And a way-worn pilgrim finds it hard 
 
 To bear this load of woe. 
 
 There's one more voice in the ransomed choir, 
 
 Of pure seraphic tone, 
 And one more hand on the lofty lyre 
 
 Before the Great White Throne. 
 
 'Tis strange that our hearts with grief are 
 riven 
 And life is lone and sad, 
 When there's joy before the throne in heaven, 
 And ransomed ones are glad. 
 [ 224 ] 
 
THE CALL OF THE DEPARTED 
 
 (On December 9, 1882, of typho-malarial fever, Eliza 
 Adaline, daughter of George B. Balch, of Pleasant 
 Prairie, 111., aged 14 years and 7 months.) 
 
 Above the dark horizon's bar 
 Another brightly beaming star 
 
 Has mounted to the skies, 
 And from its shining home above 
 Looks calmly down through smiles of love, 
 
 And sweetly says, "Arise — 
 
 Arise above this world of strife, 
 To purer heart and higher life 
 
 Where holiest joys are given 
 And in the appointed way of God, 
 That all the saints in light have trod, 
 
 Through Christ ascend to heaven." 
 
 [825] 
 
EPITAPH— OUR MOTHER'S GRAVE 
 
 This marble stone but marks the place, 
 Where rests our sleeping dead; 
 
 This marble shaft but points to where 
 The imprisoned soul has fled. 
 
 But when this stone shall turn to dust, 
 
 This shaft forgotten be, 
 This grave shall yield its treasure up 
 
 And turn its prisoner free. 
 
 And soul and body then rejoined, 
 
 God's word hath made it sure, 
 Shall sing redemption's lofty theme, 
 
 While endless years endure. 
 
 [ 226 ] 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIE 
 LYNCH 
 
 (The subject of the following was a student of Wash- 
 ington and Lee University, at Lexington, Va., who on 
 last Christmas day lost his life trying to save that of 
 a schoolmate, who had broken through the ice on the 
 river.) 
 
 There's something in his tragic death, 
 
 That chills the warmest heart, 
 Some solemn voice, some blighting breath, 
 
 At which our natures start ; 
 Yet memory holds in fond embrace 
 
 The lofty, Christ-like end 
 Of him who seeks to bless his race, 
 
 Or dies to save his friend. 
 
 "Death loves a shining mark," 'tis said, 
 
 Nor spares the brightest bloom, 
 And oft our fairest ones are laid 
 
 Within the silent tomb; 
 God takes the flowers that seem most sweet 
 
 Up to his blest abode, 
 And thus inspires our roving feet 
 
 To seek the heavenly road. 
 
 [ 237- ] 
 
Where Willie sleeps, the morning dew 
 
 Will gleam with pearls more bright, 
 The stars look down from fields more blue, 
 
 And shine with milder light ; 
 The ivy will more closely cling 
 
 To such an honored grave, 
 Above it birds more sweetly sing, 
 
 And trees more grandly wave. 
 
 The winds will hush their rustling tone 
 
 When passing where he sleeps, 
 The purling brook more softly moan, 
 
 As by his grave it sweeps ; 
 The rose and lily, emblems fair 
 
 Of holy love and trust, 
 Will bow with more of meekness where 
 
 The angels guard his dust. 
 
 To live to love, or die to save, 
 
 Are virtues not of earth. 
 Earth has for them no gaping grave, 
 
 For them no place of birth ; 
 From God they came, in mercy given, 
 
 As flowers that ever bloom 
 Along the way that leads to heaven, 
 
 And 'round the martyr's tomb, 
 
 [£28] 
 
TO MR. AND MRS. BENJ. D. MINER 
 
 (Upon the death of their three children — 1876) 
 
 How futile all our deep distress, 
 Our words and tears, alas how vain. 
 E'en love, though strong, is powerless 
 To 'suage such grief or ease such pain. 
 
 Yet hearts so broke, may still be healed; 
 To souls so crushed, may yet be given 
 A sweeter balm than earth can yield — 
 A cordial found alone in Heaven. 
 
 [ 229 ] 
 
DEATH OF HAMILTON ROBB 
 
 'Tis over now; the grave receives in trust, 
 
 Awhile to keep, the tenement of dust. 
 
 To him who formed and winged and sent it 
 
 forth, 
 The unchained spirit has returned from earth. 
 
 Above the grave bright flowers may bud and 
 
 bloom, 
 Sweet vines perchance may twine around the 
 
 tomb, 
 But "Father Robb," the man we learned to love, 
 Is gone to higher work and life above. 
 
 [230] 
 
LITTLE NATIE NOYES 
 
 Too lovely to dwell where the roses all fade, 
 And the beauties of Spring pass away, 
 Where the leaves of the forest in silence are laid, 
 On the bosom of earth to decay. 
 
 Too fair to remain under storm-troubled skies, 
 Where our barks are tossed on the billows, 
 Where all that is pleasant and sweet to our 
 
 eyes, 
 Is soon bathed in tears by the willows. 
 
 Too spotless to live where the vices all reign 
 And virtue in silence is weeping, 
 Where love at the bed of contagion and pain 
 Her vigil of mercy is keeping. 
 
 Too bright for the earth, he was wafted above, 
 'Twas an Angel of love who bore him, 
 And the golden gates of the Kingdom of Love, 
 Have joyfully opened before him. 
 
 No clouds ever darken this beautiful home, 
 No storms ever trouble its mountains ; 
 And sorrow or sighing or death never come 
 To those who have drunk at its fountains. 
 
 [231] 
 
He will not return to your home to abide, 
 Never more on earth will you greet him; 
 But over, just over the billowy tide, 
 In a happy home you will meet him. 
 
 [ 232 ] 
 
EMMA WALKER 
 
 (Died, March 1, 1882, Miss Emma Walker, daughter 
 of J. W. and Mary Walker of Muddy Point, aged sev- 
 enteen years and nine months. Being a faithful Chris- 
 tian and a child of Christian parents, her last end was 
 peace.) 
 
 Another jewel has been borne 
 
 Beyond the river; 
 Another household left to mourn 
 
 But not forever. 
 
 Our fairest gems soon pass away, 
 
 Their years how fleeting; 
 But there will be a brighter day, 
 
 A joyful meeting. 
 
 To-day the stricken bow in grief, 
 
 And hearts are riven; 
 To-morrow brings a sweet relief 
 
 And rest in Heaven. 
 
 The Master takes our jewels home, 
 
 For 'tis his pleasure ; 
 But soon, aye soon he'll bid us come 
 
 And find our treasure. 
 
 [233] 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF MYRON J. GLENN 
 
 There's a vacant chair in our class to-day, 
 
 And in it an unused leaf ; 
 And there's one whose spirit is far away 
 
 From a world of sin and grief. 
 
 An angel appeared with an icy hand, 
 
 And placed on his cheek a kiss, 
 Then bore him away to a fairer land 
 
 And a higher school than this. 
 
 And his teacher there is the risen Lord, 
 And his class the ransomed throng, 
 
 And his hand sweeps over a golden chord 
 While he sings the great new song. 
 
 And his teacher loves him dearly, we know, 
 
 Because we know it was he 
 Who blest little children so long ago 
 
 On the shores of Galilee. 
 
 And when we go to the mansions of rest, 
 That Jesus has gone to prepare; 
 
 We'll shout for joy in the home of the blest, 
 And Myron Glenn will be there. 
 
 [234] 
 
ISRAEL J. MONFORT 
 
 (Sketch of his Life and Character) 
 
 The forest king — the mighty oak, 
 Must fall beneath the lightning's stroke 
 Or else its grand and towering form 
 Uprooted by some dreadful storm, 
 Will on the moldering earth be laid, 
 Where once was cast its pleasing shade. 
 If these should fail, and fail they may; 
 Then it is doomed to sure decay. 
 So man, tho' good, and wise and brave, 
 Must sleep at last, within the grave. 
 
 [2S5] 
 
EPITAPH— MRS. MORRISON 
 
 Walk lightly, stranger, o'er this sod, 
 For here my mother sleeps ; 
 
 And o'er her dust a faithful God 
 Eternal vigil keeps. 
 
 [236] 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER 
 
 (Written February, 1885, in memory of Mrs. T. Miles) 
 
 Stand not beside the breathless body, weeping, 
 
 'Tis but the dress she wore, 
 The thing you loved, the Soul, is in God's keep- 
 ing, 
 
 And she has but gone before. 
 
 Perchance 'tis not for her your tears are fall- 
 ing? 
 But for your own sad loss ; 
 Cease, broken-hearted one, 'twas Jesus called 
 her, 
 And he too sent the cross. 
 
 Would you recall her to this world of sorrow 
 Where she such pain had known? 
 
 The seed God planted, now has bloomed a flower, 
 He gathered for his own. 
 
 And she shall not be lonely in that kingdom 
 
 The land you cannot see, 
 For all who went before were waiting for her. 
 
 As now she waits for thee. 
 
 [237] 
 
Close to the Great White Throne, her temples 
 wearing 
 A crown of fadeless light, 
 Christ's soldier stands, and Heaven expands 
 and gathers, 
 Another star of light. 
 
 Your jewel has been placed in such bright set- 
 ting, 
 That though so far away, 
 Still down to earth, through darkest clouds of 
 sorrow, 
 Has sent a glorious ray. 
 
 Another link to bind your hopes and longings, 
 
 Still closer to that shore, 
 Where she is now, take thou thy cross and 
 follow, 
 
 Christ Jesus is the door. 
 
 [238] 
 
to the memory of mrs. kate 
 Mcdonald 
 
 And she has gone! a lovely child, 
 On whom a father fondly smiled, 
 
 And then was called above; 
 But tho' of him and home bereft, 
 She had an angel mother left, 
 
 Whose every act was love. 
 
 A sweet and lovely child, she grew 
 To be a woman tried and true, 
 
 Esteemed and loved by all; 
 With friendship strong, and love divine, 
 And faith and meekness both sublime — 
 
 She moved at duty's call. 
 
 With lofty mien and artless grace, 
 A beaming eye, a smiling face, 
 
 She won a soldier's heart; 
 Two lovely babes, a home, 
 The tale is brief, the time soon come 
 
 When he and she must part. 
 
 And he was called, while she was left, 
 Of husband, parents, all bereft, 
 
 She bowed beneath the rod; 
 Four times the sweet birds came and went, 
 And then an Angel band was sent 
 
 To bear her back to God. 
 [ 239 ] 
 
And she has gone; and all alone, 
 Two little ones are left to roam 
 
 Without a mother's love ; 
 But God is pledged to be the friend 
 Of orphans who on him depend, 
 
 And He will faithful prove. 
 
 [240] 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
 (On the 14th of August last [1849], died of cholera at 
 Mineral Point, Wisconsin, after a few hours' sickness, 
 Mr. Jonathan Thomas Dryden, son of David Dryden 
 of this county, aged 19 years, 9 months, and 7 days) 
 
 Ho ! guardian angel pray draw nigh, 
 Thy all-prevailing powers to lend, 
 While I in notes of sorrow sing, 
 The mem'ry of a departed friend. 
 
 He was kind and gen'rous in his heart, 
 A wrong he scorned to do, — 
 Was honest, virtuous and sincere — 
 Was also just and true. 
 
 But now he's left this wicked earth, 
 And gone to worlds afar, 
 We hope the crown upon his head 
 Shines like the morning star. 
 
 Oh ! sad and lonely was the scene, 
 Around his dying bier, 
 But one other friend and I were there, 
 To shed a mournful tear. 
 
 No weeping brother round him stood, 
 No sister smoothed his dying bed, 
 No father, no: nor mother there, 
 To cry, "Alas, my son is dead." 
 [241] 
 
Well now he takes his lonely sleep, 
 The sod upon his bosom lies, 
 His body rests entombed in earth, 
 His soul we hope beyond the skies. 
 
 The above lines were composed while driving, alone 
 at night, an ox team, conveying the remains from Min- 
 eral Point to their final resting place, thirty miles 
 distant. 
 
 [ 242 ] 
 
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