|IA 
 
 
 
# LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, I 
 
 # 1^7 3 # 
 
 I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA \\ 
 
Memoi^ial Pictup^es 
 
 WAR AND PEACE 
 
 MARY BRAINARD. 
 
 ■ I 
 
 PUBI.ISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ROCKFOKD, ILLI^^OIS: >i.^ 
 
 GAZETTE STEAM BOOK AND JOB PRINTING HOUSE. 
 
 1873- 
 
\j^^\^\'^ 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, lu the year 1873, by 
 
 MARY BRAIN ARD. 
 
 In the Otlice of the Librarian of Congress. 
 
TO 
 
 |i. |m.i 14 1 1 I 
 
 ROGKFORD, ILL. 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 Respectfully dedicated 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE McNlELS. 
 
 The Homestead. ..... 9 
 
 The Meeting-House, , . . , .32 
 
 The Desolate, - . . . .40 
 
 War, ....... 45 
 
 The Hospital, . ..... 80 
 
 Home, ...... 113 
 
 YEARS AGO. 
 
 Retrospective, ..... 131 
 
 LUCRECE, ....... 146 
 
 Without God, ..... 154 
 
 The Wilderness, . . . . .170 
 
 Peace, ...... 186 
 
 LOVE AND YOUTH, . . . . . lfJ4 
 
 LOYAL. .... . . 196 
 
 THE LOST, . . . . . .198 
 
 THE SINGER, . . . . . . 202 
 
 ROLL ON, . . . . . . .206 
 
W^ Ml 
 
THE MeNIELS. 
 
 THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 ^l SING of what the days have been. 
 ^^ And what the days will be ; 
 I sing of life and life's reward 
 As it appears to me. 
 
 I sing of sorrow sanctified, 
 
 Of trial overpast ; 
 T catch the meaning as I can 
 
 Of every shadow cast. 
 
10 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 As I go out in harvest time, 
 To glean among tlic sheaves, 
 
 I try to learn the tracery of 
 The sunlight on the leaves. 
 
 I analyze, at eventide. 
 
 The thoughts that go and come, 
 When the eye is fixed on vacancy 
 
 And the dreamer's lips are dumb. 
 
 I have only taken one Httle leaf, 
 
 Where the forest of dead leaves fall, 
 And sent it afloat on the ocean of life- 
 
 God guard it, who guideth all ! 
 
 An Eastern river, flowing down, 
 
 Doth glide past hamlet, woodland, town, 
 
 Doth widen, deepen, all the way 
 
 From upland spring to ocean bay. 
 
 Along that winding river bank 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 A turnpike winds, and wild and rank 
 The woods that skirt a reedy tarn, 
 Give phice to fiekl and grain-filled barn; 
 On either side that turnpike lay 
 The farm of farmer Ethan Day. 
 
 Four decades, like a transient dream, 
 Have come and gone; so short they seem, 
 That all betwixt that day and this 
 Might vanisli into nothingness; 
 But what a world of weal and woe, 
 Of birth and death-pangs conic and go. 
 And leave no trace while passing by. 
 On fair green earth or azure sky. 
 
 O'er acres broad of leveled grain, ' 
 The binders toiled with might and main; 
 For though the pulse of earth seemed still. 
 With distant growl, behind the hill 
 
13 THE McXIELS. 
 
 Storm forces crouched, till upward crowd 
 The purple peaks of thunder-cloud. 
 
 Upon his fence leaned Ethan Day, 
 And wiped great beads of sweat away 
 From sun-browned brow and iron-gray 
 That hung above; "Comes mighty fait: 
 A crood share must be wet at last," 
 He muttered, as he turned his eye 
 Now on the field, now on the sky. 
 
 Just then two travelers came down 
 Along the road from Beacontown, 
 Whose Highland garb and bonnet loose- 
 Told of the land of Burns and Bruce; 
 Old Ethan's brow unbent a smile, 
 " Come, bear a hand and help awhile." 
 The lads o'erlept the fence, where they 
 Wrought side by side with Farmer Day^ 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Awkward somewhat, but ready will 
 vSiipplying lack of use and skill. 
 The sheaves were garnered, and the rain 
 Fell, but fell not on Ethan's grain. 
 
 The weeks of harvest passed away : 
 
 Still on the farm of Farmer Day 
 
 The brothers found employ. 
 
 Corn, golden-eared, was gathered in ; 
 
 And ripened fruit, in many a bin. 
 
 Was heaped with grateful joy. 
 
 Well pleased was Ethan with the sense. 
 
 The sterling w^orth, intelligence, 
 
 His Scottish lads displayed. 
 
 Well pleased were James and Dan McNiel 
 
 To find a place where they could feel 
 
 So home-like, while they stayed. 
 
 Thus lingering on, from year to year. 
 
 Through summer's toil and winter's cheer. 
 
14 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 Seed -time and harvest days, 
 The brothers grew at last to be 
 Part of the farmhouse family, — 
 So well they learned its ways. 
 
 Where, willow -fringed, the river flowed. 
 Beside the winding valley road ; 
 Where, sloping back, the sunny hill 
 Merged into meadows green and still, 
 Enclosed in orchard, like a wood. 
 The old, deep-gabled farmhouse stood. 
 It caught the earliest sunlight gleams ; 
 Looked wierd and castle-like in beams 
 Of moonlight through the trees — 
 So hushed, retired, that all da}' long 
 Your heart kept beating to the song 
 Of birds and humming bees. 
 
 Upon the parlor wall there hung, 
 And still doth hang, two faces, young 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 And radiantly fair; 
 
 Twin daughters of the house were they- 
 
 The hope, the pride of Farmer Day, 
 
 The darhngs of his care. 
 
 Belle was a beauty — deep and bright, 
 
 And ebon as the starless night 
 
 Her laughter-loving eyes, 
 
 In flush of health, in dancing curl, 
 
 A woven charm enwrapped the girl — 
 
 An ever glad surprise, 
 
 Bat Nellie, with the self-same grace 
 
 Of feature, form, and fair young face. 
 
 Like starlight to the sun, 
 
 Shone with a pale, retiring grace, 
 
 A brow that shamed at honest praise — 
 
 A meek, lone-hearted one. 
 
 I said the lads were pleased to stay, 
 Till months and seasons passed away, 
 
1 6 THE McNlELS. 
 
 A.nd blythe the old house grew; 
 
 For healthful hearts, unvexed by pride, 
 
 Made merry round the inglefeide 
 
 Long winter evenings through, 
 
 Till, by and by, as age crept on, 
 
 The good man, looking o'er his lands, 
 
 Feeling the need of clearer head 
 
 And younger hands, 
 
 Did just as I would do: 
 
 He halved his farm in equal parts 
 
 And o^ave his dauj^hters where their hearts 
 
 Had fixed in instinct true. 
 
 Together in the farmhouse wide, 
 
 A few short years they did abide, 
 
 Then James and Belle marked out a spot 
 
 For home on their apportioned lot. 
 
 Beyond the dairy spring. 
 
 So near that little toddlino- feet 
 
THE HOMESTEx\D. 
 
 Could cross the way, and voices sweet 
 With blended notes could sing. 
 
 And thus it was, bewildered, wild 
 
 With loneliness, I stood a child 
 
 Beside my mother's grave — 
 
 A birdling, cast with wounded wing. 
 
 To earth, a timid, helpless thing. 
 
 One hand was stretched to save, 
 
 W^as gently laid upon my head, 
 
 And gentle-toned the voice that said, 
 
 " Poor child ! all, all alone." 
 
 God bless him! Good it was to feel 
 
 The strong right arm of James McNiel 
 
 Around the orphan thrown; 
 
 And orood — so o-ood that even now 
 
 I feel its soft touch on my brow, 
 
 Though decades intervene. 
 
 The kindly touch that banished pain, 
 
l8 THE McXlELS. 
 
 That fair face, mingling with the train 
 Of fevered fancies wiklered, vain. 
 That come and go and come again, 
 And clothe my world of dreams. 
 
 Another shadow seems to stand 
 
 From out the past; in waxen hands, 
 
 Spring violets folded, half unblown, 
 
 The earliest, opening alone 
 
 Within the forest dell. 
 
 Clouds floating slowly, far and high — 
 
 Like dream-land, tioating silently — 
 
 Sunshine and shade alternately 
 
 Upon a casket fell. 
 
 A mother, lily-like and pale, 
 
 Tears falling through a mourning vail 
 
 Upon her earliest born, 
 
 A baby-face, with half-shut eyes 
 
 Blue as the sky, the glad surprise 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Of l^reaklng- smile at morn, 
 Then, empty arms, and hungered hearts. 
 And Hfe all tasteless for a while ; 
 Then strivings vain, and loving arts, 
 To raise the wonted smile. 
 
 As fair a maid was Annie Lee 
 As one might ever hope to see ; 
 As fair a maid, as fond a wife, 
 As ever crossed the deeps of life. 
 Or dared, from girlhood's sunnv bay, 
 The storm-tracked billows of the way. 
 A wife and mother, blessed, she found 
 Lite, for a while, all blessing-crowned ; 
 And then, the tempest of the night 
 Swept all her loved ones from her sight ; 
 And she, dismantled and alone, 
 A wreck upon the rocks Avas thrown. 
 
 19 
 
20 THE McNIELS. 
 
 Into the merry sunshine, went 
 
 Her merry, winsome boy ; 
 
 Baek to her heart his ringing shout 
 
 Brought message of his joy ; 
 
 The glow of pride still in her eye. 
 
 His good-by kiss still warm ; 
 
 Without one warning chill, or sigh, 
 
 A lifeless, stiffening form. 
 
 The drowned, with fair curls dripping wet, 
 
 And lips all blue and cold. 
 
 And dreadful staring eyes, death-set. 
 
 Borne back into her fold. 
 
 Then, ere the moon had waned six times, 
 
 And six times filled her horn, 
 
 The father by his dead boy slept ; 
 
 And she, bereaved, forlorn. 
 
 Did plead, in vain, with God to die. 
 
 She might not lay life's burden by. 
 
 She might not rest in death ; she bore 
 
 The mother's promise, not before 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 21 
 
 That germ of life awoke to day, 
 So, conscious only of her woe. 
 Months dragged like years a\'s ay. 
 
 And then the snows of Christmas fell, 
 
 Like God-gifts, silently. 
 
 And earth enrobed in spotless white, 
 
 And bending shrub and tree. 
 
 Looked pure as heaven-born holiness— 
 
 As spotless charity ! 
 
 Unwelcomed e'en by mother-love, 
 
 Came Annie's blue-eyed boy, 
 
 Yet fLiir enonsfh to chans^e the wail 
 
 Of sorrow into joy; 
 
 " O, bear the babe away, aicaij^^ 
 
 Thus wailed her pleadings wild 
 
 "No more shall heart of mine entwine 
 
 About another child I " 
 
 Half-crazed, the \voman dwelt alone, 
 
22 THE McNlELS. 
 
 We who were children then 
 
 Did fear to pass her door, as one 
 
 To pass a wild wolf-den ; 
 
 Then into Nellie's empty arms, 
 
 And into Nellie's heart, 
 
 The babe, deserted, crept and found 
 
 A faithfid mother's part. 
 
 'Twas Sabbath twilight, and we strayed 
 
 Where James his home foundation laid, 
 
 The children, Belle ar^d I. 
 
 How o'er the hills of long ago, 
 
 Comes back the silvery, silent glow 
 
 Of moon, new-risen, red and low, 
 
 Comes back the solitary cry 
 
 Of whippoorwill from o'er the stream, 
 
 The shimmering white vibrating beam 
 
 Athwart the wavelets flow, 
 
 That dashed like play upon the sand. 
 
i THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 That washed the pebbles from the strand. 
 
 Again I hear the low, 
 
 Deep music of that solemn hour, 
 
 And feel the weird enchanting power 
 
 Of river, rock, and dreaming flower, 
 
 That dreamed so long ago. 
 
 The wee ones frolicked, hand in hand, 
 
 Among the stones along the sand, 
 
 But I, a child of ten, 
 
 Felt — for those few eventful years. 
 
 Had deepened by the weight of tears — 
 
 Almost a woman then. 
 
 Among the timbers framed and planned 
 
 Her home to rear, the wife did stand; 
 
 jNIv little lingers clasped her hand — 
 
 Was it the moonlight, like a vail, 
 
 Upon her cheek and lips so pale ? 
 
 Was it some silent, hidden grief. 
 
 That shook her like the blasted leaf ? 
 
 She sank in weakness to the o^round, 
 
 23 
 
24 THE MCXIELS. 
 
 And I, I clasped n\y arms around 
 My more than mother, till 
 She calmer grew, and, with a smile, 
 Bade me go join the play awhile. 
 But I, with childish will, 
 Crept in the shadow of a tree, 
 Unheard to hear, unseen to see; 
 For, O, I feared some day, 
 The same sad destiny that gave 
 INl}' precious mother to the grave, 
 Would snatch her too away. 
 
 Deeming herself unnoticed now. 
 
 With hand hard pressed upon her brow, 
 
 She murmured, " It will rise at last. 
 
 But not for me its shadow cast. 
 
 jNly feet shall ne^er return or roam. 
 
 Or cross the threshold of this home; 
 
 Else why this death-toll in mine ears, 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 And why these dark foreboding fears, 
 
 Not wont am I to be 
 
 So weak." And then her one wee chikl 
 
 Looked up into her eyes and smiled, 
 
 But when she called to me. 
 
 From brow was banished trace of pain. 
 
 She seemed her own bright self again. 
 
 Ope thou the scroll of fate and show, 
 
 In each home history here below. 
 
 The days of weal, the days of woe. 
 
 Doom-days and marriage bliss. 
 
 As time, with sure recording hand, 
 
 ]Marks this a day of peace to stand. 
 
 And that of bitterness. 
 
 Anon, a shadow cast before. 
 
 Pall-like and tinged with gloom, spreads o'er 
 
 The dial-face of love. 
 
 Anon, destruction springs to birth, 
 
 ^:) 
 
26 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 And blights the beauty of the earth, 
 And blots the stars above. 
 
 I may not tell how many days 
 
 Passed in their old accustomed ways, 
 
 I know that dim and high. 
 
 And waning in the eye of morn. 
 
 The ghost-like moon did glide forlorn 
 
 Toward the western sky. 
 
 I know the rose-vine clambering e'er 
 
 Its lattice by the shaded door, 
 
 Gave promise then of bloom — 
 
 Now backward leaning from its stay, 
 
 Burdened with blossoms fell away — 
 
 Upon that day of doom. 
 
 I know, 'twas planned the night before, 
 
 To take the skiff and row us o'er 
 
 To Alden's field, where, well we knew, 
 
 Strawberries in abundance grew. 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 We older children, with the freight 
 Of coming joy, could scarcely wait 
 The slow-winged hours. 
 Until our tiny, well-filled boat 
 Of happy hearts was set afloat. 
 Along the bank of flowers. 
 
 We all, that morning, seemed to be 
 The embodiment of gaiety. 
 Now one would seize and ply the oar, 
 Now shout to grandma on the shore; 
 The bird-like warble of our song 
 Echoed the river lengths along. 
 And need I tell vou as I pass. 
 How, down among the bending grass 
 We bent the scarlet fruit to pull, 
 Till sun was low and pails were full. 
 
 We drew toward home, I scarce can tell, 
 By some mad, playful prank of Belle, 
 
 27 
 
28 THE McXIELS. 
 
 The boat o'ertiirned, and young and old 
 
 Were struggling in the water's fold. 
 
 T know I sank, and rose and sank, 
 
 Then for a space 'twas all a blank. 
 
 And then, upon the river bank 
 
 I lay, and saw as in a dream. 
 
 The children rescued from the stream. 
 
 I saw, borne downward by tide. 
 
 One wild face 'neath the waters hide, 
 
 With hands up-reaching as to cling 
 
 To life, a flashing marriage ring. 
 
 Then blackness settled like a pall, 
 
 And nothing more can I recall : — 
 
 Yes, I remember faces white 
 
 And set as death ; and all that night, 
 
 By ghostly torch and beacon light, 
 
 The neighbors dragged the river's bed 
 
 In fruitless searching for the dead ; 
 
 And I remember days of pain, 
 
 When even speech seemed task-like, vaui, 
 
TilP: HOMESTEAD. 
 
 And one who never smiled again. 
 Another stroke was never hiid 
 On that new home, heneath the shade 
 Of the old homestead, doubly dear, 
 
 We dwelt together year by year. 
 
 Did I not say the child of ten 
 Was scarce a child, that even then 
 vShe questioned life with deepest view. 
 As one who reads its mysteries through ; 
 As one who, up in the early dawn. 
 Goes out upon an upland lawn, 
 Finds all the dew of morning gone ; 
 Yet, doubtless, girlhood's opening rose 
 Had richer tints and sweeter bloom, 
 The summer charm that romance throws 
 Like wreaths of ivy o'er the tomb; 
 Doubtless, new rooted in the soil. 
 The plant of hope took form above; 
 
30 tup: Mc NIELS. 
 
 For where are desert fields of toil, 
 Too barren for the plant of love, 
 All that was over long ago; 
 Not of myself this tale is told; 
 Of richer lives, with hope aglow ; 
 Of young hearts, folded in the fold 
 Of guardian care — parental pride — 
 That grew to beauty by my side. 
 
 Of Helen, now, the motherless, — 
 
 The one wee nestling left behind, 
 
 With not one trace of mother's face. 
 
 With not ' one trait of mother's mind, — 
 
 Tall, fragile, fair, the slight form swayed 
 
 Like fern leaf in the forest glade : 
 
 She seemed the graceful mountain maid 
 
 Of Scotia — far off land. 
 
 James often said his mother there 
 
 Had th(jsc 'jfold-liLrhted locks of hair. 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 When last he saw her stand 
 
 Framed in their cottage door ; and she 
 
 Jrler last good-by had wept and kissed : 
 
 Then saw the dear home picture melt 
 
 Into the morning mist. 
 
 From her, he said, came all that quaint 
 
 Deep earnestness of soul, 
 
 That made the maiden half a saint ; 
 
 Timid, and yet so bold ; 
 
 That trust in God's unwearied care ; 
 
 That inward purencss born of prayer. 
 
 I told }ou of twin sisters fair 
 
 Within the walls of home. 
 
 I said, with life-song half unsung, 
 
 That one so radiant and so young 
 
 Had vanished like the foam 
 
 That tips the crest of ocean wave, 
 
 Windrocked above her unknown grave. 
 
 31 
 
32 THK McKlELS. 
 
 But o'er the hillside where she roamed 
 
 In girlhood's glee and pride ; 
 
 And when they met to worship God 
 
 Around the ingleside, 
 
 In morning hymn of praise, 
 
 At evening's sacred close, 
 
 Was one as like her as the hud, 
 
 Half opened, to the rose ; — 
 
 But this was Nellie's girl : oh, well. 
 
 To name her as they called her, Belle, 
 
 For friend and villager who stood 
 
 To hiess her as she passed their door. 
 
 Felt, in the rush of memory's flood, 
 
 The wellin^r of a nevermore. 
 
 THE MEETING-HOUSE. 
 
 A mile away, and yet in sight. 
 
 Clasped by its grove of evergreen, 
 
THE MEETIXG-irOUSE. 33 
 
 With heavenward finger, pointing white 
 
 And high abo^'e its leafy screen, 
 Our meeting-honse — the house of God — 
 
 Surrounded by God's acre old, 
 Where we with reverent footsteps trod, 
 
 Where the s\veet gospel news was told. 
 Before its altar, infant brows 
 
 Grew radiant with the mystic seal ; 
 Beside its altar, marriage vows 
 
 Gave answer to the merrv peal 
 Of bridal bells ; and through its gates 
 
 The old, the young, the rich, the poor, 
 Brought hither by their mourning mates. 
 
 Were laid to rest forevermore. 
 
 Rememberest thou the spirit-tide 
 
 That swept the churches like a flood ? 
 
 Rememberest thou three years therefrom 
 The nation was baptized in blood ? 
 
34 THE McMELS. 
 
 Remcmbcrest thou how hand in hiind 
 And heart to heart the churches stood, 
 
 Old feuds forgotten ; through the land 
 A God-led, christian brotherhood ? 
 
 Rememberest thou that Mercy's pool 
 
 Was troubled to its center-depths 
 By faith and prayer man measured out. 
 
 Divine compassion length and breadth ? 
 Rememberest thou, like that of old, 
 
 " A oroing in the mulberry trees ?" 
 He who was wise and saw afor, 
 
 He who could read such signs as these ; 
 And he whose heart had come to beat 
 
 One with the Infinite, could tell 
 The arm victorious gathered strength 
 
 Against the opposing host of hell. 
 The pastor heard it ; — all his soul 
 
 With awe was filled, with wonder bowed ; 
 With Christ communing face to face 
 
 He entered in the cloud. 
 
THE MEETING-HOUSE. 35 
 
 The elders heard, and trembling hands 
 
 Held forth the bread and wine ; 
 And eves aflame with love did search 
 
 The Oracle divine. 
 
 Lips, sealed by fear, from dumbness woke, 
 
 And light on clouded vision broke ; 
 
 The Cross, long trailing in the dust. 
 
 Grew radiant with wreaths of trust. 
 
 The loved, the wavward, the unwarned, 
 
 Heard, at the solemn midnight hour, 
 
 Their names in tones of pleading power. 
 
 New altars rose at eve ; at morn 
 
 Xew prayers were prayed, and old set form 
 
 W^as broken like the winter's chain, 
 
 When Spring by love and light doth reign. 
 
 Proud hearts grew strangely burdened and oppressed; 
 
 Great thoughts of God broke in upon their rest: 
 
 Life and Life's deep enigmas pressed them sore— 
 
36 THE MCMKLS. 
 
 The solemn echoes of a nevermore — 
 Till, loathing sin's caresses, free and fond, 
 A long-ing rose for purer life beyond. 
 
 The startled host of Satan knew it well, 
 
 And strengthened their defences as they might. 
 The red saloon, with eye malignant, fell 
 
 To claim its prey, the votary of the night : 
 And strangely frequent grew the midnight dance ; 
 
 And sweet young voices prayed and prayed to go — 
 Making of death a long eternal choice — 
 
 And to the voice of ^varning answering no. 
 These times of choosing, how they ebb and flow, 
 
 Like tidal-wave upon the lives of all; 
 These times of choosing, how they come and go, 
 
 And pass beyond redemption or recall ! 
 
 O, saddest of all memories at the close, 
 
 That youth's bright warp be filled with threads of 
 
 [sin, 
 
THE MEETING-HOUSE. 3y 
 
 When, 'neath the weaiy shuttle, grows and grows 
 The web of destiny, "The might have been !" 
 
 That short December day drew to a close ; 
 
 Persistently the great snow crystals fell. 
 The moon at full, but veiled by storm, arose, 
 
 Rose dimly, as a vision or a spell. 
 'Twas God's own day; and like a beacon light 
 
 Shone the far windows of our bowered church ; 
 Long tints of flame athwart the snow-drift white, 
 
 On leafless branches of the silver birch, 
 On laden evergreen and hazel bowed. 
 
 And on the faces of the gathering crowd 
 Lay like a benediction golden, bright. 
 
 Around the blessed altar, bathed in tears, 
 
 Gathered the tried ones, who, for long, long years, 
 
 Had borne the burden of His sacred cross. 
 
 And counted, for His sake, all things but loss. 
 
^b THE MCNIELS. 
 
 As VOWS of new-pledged fealty arose, 
 New peace descended, filling all desire — 
 
 The same baptismal blessing that of old 
 
 Crowned each disciple with its tongue of fire. 
 
 The white and red, each striving to prevail 
 On Helen's cheek. Beside the altar rail 
 She stood in timid boldness, quiet, meek 
 And spirit-bound, till gathering strength to speak 
 '' I ever loved the Master, Christ, but this. 
 This day I wed my soul to Him and His." 
 But oh, the contrast ! By the dear child's side- 
 She fair and pure enough to be fiivored bride 
 Of heaven — stood one so shrunken and so old ;- 
 A world of wasted fire to ashes cold 
 Burned down ; a world of fevered dreams ; 
 A world of anguish with its death-mark seems 
 Lettered u])on that brow in lines of care, 
 And written in the folds of time-bleached hair ; 
 
THE MEETINCJ-HOUSE. 
 
 39 
 
 But from the 'wildercd eye all madness swept 
 
 Or melted into meekness as she wept. 
 
 We sang, '•'• There is a fountain filled with blood ;" 
 
 And poor crazed Anna in that healing flood 
 
 Redemption found ; found reason's long dimmed 
 
 [light 
 
 Rekindled ; found the long woeful night 
 Fled ; with recreated peace complete, 
 Sat down a meek disciple at His feet. 
 
 Need I to tell of other hearts and lives 
 
 That found new birth amid repentance there ? 
 How faith awoke the soul to glad surprise ? 
 
 How God gave answering pardon to their prayer ? 
 Need I to tell how swift descending grace 
 
 Awoke the desert's desolate repose ? 
 How wilderness did bloom, and barren place 
 
 Did bud and blossom like the opening rose ? 
 Enough to say, some harps in heaven, new strung, 
 
40 THE McNIELS. 
 
 Caught in that hour the pean of his praise. 
 Enough to say of those disciples 3'oung 
 Strong-handed reapers rose for after days. 
 
 THE DESOLATE. 
 
 A room so bare, so desolate, 
 
 So comfortless, it seems 
 Some weird enchantment, where the soul 
 
 Lies struggling with dreams. 
 Wildly the winds of winter shook 
 
 The broken shutters there ; 
 Black shadows wrapped the broken roof. 
 
 And hid the broken stair. 
 
 The mocking fire-light's fitful glow, 
 
 Like fevered visions came. 
 Now sinking into shadow low, 
 
 Now rising into flame ; 
 
THE DESOLATE. 
 
 But on the sufferer's blood-red cheek, 
 
 And in her burnino^ eye, 
 The tiame dimmed not that drank her Hfe 
 
 And drained its fountain dry. 
 And ever in the mournful hush 
 
 Of wind and winter rain, 
 Came tear-filled tones and broken prayers, 
 
 And bitter moans of pain. 
 Then changed the winter's rain to sleet ; 
 
 Then changed the sleet to snow, 
 And all was black as grief above. 
 
 And all was white below. 
 
 Beside the couch, with shrouded eyes 
 And white lips washed by tears. 
 
 Sat Nellie, by the w^asted friend 
 Of girlhood's happy years. 
 
 " I know," the woman moaned ; " I know 
 I cast my child away ; 
 
 41 
 
43 THE Mc.MELS. 
 
 I know whose kind arms sheltered him ; 
 Who watched his chiklish pkiy. 
 
 Ah, well know I he felt no care 
 
 Or motherhood but thine, 
 And that his fair voung brow would sliame 
 
 At any claim of mine : 
 And yet through all these wandering years 
 
 My lone life claimed its child. 
 With wilful hunger unappeased 
 
 And nature's yearninoT \yild. 
 
 For in his eyes I saw the glance 
 That won nix loye of yore ; 
 
 And on his brow, the bro\y I lost, 
 In sorrow's neyermore. 
 
 No^v, as I gaze from shore to shore, 
 As lift the death-mists dim, 
 
THE DESOLATE. ^3 
 
 My heart "jolll claim this latest boon — 
 One filial kiss from him." 
 
 The flush of fever fiicled slow ; 
 
 The cold white death-look came 
 From out the vast unseen, and fell 
 
 Athwart the stiffening frame; 
 As, cold and white, the risen light 
 
 Pushed back this night of storm ; 
 Yet colder grew the snow clad earth, 
 
 And still in death the form. 
 
 A boy stood by the couch of death, 
 
 And held an icy hand 
 As one who treads a hopeless maze 
 
 He may not understand ; 
 As one whose welcome-song hath changed 
 
 To griePs forewell refrain ; 
 
44 THE McNIELS. 
 
 Whose careless, happy-hearted past 
 Will never come aoain. 
 
 A boy stood by an open grave ; 
 
 But less he wept for this 
 Than for the living and the lost, 
 
 The ^■anished dream of bliss : 
 Yet ever from his kindred's tomb 
 
 There seemed to rise a tone — 
 To rise and echo through his heart, 
 
 Alone, alone, alone. 
 
 Then back to old home scenes he went 
 
 Of schoolboy tasks and joy, 
 With manhood's chill upon his heart 
 
 For ave — no more a liov : 
 As one from vales of summer green 
 
 By swift ascent should rise 
 
THE DESOLATE. 
 
 And stand upon the snow-clad x^lps, 
 Beneath the stormful skies. 
 
 Vet, strangely sweet, one bird of spring- 
 Forever went and came ; 
 
 The song-bird, love, kept trilling out 
 His playmate Helen's name : 
 
 And strangely sweet the star of hope 
 Smiled down from ^vinter skies ; 
 
 Forevermore the hue it wore 
 Of Helen's summer eves. 
 
 45 
 
 WAR. 
 
 On the wonderful mount of Vision 
 The prophet of Israel stood, 
 
 And beheld, through ages and ages, 
 Earth deluged with tears and blood ; 
 
_|.6 THE McSlKI.S. 
 
 I)Ut, licyond this, did Bciilah, the golden, 
 In the arms of the Orient lay — 
 
 The sun-lit, the land of the niornincr, 
 The jeweled millennial day. 
 
 When the Prince of Peace hath descended 
 
 And ignorance, want and pain 
 Led capti\e, shall c^'race the chariot 
 
 Of the Vict()r\s triumphant train ; 
 When the sword to the useful ploughshare 
 
 wShall \iel(l in the might\ change, 
 And the lamb and the lo\e-tamed lion 
 
 Through forests of plent\" shall range. 
 
 Not now, O toiler, life-weary — 
 
 The seer's vision was far ; 
 But over the fields of the future 
 
 Has arisen the Morning vStar : 
 There is God in the earth's u])heavings. 
 He shall turn. He shall o\erturn ; 
 
WAR. 47 
 
 He speaks, and tlie war tires kindle ; 
 He permits, and the\' bli^-ht and bin-n. 
 
 Somewhere on the ^reen earth's loosom 
 
 Is a place for thy slumbers blest, 
 Where the wicked shall cease from troubling-, 
 
 And the weary shall be at rest ; 
 When the eye that is tired of seeing-, 
 
 And the heart that l)eats painful and slow ; 
 When the lips that are wearied of asking, 
 
 And the feet that no further can go 
 May return to the silence of nature, 
 
 To mingle again with the dust ; 
 May sleep till the trump of Jehovah 
 
 Shall awaken the e\il and just ; 
 Mav sleep, to awake new-created, 
 
 When the risen Messiah shall reign, 
 xVnd earth shall be wedded to heaven, 
 
 And love be the links of the chain. 
 
48 THE MC NIELS. 
 
 Yes, you had heard of hattle rage ; 
 
 And, musing o'er historic page, 
 
 Thought the vast thought of former age : 
 
 Yes, and the July signal gun 
 
 Had told you tales of freedom, won 
 
 By men who followed Washington ; 
 
 And some you, even knew, were slain 
 
 On Buena Vista's bloody plain. — 
 
 But was not this another word 
 
 Your peace-accustomed ears now heard, 
 
 Though it at first to you did seem 
 
 As dimly distant as a dream ? 
 
 Yet in the rising of the storm. 
 
 How, one by one, your fears took form, 
 
 E'en in the quiet winter eves, 
 
 E'er strife had turned the dreaded leaves, 
 
 Fast locked within the book of fate, 
 
 And pointed out the desolate ; 
 
 A forecast shadow seemed to fall 
 
 Around vour future so unknown : 
 
WAR. 49 
 
 Your wakened spirit felt its thrall, 
 And life took on a mournful tone. 
 
 One sat within the firelight glow 
 And read the daily signs of strife ; 
 
 And you kept turning to and fro 
 Your leaves of life. 
 
 He read the heated, madd'ning thought 
 Of Southern des^^ots, passion-stirred ; 
 
 You, as vour busy Hnsjers wrousfht, 
 Prayed o'er the bitter words. 
 
 The glow of noble purpose rose, — 
 
 You saw it in his kindling eyes- 
 
 And, woman-like, took up the load 
 
 Of sacrifice : — 
 Such sacrifice as he could know, 
 
 Who firmly up Moriah trod, 
 
50 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 Swept sight and selfishness away, 
 
 And left you heart to heart with God. 
 
 'Twas early morn — an April day ; 
 
 A Sabbath silence brooding lay 
 
 Upon the field, upon the wood, 
 
 Upon the hill side where I stood. 
 
 A riverlet, with widened range. 
 
 Rejoicing in its spring-wTought change. 
 
 Sang like a soul from dungeon free 
 
 Its song of jubilee ; 
 
 And, here and there, just bursting forth, 
 
 Close by the bank, close to the earth. 
 
 Sprang tiny blossoms into birth ; — 
 
 Men call them snow-drops, though, 'tis true. 
 
 They wear a tinge of crimson hue — 
 
 As might a pure cheek flush to flame. 
 
 And crimson at a deed of shame ; 
 
WAR. 51 
 
 And, looking upward as in prayer, 
 
 The early crocus everywhere : 
 
 While all the hill-slope clothed with green, 
 
 In burnished sunrise might be seen, 
 
 Like regal velvet mantle's fold. 
 
 With dandelion clasps of gold. 
 
 All night before, electric life 
 
 Flashed through the land its tale of strife ; 
 
 All night before, wild pulses beat 
 
 Along the crowded city street 
 
 That echoed to the tramp of feet. 
 
 Men, white with anger, clasped their hands 
 
 And mutely stood, as one who stands 
 
 And feels the gathering of woe, 
 
 And knows not whence to meet the blow : 
 
 All that night long, wrestling with fears, 
 
 Was woman's pillow drenched with tears ; 
 
52 THE MCxNTIELS. 
 
 Our country fiiimhousc far and lone, 
 Had not received its lis^htest tone. 
 
 That Sabbath morning, still and sweet; — 
 What did I dream ! of gathering feet. 
 Where force opposing forces meet ? — 
 What did I dream ! of mad'ning rage 
 That wrote with blood-marks history's page, 
 And drenched our holy heritage ? 
 Northward, I heard a rumbling tone. 
 Like distant thunder's smothered moan; 
 Can it be storm ? I glanced on high — 
 No cloud lay on the smiling sky ; — 
 Again, like distant lion's roar, 
 Up from the west it came once more. 
 Louder and clearer than before — 
 Then o'er the mountains far away. 
 
WAR. 
 
 Upon whose wooded summits lay 
 
 The ros\- sunrise of the day. 
 
 My heart stood still with awe at first, 
 
 And then the truth upon me burst ; 
 
 And then I \vailed, accursed, accursed 
 
 The hand that kindles into life 
 
 The death-fires of this awful strife ! 
 
 Then bent I humbly to the sod ; 
 
 My heart-trust questioned — questioned God. 
 
 In vision saw I, far as ken 
 
 Could reach, long- ranks of risen men. 
 
 With stern-set brows, and eyes aglow. 
 
 With steady tramping footfalls slow, 
 
 March on to meet the risen foe ; 
 
 And ever o'er their faces fell 
 
 A misty, vail-like, fare-thee-well. 
 
 I said, as faded out the view, 
 
 " Land of ni}" heart, my heart is true ; 
 
 00 
 
54 
 
 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 These be thy sons, I love thee too ; 
 They die for thee — what can I do ? 
 I stood in spirit by a field — 
 
 A field whereon were spread 
 Long- sw^aths, as by a reaper mown, 
 
 The dying and the dead : 
 I seemed to see the fading out 
 
 Of hope in many an eye ; — 
 I seemed to hear the broken wail, 
 
 The agonizing cry. 
 I stood in spirit by a tent, 
 
 A.nd I heard the conflict roar ; 
 And fiist as they carried the dead awa\'. 
 
 The bearers came back for more. 
 I was treading the length of a long, dim ward, 
 
 Where, worn to wxeping, lay 
 The bearded man and the wan-fiiced boy, 
 
 Moaning their lives away. 
 And wasted arms, and cold, white hands 
 
 Beckoned the shadows through ; 
 
WAR. 55 
 
 And voices, hoarse with pain, wailed out — 
 
 " Woman, we die for you !" 
 1 said within niy burdened heart, 
 
 "I know what I will do." 
 
 When homeward through the fields I trod 
 
 The morning dew had left the sod ; 
 
 And meadow-land and hillside lay 
 
 In warm embrace of middle day, 
 
 I passed the spring where cattle drink. 
 
 And greening willows kissed the brink — 
 
 A mirror set and framed in green. 
 Within whose silent depths were seen 
 Soft April cloudlets floating by 
 Above, beneath, a double sky, — 
 
 Then, in unrest, I went and stood 
 Beside old timbers weather-browned. 
 On what to us seemed holy ground ; 
 
^6 THE ]mcxip:ls. 
 
 A poison Ivv winding clasped 
 
 The ruins in its serpent grasp. 
 
 " Ah, this is fate," the tempter said, 
 
 " That binds the Hving to the dead." 
 
 1 shrank and shuddered, half dismayed, 
 
 As if a hand was on me laid; 
 
 Then turned reluctantly and slow. 
 
 And crossed the stepping-stones below. 
 
 From lifted sashes reached me there 
 The low deep tones of fervent prayer — 
 Such earnest pleading as the soul 
 Holds 'wildering grief In firm control. 
 And speaks In calm unfaltering trust 
 To Him whose hidden ways are just. 
 I saw two brothers hand In hand 
 And heart to heart together stand, 
 With locks in vivid noon-bright glow, — 
 One golden brown, one white as snow. 
 In both I saw the vvedded truth 
 
57 
 
 Of thoughtful prime and finished youth, 
 Tiiat dwelt in noble manhood now, 
 Like halo round each care-lined brow. 
 
 One woman knelt apart, alone, 
 And, now and then, a smothered moan 
 Repressed, a chill, a sudden start, 
 Bespoke the mother in her heart. 
 
 I saw one fair young face repose 
 Upon the window-sill, the rose 
 All folded from her lips, and tears 
 More bitter than her youthful years 
 Had ever known, kept running o'er 
 Her hand and dropping to the floor. 
 
 A youth and maiden, side by side, 
 With something new, a dash of pride, 
 A wild, adventurous fervor took 
 
58 THE Mfc NIELS. 
 
 Weird form in willfulness of look. 
 
 Hugh seemed to fret, as I have seen 
 
 A high-bred horse for action keen, 
 
 As thoughts like these, his pulses stirred — 
 
 This is a day for deeds, not words. 
 
 I saw their eyes meet, and a smile 
 
 Struo^o^le with awe in both awhile : 
 
 O children, thought I, never were 
 
 Such deeds as actions born of prayer. 
 
 One, unimpassioned, stood ; the task 
 
 Of questioning all overpast ; 
 
 Upon the other was the glow 
 
 Of indecisive feeling's t^ow : 
 
 I, to myself said, he will go. 
 
 He glanced at Helen, slow and true 
 
 Rose teais into his eyes of blue. 
 
 Barred by strong will, these drops of pain 
 
 Fell back into their depths again. 
 
WAR. 59 
 
 I said, fiill well, these signs I know, 
 Down to the front this man will go. 
 
 The clay drew slowly to its close, 
 
 Another work-day sun arose. 
 
 Few were the words we said, 
 
 Too deeply surged the tide of thought, 
 
 The near unknown, with peril fraught, 
 
 On every moment meaning wrought : 
 
 We walked as they who tread 
 
 With bated breath all silently 
 
 Along the brink of destiny. 
 
 A pallor, born of pain, made white 
 
 The dear house-mother's cheek, 
 
 Men looked into each other's eyes 
 
 The words they would not speak. 
 
 A little waiting and suspense 
 
 Through towns and scattered farms. 
 
 Then came the marshaling of men. 
 
6o THE McNIELS. 
 
 The clarion call, "To arms !" 
 Then over all the sanctified 
 Birth-pangs of sorrow roll, 
 And love unselfish, brought to birth 
 The hero in each soul. 
 
 Beside the turnpike, just half-way 
 
 Between the farm and village, la}-, 
 
 By laurel-bordered moss o'ergrown. 
 
 Smooth as a floor, the half-way stone. 
 
 'Twas Wednesday afternoon, I think, 
 
 The sun just tipped upon the brink 
 
 Of Alden's forest, all agleam 
 
 And lined with gold the thread-like stream, 
 
 That ringed the rock with gentle flow, 
 
 And crossed the pasture-land below. 
 
 Half hidden by the hazel bough. 
 Half hidden bv the maple wood, 
 
w A n . 
 
 With hand hard pressed upon his l)ro\v, 
 
 The farmer stood — 
 
 He saw no sight, he heard no sound, 
 
 OhHvious to all around — 
 
 All light on inner vision cast. 
 
 As one whose temple is the past, 
 
 Who waiteth by the altar, pale, 
 
 To sacrifice within the vail. 
 
 Where echo of an outer word 
 
 Its solitude hath never stirred, 
 
 And never sacred seal or book 
 
 Hath opened to another's look. 
 
 A foot-foil, and another stands 
 Beside him, and a brother's hands 
 Upon his shoulder fell. 
 " I sought you, James, because to-day 
 Somewhat I have to you to say, 
 A dream to vou to tell: 
 
62 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 Our Hif^hland home I saw last night. 
 
 Just as it fiided from my sight, 
 
 Folded in mountain mist. 
 
 Our own dear mother, true and good. 
 
 As in her cottage door she stood 
 
 When she her lads had kissed ; 
 
 But, O! her locks like winter grown. 
 
 And tear-light in her dear eyes shone. 
 
 Her broken voice was mournful now 
 
 As wind-sigh in the forest bough. 
 
 I thought our mother, weeping, said : 
 
 ' The battle-plain is heaped with dead — 
 
 O, let not Jamie go! 
 
 The toll of death is in mine ear, 
 
 I see the crowded trenches near ; 
 
 The long lines bend and break and flee, 
 
 Like dead leaves on the wind-swept lea ; 
 
 I see the white lips of the slain 
 
 Washed by the fall of midnight rain — 
 
 O, let not Jamie go I'" 
 
WAR. 63 
 
 The younger brother raised his head: 
 
 '' I, too, have (h-eamed a dream," he said, 
 
 With earnest, mournful tone; 
 
 ^' Ne'er since my iove went down between 
 
 Yon banks, have I her brig-ht face seen. 
 
 Even in dreams, till now ; 
 
 Yet, surely, with her own fair brow, 
 
 By yonder hazel wood. 
 
 All blithe and bonny as of old. 
 
 And folded in the star- flag's fold, 
 
 My bride before me stood — 
 
 Stood silent — yet I heard my name 
 
 Wind through a funeral refrain; 
 
 And this I heard, ' We'll meet again, 
 
 Beloved, upon the battle-plain !' 
 
 *' Now, brother, lay I on thy heart 
 My heart's last hope and care — 
 My Helen, with our mother's look, 
 
64 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 Her sunny eyes and hair; 
 
 She never knew another home, 
 
 And may it never be, 
 
 Within my faithful brother's ward 
 
 She feel the need of me." 
 
 Two lads, side by side, in the wide field wrought? 
 
 One silent, and seemingly wrapped in thought. 
 
 The other, his restlessness scarcely restrained. 
 
 Half in anger and half ashamed : 
 
 "Ho, beauties!" laughed he, and released 
 
 His oxen from the plow, 
 
 "Part you and I, my pets, in peace; 
 
 x\nother hand must guide you now. 
 
 Other than I shall reap this held. 
 
 Must place upon your necks the yoke, 
 
 For, till the cursed traitors yield, 
 
 I'll never take another stroke. 
 
 Come, Hugh, 'tis time for you and I 
 
 To bid this quiet farm good-bye!" 
 
WAR. 65 
 
 ^' O, yc^," was answered, "-'as you say, 
 
 My heart has said g-ood-bye all day; 
 
 But, if I g-o, then \-ou must stay." 
 
 '•I stay! well, that is good! Why, Hugh, 
 
 Shuuld not I tight as well as you ?" 
 
 "You are the vounger, Bruce, vou know; 
 
 One is enough of us to go. 
 
 But it the war should be prolonged. 
 
 And other calls should come. 
 
 If I should fall—" Said Bruce, ^-Enough! 
 Think you I'll lag at home ? 
 I'll tell vou how to settle this : 
 
 vStand here upon the green. 
 
 Which is the better of the two 
 
 Is verv quicklv seen ; — 
 
 I've almost felt, since Sumter fell, 
 
 As I could lift a ton, — 
 
 The one shall ha^'e the earliest chance 
 
 Who brinufs the other down." 
 
66 THE McXIEI.S. 
 
 With ciuiet smile upon his face, 
 
 Ilug-h spread his arms for the embrace. 
 
 He was a yoiintx athlete in strength ; 
 
 Before he knew it, all his length 
 
 l^ruce lay upon the groiuid. 
 
 Then, rising, burst in angry tears, 
 
 And, without glancing round. 
 
 Ran off, and hours and hours that day 
 
 The boy could not be found. 
 
 Through the length and breadth of the North 
 
 [land, then, 
 
 Was seen the uprising of earnest men. 
 
 Not alone from the hive-like city streets. 
 
 Where life like a throbbing artery beats, 
 
 From the factory's din, and the workshoj^'s roar, 
 
 Did tlie throng of our patriot soldiery pour ; — 
 
 No, — he with the sun-brown upon his brow, 
 
 Left in the furrow that spring his plow. 
 
WAR. 67 
 
 And gave, in the hour of its first ahirm, 
 His life as a shield from the nation's harm. 
 Then names were written that rent aside 
 The lover's pledge to his promised hride ; 
 Then names were written that did destroy 
 The mother's right in her first-born boy ; — 
 Names were written and prayers were prayed, 
 That common folks into heroes made. 
 
 I remember that twilight, like fate folded down, 
 
 The day when equipped for a neighboring town. 
 
 Our boys stood ready to go. 
 
 A foreboding faintness crept into mv heart, 
 
 As if life from our life was rending apart. 
 
 But we would not answer them, No ! 
 
 They went from our midst, and we knew that 
 
 [when 
 
 The^' returned it would be as enlisted men : 
 
68 
 
 THE McNIELS. 
 
 So we sat and talked of the direful need, 
 And each to herself and the others asj^reed 
 To repress all weepinj^" when our soldiers start 
 And send them away with a cheerful heart. 
 
 Twelve short hours ! To-morrow nio^ht 
 
 Must they stand in the crleaming Capitol's liprht — 
 
 Stand as a £i^uard in the cause of riij^ht. 
 
 Only twelve hours for the sad i^ood-hye, 
 
 With its rush of tliought, and its (juick reply. 
 
 Crowding- u|)on the memory: — 
 
 Twelve ni^ht hours, hut no eye closed. 
 
 Hours for rest but no head reposed. 
 
 Then petitions ascended to the God of Heaven, 
 
 Then j^arments were folded and keepsakes <^iven, 
 
 For we knew when the starlight gave place to the 
 
 [dawn, 
 
 The first volunteers from our midst would be gone. 
 
WAR. 69 
 
 And then they iccrc i^one, and we must remain, 
 
 Treading the tread-mill of dutv the same. 
 
 I remember those weeks, with their death-peril 
 
 [fraug-ht. 
 
 When the 'wildered brain reeled with intenseness 
 
 [of thouf^ht. 
 
 When the earliest blood-sprinkle, foiling before 
 
 The storm, stained thy piivement, O, mad Balti- 
 
 [more ! 
 
 How up from the Southland came the shrill battle 
 
 [cry, 
 
 How down from the North rang defiant reply. 
 
 How the hearts of both rivals with love-longing 
 
 [burned, 
 
 As their eyes on the Capitol -city were turned : — 
 White as death, I remember, the spring lilies came: 
 I remember the tulips, with blood-hues aflame; 
 The long, lonesome twilight; the lonesomer morn; 
 The pitying whispers that swept through the corn: 
 Remember the soul-wearing da3's of suspense. 
 Waiting for tidings; — remember, at length. 
 
70 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 When the worn missive came from the warm 
 
 [soldier's heart, 
 
 How over and over each read them apart. 
 
 I remember our sickness of soul at the tramp 
 
 Of the boys who brought back their dead comrade 
 
 [from camjD; 
 
 How we covered his casket with blossoms and 
 
 [tears ; 
 
 How we wept as one weeps wdien the promise 
 
 [of years 
 
 Hath departed : — remember the grief- wailing sent 
 
 O'er the brow of the boy who had died in his 
 
 [tent ; 
 
 Remember the brother, with white, tearless face, 
 
 Who said, " I am going to fight in his place !" 
 
 All this, and much more, o'er the shore-sand is 
 
 [cast, 
 
 Like the wrecks of a storm, by the tide of the 
 
 [past. 
 
 It was earl}- midsummer. From morning a cloud 
 
 Hung away to the vSouth, like the folds of a 
 
 [shroud, 
 
\ V A K . 7 1 
 
 Or sulphur-smoke rising", as black as the tomb, — 
 
 The north-sky all sunshine, the southern all 
 
 [gloom,— 
 
 We saw the faint flashincr, as lightning at play. 
 
 We heard the low growl, as a lion at bay : 
 
 We said, "A storm riseth," — ah! little we knew 
 
 The storm sweej^ing over our army of blue. 
 
 We were watching and waiting; our Bruce was 
 
 [away 
 
 At the nearest town, seeking the news of the 
 
 [day;- 
 
 The hours dragged slowly, ten, eleven, and one. 
 
 The thought of retiring was mentioned by none. 
 
 We knew the boy tarried for tidings — we knew 
 
 There was work at the front, and we shuddering 
 
 [drew 
 
 Our breath, when his footstep was heard in the 
 
 [hall. 
 
 He entered, his eyes red with weeping : — " Tis all 
 
 Lost I we are driven and scattered and slain, 
 
 A cowardlv rabble is all that remain." 
 
72 THK MfVIELS. 
 
 All lost I was the burst of our bitter surprise — 
 All lost! was the burden of ^^^rief-choked replies. 
 
 t' Let us pra^•," said the father; and then in his 
 
 [prayer, 
 
 " God sa\e our rent nation — God help our despair, 
 
 God sta\' the black tide of destruction — God keep 
 
 Our Capitol safe from its desolate sweep I 
 
 Arise, O, Most Holvl come swift to our aid I 
 
 O, Christ, let this fearful rebellion be stayed." 
 
 Then the after-pan^-, \vith its sickenmg pain, 
 
 Where dread san^- ever her sad refrain. 
 
 Of the trampled ching and the blo()d-drenche<l 
 
 [plain. 
 
 Of the hopeless wounded in the mad retreat, 
 
 And the frantic hurryinj^^ rush of feet. 
 
 A whole week passes, we cannot hear; 
 
 Face to face with harrowinL;' fear — 
 
 Then (.-ame the death-list; our boys were in 
 
 The roll of our wounded and niissijv-- kin— 
 
WAR. 73 
 
 Ilcadiiiii^ the death-list was James McNiel, 
 Wouiuled and left on the eonquered field : — 
 r^eadino- the eharge, like a soul-brave man, 
 lie fell ere the shameful retreat be^an. 
 And was that all ? O, how much to guess 
 In the troubled dream of the fatherless. 
 
 [ had heard the old clock in the kitchen strike 
 
 [four, — 
 
 I had counted its strokes, for the night hours 
 
 [seemed long, — 
 
 r saw from my window the day-star hang o'er, 
 
 The dimmest, the faintest gray signal of dawn. 
 
 Like an angel's chant, fell on my half-dreaming 
 
 [ear, 
 
 Or a rising Te Dmm^ the grove- warblers' song ; 
 
 Now I lay, with a dim, undefined sense of pain 
 
 Like a woe on the heart, like a weight on the 
 
 [brain : 
 
 1 heard a faint footfall, a half-smothered crv; 
 
74 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 A warm rain of tears on my neck and arms fell. 
 And, sobbino^ as deeply as if she would die; 
 She la\- on mv bosom, our brave-hearted Belle : 
 ^•O, Rachel!" she cried, "I so long for the day — 
 C), Rachel! — our Bruce— he is now far away! 
 Was it foolish and wrong, that I let him bind 
 My lips to silence — will the blame be mine 
 If he never returns? — he could not endure 
 The tears of parting; and fixed and sure 
 He had given his name: and, O, far away 
 Will mv brother be on the coming day!" 
 She shivered with grief; — '^O, the long, long night: 
 Will it never, O, never again be light ?" — 
 But she slumbered at last, with long grieving sigh 
 Of an infant so weary no more it can weep : 
 Thanks, thanks, to the balm-laden angel ot sleep I 
 
 So another was gone, and closer we drew; 
 And smaller and smaller, our home-circle grew. 
 
WAR. 75 
 
 Then came the ]iar\est: that }ear in the j^rain, 
 
 Unheeding- the sunshine, unheeding- the rain, 
 
 We girls helped to gather the bountiful }'ield, 
 
 And luring forth the corn, golden-eared, from the 
 
 [field. 
 
 A missive from Bruce — alas! how delayed — 
 
 A missive of sorrow: he earnestly prayed 
 
 Help for Hugh, worn and wounded, and day 
 
 [after day 
 
 In the ward of the hospital wasting away; 
 
 And then in a postscript from the suffering one. 
 
 In lines scarcelv le<jfible — Rachel must come. 
 
 As one upon his journey stayed — 
 Longing to go and yet delaved, — 
 All that long summer through; 
 This single purpose kept in sight, 
 
76 THK Mc NIELS. 
 
 Decmino- that sometime in the night 
 Would come a call to do. 
 Now, as the warrior-heart in all 
 Its fihre feels tlie hugle-call, 
 A living impulse thrilled me through, 
 As if a voice said, " Rise and do!" 
 And I at roll-call made reply. 
 On eve of battle, '^ Here am I !" 
 Vet one heart-broken maid replied : 
 " Dear Rachel, I shall never 'bide 
 At home, for, surely, by his side 
 My right it is to stand; — 
 Entreat me not, I would not stay 
 If angel-hands should bar the way, 
 Or human voice f ommand I" 
 
 "Can this be a dream?" said T to my heart; 
 As the laboring cars, with their living freight. 
 Onward, onward into the dark, 
 
WAR. yy 
 
 Pa-^sed ()\"er the bounds of mv native State; — 
 •• Can this ]-)e a (h-eani — this parting- to-nig-ht, 
 This rending of honie-life for sacrifice?" 
 Then I turned to tlie girl, with her hand in niine 
 And looked for an answer into her eyes, — 
 Looked for an answer: such a world of woe 
 Up througdi those patient orbs gleamed through 
 That I whispered, "Helen, O, Helen, weep!" 
 And the poor white face to my shoulder dre^v. 
 
 "Are vou going down to the front, n\v child?" 
 
 The tones were roug'h, but the eyes were kind: 
 
 " You bear the look of a girl I knew, 
 
 In the dear old village I left behind," — 
 
 ' Twas the voice of an officer sitting near, 
 
 1 glanced in his face, it was honest and true ; 
 
 An armless sleeve lav across his breast. 
 
 And a Captain's badge on his ai'my blue. 
 
78 THE mcnip:ls. 
 
 "Yes, down for a brother who is nigh to death — 
 
 At Manassas wounded !" I tiuletly said ; 
 
 He sighed, "There my good sword-arm was left. 
 
 But many a better man hiv dead.'"' 
 
 Then Helen started, as from a dream : 
 
 "Perhaps, my ftither you may have known — 
 
 Captain McNiel, of the Seventeenth; — 
 
 That he fell, was all that was ever shown." 
 
 " Are you his daughter ? Why, I knew him 
 
 [well; 
 
 He stood at my right in the same brigade; 
 
 He was bravely cheering his comrades on. 
 
 When the heaviest charge of the day was made. — 
 
 'Twas a great, grand sight; ere the woi'd was 
 
 [given, 
 
 As I glanced mine eyes along the line; 
 There were many a look uplift to hea^•en, 
 i\nd many a life-pulse throbbed, like mine, 
 r saw him again, in the wild retreat, — 
 
WAR. 79 
 
 Under a shot- riven tree he lay, 
 
 Hut the smile on his lips was as calmly sweet 
 
 As one who a lover has chanced to meet, 
 
 And T knew he had peacefullv passed away. 
 
 I was bleedint^ and faint, we were sorelv pressed; 
 
 Most of the wounded were left to die: — 
 
 O, many a beautiful life went out 
 
 Under that sulphurous, cloud-wrapped skv. 
 
 \()U ne\'er, never will understand. 
 
 Though I sit and talk till my head were grav, 
 
 One half of the woe of this war -cursed land; 
 
 And I ask of the Lord, that vou never ma\'. 
 
 I shall go to the front, though mv work is done 
 
 In the ranks; of mv good right arm bereft, 
 
 I shall answer my roll by the couch of pain, 
 
 I shall war with a different enem}- — death." 
 
 Swiftlv over the war -bound we sped; 
 Wasted vineyards and unrept fields, 
 
So tup: McNiEr.s. 
 
 Homes deserted, and hearth - fires dead — 
 The ghastly harvest rebeUion yields. 
 Sometimes, b\' the wayside, a Union Ma^" 
 Hung- from a farmhouse, faded and dim; 
 Sometimes, in the door - way, a scowling face 
 Gave index of traitorous heart within; — 
 And e\er, the gleam of tJie camp-fire light. 
 And ever the sentinel, mute and grim. 
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 "Here, matron T' spoken in hurried tones. 
 
 As we stood in the hospital hall ; 
 
 *' Here are the friends of No. nineteen,'' 
 
 And that was all: 
 
 The surgeon, a man with cheery face, 
 
 A prompt but a quiet tread. 
 
 Went back to his office; in a moment more. 
 
 The matron stood by us instead. 
 
THE HOSPITAL. bl 
 
 One of those women who always drift, 
 
 Bv a natural instinet, where 
 Are \vantecl the tones of a softer voice, 
 
 The touch of a tenderer care; — 
 One of those women who never flinch. 
 
 Whatever the heart may feel; 
 Who into the warp of love can weave 
 
 A woof of the sternest steel. 
 
 '' Come into my room a moment, dear, 
 
 'Till the nurse of his ward 1 call." 
 I w^as glad, for Helen was cold and white; 
 
 And she trembled as if she would fall. 
 She entered the room with the soldier - nurse: 
 
 " It is well vou are come," he said, 
 " I was sadly afraid, with the best of our care, 
 
 Your friend would be dead;" 
 For more than a week he has called and called* 
 
 In bewildered, delirious tone; 
 
(52 THE McNIELS. 
 
 For Helen," — and a smile that was half a tear, 
 
 In the eyes of the soldier shone. 
 "'• If Helen has come, I think he will rest; 
 
 But if," he said, with a sigh, 
 ^' AVe cannot ward off this homesickness, 
 
 I'm afraid he will die." 
 
 What was one soldier ? — a hundred lay 
 Tossing with feverish dreams of home. 
 
 All through the long night wishing for day, 
 Pleading and praying for some one to come; 
 
 Come ere the life - chord asunder he riven, 
 Come ere the golden bowl broken shall be, 
 
 Come that the kiss of farewell may be given, 
 
 What, though he lay with his hand in her hand? 
 What, though he pillowed his head on her breast; 
 Though the blissful hush of a great deep calm 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 83 
 
 To the slumber of infancy lulled him to rest ? 
 
 Though he wakened with new life coursing his 
 
 [veins ; 
 
 And said, "I shall live," in blissful surprise; 
 The man on his right and the man on his left 
 Hid under their blankets their tear-dimmed eyes. 
 
 What was one soldier ? A hundred lay 
 
 Suffering to death within my call ; 
 
 But Helen bent over him day by day: — 
 
 He was her all. 
 
 Love is selfish, and cares for one ; 
 
 Separates one from among the crowd ; 
 
 Reareth Its altar for sacrifice ; 
 
 Forever over that altar is bowed : 
 
 Nor doth it matter if thousands fail, 
 
 If homeward the light of my life shall come ; 
 
 Nor if a thousand hearts shall starve. 
 
 If plenty abide in my home. 
 
84 THE MCXIELS. 
 
 There is something better than .self-bound love, 
 
 Forever revolving around its sun; 
 
 Gathering honey and hoarding it up, 
 
 And pouring it into the lips of one ; 
 
 Better dilute it a little, and spread, 
 
 So that it cover a broader space; 
 
 And give to the famished, the half unfed, 
 
 A morsel — a taste. 
 
 O, the heart of a man is a selfish thing. 
 
 And the love of a woman is even more ; 
 Like the long armed ivv, 'will cling and cling, 
 
 Till it crushes the oak that it clam]->ers o'er. — 
 Thank God that the death of a Christ could rend 
 
 The veil of the Holy and Most Holy place ! 
 Thank God the heart of a Christ can clasp 
 
 The whole wide world in a love embrace ! 
 
 May I call you mother ? And a queer smile 
 
 [spread. 
 
 Half fu!i, half sorrowful joy. 
 
THE IIOSPITAI.. 85 
 
 " Onlv tourtcen was his age," he said ; — 
 
 Just nil overgrown bov. 
 r sat bv his sick couch half of the night ; 
 
 All efforts for rest were vain ; 
 His cheeks were thin, and his lips were white. 
 
 And he moaned like a child in pain. 
 *' Mav I call you mother r" ([ had held his hands 
 
 And soothed him with all of my art ; 
 I suppose it reminded the suffering bov 
 
 Of his mother's hand and heart:) 
 " Yes, call me mother ; but tell me first 
 
 Of vour own dear mother at home : — 
 Whv, Willie, vou're tit for nothing but school; 
 
 What could have possessed you to roam ?" 
 " O, a great war meeting was held that night, 
 
 And speeches were made in our town : 
 Thev said the Southerners tired our forts. 
 
 And our star-spangled banner hauled down. 
 You know the story of launching the ship ; — 
 
 I thought I could push a pound." 
 
S6 
 
 THE McNIELS. 
 
 " I believe you have pushed a good many pounds; 
 
 But had you no brothers to go ? 
 And vv^here was your father ? Did he not refuse?" 
 
 He sorrowfully answered, "no ; 
 I have only my mother — the rest are all dead — 
 
 And she — oh, I'd rather not say;" 
 And the great tears rose to the poor lad's eyes 
 
 And rolled from his white cheek away. 
 Yes, even now, when the overflow 
 
 Of the past with its sorrow and joy 
 Returns in the swelling of memory's flood, 
 
 I wonder, " O, where is my boy !" 
 
 " Will you write me a letter ?" said a wounded 
 
 [man. 
 
 With his great black eyes on me ; 
 
 " You see, they have ruined my writing hand ; 
 
 'Twas a sorrowful joke to me ; 
 
 For letters, you know, are a soldier's life, 
 
THE HOSPITAI.. 87 
 
 And she writes like a parson, my excellent wife. 
 
 '•I should like to show you our nice little home; 
 
 Flowers, we've a garden full : 
 
 Wife, she has a knack of crowding the yard 
 
 With e\-erything beautiful. 
 
 That rose, you know, with the dew on its leaves, 
 
 The fragrance was just the same 
 
 As the vine she trained over our portico : — 
 
 Such a rush of home memories came, 
 
 That I closed my eyes, and you thought I slept, 
 
 But I lived it all over again." 
 
 " Children — wdiy, yes, we have three, my boy, 
 
 And Lilly, and baby Grace ; 
 And a nobler boy you never will find 
 
 Than I left at the dear old place ; 
 And Lilly is just a little woman. 
 
 And the babe has the sweetest face. 
 
 '' But, for the children Pd send for her — 
 
8S THE McNIELS. 
 
 She's the steadiest nerves and eye — 
 I was half killed onee, but she brouii^ht nie round. 
 
 Thouji^h the doctors all said I would die. — 
 I tell you the boys would be sure of one friend. 
 
 If /7/_y wife was here to stand by." 
 
 So I wrote a letter to that excellent wife, 
 Just as he dictated, word for word, 
 A real love letter — how I honored the man — 
 He remained through the war ; and I heard 
 That he met all his darlings face to face — 
 The boy, and Lilly, and baby Grace. 
 
 " Well, Rachel," said Helen and Hugh one day, 
 " You seem to have found your sphere ; 
 
 The furlough has come, shall we go away 
 And leave you here ?" 
 
 In the first sweet balm-days of early spring. 
 With health-light and hope in his eye ; 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 89 
 
 And the rest of a heart giving love for love, 
 
 They bade nie good-bye. 
 And I knew, when over the threshold of home 
 
 The mornings of April should play, 
 The friends of the maiden would garland her brow, 
 
 And give her away. 
 I also knew, that the morn of love 
 
 Would bring with it parting pain ; 
 When the soldier lover must gird his sword, 
 
 And off to the war again. 
 Those days of struggle, when death and life 
 
 Stood bearing the palm between ; 
 Those days of trial ; of strife on strife, 
 
 Like a wierd panoramic scene — 
 Passing, passing, with their couches white, 
 
 And their long, hushed wards of pain; 
 Where eves were dimmins: into the nisrht. 
 
 Where life-visions wax and wain. 
 
 Praying the Father to silence doubt ; 
 Gazing with strengthened sight 
 
90 THE MCXIELS. 
 
 Into the opening fields of bliss 
 
 And heavenly light ; 
 
 Wiping the damp off the cold, white brow, 
 
 For the march is ended, and the day's work 
 
 [done ; 
 
 Laying the knapsack and canteen by, 
 
 At the set of sun ; 
 Folding the pictures and keepsakes up, 
 
 And sendinof them home. 
 
 Backward and forw^ard the war-tide beat, 
 
 Like a wave on the wild seashore : 
 Names unnoticed before, at length, 
 
 A terrible meaning bore. — 
 Shiloh, Bethel, and Donelson, 
 
 Vicksburg and Malvern Hill, 
 Each with their quota of wounded men 
 
 The vacated cots to fill. 
 I look in my diary, November tenthy 
 
 Eighteen sixty-two, — 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 91 
 
 The Hrst enlisted are veterans now, 
 
 But the ranks are filHng anew. 
 The Northmen arise at the President's call, 
 Determined to conquer or willing to fall : 
 A battle is fought in a western State, 
 The enemy driven back ; 
 But the sick, disabled and dying men 
 Are scattered along the track. 
 
 Great bodies of soldiers pass through the town, 
 Leaving their hundreds behind ; 
 The halls, the hotels, the churches are full ; — 
 
 Wherever the eye can find 
 
 A resting-place, any and everywhere, 
 
 The convalescent and the dying are. 
 
 Dim as the light through its window^s, stained, 
 I see in the terrible past 
 
 A great, old church — it is crowded so full; 
 
 The disabled are dying so fast. 
 
93 THE McNIELS. 
 
 So much to be done; and, O God ! so small 
 
 The wherewith for any to do; 
 
 With that strange assemblage of patient eyes 
 
 Uplooking from every pew. 
 
 They lie on the benches, under the trees ; 
 
 They rise and wander about — 
 
 Into the garden and through the gates — 
 
 And in and out; 
 
 They sit on the graves in the old churchyard, 
 
 They crouch by the camp-lire light, 
 
 In their blankets folded, and the star-gleams fiill 
 
 Over their faces white. 
 
 Up from the basement a racking cough 
 
 Comes, stifled by moans of pain. 
 
 Startles the sleeper at the midnight hour, 
 
 Soundeth again and again: 
 
 Heads that at home would be pillowed upon 
 
 The wife or the mother's breast, 
 
 Roll on their knapsacks from side to side, 
 
 Seeking in vain for rest; 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 93 
 
 Men so prized that their native town 
 Were in mourning if they should die, 
 Close their pale lips and go up to God 
 Without a cry. 
 
 Great pine-trees guarding the dead men's rest, 
 Shivered and moaned as the wmd caressed, 
 And the golden sunshine of winter crowned 
 The old church spire and the hills around; 
 Then, into an ocean of molten gold, 
 The day-god vanished, and, fold on fold, 
 Gathered the curtains of twilight down, 
 Hushing to quiet that quaint old town. 
 
 Not there the monument high, that told 
 
 The depth of the rich man's hoard of gold; 
 
 Not there the lower lots that yield 
 
 A pauper's grave in the potter's field: 
 
 It seemed, by the long lines of level mound,, 
 
94 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 As if an army had bivouac round, 
 Weary of marching, at evening - tall. 
 
 Waiting: the mornino^ reveille to call. 
 
 Bowed, till his head, with its iron - gray. 
 Prone on the grave of a soldier lay — 
 Bowed, till his rough coat and hardened hand 
 Was sprinkled over with yellow sand — 
 He knelt, and the deep sobs upward pressed, 
 Forcing their way from the strong man's breast, 
 He knelt, and the burning tears — ah, well! 
 Such tears as only a man weeps, fell. 
 
 At the head of the grave was a small cross 
 
 [placed. 
 
 And carefully carved these four words traced. 
 Words of an infinite meaning to be 
 The sum of a life hope : " He died for me." 
 "Your son, I presume?" He raised his head, 
 Then rose and stood by my side and said : 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 95 
 
 '' I will tell you stranger: — in a Northern State, 
 
 When the cause looked dark and the need was 
 
 [great, 
 
 With the clutch of the cursed rebel foe 
 
 At the nation's throat, how I longed to go; 
 
 But the frightened pleading, the dumb surprise, 
 
 That arose in my poor wife's upturned eyes! 
 
 I was very poor, but with honest hand 
 
 Had I wrung support from my rocky land; 
 
 Nothing in plenty had to me been given 
 
 But the poor man's blessing — for that thank 
 
 [Heaven ! 
 
 There were bovs with black eves, and girls with 
 
 [blue, 
 
 There were youths and maidens just peering 
 
 [through 
 
 The bars that open from childhood's lane 
 Into the workday fields of grain, 
 There were toddling darlings just up to my knee. 
 And the four months' babv that cooed to me; 
 
C)6 THE McNIELS. 
 
 But my heart grew hot as the soldiers' tread 
 
 Went past our cottage, and my brow burned 
 
 [red 
 
 For all I was fettered and burdened so, 
 I was half ashamed that I could not go. 
 
 Well, the draft came on, and, the worst of all, 
 
 Mine was the very first name to call. 
 
 How I reached my cottage I never could tell. 
 
 How I broke the news to my wife — ah, well! — 
 
 Somewhere I have read of a head turned white 
 
 By the sorrows that crowded a single night. 
 
 O! how swiftly the hours passed by. 
 
 As we questioned the future, Mary and I: 
 
 Mary had folded a shirt or two. 
 
 An extra pair of socks, — then drew 
 
 From the drawer a Testament, faded and gray, 
 
 The children had carried on a Sabbath day, 
 
 With a little yarn and a hank of thread: 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 97 
 
 ^' Vou will need them sorely," my poor wife said. 
 
 Then she boiled some coffee, and spread tlie board 
 
 With the daintiest fare of our scanty hoard; 
 
 For a moment we stood where the wee ones 
 
 [slept, 
 
 Then she threw herself into a chair and wept. 
 *• O, darling! cannot we trust," I said, 
 "Who feedeth the ravens, for daily bread — 
 Clasping His hand, through shadows dim, 
 Cannot we cast our burden on Him?" 
 
 A step creaked over the frozen sill. 
 And a face looked in — it was Charley Hill, 
 Such fellows you find in most every place, 
 Whom the people call a very hard case. 
 But many good deeds had that reckless one 
 Mixed with the evil that he had done. 
 
 ^' Good morning!" he said; "you might as well 
 Put off that troublesome, sad farewell: — ^ 
 
98 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 I am going to see this Rebellion through, 
 
 And will call my name in the ranks for yon. 
 
 Not a word of thanks, for cannot you see 
 
 There isn't a soul to lament for me — 
 
 Not a chick, nor a child, nor a mother to weep;- 
 
 So now go back to your bed and sleep." 
 
 But he turned, with his hand on the latch, to sa} 
 
 " You can pray for Charley whenever you pray. 
 
 You see I am left to my family stilli, 
 
 But here is the grave of poor Charley Hill. 
 
 We have scraped and gathered for more than 
 
 [year, 
 
 To lay by the money that carried me here, — 
 
 The hand of my first-born framed this wood, 
 
 But, O! by my life, if I only could, 
 
 A marble monument reared should be 
 
 For the man who has given his life for me! 
 
 Then I stood and thought, as the sunset gold 
 Deepened to purple on tower and tree, 
 
 •)' 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 99 
 
 Of that old lox^e story so sweetly told, 
 
 Of the Man who has given His life for me. 
 
 Weary and worn to a skeleton form, 
 
 He lay on his couch of pain : 
 His prayer at evening and his prayer at morn 
 
 Was to visit his home again; 
 
 He talked of his mother, far away, 
 
 He talked of his lonely wife; 
 When the fever frenzied his aching head, 
 
 And loosened his hold of life. 
 
 We told him his feet mi^ht never ao^ain 
 
 Walk over his native sod. 
 Bat ere long he should tread the golden streets, 
 
 At home in the city of God. 
 
 We told him his eye might never behold 
 The fiice of his best beloved : 
 
lOO THE McNIELS. 
 
 He should welcome her there, bv the life-river 
 
 [fair, 
 
 In the garden of beauty above. 
 
 He wept and whispered so long, so long. 
 
 So many long weary years; 
 And my widowed wife and \ny little one 
 
 Alone in the world of tears. 
 
 We shredded a lock of his long, fiiir han-, 
 The love-words wxre written, he said, 
 
 A great peace descended from God to his soul, 
 And the last of his earth - trials fled. 
 
 It was only a tear, a /('(tr, and it fell on the old 
 
 [man's hand, 
 
 As upon the charred and blistered sod folleth 
 [the sweet, sweet rain; 
 
 When his iron frame writhed in agony and forced 
 
 [the unwilling moan. 
 
 As the tempest bends the oak-tops to its autumn- 
 
 [song of pain. 
 
THE IIOSPITAI.. lOI 
 
 Tt w^as only a tear, a tear, and the fountain from 
 
 [whence it fell, 
 
 Since its early azure brightness, had been fiided 
 
 [by many such ; 
 
 But the face had the look of an angel, the love- 
 
 [blent magic spell. 
 
 Though washed to an ashen paleness by weep- 
 
 [ing over much : 
 
 All its softness, and its roundness, and its rosiness 
 
 [were gone. 
 
 I said an angel : — more like a saint's that pa- 
 
 [tient, peaceful face; 
 
 It was autumn's ripened promise, it was twilight's 
 
 [labor done, 
 
 'Twas a soul refined and chastened by the 
 [moulding hand of grace. 
 
 I said the fdce of an angel, but an angel's face 
 
 [is bright 
 
 As the full, clear, radiant splendor of the day- 
 
 [light, golden, warm; 
 
 And this had more of the svveetness of the silent, 
 
 [starry night, 
 
I02 THE MCNIEI.S. 
 
 Of a night when the moon-kissed billows are 
 [resting from the storm. 
 
 I said the fiice of an angel, but an angel knows 
 
 [no sin, 
 
 Has never to grapple and overcome the force 
 
 [of a wrong desire, 
 
 To storm his own heart-fortress for the- foe en- 
 
 [trenched within. 
 
 To quench in briny tear-showers the flame of 
 
 [a passion fire. 
 
 'Twas just at the battle's commencement, when 
 [the shrill-toned, fiendish yell. 
 
 And the fire of the foe burst on them w^th 
 [its death-hail thick and fast. 
 
 As his comrades bravely rallied, the old flag- 
 
 [bearer fell. 
 
 Bleeding and crushed and trampled, and the 
 
 [wdieeling legion past. 
 
 Recked he of the old battalion, how the tide of 
 
 [the conflict went? — 
 
THE HOSPITAL. I03 
 
 In that mangled frame was raging a struggle 
 
 [of life and death, 
 
 When back from his post of honor in the 
 
 [crowded hospital tent, 
 
 In wild, pain-wrought delirium he cursed failing 
 
 [sight and breath. 
 
 I said that a warm tear gathered and fell on the 
 
 [old man's hand ; 
 
 As he saw with his death-dimmed vision a kind 
 
 [face over him bent, 
 
 There seemed to glimmer above him the sky of 
 
 [another land, 
 
 And the old home-roof of his childhood grew 
 [plainer than the tent. 
 
 The kiss of an only sister swept over his cold 
 
 [lips now. 
 
 And he knew her by the motherdook imj^rint 
 
 [upon her face ; 
 
 He knew her by the brown hair yet waving 
 
 [on her brow. 
 
 Where the old fair child-lines lingered, with 
 [their gentle curves of grace. 
 
I04 TIIK McNIELS. 
 
 They had loved and played together in the dear 
 
 (days of the past, 
 
 They had danced and sung together when life 
 
 (was in its May; 
 
 But, apart, they learned the lesson we all must 
 
 (learn at last. 
 
 Of emptiness, of bitterness, of falsehood and de- 
 
 [cay. 
 
 One heart had warred with error, and at last had 
 
 (overcome, 
 
 The other taken captive had become the tyrant's 
 
 [slave ; 
 
 One had risen, ever risen, child of morning to the 
 
 (sun. 
 
 The other in earth's littleness and folly dug its 
 
 (grave. 
 
 Hand in hand, and hearts together, In a solemn, 
 
 (silent fold : 
 
 "Christ have mercy!" was the last cry of his- 
 (life-thought as it fled; 
 
 Did she heed the battle tumult as it near and 
 
 (nearer rolled ? 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 Did she feci the sulphur war-smoke as they 
 (hore her from her dead? 
 
 God's great mercy, soldier brother, be it with 
 
 (thee at His bar! 
 
 Jesus' presence, O, my sister! on thy mission- 
 
 (labors shine ! 
 Star of love that led the "Wise men," ever more 
 
 (thy guiding star, 
 
 Crown of " Him that overcometh," bright, un- 
 (fiiding, shall be thine. 
 
 I pray that I never again may list 
 
 To such pitiful wailings as came, 
 Piercing the hush of that twilight through, 
 
 Entering heart and brain. 
 After the toils of a toil-filled day, 
 
 I lay in the quiet deep 
 That reigns on the border and stretches aw^ay 
 
 Into the kingdom of sleep. — 
 A knock at my door — 'tis the ward-master calls: 
 
 " Can you come? there is no one but you 
 
Io6 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 That can manage the woman; — 'tis the wife of 
 
 (the man 
 
 Who died in the ward No. two. 
 You remember the man — he was buried to-day, 
 
 This morning, and now she is here. 
 Too kite for one word, too late for one look — 
 
 'Twill unsettle her reason, I fear." 
 The mourner lay stretched on the vacant cot, 
 
 Where his life slowly wasted away; 
 
 She must have been poor, for her garments were 
 
 (worn, 
 
 And old, for the black and the gray 
 
 In her thin locks were mingled, and hardened 
 
 (and brown 
 
 Her hands, like a woman who washes through 
 
 (town. 
 
 On the morrow we rode in an ambulance down 
 Where they buried the Union dead. 
 
 The day was delightful, like June in the North, 
 With the bluest of sky overhead; 
 
THE HOSPITAL. lO" 
 
 But the graves were iinsodcled, and thick yellow 
 
 [clay 
 
 Clung like paste to our feet and garments that 
 
 (day. 
 
 She gathered a handful and bore it away — 
 
 O, Love — that makes sacred the soil and the sod! 
 
 Thou banished of Eden, O, daughter of God! 
 
 July the tenth — Vicksburg has foUen! 
 
 Not all in vain are the tears we nave shed; 
 Back to the rear our steamships are bearing 
 
 The sick and the wounded, the dying and dead. 
 
 Thanks be to God for victory given, 
 
 Thanks, not in vain are the blood-torrents shed, 
 
 Thanks, though we wipe off the dew of the 
 
 [living. 
 
 Thanks, though we fold the white hands of the 
 
 (dead. 
 
 A message from home, from a mother's heart 
 
 (breaking, 
 
loS THE MCNIEI.S. 
 
 As many have broken, the price of our Joy — 
 O, bitterest ano^iiish! O, wounded and missing! — 
 Asking in vain for a trace of her boy: 
 
 Asking of Brnce, — the bright-browed, the glad- 
 
 (hearted. 
 
 Our own precious home-boy, the regiment's 
 
 (pride;— 
 
 O, better, surrounded by comrades and brothers, 
 If he in the van of the conflict had died! 
 
 Breathe ye not a word of the prison-pen to her, 
 The death-line surrounding the prisoner's fate; — 
 
 Not a word of the desohite longing and w^aiting. 
 Not a word of exchanges, delayed till too late; — 
 
 Not a word of the July sun beating upon them. 
 
 Or the shelterless under a storm-shrouded sky, 
 
 Not a word of the devouring death-pangs of 
 
 (hunger: 
 
 Keep silent all this, or the mother will die! 
 
THE IIOSPITAI. 
 
 109 
 
 There came a time when the surgeon looked, 
 
 Into my face and said, 
 
 "You are wearing out; you must stop and rest." 
 
 But still, with a dizzied head 
 
 And departing strength, I labored on. 
 
 [ recall it now, and it seems. 
 As bereft of heart and as purposeless 
 
 As we toil sometimes in our dreams: — 
 The fires of a fever were draining life, 
 
 Coming on in such slow degrees, 
 That I kept repeating, " I am not sick," 
 
 And then, on mv hands and knees, 
 Climbed up to my little secluded room, — 
 
 And, O! how I wept and wept; — 
 I cannot recall, was it night or noon. 
 
 When I woke, or how long I had slept; 
 But anxious faces looked into my flice. 
 
 And nurses bent over my bed. 
 And I knew by the guarded, whispered tones^, 
 
 And I knew bv the careful tread. 
 
no THE MCXIELS. 
 
 I was sick indeed — then I closed my eyes: 
 I remember no more than this, 
 
 That I seemed to be drifting away, away, 
 To silence and nothingness. 
 
 I again awoke, and the morning sun, 
 
 Just lifted above the range 
 Of eastern ridges, looked into my room — 
 
 But everything seemed so strange. 
 Through lifted sashes the early spring 
 
 Kept flinging her rich perfume, 
 Rifled from peach orchards over the way. 
 
 And the garden was all in bloom ; 
 I gazed up dreamily into the sky. 
 
 Where drifted a sail-like cloud, 
 I wondered if robins ever before 
 
 Warbled so sweet and loud. 
 Some one, asleep in an easy chair. 
 Leaned over the foot of my bed, — 
 
THE HOSPITAL. I I 1 
 
 I for a moment with memory strove, 
 
 Then burst into weeping and said: 
 "Daniel McNiel, tell me quick, is it you?" 
 
 Thank God! And my dear old friend, 
 Wiping the tears he fjiin would repress, 
 
 Above me did tenderly bend. 
 " O, Daniel, how are the dear ones all? 
 
 O, Daniel, when did you come?" — 
 But he placed me gently and firmly back. 
 
 Then he sat down and talked of home. 
 There were lines of care I had never seen 
 
 Crossing his brow of yore. 
 There were threads of silver in hair and beard 
 
 I never had noticed before. 
 All at once the sorrowful truth came back, 
 
 And the visions of sickness fled, 
 As one should arise and wrestle with ftite, 
 
 Go forth and bury the dead. 
 
 Ye who have mingled your songs in the light 
 
112 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 Of the radiant summer day, 
 
 Ve who have met, on a festival night. 
 
 To revel its hours av^^ay ; 
 Can unclasp your hands with never a thought 
 
 To deepen the light good-bye, — 
 Can sever the linking of gossamer life 
 
 With never a sigh! 
 
 But ye who have labored together, till months 
 Have lengthened themselves to years; 
 
 Ve who have trodden, hand clasping hand, 
 A pathway of terror and tears; — 
 
 Heart beating to heart, hand clasping hand. 
 Through darkness and anguish and tears: — 
 
 Ye may not sever the links of fate. 
 
 Ye may not go forth and forget; 
 You will find them drawing you, drawing always 
 
 Into the vale of resTret; — 
 
HOME. 113 
 
 Vou will pause and listen as memory pleads, 
 
 Plaintive and low and sweet; 
 And the broken thought of her bye-gone days 
 
 She will over and over repeat. 
 
 Faces w^ill come and look down on you 
 
 Framed in the sunset beams, 
 Voices long hushed in the chambers of death 
 
 Like a wainnig will ring through your dreams ; 
 Sometimes, in the light of the moon-ruled night, 
 
 Motionless you will stand, 
 And feel the blessing of voiceless love, 
 
 And the clasp of a shadowy hand. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 The vines that clambered o'er the eaves 
 Were putting forth their first green leaves, 
 
114 '^^^^ MCNIELS. 
 
 The laurel, queen of waste and wood, 
 
 Clothed m the bloom of spring-time stood. 
 
 The snow-drop in the forest dell, 
 
 The violet, the mountain bell. 
 
 Were in full bloom, as if to greet 
 
 The wanderer's returning feet; 
 
 The hazel where a child she played. 
 
 The river-border where the maid 
 
 In silent contemplation strayed. 
 
 The hillslope, green as emerald now, 
 
 Where, woman grown, she breathed her voav, 
 
 The willow-bridge, the half-way stone. 
 
 The dear church hidden by its pines, 
 
 Were all the same, — on us alone 
 
 Was wrought the ruin of the times. 
 
 Helen, the wife, now graver grown. 
 Had that far look within her eyes. 
 Of one v/ho stands upon the shore, 
 
HOME. 115 
 
 Where blends the ocean and the skies, 
 Though deafened by the billows' roar, 
 Still hopes to catch a lover's tone 
 Sent back in answer to her own. 
 
 The mother looked to me like one 
 In bridal garments, at the gate. 
 Who reads upon her sunset sky 
 Its warning — "Wait!" 
 
 A timid sadness filled the look 
 
 That answered to our questioning eyes, 
 
 As if the Brideo^room's midnio^ht call 
 Would not surprise: — 
 
 A little struggle, ere the soul, 
 
 Victorious in its latest strife, 
 With yearning love could, one by one, 
 
 Lay down the cares of life. 
 
Il6 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 And then the harvest of the year 
 
 Was garnered ; and the tassled com 
 Stood full-eared, waving in the clear 
 
 October morn. 
 From severed lives a new life rose — 
 
 A babe was born ; 
 But scarcely was there time to shred 
 
 One ring of gold from baby's head. 
 For him away, when it was dead. 
 
 Before the corn was gathered in 
 
 A deeper grave was made — 
 The mother of the household passed 
 
 Into the valley's shade : 
 But, when upon the other side 
 
 The gates of Eden opened wide, 
 A glory, piercing through the night. 
 
 Made all our earth-home strangely bright. 
 
HOME. 117 
 
 Think you, with heart aflame, we read 
 
 Of Sherman marching to the sea ? 
 How Grant, down through the wilderness, 
 
 Was pressing Lee ? 
 And think you, that with heart aflame, 
 We gloried in the rising fame 
 That clothed with pride our brother's name? 
 Whose steady valor in the fight, 
 Whose firm adherence to the right — 
 Brave with the brave ; true with the true — 
 Brought high reward to honor due ; 
 For in those days of quick events 
 Were unknow^n heroes brought to view 
 In council halls and martial tents. 
 
 With heart aflame with joy, we heard 
 Of Richmond fallen ; and the roar 
 Of cannon wrote our jubilee 
 From western mountains to the shore : 
 
IlS THE MCNIELS. 
 
 But sometimes mute, and sad, and pale, 
 We wondered at His hidden ways ; 
 
 And thought of those within the veil. 
 Who saw Him face to face. 
 
 They who had quaffed the bitter cup, 
 When life was hopeful, fair and bright, 
 
 And yielded all its promise up. 
 To walk with Him in white ; 
 
 Some earnest souls of deep desire. 
 To fullest tension had been tried ; 
 
 And in the flood and in the fire 
 Been purified ; 
 
 New, deeper lines of thought and care 
 Furrowed the brow of middle life ; 
 
 And men came out, where boys had gone 
 Into the strife : 
 
HOME. IIQ 
 
 So, when the peals of joy rang out 
 
 Across the land from sea to sea; 
 Wc sat and counted out the cost 
 
 Of victory. 
 
 The past ! the past ! — we ahnost felt 
 
 The echo of Its ghastly tread ; 
 x\nd turned around, as If to meet 
 
 The faces of the dead. 
 
 I said, " the days were fore-ordalned, 
 When war upon the earth shall cease : 
 
 Not now — though round Columbia's brow 
 Be wreathed the olive branch of peace : 
 
 Not now. Across Atlantic's wave 
 
 The wall of death and danger comes ; 
 
 Where truth's ujoheavlngs lift and shake 
 To their foundation. Eastern thrones. 
 
12Q THE Mt; NIELS. 
 
 We hear of tottering dynasties ; 
 
 Of war's wierd wayward chance : — 
 
 For the vineyard-bordered Rhine I wept. 
 And the sunny vales of France : 
 
 We hear of martyred patriots, 
 
 And noble captains slain ; 
 But a thousand death-white brows I see 
 
 Upon the carnage plain. 
 
 And louder than siege-guns roar, 
 Or the long- roll's 'larum wild. 
 
 Comes the frantic mother's wail of grief 
 Above her orphan child ! 
 
 Alas ! for the poisoned serpent trail 
 O'er that goodliest g'arden spot : 
 
 Alas ! alas ! for the ruined town, 
 And the peasant's rifled cot. 
 
HOMK. 12 1 
 
 Roll swiftl}' on, O circling years, 
 
 Till the night of sin be o'er ! 
 Till the blood drenched earth be purified, 
 
 And man learn war no more. 
 
 Fold down thy curtain-folds, O Death, 
 
 O'er the slayer and the slain ! 
 Till One shall reign in righteousness. 
 
 Whose rio^ht it is to reio^n." 
 
 I said, when heart and soul were stirred 
 
 To meet the dim decrees of fate, 
 '■' That trifling- thins^s should never more 
 
 A tumult in my life create. 
 
 That, having felt the pelting blast 
 
 Of arctic storm and winter rain — 
 No, never, with the sun o'erhead, 
 
 Would I complain : 
 
122 THE McNIEI.S. 
 
 But, when the tension was withdrawn, 
 And daily Hfe to common things 
 
 Sank back, think ye not that I felt, 
 As keen as ever, little stings ; 
 
 That buzzing, vexing, insect care 
 
 Spun webs about me just the same, 
 
 That tripjDcd my feet at hidden snare, 
 And grieved my heart at little pain. 
 
 They handed Him the nation's coin. 
 To tempt the Master ; — from that day 
 
 The wisdom of our Lord's reply 
 Hath never passed away. 
 
 If bow ye must to desjDot sway ; 
 
 If tremble at the tyrant rod ; 
 Render to Cajsar but his own — 
 
 The residue, to God. 
 
HOME. 12; 
 
 A schoolboy spelleth on his coin 
 
 Such words as these — " In God we trust." 
 
 Mother, what meaiieth this thereon ? 
 Then to the mother's memory must 
 
 Uprise the days this was her hope — 
 The cause is just. 
 
 Inscribed upon the little coin — 
 
 Not on the silver or the gold — 
 That which the pauper's hand can reach ; 
 
 That which the infant pal m can hold. 
 
 Perhaps, in ages yet to come, 
 
 Will antiquarian clear the r ust 
 Of ancient coin, and read thereon — 
 
 "In God we trust:" 
 
 And from the page of history glean — 
 A great Republic once was rent 
 
124 ^^^^ MCNIELS. 
 
 By wars intestine : for these days 
 This coin was meant. 
 
 All scattered up and down the land — 
 In farmhouse, cot, and regal hall — 
 
 There hangeth, bound in ebon bands, 
 A picture on the wall ; — 
 
 Not beautiful ; but honor rays 
 
 It round with kindliness and grace ; 
 
 And oft the housewife stands to gaze 
 Her eyes upon that face : 
 
 And when her latest born doth ask 
 
 What the deep sigh she heaveth meant ? 
 
 The woman says, w^ith quivering lips, 
 '' He was our President." 
 
 '' But teacher told me of a score, — 
 And almost all the names I know ; — 
 
HOME. 13 
 
 And was not Washington the best, 
 
 Who Hved so long ago ?' 
 
 Within the mother's eye a tear 
 Rises, but doth not fall : — 
 
 " This was our martyred President- 
 This face upon the wall." 
 
 Why, reader, was it in the hour 
 Of doubt, distress and dread. 
 
 That such unbounded trust we felt 
 In him, who, at the head. 
 
 Sat meek and gentle as a child 
 Within the chair of state ? 
 
 Was it the grace of noble birth .'* 
 The statesman grand and great ? 
 
 And, when across the continent 
 His honored bier was borne. 
 
126 THE MCNIELS. 
 
 What made the youthful and the old 
 As for a father mourn ? 
 
 mini ! land of men ! no man 
 
 Like him, so true and brave ; 
 Whom thou, in our extremity, 
 
 To head the nation, gave. — 
 None dear as he who sleeps to-dav 
 
 Within thine honored grave. 
 
 So dear to all — but dear the most > 
 
 To those, who, in our night of pain, 
 
 Uprose from slavery, a Host 
 
 Long burdened with the shameful chain 
 
 Of mean oppression; rose and stood. 
 One with the human brotherhood. 
 
 The hand that burst those bonds away, 
 
 Now moulders into dust ; 
 But world-wide honor sfilds to-dav 
 
HOME. 12^ 
 
 The name of him who dare be just ; 
 The ma?i in peril, Heaven sent — 
 Our martyred President. 
 
 There is a place four turnpikes meet, 
 
 The center of the town ; 
 A common, where the children play ; 
 
 A 2"i'een and rising^ mound : 
 It fronts the school, there children play — 
 
 But 'tis a sacred ground. 
 
 There is a snow-white monument, 
 
 That you may, any day. 
 See, as you enter into town. 
 
 And see for miles away ; 
 And carved thereon are noble names, 
 
 That never shall decay. 
 
 The aged, with uncovered head. 
 Beside it come to kneel ; 
 
28 
 
 THE MCXIELS. 
 
 And round and round, with steps of awe, 
 
 The village maidens steal. 
 Look, stranger ! in that list of names. 
 
 Are James and Bruce McNiel ! 
 
Yeap^s A:go 
 
YEARS AGO : 
 
 A POEM OF THE ADIROXDACKS I 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 A few pale blossoms, plucked upon the lawn 
 Of early youth, Mid wound with autumn s^rass 
 And tallen leayes. 
 
 An ocean shell, 
 Tliat ])eareth far in-shore the billou-s plaint : 
 A prisoned song-bird, eycr trilling forth 
 One innocent loye note. 
 
132 YEARS AGO. 
 
 An infant lost, 
 And buried by the redbreasts of the wood : 
 All that is pitiful, all that is pure ; 
 That bears upon its brow the dew of morn ; 
 That walks with upturned eyes earth's wilderness; 
 Or treads the heated share of martyrdom; 
 I fain would bring you in this song of mine. 
 
 Be it the withered grasses, or the shell ; 
 The faithful robin, or the fair, dead babe ; 
 Or just one thought : receive it in the name 
 Of Him who said, a sparrow falleth not 
 Without His eye. 
 
 A mountain — one of Adirondack's range : 
 Upon its sunrise slope, and half-way down. 
 Built round an iron mine, a village stands — 
 A little world away among the hills. 
 Above, the unfellcd forest casts its shade 
 
RETROSPECTI\'E. I33 
 
 Adown the w^estern side : and far be\'on(l, 
 
 Upon its summit, sits a little lake, 
 
 Like infiint fair upon its mother's breast, 
 
 Alirroring the fleece-clouds of an April sk}- ; 
 
 Mirroring- the purple thunder-storm ; 
 
 The rose-lio^ht clustering- about the dawn ; 
 
 The night-queen, and the star-host, and the trees, 
 
 That round it clasp their green boughs lovingly; 
 
 And there the half-breed hunter fished and trap- 
 
 [ped: 
 
 And there were wigwams pitched upon its banks; 
 And o'er its waters glided bark canoes. 
 
 In heated seasons, men would hither come 
 
 From crowded city walks, and walls of brick, — 
 
 Of nature's wildness all enamored grown — 
 
 To hunt and fish, the whole long summer through : 
 
 With eves that had been dimmed bv midnight 
 
 [toif; 
 
 With brows untimeh' furrowed hv thought ; 
 
134 " YEARS AGO. 
 
 With intellect a prey upon itself; 
 With cheeks that whitened in the commerce mart 
 Of mammon's dull and sombre counting-rooms ; 
 And that disease which feeds on wasted hopes, 
 On broken hearts and half forgotten joys ; 
 Would ccHiie and ask of those untrodden wilds 
 For solace, and for healing and repose : 
 And ever, if the wound was not too deep, 
 Kind Nature, that dear nurse who asks no fee, 
 Gave them a welcome and a speedy cure. 
 
 A road, like ribbon, girt the mountain's base. 
 And bound our mining village to the farms. 
 Where bronzed, hard-handed farmers, by their toil 
 Wrung from the rocky soil its scanty grain. 
 O, how unlike the vast yield of the West ! — 
 God's fertile prairie-lands — that fill with ease 
 The meal-chests of the crowded Eastern world. 
 vSkirting the forest-depths, a clearing stood : 
 
RETROSPECTIVE. 1 35 
 
 There rang the woodman's axe all the clay long; 
 
 There blackened stumps and ash heaps pointed 
 
 [out 
 
 The stubborn warfare tyrant man had waged 
 
 With Nature, in her own fortressed retreat ; 
 
 How, Ishmael-like, his hand of greed is turned 
 
 'Gainst all the rest of God-created good : 
 
 He fells the oak; turns from its bed the stream; 
 
 Kills woodland song-birds, a\'e, from wantonness; 
 
 Out-crushes insect-life, for very sport ; 
 
 Breaks down the briar-rose, then flings aside : 
 
 And not the ocean, on its coral bed ; 
 
 And not the quarry, with its rockv heart ; 
 
 And not the subtle properties of air ; 
 
 Or the magnetic chain that binds the earth; 
 
 Or the volcanic flres that rage within, 
 
 But feel, or soon shall feel, his power of will. 
 
 When shone the suns of A.pril ; and the snow, 
 ]Melted from mountain top and mountain side, 
 
136 YEARS AGO. 
 
 A thousand rivulets come dancing down, 
 Shining and sparkling like a diamond shower, 
 With mystic music-song through every delL 
 I never stand where waters gush along, 
 But they do tell me tales of long ago. 
 And bring me heart-aches over buried joy ; 
 Then shadowy hands do come and clasp my own ; 
 Then echoing tones of death-hushed voices steal 
 Into my heart ; and summer eyes look down 
 From every cloud, till thrills of mem'ry bend 
 And shake mc, like the frail reeds at my feet. 
 
 Between the clearing and the village, stood 
 
 My mother's cottage — an old-fashioned house — 
 
 Embowered in the apple-orchard shade. 
 
 In blossom season 'twas the sweetest place 
 
 I ever saw, or e'er expect to see : 
 
 Behind the liouse, abruptly rose a hill ; 
 
 From out the hilhide gushed a tiny spring ; 
 
RETROSPECTIVE. I37 
 
 From thence, a little streamlet, falling clown. 
 Passed by the house and crossed the field beyond ; 
 The dashing song upon its pebbly bed, 
 Mixed strangely with dream-music as I slept, 
 Was the first melody that greeted morn. 
 
 My father, a shareholder of the mine, 
 
 Brought his young bride, in their first wedded 
 
 [days, 
 
 To that sweet cottage on the mountain side ; — 
 
 There, all secluded from the outer world, 
 
 A world of bliss they found between themselves. 
 
 Well I remember the first shadow, flung 
 Like pall of darkness, o'er that sunny spot : — 
 Our youngest pet, Louisa was her name. 
 From school returned, a little wan and sad, 
 As if presentiment of her coming fate 
 Forecast its shadow on the darling's brow. 
 She took her little testament, to learn 
 
138 YEARS AGO. 
 
 A Sabbath lesson for the week to come ; 
 Twas all about the " Babe of Bethlehem." 
 That time-worn treasure lies before me now — • 
 No gilt-bound oracle, or costly gift, 
 Has ever been so treasured in mv heart. 
 
 How shall the dreariness that fell be told ? 
 
 She, tiny pail in hand, went to the spring : — ■ 
 
 No more I saw her, till, upon the brink. 
 
 All drenched and cold, she, like a dead lamb, lay: 
 
 That night of terror shakes me even now : — 
 
 This was my first great sorrow, and it came 
 
 Before my heart had strengthened for its load. 
 
 Years never bring oblivion of the past ; 
 
 Though time, with rubbish, covers o'er the hearty 
 
 Old wrinkled scars and wounds, half healed, re- 
 
 [main. 
 
 That sometimes, by their aching, bring us back 
 The anguish-hours endured so long before. 
 
RETROSPECTIVE. 1 39 
 
 There came a time, when deep unlifted gloom 
 
 Closed down like night around our hearts and 
 
 [home, 
 
 Out-shutting all the sunshine from our lives, 
 
 And blighting all green leaves and fragrant flow- 
 
 [ers. 
 
 There came a time, when only faith had power 
 To lift us from the sadness of the tomb ; 
 When orplian tears fell like unwearied rain ; 
 
 When widowed lips, with speechless grief, w^ere 
 
 [dumb. 
 
 Mangled and crushed, they bore him from the 
 
 [mine, — 
 
 Without a warning and without a word. 
 
 The parting kiss still warm upon his lips. 
 
 Still, through the eastern lattice, shone the sun ; 
 
 Still hung the dew, like jewels, on each shrub, 
 
 When came the crash that filled our hearts with 
 
 [w^oe ; — 
 
 And then, another gray, unsodded grave : 
 
 Within our home, hushed tones and breaking 
 
 [hearts ; 
 
 Within our lives, a tear-page blotted o'er. 
 
140 YEARS AGO. 
 
 Our Edward and our Eleanor were twins : 
 
 As like in infancy as two bright buds 
 
 Upon one stem — could scarce be told apart. 
 
 The same brown eyes, the long and silken lash; 
 
 The same short curls of golden-tinted brown. 
 
 When, hand in hand, the children trudged to 
 
 [school, 
 
 A stranger could have told that they were twins; 
 
 But as this child-age merged into the years 
 
 Of promise, of development, and prime, 
 
 There came a change; for Edward's took the form 
 
 Of manhood's vigor, nobleness, and strength ; 
 
 And Ellen's form was rounding into grace. 
 
 The short, brown curls, lay thick on Edward's 
 
 [brow ; 
 
 But Ellen's grew a massive, waving coil. 
 
 His eyes had still their frank, straightforward 
 
 [look ; 
 
 Hers, drooped in sweet timidity and love. 
 Still were they much alike in heart and life ; 
 
retrospectivp:. 141 
 
 For both were brave, and earnest, and most 
 
 [true. 
 
 Their mother's prop they stood in her lone hour ; 
 For, when she found her means of Hfe withheld 
 And but a pittance left of all our wealth, 
 The children left their school-life and came home, 
 Willing to toil, nor did we see a tear ; 
 Lifting" life's burden on without a sisfh ; — 
 The blessino- and the sunlio^ht of our home. 
 
 Midway between the twins and cherub child. 
 So soon to heaven translated, I was born, 
 With nothing of my elder sister's grace, 
 Or rosebud loveliness of her who died. 
 It seemed to me I could do nothing well. 
 But only think, and think^ e'en from a child : — 
 Yes, I could love with such intensity. 
 That all my inner being throbbed to pain. 
 With unclosed eyes, long night-hours would I lie, 
 
142 YEARS AGO. 
 
 Fearing the loss of those to whom I chiiig : 
 
 In (h-eams, I passed the star-gates to that home — 
 
 That upper home, heyonci all ^^''i^'tlng pain ; — 
 
 Pressed upward by the longing that I felt — 
 
 Longing and loneliness that would not cease. 
 
 When our dear father died, this loneliness 
 
 Was tar more terrible for me to bear. 
 
 Oft through the silence came his tender voice ; 
 
 Oft bent his face above me in my sleep ; 
 
 Oft did I wake, his kiss upon my lips : 
 
 And no more did I doubt he came to me, 
 
 Than I did doubt he loved me while he lived. 
 
 O, how I loved the beautiful ! and watched, 
 
 With hunger-eyes, my elder sister's face, 
 
 And turned away in bitterness and tears. 
 
 I would have given all the world to be 
 
 As joyous and as beautiful as she. 
 
 I could not play, as happy children play ; 
 
 Nor could I tell the reason to myself, 
 
 Tha^: gentle, gleeful voices of the young 
 
RETROSPECTIVE. I43 
 
 Should cloud niy brow with discontent and gloom. 
 
 'Twas often said, " Sarah must go to school ;" 
 
 But mother pleaded I should not be sent. 
 
 I think she understood me best of all ; 
 
 I think she wept above me secret tears ; 
 
 I think she trembled for me in her heart ; 
 
 1 tliink she gladly would have folded 
 
 In her kind mother arms all my life long. 
 
 I cannot tell when first I learned to pray ; 
 
 'Twas further back than memory can reach : 
 
 I cannot tell when first I loved the Lord, 
 
 And thought of Him with still, adoring awe. 
 
 No more I doubted His existence, than 
 
 [ did my own, and sometimes not as much : 
 
 For oft, in musing hours, I lost myself. 
 
 And merged my life in blossoms, rocks, and 
 
 [trees ; 
 
 Dreamino;- awav lono- hours amonsT the hills. 
 Those days, they were not haj^py, and not sad, 
 
144 YEARS AGO. 
 
 But something like the twiHght, or the dawn ; — 
 Only they brought me neither day nor night, 
 But wrajDped my still lips like a phantom spell* 
 
 That spell is broken now ; that dream-life fled : 
 
 And, looking back, I wonder at the child ; — 
 
 For scarcely does it seem that it was I. 
 
 1 know there are some heart-lives most akin 
 
 To Nature's subtle influence and laws : 
 
 There is a kind of intuitial soul. 
 
 Like harp y^olian, played by hands unseen ; 
 
 And like .-^olian music — mournful, sweet. 
 
 But fitful ; strange ; now breathing soft and low; 
 
 Now rising to discordant anguish-tones : — 
 
 If voice be granted such, they do become 
 
 The poets, prophets of their time and age ; 
 
 Their thoughts of beauty will not, cannot die : 
 
 Their life-songs echo down the passing years : 
 
 Their words of flame live on, through ages — on ! 
 
RETROSPECTIVE. I45 
 
 But some there be who never find a voice ; 
 
 Whose imaged beauty-visions lie entombed 
 
 Within the soul that formed them, ne'er brought 
 
 [forth ; 
 
 Or, clothed with words, go out into the world : 
 
 And there be poet-spirits, meanly clad 
 
 In fleshly garments, so no one beholds 
 
 The rare thought-jewels that are hidden there. 
 
 Like fountain bordered round by noxious weeds, 
 
 Which, shutting out the sunlight and the stars. 
 
 Hide its cool waters from the traveler. 
 
 Who doth, upon its brink, lie down and die. 
 
 Not always doth the soul look from the eyes ; 
 
 Or beams in smiles the heart-life on the lips. 
 
 Some noble natures that might bless the earth. 
 
 Like unused metals, do corrode and rust. 
 
 O, 'tis the talent hidden, bringeth woe ! — 
 
 Fond mother do not ask it for thy child ; 
 
 O, soul pray not that it be granted thee ! 
 
LUCRECE. 
 
 One bright June day a missive came to us, 
 
 For Edward, post-marked from a Southern town: 
 
 As brother told us, — from a college mate. 
 
 Who felt with failing health, the need of rest. 
 
 Might he, and his young sister, come awhile. 
 
 And nestle in our home-nest, 'mong the hills ? 
 
 For, though they had great wealth at their com- 
 
 [mand, 
 
 They had no parents — therefore had no home. 
 Sister Lucrece was w^earied wdth the whirl 
 Of city life, and much desired this change : 
 
LUCRECK. 147 
 
 He wrote that all their fiimily were gone ; 
 
 That both their parents died in the same year. 
 
 They two in this wide world were all alone. 
 
 The slow, sure plague that swept away their 
 
 [friends, 
 
 Had fixed on him its firm, unyielding grasp : 
 And he was weary now, from morn till night : — 
 He wanted, most of all, a loving home — 
 A quiet place, to gather strength, or die. 
 
 Anon they came. Truly upon his brow 
 
 The seal of death, thus early, had been set : 
 
 His eyes had caught a far-off look, as if 
 
 His thoughts and heart-hopes centered not on 
 
 [earth : 
 
 Upon his burning cheek, the long, dark lash 
 Drooped wearily ; and, as he laid him down 
 Upon the snowy couch we had prepared, 
 He drew my mother's hand within his own, 
 And whispered, " Be my mother for awhile ; — 
 The little while God gives me leave to sta^'." 
 
148 YEARS AGO. 
 
 And with him came Liicrece, a blooming girl, 
 
 On whose bright brow had twenty summers 
 
 [shone ; 
 
 On whose round cheek was still the rose of health; 
 
 And she was tall and stately; full in form : 
 
 Back from her brow, her black, abundant hair 
 
 Was wo^'en, in a shining, regal braid ; 
 
 And she had great black eyes, and sweet, red 
 
 [lips ; 
 
 A step as firm and proud as any queen : 
 
 So still, so graceful, and so self-possessed, 
 
 That I, at first, was half afraid of her ; 
 
 But, when my mother came and took her hand, 
 
 There crept a wistful longing in her eyes, 
 
 And all their brightness melted into tears. 
 
 One evening, as the twilight folded back 
 Its bright flame-tinted curtains from the sky, 
 And hushed the world to let her darlings rest; 
 I leaned half out the casement : still as death 
 
LUCRECE. 
 
 149 
 
 She came and stood beside me for a while, 
 Her Hly hand upon my own, she said : 
 " What are voii thinking, all alone, my child ?" 
 " I do not know," I answered dreamily ; 
 " I'm keeping silence with the silent night." 
 vShe bent her head, until its shining braid 
 Did rest upon my own, and whispered low — 
 " Will Sarah be my sister and my friend ? — 
 I always thirsted for a sister's love. 
 When Willie dies, as die T know he will. 
 What friend or comforter have I on earth ?" 
 Forgetting all my bashfulness, I turned 
 Impulsively, and clasped her round the neck ; 
 And, from that eve, the influence she wove 
 About me strengthened as the days wore by. 
 
 Still, she was not familiar with the rest : 
 Some things I noticed gave me real pain : — 
 It seemed to me that she could never bear 
 
150 YEARS AGO. 
 
 The searching of a frank, straight-forward look: 
 She never bowed at morn or evening prayer. 
 Oft Willie's eyes were fixed upon her face, 
 And then they wore a sad, appealing look : 
 The death-white shadow of a pain intense, 
 Would lay for hours upon his still, fair face. 
 Once mother came, and, sitting by her side : — - 
 " You do not kneel with us, my darling child ; 
 Have you no love for Christ within your soul ?" 
 She started up, and, then a little pale : — 
 " I have no love for one I do not know ; 
 Your Christ is not my God, for I have none." 
 
 My mother turned away, without a word ; 
 
 I shook, with awful fear, from head to foot. 
 
 There seemed to rise a plague-spot to her brow : 
 
 Those awful words seemed written there — " No 
 
 [God !" 
 
 I stood and looked upon her, from afar : 
 
LUCRECE. 
 
 '5 
 
 I did not speak to her all that day long. 
 She sat at her embroidery all that day : 
 She neither smiled nor spoke: her set face wore 
 A look of bitterness and cold resolve. 
 Slowly the day wore onward to its close. 
 Not always, when God bids His children rest, 
 Doth hush the heart its throbbing ; doth the brow 
 Cease aching, or the fevered pulse grow cool. 
 
 I sat me down, where smiled the hillside sjDring 
 
 Within its pebbly basin, all alone. 
 
 I watched the stars outcoming one by one, 
 
 And thus I thought : " He looks into our lives, 
 
 To see reflected glory like His own :" 
 
 And then I whispered, o'er, and o'er, and o'er : 
 
 "Without Hope, and without God in the world!" 
 
 Then threw myself upon the sod and wept. 
 
 How long I lay and wept, I could not tell. 
 
 A cold, damp hand fell heavy on my brow : 
 
152 YEARS AGO. 
 
 A whisper, hoarse and loud in its dismay — 
 
 " Dear little Sarah, am I lost to you ?" 
 
 I pulled her down beside me, whispering, 
 
 " Darling Lucrece ! O, do believe in God ; — 
 
 He is so highj so holy, and so pure !" 
 
 " What do you know of Him ?" in quick reply. 
 
 " I know what has been written in His book." 
 
 " His Book, poor child ; the world is full of 
 
 [books ; 
 
 And I have one I'd like for you to read. 
 
 I found in my dead father's library. 
 
 Among the rubbish hid, a fjunous book ; 
 
 The work of some old wise philoso^^her; 
 
 And all about the origin ot things — 
 
 Air, earth, and minerals, and hidden fires. 
 
 Now, Sarah, if you're sure you're not afraid ; 
 
 And, like our mother Eve, desire to know, 
 
 I have it here, and you shall read — my book ; 
 
 But tell me first, if you have ever felt 
 
 What some do make so much of — that your sin 
 
 Is all forgiven you, for Jesus' sake ?" 
 
LUCRECE. 1^3 
 
 Alas, Lucrecel I never have, although 
 Dear sister Ellen and my lirother have, 
 But I helicve in Ilim with all my heart; 
 And then, you see, I am not like the rest, 
 Not half so wise and good, not half so strong. 
 I know I ought to consecrate my life, 
 I scarce can tell what makes me put it off: 
 I surely shall some day — I must, I must I 
 Give me your hook, Lucrece; I'm not afraid 
 To learn all 1 may learn — and now, good-night." 
 
WITHOUT GOD. 
 
 Silent and empty was our large old room, 
 
 Still glowed a little fire within the grate, 
 
 Because our evenings on the mountain-side. 
 
 Even in summer-time, were somewhat chill. 
 
 My fother's easy-chair upon the hearth 
 
 Had been re-cushioned for the invalid. 
 
 My mother's work-stand by the window stood 
 
 And some half-finished garment lay thereon, 
 
 And other chairs were round a table drawn. 
 
 The dear old Bible, open at the place 
 
 Of evcninof lesson — these words met mine eve: 
 
WITHOUT GOD. i:^:^ 
 
 I rend, "Lead us not into temptation." 
 
 O, silent warning from the friend of friends, 
 
 Like hand of love, when stray presumptuous feet 
 
 On danger's brink; well had it been for me 
 
 Had heed been given in that trial hour. 
 
 T stooped and pressed my lips upon the page. 
 
 With reverent care I closed the Holy Book, 
 
 Unclasped the other and sat down to read. 
 
 Upon its first page was a pictured face — 
 
 An old, old face, with broad, o'erhanging brow 
 
 Deep, well-like eves, that seemed instinct with 
 
 [life, 
 
 A mouth hard-closed and set with discontent. 
 While charnel whiteness seemed to cover all. 
 So full of strength, so shadowed o'er with woe, 
 So scornful, yet so earnest in its woe, 
 It wrung from me a shudder and a sigh. 
 I will not write the venomed lies that ran 
 
156 YEARS AGO. 
 
 Through the cursed pages of that awful book: 
 
 Its subtle reasoning, — Lucrece had said, 
 
 'Tvvas all about the origin of things; 
 
 But through, and through, this was the teaching 
 
 [still- 
 No God, no God in all the universe. 
 
 That everything was governed b}' fixed laws 
 
 Immutable as destiny; it said, 
 
 Man's soul was like the spirit of the beast 
 
 That goeth downiward into nothingness. 
 
 New life was resurrection, and our dust 
 
 Sought out new forms of life continually; 
 
 Religion was a myth of ages past. 
 
 Kept up by priests and churchmen to deceive. 
 
 All this was interwoven with such skill. 
 
 And made to look so plausible, my fiiith, 
 
 Unpropped by actual experience. 
 
 Straightway began to totter to its fall. 
 
WITHOUT GOD. I^y 
 
 At first, I wept above my ruined hope, 
 
 And strove with frantic zeal to build again — 
 
 Amid the blackness grasped and groped to find 
 
 The old foundation stones; but sliding earth 
 
 Admonished, I had built upon the sand. 
 
 Then I grew desperate, but still read on. 
 
 Unwinding serpent coils of reasoning, 
 
 Cursing my mind that drank the deadly draught ; 
 
 Cursing my hand that held the fatal book; 
 
 Cursing my heart because it did not break, 
 
 As my great Universal Sun went down. 
 
 I glanced around: God's Oracle was closed, 
 
 My paradise of pure belief was lost, 
 
 And all untasted the foir Tree of Life. 
 
 Chilled to the heart and spell-bound, on and on, 
 Unwinding all the serpent - coil of thought; — 
 The embers faded out within the grate. 
 
58 
 
 YEARS AGO. 
 
 The crescent moon went down behind the clouds, 
 Great pitchy banks upon the western sky; 
 
 The night-wind moaned among the mountain 
 
 [pines — 
 
 As changed my heart-hopes so had changed the 
 
 [nigiit. 
 
 Still gave my candle its poor feeble light, 
 Like reason's fitful glow when faith is dead: 
 Spell-bound I sat and read and wept, and read 
 Until the serpent-coil was all unwound, 
 The death-charm woven and the ruin wrought. 
 Thus one, with soul long gone to its reward, 
 Could fetter other victims for the pit 
 In torture-bands of bitter unbelief: 
 The poison seeds he flung upon the breeze, 
 Wind-borne across the ocean and the land, 
 Sank in the untilled soil of my young heart 
 To ripen into fruit of sin and death. 
 
WITHOUT GOD. 159 
 
 O, it is well Jehovah hath delayed 
 
 His judgment sentence till the last great day; — 
 
 For, not until the Great White Throne be set, 
 
 Until the angel on the sea and land 
 
 Doth swear that time — frail time — no more shall 
 
 [be, 
 And man's probation ended, will that soul 
 
 Know the full measure of his cup of woe: 
 
 Not till the last soul-vessel hath gone down 
 
 In ruin by the influence he raised. 
 
 Until, that still increasing, widening wave, 
 
 Break on the rocks of God's eternal coast. 
 
 Can it be known the mischief he hath wrought. 
 
 Alas, for those whom he hath led astray! 
 
 Alas, alas, for that undying soul! 
 
 For his shall be " The worm that dieth not," 
 
 And his "The fire that never shall be quenched!" 
 
 "Why fall so soon?" does one in wonder ask; 
 " Can thus the teachinsf of a life be turned 
 
l6o YEARS AGO. 
 
 In one short hour to settled unbelief?" 
 
 I entered heedlessly the tempter's path, 
 
 And, grieved, the Spirit of my God withdrew. 
 
 And through the wilderness, I trod alone. 
 
 This know I : Fallen nature, unrenewed. 
 
 Doth bring forth weeds of evil speedily : 
 
 And this I know, for it was even so. 
 
 My poor sand-founded temple was no more: 
 
 The tempest came; the cold rain beat and beat; 
 
 My poor sand-founded temple was no more. 
 
 Shivering with cold, and miserable, 
 
 I crept into the room where Ellen lay 
 
 In slumber, peaceful as a rosy child's, 
 
 And deep ; for she was wearied by the task 
 
 Of dear home duties, lovingly performed. 
 
 How pure in perfect rest she, smiling, lay ! 
 
 Her bible, open, on the little stand, 
 
 Near by a chair, whereon she sat to read. 
 
WITHOUT GOD. l6l 
 
 From habit-force I knelt beside the bed : 
 Whispered, " Our Father," then rose up again : 
 Muttered, in bitterness, " There is no God ;" 
 But O, I wish, I icisk that it was true !" 
 
 Shivernig with cold, and miserable, 
 
 I lay me by my sleeping sister's side : 
 
 It seemed to me I ne'er could sleep again ; 
 
 For, through my brain, dark visions of unrest 
 
 Kept whirling, shifting, jeering all the while : 
 
 But, when a fiiint light deepened in the east. 
 
 With promise of the day, I fell asleep. 
 
 In dreams, I knelt beside my father's grave, 
 
 And laid a wreath of violets thereon ; 
 
 And filial tears, like dew-gems, weighed each leaf. 
 
 Between me and the sun, that old, old face. 
 
 Smiling in \vrath and bitter scorn, appeared : 
 
 A hand of ice raised me ujDon my feet : 
 
 A low, deep voice exclaimed, " Thou art a fool ! 
 
l62 YEARS AGO. 
 
 Thou hast no father, as thou hast no God ; — 
 See ! Thy earth-parent is l)ut crumbHn<^ bones V 
 Then opened wide the grave : I only saw 
 A few white bones ; a handful of damp mould. 
 'Poor foolish dreamer!" cried the taunting voice; 
 " Cast all your withered blossoms in the tomb : 
 Soon, very soon^ ye shall be like to him." 
 
 I woke. A cool hand lay upon my brow: — 
 " Dear little Sarah, you are ill to-day." 
 O, precious mother ! How I longed to lay 
 My head upon her breast, and tell her all ! 
 Alas ! That there was written in my life. 
 For the first time, a page she might not read ! 
 1 only said, in tears, " M\- head does ache ; 
 I do not wish to breakfast with the rest.'"' 
 
 That afternoon, Lucrece came smiling in, 
 
 With bounding step, and glad, unconscious face ; 
 
WITHOUT GOD. 163 
 
 With roses she had gathered in her walk, 
 
 Came in, and laid her roses on my bed. 
 
 I started up ; and ever\' (quivering nerve 
 
 Strung to its utmost tension, by despair, 
 
 I beckoned her to take her roses hence : — 
 
 " Go, go, Lucrece ! You've robbed my heart of 
 
 [hope — 
 
 All hope of this life, and the lite to come ! 
 
 O, is it so ? Is there no life to come ? 
 
 Shut down, hemmed in, to this sin-darkened sphere! 
 
 Lucrece, you've robbed me, robbed me of my 
 
 [soul ! '^ 
 
 Though it was but delusion, O, I wish 
 The Bible and its promises were true !" 
 
 '' I have not robbed you, Sarah," she replied ; 
 •■' Is it not always best to know the truth ? 
 Your peace was all unreal ; it was like 
 The smiling of an infant in its sleep." 
 " Then would you wake it up, because it smiled 
 
164 
 
 YEARS AGO. 
 
 And is the whole enlightened world asleep ? — 
 
 The ' Golden City,' is it but a myth ? 
 
 The ' Tree of Life,' a foible ? ' The Judgment 
 
 [Throne,' 
 
 We thought immutable, eternal, but a lie ? 
 And is there nothing stable, nothing true. 
 That we may hang our hopes and hearts upon? 
 I've read of prisoners in dungeons kept 
 Till death; then buried 'neath the cold stone floor: 
 And, in derision, smiled, because I thought 
 The disembodied soul could not be barred. 
 This unbelief shuts out all life and joy — 
 Entombing soul and body in the dark ! 
 
 My father lost ! 1 thought him living still. 
 My buried sister — she is lost to-day. 
 And is it so ? There is no Son of God, 
 No Christ ! — This is the sorest loss of all. 
 Lucrece, \vhat matters it how soon I die ?— 
 
WITHOUT GOD. 165 
 
 Nay, if by mine own hand I take this life, 
 
 It were no sin, I'd rather die than live ; 
 
 But, O, my mother ! Let her still rejoice : 
 
 I'd rather die than ruin her belief : 
 
 One look from brother Edward's searching eyes, 
 
 Would filch its secret from my burdened heart ; 
 
 While, if I died some strange, mysterious way, 
 
 They would, in time, to it be reconciled. 
 
 And think swee thoughts of angel Sarah then. 
 
 When bloom the summer blossoms o'er my 
 
 [grave." 
 
 All this I said in sorrow's monotone ; — 
 The dreary level accents of despair. 
 
 All Lucrece's color fled ; — she grew as white 
 As was the dress she wore: she tried to speak, 
 But, for a while, her \'oice was choked by sobs. 
 And drowning tears, and self-accusing grief : — 
 " vSarah, what can I say to comfort you ?" 
 '' Lucrece, there is no comforter on earth ; 
 
1 66 YEARS AGO. 
 
 There is no hope. If we did but believe 
 
 In Christ, that were a sure relief : 
 
 If Christian faith be false, it is most sweet ; 
 
 If it be dream, 'tis dream most beautiful. 
 
 Here, take your dreadful book ! — Go, bury it 
 
 »So deep, no mortal shall behold it more ; 
 
 Let this poor world believe its better fate ; 
 
 Let wounded hearts take comfort in their Christ 
 
 Let mothers think their dead babes are alive; 
 
 And riven souls expect to meet again : 
 
 Let poor, down-trodden victims think there is 
 
 A Throne of justice, uncorruptible. 
 
 The child of poverty and wearing want, 
 
 Believe in Heaven's plenteousness and peace. 
 
 I'd rather nevermore behold the sun. 
 
 Than quench the faith-Iight of a single soul." 
 
 For weeks, that cloud of gloom hung o'er mv 
 
 [life ; ' 
 
 But, verv skillfullv, did I evade 
 
WITHOCT GOD. 167 
 
 The questioning my altered aspect wore, 
 
 While brooding- daily on the thoughts of death; 
 
 For it was night and dav upon my mind, 
 
 To find some way that no one would suspect 
 
 The \\ork had been accomplished by my hand. 
 
 If other thoughts, than just the one of self, 
 
 Had found an entrance to my morbid soul, 
 
 I surely should have wondered at Lucrece. 
 
 Grown suddenly so silent and so sad ; 
 
 And often, in the morning, did her eyes 
 
 Look red with weeping, or with watching, which 
 
 I could not tell ; and she would read for hours 
 
 To Willie, in my mother's testament. 
 
 She read, but in a wear}-, absent tone. 
 
 As 'twas a penance placed upon herself ; 
 
 At times, some sweet, kind words of Christ, 
 
 [would bring 
 
 The shining tears into her downcast eyes ; 
 
 At times. His solemn warning pale her brow. 
 
 Or shake her, like the wind, ^vith sudden ch-cad ; 
 
1 68 
 
 YEARS AGO. 
 
 But, mostly, she was self-possessed and calm. 
 I sometimes thought, as she did not believe, 
 What room was there for tenderness or fear ? 
 
 My mother, more than usually you find 
 Tn women of this day, had sterling sense ; 
 A heart, love-trained ; a cultivated mind ; 
 A faith, unwavering that had led her through 
 Affliction's trial-furnace, all unscathed : 
 No w^eak and faltering disciple, she 
 Walked firmly, uncomplaininglv, with God, 
 Rejoicing in the spring-time and the flowers ; 
 Rejoicing in the night-shade and the storm ; 
 No timid, half believer of His Word ; 
 Though versed in science, mother always made 
 Her Oracle of life, the Book of God. 
 
 One day said Edward: "What can ail the girls. ^ 
 For sister is so trloomy and morose ; 
 
WITHOUT GOD. 169 
 
 And all the time Liicrece appears so sad. 
 They do not walk together as they used. 
 Can they have quarreled ? O, what can it be ?" 
 Then mother said : " My boy, I do not know ; 
 I fear Lucrece has poisoned Sarah's mind. 
 To-morrow is the Sabbath ; let us make 
 That day, a day of fasting and of prayer : — 
 Pray for your sister ; pray for poor Lucrece : 
 You know, where two agree, what Jesus said, 
 It should be granted, let us go to God." 
 Thus was our house divided 'gainst itself ; 
 Thus was the force of evil and of good 
 To deadly conflict brought ; the price — a soul. 
 Ah ! Little did I know that summer morn 
 The league of prayer before His mercy throne, 
 That said to powers of evil in my soul ; 
 Said to the darkness overwhelming me — 
 " Thus far thou mayest, and no further, go !" 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Still walked I. In the gloom ; though in God'.- 
 
 [mind 
 
 The dawn had been created, even now. 
 
 The tempter's final trial hour had come — 
 
 The day that I, in desperation, said 
 
 vShould be my last ; for no one hath the right 
 
 To bid me live, when I desire to die. 
 
 There is not happiness enough on earth 
 
 To overlDalance all of human ill ; 
 
 Justice enough, to recompense the wrong : 
 
 And, since there be no future for the soul : 
 
THE \vildp:rness. 171 
 
 No retribution, — aye, and no reward. 
 
 It never can be sin to lay it down. 
 
 What love is strong enough to bind me here, 
 
 To suffer throusfh long years, and then grow old r 
 
 We mourned Louisa, just a little while — 
 
 We scarcely miss the darling from our midst — 
 
 But think of her as living in the light. 
 
 Dear mother ! She will have one care the less ; 
 
 And Edward, one the less to labor for. 
 
 Sweet Ellen ! — But I have not been, of late, 
 
 So sisterly she need to mourn for me ; 
 
 Lucrece will drink the bitterest cup of all. 
 
 But there will be one comfort, e'en for her — 
 
 Since, not believing that I have a soul. 
 
 She will not fear, or fancy, mine is lost. 
 
 ^Vnd so the little taper light that shone 
 
 So fitful and so feebly, will go out : 
 
 This throbbinof heart, these busy hands, will make 
 
172 YEARS AGO. 
 
 Fit nourishment for other forms of life ; — 
 Maybe the roots of some fruit-bearing tree, 
 Shall, reaching down, invade my resting place ; 
 And, sucking up the juices from my mould, 
 Through all the veins and life-cells of the trunk. 
 Change me to bud, and green, unfolding leaves ; 
 Maybe a thousand blades of grass or grain. 
 Will draw their vital nourishment from me. 
 And, drinking in the sunshine and the dew. 
 With golden wealth make glad the heart of man. 
 
 Northward from us, upon the mountain side. 
 
 Long 3^ears before, a mine had been commenced, 
 
 Then given over for its present site. 
 
 Now overgro\vn with briars, till it seemed 
 
 A great, black cavern, opening in the earth. 
 
 Thus had I thought : Should I, some day, be 
 
 [missed ; 
 
 Should I be found dead here, among the rocks. 
 And witherins: wild flowers scattered all around. 
 
THE WILDERNESS. I^^ 
 
 Tliey'd think I lost my footing and fell in: — 
 Lucrecc, I know, would never dare to tell. 
 
 That Sabhath morning, all the earth did seem 
 Fair as forbidden Eden, as I gazed 
 Adown the wooded valle}', o'er the fields, 
 Across a distant lake, upon tlie spires 
 Of one fair city in another State, 
 The gold of sunrise, first upon the spires. 
 And then the lower hills ; and then the plain, 
 All broken into fiirms ; and, last of all. 
 The lowlands, following the river banks, 
 Green with its belt of forest, all the way : — 
 This was my world; this, from my infant years, 
 Had grown familiar as mv mother's face ; 
 But ne'er, before [ stoorl to look farewell, 
 Drank I its beauties, as I did that morn. 
 I strove to hush the rising of mv sobs, 
 
i7_|. \'e:aks ago. 
 
 Lest some familiar sound should be unheard ; 
 And erowded back the tears, that I might see. 
 With tar-stretched vision, every sight 1 loved. 
 
 I pleaded illness, and remained at home. 
 Alas ! How like n traitor did 1 feel. 
 As sister kissed me, ere she went away ; 
 The bitter cry that rose upon my lips ; 
 The deep heart-wail I smothered to a sigh. 
 And struggled, as we sometimes do in dreams, 
 From which, strive as we may, we cannot wake. 
 The tolling of the Sabbath bells grew still ; 
 The footsteps of my dear ones died away : 
 I hushed my heart, and, with deep calmness, said : 
 " Now is the bitterness of death all passed ! 
 Who is there, on this earth, that hath the right 
 To bid me live, when I desire to die ?" 
 
 I stood at Willie's door, and then went in : 
 '' What is it, little Sarah ? You look ill. 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 n 
 
 Thanks be to God for this sweet day of rest : 
 
 Dear child, cast all your care upon the Lord." 
 
 His loving wo)-ds o'ercame me, and I wept : — 
 
 A strange, quick impulse seized mc, and I bent 
 
 And kissed his brow, and, whispering, said 
 
 ["• good-bye.*" 
 
 That Sabbath day, within the lonely wood, 
 Did Willie's words keep ringing in my ears — 
 '' Thanks be to God for this sweet day of rest : 
 Sarah, cast all your care upon the Lord.'' 
 I said : " Because there is no Christ, no God, 
 To care for me, therefore I will not live : 
 Because the bright belief of childhood's days 
 
 Is lost for aye, therefore / zu//l not live: 
 There's naught below that can compensate 
 For such a loss, therefore I vrill not live." 
 
 Then, as I walked and pulled the woodland 
 
 [flowers. 
 
176 YEARS AGO. 
 
 I said : " What is my life worth more than 
 
 [these, 
 
 If there be not a soul within this clay ? 
 
 True, I have power to act, and think, and feel; — 
 
 How do I know but these are just the same ? 
 
 How do I know^, as I break down this rose. 
 
 But conscious life goes out ? How do I know? 
 
 Can other forms of life experience 
 
 This intense longing, and this drear unrest ? 
 
 We must have something strong to lean upon; — 
 
 We can no more stand upright than the vine : 
 
 Because there is no pure and Holy One 
 
 To hold me up, I cannot bear to live ; — 
 
 And you, wild flowers, lie with me in the dark; 
 
 I am your sister, though not half so fair." 
 
 Thus murmunng to myself, I went along. 
 Until I reached the black mouth of the pit : 
 Then I looked down and shuddered; I was young; 
 
THE WILDERNESS. lyy 
 
 And O, that morning was so very fair ; 
 
 And Willie's gentle words rang in my ears : — 
 
 " Dear child, cast all your care upon the Lord." 
 
 The demon spirit that had led me on 
 
 To my destruction, was not yet cast out ; 
 
 A cloud of gray obscured the noonday sun : — 
 
 It said: "Do not you see how earth good fades? 
 
 How summer ends in autumn's dismal storm ? 
 
 How buoyant youth must merge in dreary age? 
 
 See all your blossoms wither ! — They are dead : 
 
 And you, their sister, are afraid to die." 
 
 I went, and stood upon the black pit's edge ; 
 And said : " O, Earth ! I bid you not adieu ; 
 I come to rest me in your loving arms." 
 Just then I heard a hasty step, and felt 
 Two arms about me, and a rain of tears 
 Upon my face — then consciousness was gone. 
 
178 YEARS AGO. 
 
 When it returned, I lay in Liicrece's arms ; 
 
 My cheeks wet with her tears; upon my brow 
 
 Was pressed her Hps ; and in lier soft warm 
 
 [hands, 
 
 My own, all icy cold, were tightly held ; 
 
 I started wildly up : " You have no right 
 
 To keep me here ; nor do you dare to tell !" 
 
 She held me close : " Dear Sarah, you have 
 
 [dared 
 
 To break your mother's and your sister's heart : 
 I tell you, Sarah, I will dare to tell ; 
 For, should they curse, it cannot add one pang. 
 You will not listen ? — Then w^e both will go, 
 And, at your mother's feet, confess the whole ; 
 Or sit you hear, and I will tell you all ; 
 And, when you hear, you surely will forgive." 
 
 " Lucrece ; the God in whom I once believed 
 Would not forgive, if I did not forgive ; — 
 But, as there is no God, I am not bound." 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 1 79 
 
 " Now, hear me, Sarah : surely as the snn 
 
 Doth shine upon the earth, there is a God ! 
 
 And, as I do believe, truly I fear 
 
 That I have sinned the sin that's unto death ; — 
 
 For pray I cannot ; and the very sky 
 
 Seems brass above my head. Not for myself; 
 
 But, darling, I have tried to pray for you. 
 
 I was about your age when sent to school. 
 From mother's care and guiding voice away; 
 An inexperienced child, exposed 
 To chance direction, be it good or ill ; — 
 A school where brilliant gifts and intellect 
 Ranked higher than the graces of the heart. 
 I, for its highest honors, would compete, 
 And set my rank-mark second unto none : 
 There first I lost child-innocence and trust ; 
 For days and weeks passed by without a prayer 
 
l8o YEARS AGO. 
 
 There I imbibed the fatal fallacy, 
 
 That unbelief orives evidence of strensfth. 
 
 So, when the sorest trial of my life 
 
 Recalled me, filled with anguish, to my home, 
 
 I was not able to endure the cross. 
 
 I saw my mother, patient as a saint. 
 
 Grow weaker, sweeter, holier, every dav ; 
 
 Then, in those bitter hours, I went to God — ■ 
 
 Went pleading for my precious mother's life : — 
 
 Pleading and striving, as if strife could stay 
 
 A ripened spirit from its upper rest. 
 
 I said : if Thou wilt spare her, I'll believe. 
 
 Thus made I controversy with my God. 
 
 She soon beheld the f^ice of Him she loved. 
 
 She passed in peace not knowing my resolve — 
 
 My firm resolve, that never, never more. 
 
 Would I ask aught of Him, or own my God ! 
 
THE WILDERNESS. l8l 
 
 I saw my father die, without a prayer ; 
 
 I never asked that Willie might he spared : — 
 
 The Lord could do as j^leased Him, with His 
 
 [own ; 
 
 And, though I walked the earth without a 
 
 [friend, 
 
 I did resolve that I would never yield. 
 
 But, Sarah, this sweet home-life breaks my heart — 
 
 I feel so like a serpent in the nest : 
 
 Though, for myself, I have not dared to come, 
 
 I've bowed in dust before Him — plead for you. 
 
 I would give all the world, to find some one 
 
 Of 2^erfect faith, and pure, love-burdened heart. 
 
 Who knew me not, and yet would pray for me!" 
 
 " Lucrece," I said, with cold and cynic tone, 
 
 *' It seems to me you have changed wondrous 
 
 [soon ; — 
 
 'Till you can answer those wise arguments 
 Of that old book you were so free to lend, 
 I tell you plainly, I will not believe ! 
 
l82 YEARS AGO. 
 
 But, if you wish to find unwavering faith, 
 Then come with me, and I will show you one 
 Who never doubted once in all her life ; 
 If there be such a thing as answered prayer — 
 You may depend upon it, her's will be." 
 Lucrece was truly humbled ; so we went. 
 I brought her to a cottage, where was found 
 A rare sweet saint, who had not left her bed 
 Through long, long years of patient suffering : 
 Who lived alone for Christ, day after day. 
 By weakness, perfected, in trust, complete. 
 
 That day she was alone. The Sabbath sun 
 
 Cast glory-rays upon her spotless bed. 
 
 Ne'er might she tread the consecrated aisles ; 
 
 But not more holy those hushed temple courts, 
 
 Than was the solemn peace of that still room. 
 
 We stood upon the threshold, and I said : 
 
 " Eunice ! Lucrece desires to talk with you." 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 183 
 
 Then sat me down before the open door. 
 
 Liicrece crept in, and stood beside her bed. 
 
 She said : " I'm sick of sin, and want to find 
 
 My way to Christ ; but O, I am afraid 
 
 That I have wearied out Redeeming Love." 
 
 Eunice said quietly : " You think you're lost." 
 
 '' 1 know I am." " Then do not you despair ; 
 
 The Master came to seek and save the lost /" 
 
 " Eunice, I cannot pray ; I find no words, 
 
 Although my heart is yearning for His love, 
 
 Until it almost breaks." "Pray with your heart," 
 
 Said Eunice, " for God knows the heart — your 
 
 [heart." 
 
 " Alas ! What ofFerincr have I to brino: V 
 
 " A broken and a contrite heart He'll not de- 
 
 [spise. 
 
 " Will not you pray for me ? Will not you ask ?" 
 " Yes, I will ask our Father — you believe." 
 
 And thus, while wondering at the once proud girl, 
 Mv heart all bitterness and unbelief. 
 
1S4 YEARS AGO. 
 
 Into the Kingdom, as a little child, 
 
 Washed by His blood, she entered, and found 
 
 [rest. 
 
 If anything could have convinced my mind. 
 
 Those arguments, unanswered, 'twas her face, 
 
 All bright with hope, joy-lit, and full of love ; 
 
 A timid look she wore, as if she trod 
 
 On holy ground ; and an ujolifted gaze, 
 
 As If the Land of Life w^as opening wide 
 
 Its pearly portals : gentle as a child 
 
 She plead with me to make her peace my own. 
 
 "No," answered I ; " your mantle, unbelief, 
 
 I needs must wear; peace may not come to me; 
 
 It is no part of my inheritance." 
 
 Ye who are mothers, and have faith in God ; 
 
 Ye who have children, in the broad sin-way, 
 
 Unsheltered and unshielded, only know. 
 
 By your own prayers, how mother prayed for 
 
 [me. 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 1 85 
 
 All dav hcM" heart-cry went above for light, 
 
 To Him who lives in love's unclouded day; 
 
 Within her closet's sacred solitude 
 
 Her great prayer-struggle deepened into power ; 
 
 And she, with her petition, boldly pressed 
 
 Into the presence-chamber of her King, 
 
 Then light broke forth: she knew that she was 
 
 [heard ; 
 
 And, going to a little cabinet, 
 
 She smiled, and took therefrom a time-worn 
 
 [book — 
 
 A gift it was, from one whose hand was laid 
 Upon her brow, beside baptismal font. 
 '• I needed not the reasoning," she said ; 
 " But this, perhaps, may be an outstretched arm, 
 For the salvation of my darling child." 
 
PEACE. 
 
 Meanwhile did Willie's feet press hard the brink 
 Of death's dark billows, waiting for the call : 
 Meanwhile dusk vapors, rising, half engulphed, 
 Half hid hiin, from the watchers by his side. 
 For long, long hours, he lay in still content : 
 Anon would rally, and speak thrilling words — 
 Such words as only they between two worlds — 
 The dying and the living — can command. 
 
 He said : " I hoped to hold aloft the Cross, 
 Proclaiming pardoning love to sinful man: — 
 
PEACE. 187 
 
 The Master had another cross for me. 
 Edward, my brother, be iijDon thy heart 
 The glorious work my faiHng hands lay down 5 
 Xhine be my wealth ; — for Jesus' holy cause, 
 O, let mine only earth-tie be thy care ! — 
 It is enough ; thou knowest my desire." 
 Then his cold lingers clasping mother's hand. 
 He said : "The orphan's blessing rests on thee." 
 He looked in Ellen's tearful eyes, and smiled : 
 " Ellen, if I had lived, I might have told 
 Another story in thine ears ; but now, 
 All that is over : — dear, sweet girl, goodby." 
 He said : " Lucrece, I know thou art at rest 
 In the Beloved, — I read it on thy brow. 
 O, darling sister ! 'Twas the Master's pledge. 
 He giveth, when He answereth our prayer. 
 I do not leave thee friendless : loving arms 
 Are all about thee, and a higher love 
 Out-weig-heth all. I leave thee without fear." 
 
l88 YEARS AGO. 
 
 " Now, little Sarah, by my side sit thou, 
 
 And watch, until the final hour shall come. 
 
 Thinkest thou this life-like taper will go out 
 
 In nothingness, when these clay walls come down? 
 
 I tell thee, Sarah, God, to dying eyes. 
 
 Gives intuitions others may not know. 
 
 I tell thee, Sarah, even now Christ's hosts 
 
 Are gathering — gathering all about my bed. 
 
 I see them, though earth sunlight groweth dnii ; 
 
 I hear their anthems, though your voices fiill 
 
 But dull upon mine ears. Well know I now 
 
 How much Eternity outweigheth Time !" 
 
 Ah ! Did he know upon his dying couch ; 
 
 And did I know, as [ sat silent there. 
 
 The first out-reaching of my youthful heart 
 
 Had claimed him, as the purest and the best. 
 
 Now, every fibre breaking, by the pain, 
 
 I knew it, as the death-veil fell between ; 
 
 I knew it through long, lonelv after years. 
 
PEACE. 189 
 
 A great awe fell upon me, as I sat 
 
 And watched the death-tide in its ebb and flow; 
 
 And followed, with mine own, his upturned gaze ; 
 
 Beholding visions unrevealed to me. 
 
 He met mv look, and, pointing upward, smiled ; 
 
 And once his voice came faintly wafted back, 
 
 As from a far-off distancs, murmuring '' Home." 
 
 Then he was gone. The pale, forsaken clay, 
 
 Like an abandoned cottage on the moor. 
 
 With doors and windows closed, and hearth-stone 
 
 [cold. 
 
 And sweet love-voices silent evermore. 
 Thev bore him back to his oUl childhood home; 
 Back to the meadows where, a boy, he played ; 
 Back to the mansion his forefathers reared ; 
 into the room where first he saw the light. 
 And there old neighbors, for his father's sake ; 
 Old friends and playmates gathered, for his own. 
 Returning " earth to earth," and " dust to dust." 
 Yet not alone went Lucrece with the dead ; 
 
190 YEARS AGO. 
 
 Brother and sister visited her home, 
 To ward away her loneliness of heart. 
 Thus found she, as her sainted Willie said, 
 Fond arms around her — God's love everywhere. 
 
 In these, the saddest days of all my life. 
 My mother found the key that did unlock 
 My past heart- wanderings ; and I told her all. 
 Among some cast-ofF things Lucrece had left. 
 We found the book of ruin : brought it forth ; 
 And, in the garden, 'neath fruit-laden trees. 
 We read it over, mother and myself, 
 It was another thing beneath the smile 
 
 Of glorious daylight — God's sun overhead. 
 The same dark reasoning and subtle doubt ; 
 The same fell purpose — but the spell worked not. 
 Christ and a mother's love its power annulled : 
 And then the little ]-)ook, her pastor's gift. 
 
PEACE. 191 
 
 Was studied, and a blessing lay therein — 
 
 A blessing to the mother and her child. 
 
 Faith, new-created in my heart, cried out : 
 
 " What hindereth thee from entering- into rest ? 
 
 So thou believe with all thy heart, thou mayest." 
 
 And, as we bowed in prayer, the Holy One 
 
 Came near, and placed his love-seal on my brow. 
 
 God giveth peace. He only, giveth rest. 
 
 To me, 'twas sweeter than the silvery spring. 
 
 When cliff, and rock, and burning, shifting san:l. 
 
 The dreary sickness of a hope deferred. 
 
 Sink in the past, the dead past traveled o'er. 
 
 Thus hath my story ended, just as life — 
 
 The Christ-life of my heart— had been commenced. 
 
 Before that hearth-stone doth a stranger sit ; 
 
 Around that hillside spring, glad children play. 
 
 Sweet Ellen left us in a little while ; 
 
192 YEARS AGO. 
 
 She heard a cry, one solemn autumn night — 
 
 " Behold the Bridegroom cometh !" she arose 
 
 And trimmed her lamp, and went to meet her 
 
 [God. 
 
 O, sister, many stars are in thy crown ; 
 But mine adorns another diadem. 
 
 And, even now, I feel the loving touch 
 Of blessing hands, that fell upon my brow ; 
 And, even now, when twilight hush comes down. 
 The thrill of golden words fall on mine ear. 
 That may not be forgotten. Mine inheritance 
 Grows strangely rich, with dear ones gone before ; 
 For mother hath, at last, been summoned home. 
 
 But two of us remain by Edward's side. 
 A noble woman walks the path of life ; 
 Her husband's heart doth softly in her trust ; 
 Her children do arise and call her blessed. 
 
PEACE. 193 
 
 Far, tar above the rubies, is her price. 
 Her husband, when he sitteth in the gate. 
 Is known among the elders of the Lamb. 
 
 In truth, God's ways, to me, are wonderful — 
 All full of goodness, and past finding out ! 
 While this great world moves on, I, in my heart, 
 Keep silence still before Him, and rejoice : 
 What my hand findeth, do I with my might : 
 What my heart feeleth, hide I in my heart. 
 I keep the Oil of Grace within my lamp ; 
 For soon I hope to hear the Bridegroom's voice ; 
 And I hope to be early at the feast. 
 
n/ 
 
 LOVE AND YOUTH. 
 
 Sweetheart, the birds have come again ! 
 Earth, loosened fronr the winter's chain, 
 Bares her fond breast to April rain. 
 Upon my memory, all day long, 
 Hath lain this burden of a song : 
 ''Love conquers Time, for Love is strong." 
 
 What matter then the silver-gray, 
 vSweetheart, upon thy brow to-day? 
 For evcrv line of thouo-ht and care 
 
LOVE AND VOUTH. 
 
 195 
 
 Is holy as the hour of prayer, 
 
 While still unfolds this bud of truth ; 
 
 Love bears the palm, for " Love is Youth." 
 
 Age, with his mantle, cold and white. 
 
 May hide the vernal heart from sight ; 
 
 Yet, through the long, bright days of spring. 
 
 Sweet violets keep blossoming. 
 
 And summer song-birds sing this song : 
 
 "Love conquers Time, for Love is strong." 
 
V 
 
 LOYAL. 
 
 Loyal to friend and lover ; 
 
 Clear as the furnace gold ; 
 Stooping- to falsehood, never ; 
 
 Too pure to be bought and sold : 
 His word, as his bond, unquestioned ; 
 
 Living a life so true ; 
 Free from all tricks in trading — • 
 
 Can this be said of you ? 
 
 In the day of his country's danger, 
 He marched to the battle-field, 
 
r.ovAi.. 
 
 Seeking no high commission, 
 Scorning the base word — 3^ield ; 
 
 Willing to carry the musket ; 
 Willing to wear the blue ; 
 
 Willing to die, if need be — 
 Can this be said of you ? 
 
 Loyal to his Creator ; 
 
 Defying the siren. Sin ; 
 Engaging the hosts of Satan, 
 
 With a zeal that is sure to win : 
 He will never lay off the armo'". 
 
 Fighting the whole fight through ; 
 Loyal to his Creator — 
 
 Can this be said of you ? 
 
 97 
 
THE LOST. 
 
 In his country's halls of Congress, 
 
 With a giant step he trod ; 
 
 And the people listened to him. 
 
 As a god. 
 
 As the fierce tornado sweepeth 
 
 Through the forest oaks its way, 
 
 Sj the great heart of the nation 
 
 He could sway. 
 
 He was wise among the wisest ; 
 He was strongest of the strong, 
 
THE LOST. 199 
 
 When he hurled his fierce invectives 
 'Gainst the wrong. 
 
 But 1 saw his strength departed — 
 He had paid the fearful cost ; — 
 
 He had listened to the tempter : — 
 
 He was lost ! 
 
 Like a wreck upon the ocean, 
 
 Weather-bound and tempest-toss'd, 
 He went down amid the darkness : — 
 
 He was lost ! 
 
 Her step had all the lightness 
 Of the timid, graceful fawn ; 
 And her eye had caught the lirightness 
 
 Of the dawn. 
 
 Like the fragrant water-lilv ; 
 Like the daisv of the wild, 
 
;00 THE I.OST. 
 
 She was pure and unsuspecting' 
 
 As a child. 
 
 But a fiend, clothed like an angel, 
 
 The maiden's pathway crossed. 
 And he lured her to destruction : — 
 
 She was lost ! 
 
 Like the broken water-lily, 
 
 By the tempest torn and toss'd ; 
 
 Like the daisy, crushed and trampled :- 
 
 She was lost ! 
 
 He was young, and strong, and hopeful ; 
 
 He was generous and {luy ; 
 
 But we heard his shriek of anguish 
 
 And despair ! 
 
THE LOST. 
 
 30I 
 
 Though wc begged him not to enter ; 
 
 Though we plead the fearful cost, 
 He was lured upon the threshold : — 
 
 He was lost ! 
 
 And we heard the fiends rejoicing, 
 And the demons shriek and yell. 
 As they led their poor chained victim 
 
 Down to hell. 
 
 From the loving arms around him ; 
 
 From the altar and the cross ; — 
 In the gay saloon of pleasure, 
 
 He was lost. 
 
THE SINGER. 
 
 She sat in the door of a cottage small ; 
 The people were throng-ing along that way ; 
 We had gained a victory over the sea^ 
 And this was a jubilant holidav. 
 The sun came out from behind a cloud, 
 And the little maiden began to sing ; 
 Her voice was as sweet as the robin's call, 
 On the budded boughs of the early spring. 
 
 ''Jesus, lover of mv soul, let me to thv bosom 
 
 [fly !" 
 
THE SINGER. 203 
 
 An old man stood in the street below, 
 
 Jostled and crowded — he had lived too long ; 
 
 And, heavily leaning npon his staff, 
 
 He list' to the ^vords of the fair child's sonsf. 
 
 Day after day, like a heavenl}^ strain, 
 
 Those words kept coming, and coming again. 
 
 ^ Other refuge have I none ; hangs my helpless 
 
 [soul on thee." 
 
 A woman passed by in a coach so grand. 
 
 With liveried driver, and footman tall ; 
 
 But she lowered her veil with her jeweled hand, 
 
 Lest the people should notice the great tears fill; 
 
 And all day long, like a sweet refrain. 
 
 Those words kept coming, and coming again. 
 
 " Thou, O, Christ, art all I want, more than all 
 
 [in Thee T find." 
 
 An invalid leaned on his mother's arm ; 
 
 His eyes were as deep as the dark, still night : 
 
304 THE SINGER. 
 
 A mocking flame on his thin cheek burned, 
 Like a funeral candle's transient light. 
 Like the breezes of Eden, the sweet refrain 
 Kept coming and coming, and coming again. 
 
 " Plenteous grace with thee is found — grace to 
 
 [cover all my sins." 
 
 The ears of a Magdalene caught the strain, 
 And her lips of their curses grew strangely dumb; 
 vShe crept as near to the white-robed child. 
 As the lost to the ransomed dare to come. 
 Like the pleadings of mercy, the sweet refrain 
 Kept commg and coming, and coming again. 
 
 On the little grass plot by the cottage door, 
 Are the merry voices of children at play ; 
 But the song of the silvery-toned is hushed; 
 Under the blossoming daisies to-day. 
 Sometimes a Maoxlalene comes and bends 
 
THE SINGER. 
 
 20: 
 
 Over the blossoms, her brow so pale ; 
 Sometimes the bride of a nobleman kneels 
 Down in the dasies, closely veiled. 
 
 "Jesus loves," the old man sings, 
 
 As he sits, and the shadows are growing long, 
 
 •' Thou, O Christ," through the death room rings, 
 
 With the swell of an anthem, the victor's song. 
 
 The people come and the people go. 
 
 And the harps of their lives are with discord 
 
 [strung ; 
 
 But, once in a while, God sends to earth 
 The soul of a singer forever young. 
 
ROLL ON. 
 
 Roll on, O river, to the sea ! — 
 
 Roll on, and on ! 
 My soul, to vast Eternity, 
 
 Goes on and on ! 
 And when at last the ansj^els stand 
 Upon the sea, and on the land. 
 And swear that time no more shall be, 
 Thou shalt a thing forgotten be ! — 
 O, river, what art thou to me — 
 Art thou to me ? 
 
ROLL OX. 
 
 207 
 
 Shiiic oil, O moonbeams, cool and bright !- 
 Shine on and on ! 
 
 And flood the earth with borrowed light — 
 
 Shine on and on ! 
 But, when the hand of God shall roll 
 The clouded heavens like a scroll. — 
 And mine is vast eternity — 
 Thou shalt a thinof fors^otten be ! — 
 Then what art thou, O moon, to me- 
 Art thou to me ? 
 
 Wave on, O proud oak, tall and high ! — • 
 
 Wave on and on ! 
 And spread thy strong arms to the sk}— 
 
 Wave on and on ! 
 But one small century 'is thine. 
 While vast eternity is mine. 
 I shall God's glorious kingdom see ; 
 
208 
 
 KOLL ON. 
 
 But thou, a thing forgotten be. 
 
 Then what, tall oak, art thou to me— 
 
 Art thou to me ? 
 
 O, fair green earth, beneath my tread. 
 
 Bloom f)n and on ! 
 And hide the generations dead — 
 
 Bloom on and on ! 
 I prising from their mighty tomb, 
 Wc shall behold thy liery doom, 
 When thou shalt dust and ashes be ! 
 Then what art thou, O earth, to me- 
 Art thou to me ? 
 
 Mtm^ 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 863 449 1