LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 ©fjap ©npijrW fa 
 
 18-94 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 
 
N 
 
ADIRONDACK 
 READINGS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD SHERWOOD CREAMER 
 
 AUTHOR'S EDITION 
 
 BUFFALO 
 
 CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 
 
 1893 
 
 

 Copyright, 
 
 1893, 
 By E. S. Creamer. 
 
 Printed by 
 
 Charles Wells Moulton, 
 
 Buffalo, N. Y. 
 
TABUE OK CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Prologue i 
 
 The Poet iS 
 
 The Choir in the Sky 20 
 
 The Legend of Love 21 
 
 An Incident in the Servian Army ... 24 
 
 The First Butterfly 26 
 
 Within the Gates 27 
 
 Rest in Inferno 29 
 
 On the Front Platform 30 
 
 A Man Should be Judged as a Man ... 32 
 
 The Woman in Camp — 1854 33 
 
 My Old Canteen 34 
 
 The Two Blossoms 36 
 
 Sorrel 37 
 
 At the Gate 39 
 
 After the Masquerade 40 
 
 The Man In the Moon 41 
 
 A Wail for Walt Whitman 42 
 
 Cardinal Manning's Paltry Purse ... 43 
 
 Song of the Uplands 44 
 
 Mountains and Foothills 45 
 
 After— B. W. D 46 
 
 Outside the Narrows 47 
 
 Taken Away 48 
 
 What the Saber Sang 49 
 
 Intimations 52 
 
 Tantalus 54 
 
 Longing 55 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Roaming through Woods 56 
 
 Above Causality 57 
 
 Received from a Child 58 
 
 En Route toward Gettysburg 59 
 
 Let Workers Unite 60 
 
 On the Bronx 61 
 
 The Sonneteer 62 
 
 The Sparrows 63 
 
 The Bird of Hope 63 
 
 The Wood Thrush's Song 64 
 
 The Catbird's Song 65 
 
 At the Encampment — W. T. H 65 
 
 The Well Brought over from Holland 66 
 
 A Poet 67 
 
 The Angelus 67 
 
 Washington Rock, New Jersey 68 
 
 A Tawny Head From Egypt 69 
 
 Passed over the Bridge — J. E. T 69 
 
 Belle's Baby 70 
 
 Helicon 71 
 
 The Fallen Leader 71 
 
 On a Poet Who Died Young 72 
 
 My Horse 73 
 
 A Midsummer Thought 73 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson 74 
 
 The Gallant Astronomer 75 
 
 The Indian Summer 75 
 
 At Last ! 76 
 
 Idiosyncrasies 77 
 
 Intermission 77 
 
 Prometheus 78 
 
 Oldcastle 79 
 
 Birthday Verses — A. W 81 
 
CONTENTS. v 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Unity of Man 82 
 
 After the Battle 83 
 
 The Mounted Rifles 85 
 
 Genius 89 
 
 Never Unknown 90 
 
 Sweet Rest to Him 91 
 
 A Son of Earth 82 
 
 Alpha and Omega 94 
 
 The 79 th Highlanders 95 
 
 Tapestries 97 
 
 The Modern Arthur 98 
 
 Bells of Morning 99 
 
 Theology 99 
 
 Music 100 
 
 "Charge Them, Boy's!" 100 
 
 Sometime, Somewhere 102 
 
 John Howard Payne 102 
 
 The Filled Beaker 104 
 
 A Village Maid 105 
 
 A Look at the Past 105 
 
 Some Divine Steps 108 
 
 Better than He Knew 108 
 
 Story's Semiramis 109 
 
 Presumption no 
 
 The Vision of the Skull no 
 
 Robert Emmet in 
 
 Failure 112 
 
 To the Shade of W. W 112 
 
 Warm Days In December 113 
 
 Christmastide 114 
 
 On the Hudson 114 
 
 Epilogue 115 
 
ADIRONDACK 
 READINGS. 
 
ADIRONDACK 
 READINGS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 IT was the time of year when flowers were blown, 
 When grass and small fruit were to ripeness 
 
 grown; 
 When farmers had just taken in the hay, 
 And golden wheat, for store or market day, 
 That on a road that entered the North Woods, 
 Through travel had been stopped by Nature's 
 
 floods 
 Having in tumult washed away the piers 
 Of rugged stone, which stood so firm for years, 
 Taking its wooden road-bed down the stream, 
 Dashing, like jumping fish, each board and beam — 
 To take the journey where the Hudson roams 
 Its shining foot-steps by a million homes. 
 Here, at this stream, the stage-coach halting 
 
 came; 
 The passengers at first desired to blame, 
 While not a few with somewhat crossness spoke, 
 Who afterwards enjoyed it as a joke. 
 And, as the stream could not be bridged just then, 
 Some time for hewing timber, getting men, 
 Causing a delay of at least two days, 
 The pushing driver turned about his bays, 
 
2 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Taking his load of passengers back a mile, 
 
 Where a snug tavern rose in rustic style, 
 
 Furnishing good living to every guest. 
 
 Where food might be obtained cooked to request. 
 
 The house looked roomful, had a cheery face, 
 
 Was well located for the trout or chase. 
 
 The house itself, looking at its outside, 
 
 Was not as handsome as where many bide. 
 
 Its architecture honest, not too fine, 
 
 But strong and rugged in its bold outline 
 
 In the wood clearing, o'er against the sky, 
 
 Beside a brook unconscious babbling by. 
 
 A sort of wigwam with a gothic dome, 
 
 Made by an Indian, maybe, who saw Rome, 
 
 Was the quaint porch which hid the outer door, 
 
 Having board benches and an earthen floor. 
 
 The glass within the windows were kept clean, 
 
 On which nice snowy curtains could be seen; 
 
 While at one casement cut-flowers met the eye, 
 
 Lending their beauty to the passer by. 
 
 Three chimneys gave to it a warm attire, 
 
 Three high and bold to save the house from fire; 
 
 In winter, when the winds howled sharp and cold, 
 
 Their ample hearths would have what wood they'd 
 
 hold. 
 Stables and barns were many and were large, 
 Kept neat and wholesome by those having charge; 
 Accommodating from the storm and rain 
 The horses, cows and fragrant hay and grain. 
 The stage, which now had stopped before the 
 
 door, 
 Contained eleven passengers or more; 
 As the good driver, country bred and tall, 
 Felt himself in companionship with all. 
 
PROLOGUE. 3 
 
 One was a woman, of the comely age, 
 Like a fair vision stepped she from the stage. 
 The other ten were made of sterner stuff, 
 Were Adirondack tourists sure enough. 
 Alighted safely they, without ado, 
 Taking their hand bags, some straps had a few, 
 And all of them had baggage on the way, 
 To surely reach them at a later day. 
 Some hurried in the house as best they could; 
 Some gazed upon the buildings, stream and wood, 
 But soon the rain poured down in torrents din, 
 When they too sought their neighbors who were in. 
 We will not here make question how they got 
 The money for this tour — one owned a yacht — 
 Enough for us to know that they were here, 
 With self esteem enough to banish fear. 
 
 Within the spacious room, where all were soon, 
 Was where the wayward traveler found a boon, 
 As cosy chairs invited each to rest, 
 Bringing a quiet to the troubled breast. 
 The fireplace ample was like those of old, 
 At which our fathers sat in winter cold; 
 Now, as the air was damp from fall of rain, 
 Some lengths of hickory blazed and did complain. 
 The mistress of the house was fat and fair, 
 Wearing in wavy curls her flaxen hair; 
 Good nature spoke in all her rounded form — 
 'Tis said she had a heart to suffering warm. 
 The host himself was tall, and straight, and spare, 
 With skin of saffron hue, and swarthy hair. 
 A radical he was, yet in his mind 
 He treated old forms fairly well and kind. 
 Jolly he was, and yet a moderate feeder, 
 And in the cool months an omniverous reader. 
 
4 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 The maid-of-all-work's face was rubescent 
 From her high living, it was said, since Lent, 
 Which left her with its seal, this rosy face, 
 Seeming beyond her knowledge to erase. 
 It might be that the heat from kitchen fire 
 Brought out this redness, more than we'd desire; 
 Yet she made dishes which might well commend, 
 And he who loved good cooking was her friend. 
 The man-of-all-work, who split up the wood, 
 Was short and thickset, over full of blood; 
 Yet work could he from dewy morn till eve 
 Without a groan, or any thought to grieve; 
 The embodiment was he of living joy — 
 Looking as if he were less man than boy. 
 The waiting girls about the house were three. 
 Freshness itself, and artless modesty, 
 Spoke in the peachy bloom upon each face — 
 Bespeaking that they were of Northern race, 
 Where people have four months or more of snow, 
 Working with nature as a friend and foe. 
 
 The house was built for more of use than show, 
 With sleeping rooms above, and rooms below 
 Where rational pleasure and good-will could thrive, 
 Built for the people who are now alive. 
 The bed-room walls were tinted modestly, 
 And on the floors nice matting could you see, 
 While beds and bedding were kept aired and sweet 
 Giving unto each sleeper a rich treat. 
 Bars of light netting filled each window frame, 
 To keep the insects of the air from blame. 
 Comfort and Peace reigned jointly in the house — 
 Crickets outside, and absent seemed the mouse. 
 
 The room in which our travelers found a rest 
 Was doubtless seen the tavern at its best. 
 
PROLOGUE. 5 
 
 This room was wainscoted some four feet high, 
 Done in black walnut and maple — bird's eye — 
 Glazed o'er with something which gave it a gloss 
 Like what at times is seen on forest moss. 
 Upon the walls hung paper somewhat haze, 
 Containing figures grouped in various ways; 
 Dragons which looked from out of greenly eyes; 
 Monsters with mouths of more than monster size; 
 Eagles with tails which would a lion shame; 
 Lions with wings that would an eagle tame; 
 But over all the eye could plainly see 
 There was a look of graceful harmony; 
 And gentle shades filled all the pattern out, 
 And what one well could see one could not doubt. 
 The ceiling had a tinge of yellow white, 
 The mantle shelves were high and fair to sight. 
 The floor was walnut and white mountain ash; 
 In wintry months 'twas covered o'er with crash; 
 Now in the summer it was bare and clean, 
 With no rich rug its chasteness to demean. 
 
 The pictures on the wall were few but rare, 
 Painted in colors with much taste and care. 
 The mantle held an Ecce Homo choice, 
 That well might make the pure in heart rejoice. 
 One of the walls held Lincoln's honest face, 
 And Osawatomie Brown's an opposite place; 
 While Thomas Paine smiled from another frame, 
 Near that large man George Washington by name. 
 The centre table held a statuette 
 Done by John Rogers — it is history yet — 
 And made a group containing figures four. 
 One a black woman, who's a slave no more. 
 Who nestles to her breast her timid child, 
 A fugitive from law at which men smiled. 
 
6 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 One is John Whittier the poet true; 
 
 One is Lloyd Garrison a hero too; 
 
 One is Ward Beecher, who with words could 
 
 charm — 
 This one by accident has lost an arm. 
 Upon the table, round this drab-toned cast, 
 Were princely books, bespeaking a great past. 
 The Bibles of the Christian and the Jew, 
 With the Al Koran, were in easy view. 
 And Bryant's Homer held an honored place; 
 And Chaucer, bard of old, with early grace, 
 Was beside Spenser's book of Faerie Queen, 
 While Sidney's Poesy was placed between. 
 Will Shakespeare and Ben Jonson blessed the 
 
 board. 
 Near which was Webster, Massinger and Ford; 
 While Beaumont and Fletcher, and Kit Marlowe, 
 Were close to Drayton, Otway and to Rowe. 
 And Milton, for whom Zeus might risk a world 
 To see such genius in this life unfurled, 
 With Dryden, Pope, Parnell, Collins and Gray, 
 Were nigh to Coleridge, and Drake's Culprit Fay. 
 And Cowley, Goethe, Longfellow and Holmes, 
 With Johnson, Marvel, Beattie were by tomes 
 Of Goldsmith, Byron, Shelley, Moore and Scott — 
 Their nice rich bindings worn by use somewhat — 
 While Schiller, Halleck, Wordsworth, Thomson, 
 
 Poe, 
 And Tennyson, and Dante, and Tasso, 
 With Beranger of France, with singing brain, 
 Were beside Motherwell, Bob Burns and Swain. 
 And the two Brownings, Campbell, Keats and 
 
 Hood, 
 Beside the works of writers also good, 
 
PROLOGUE. 7 
 
 With Stedman, Stoddard, Howells, Whitman, 
 
 Saxe, 
 And Bayard Taylor, Aldrich, Gilder, tax 
 With Joaquin Miller, Lowell, Mark Twain, nooks 
 Of other shelving, made for newer books. 
 Each corner of the room held walnut frames, 
 Filled up with handsome works, of well-known 
 
 names, 
 Selected from the literature of earth — 
 Where serious thinking teemed, and also mirth. 
 Novels from Fielding down to Hawthorne's son. 
 Cervantes, Swift and Dickens, furnished fun. 
 Essays from Bacon down to bold Carlyle's; 
 Biography from Plutarch down to Smiles's; 
 Tales from Boccaccio's time down to Bret Harte. 
 Philosophy mankind was loth to part, 
 Aristotle's the great, now faring ill; 
 And Combe and Spencer, Darwin, Huxley, Mill. 
 Music from Foster back to Bonnie Doon; 
 Histories from Herodotus to Hume. 
 Theology from Paul to Frothingham; 
 Critiques from Addison, Haslett and Lamb. 
 Wisdom from goodly minds of Field and Town — 
 Ike Walton, Fuller and Sir Thomas Browne. 
 
 Assembled in this room our travelers 
 Felt as contented as do birds in firs 
 When outside storms are howling, hurting not, 
 Nor mar their pleasures in a sheltered spot. 
 Within this room all quickly felt at ease, 
 And each one tried the other one to please. 
 Some looked around upon the pictured wall; 
 Some said the weather was like days in fall. 
 While others talked and argued, many read, 
 Or joked about what such a one had said. 
 
8 Adirondack readings. 
 
 Some talked about the healthfulness and bloom 
 Which seemed to be about the sitting-room; 
 And, as they soon may be beyond our reach, 
 We'll try and take some items down of each. 
 
 The Professor, rather an oddish man, 
 Had skin like parchment that was dipped in tan. 
 His eyes were small and black — back in his head — 
 And played accompaniment to what he said. 
 His education was more full than fair, 
 And never caused him trouble anywhere, 
 For egotistic was he, and quite thin, 
 And very easy could one flatter him. 
 His title where attained we do not know; 
 Report was he had traveled with a show. 
 What gave him most of pleasure, 'twas his tune, 
 Was his ascension once in a balloon. 
 He dressed himself not in the latest style, 
 In garments which might make some triflers smile; 
 And, though stiff of limb, he loved colors gay — 
 Cleanly and pleasing was his whole array. 
 His faults were many, but a kindly heart 
 Took from them what we'd call their selfish part, 
 And he was valued for a funny vein 
 That emanated from his curious brain. 
 O'er his dark face there never spoke or shone 
 A smile of mirthfulness more than if stone. 
 He was all solemnness unto himself, 
 Unto the world he was a comic elf; 
 Nature in making him had a good laugh, 
 So he kept sober in his own behalf. 
 
 The Soldier had been out upon the plains 
 Afighting the Indians, without much gains. 
 He now was on a furlough, far from harm, 
 Nursing an old wound in his once strong arm. 
 
prologue. 
 
 In the Rebellion, where the thousands died, 
 He had been fighting on the stronger side 
 Gaining much honor for his bravery 
 In the great fight that settled slavery. 
 He was a captain now, could wear the bars, 
 Hoping no doubt they'd shortly change to stars. 
 His figure was not built on a tall plan; 
 He was a bantam-rooster of a man; 
 But game withal, and ever carried high 
 A head whose raven curls had ne'er known dye. 
 He was unmarried still, but sought a wife; 
 Had been a fortune hunter all his life. 
 Had many asked since first his task begun, 
 But others proved more fortunate and won. 
 None but the brave deserve the fair, is said; 
 Yet, somehow, they took cowards in his stead. 
 Hope never leaves a soldier, so he thought 
 That time would bring the jewel that he sought. 
 He was no braggart, but his toss of head 
 Gave that impression more than all he said; 
 For modesty of words and haughty mien, 
 Though seemingly absurd, are often seen. 
 The Mechanic, his hair was nearly gray, 
 Hard work or thinking made it look that way. 
 He still was young in years, not thirty-five, 
 With all his passions thoroughly alive. 
 He had in youth made up his vigorous mind 
 To get as rich as any of his kind — 
 Succeeding even much beyond his aim, 
 Though doing nothing tarnishing his fame. 
 He had, in bringing the result about, 
 Acted as of rest he could do without, 
 When getting wealthy by his contracts large — 
 Raising the splendid structures in his charge. 
 
io ADIRONDA CK READINGS. 
 
 His personal appearance only ran 
 
 Within the usual average type of man. 
 
 His special feature was a massive mouth, 
 
 The lines of which curved more toward north than 
 
 south, 
 And underneath it a great ponderous chin 
 Which well might bless or curse a child of sin. 
 His manners were polite with easiness, 
 And he had sympathy for real distress. 
 Was owner of a monster tenement; 
 Nor worthy ones would he put out for rent 
 When winter made the earnings of the poor 
 Too small to keep e'en hunger from the door. 
 He was a man quite careful of his deeds, 
 Living as sumptuous as his nature's needs, 
 In the high roads of literature and art 
 He seldom tried to enter and take part. 
 He. was a man exemplifying high 
 The worth of the activity of " Try; " 
 Showing that will and pluck, with active mind, 
 Can always leave the opposite behind. 
 
 The Minister was tall, and prim, and spare; 
 His clothes fitting exactly, and his hair 
 Was neither black nor white, but simply gray — 
 With yellow tinge alike unto bad hay. 
 His voice was soothing as might be a saint; 
 His eloquence had thrice made women faint. 
 Afflicted was he with a nose so red 
 That scoffers hinted such a thing was fed 
 With deep potations, but the thought was 
 
 false. 
 A little wine he drank, with Rochelle salts, 
 This e'en to please the doctor of his wife, 
 Who reasoned that it might prolong his life. 
 
PROLOGUE. ii 
 
 He now was bound for the clear mountain lakes, 
 
 Not for rose-fever, but to cure the shakes. 
 
 His parsonage was built where land was low, 
 
 And badly drained, and brought him much of woe. 
 
 His people were not radical nor queer, 
 
 But gave him two month's respite every year. 
 
 His family however were near home, 
 
 Nor could they well afford so far to roam, 
 
 For use a paltry income as you can, 
 
 Most of its luxuries do go to man. 
 
 He was a man of kindness, peace on earth, 
 
 Without pretense to frown on gentle mirth; 
 
 One of those good square souls we sometimes see 
 
 Upon life's journey, full of charity. 
 
 The Doctor was a man with silvery hair; 
 Brought up a shoemaker, he did declare. 
 His coronal of head of hair was void. 
 By too much thinking was the brain employed; 
 Or, as he said, the cause of it was that 
 When he was young he wore a tight silk hat. 
 He had a well shaped head, a pleasant face, 
 Where rippling sunshine left full many a trace. 
 He often failed when men he tried to cure; 
 So that some persons thought his skill was poor; 
 But strange it were sick women made he well, 
 Unless too aged for his healing spell. 
 And as for children, one he never lost, 
 Which saved to parents many a funeral cost. 
 The needy helped he with an open hand, 
 And famished looks were more than he could stand. 
 He now was traveling to restore his health, 
 Taking no drugs to bring him back that wealth. 
 Himself he taught, believed in good fresh air; 
 Let them take drugs who would, he did not care. 
 
t2 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 He was of age when men do idly boast, 
 And loved his cup of tea and buttered toast. 
 
 The Lawyer was a man with dusky hair 
 Which stood erect above a forehead fair 
 Holding more knowledge than the average man; 
 With much ability to think and plan. 
 The sciences of sense he read much in, 
 But with Theology he was less kin. 
 Facts were his fancy, logic was his wit, 
 Judgment with conscience did co-equal sit. 
 His hand was seldom open to the poor, 
 Though he thought hard all poverty to cure, 
 For theoretically he was kind, 
 However much his practice was behind. 
 His brain had brought him much of store and 
 
 wealth; 
 Its overworking left him wretched health. 
 A stomach, that for years he'd hardly own, 
 Now claimed attention, causing many a moan. 
 His clients' thoughts of him were much com- 
 plex, 
 As never tried he them to please or vex, 
 Yet had a winsome kindness in the way 
 He did salute whoe'er he met each day. 
 It may be nobler beings lived than he, 
 But honest was he and good company. 
 
 The Gambler was a man of quiet grace, 
 Blessed with a thoughtful and an earnest face. 
 A broken nose gave it a quaintly trim, 
 Which was a source of much regret to him. 
 Some years agone, when in a gambling fray, 
 He got so marred, expecting better pay. 
 His pockets were not always outward bent, 
 As money quickly got is quickly spent. 
 
PROLOGUE. 13 
 
 Now by what pleased him to call Fortune's wheel, 
 He had the cash for tour and luscious meal. 
 A simple conscience did within him lurk, 
 Which gave him much respect for nature's work, 
 So in the woods he'd ne'er consent to play — 
 They seemed to make him think that he should 
 
 pray; 
 However, when he sought the gaudy town, 
 Then his good resolutions tumbled down. 
 He would not hoard, in this he was to blame, 
 Lacking no doubt some useful part of brain. 
 When on the top right royally he fared, 
 And his successes with the world he shared. 
 He was what cynics might expect to see 
 As representing this frail century. 
 A mind ideal, but opposed to law, 
 Perverted, that its fancy was a flaw; 
 Reason a painted anchor, made of wood, 
 Useless but ornamental — little good. 
 
 The Broker was a man with shaven face, 
 Who often frequented the barber's place, 
 To make him look far younger than his years, 
 And more respected by his elder peers. 
 His spine in childhood had been nearly broke; 
 Of his appearance he would brook no joke. 
 He was a dandy, wore the best of clothes; 
 Was very careful of his shoes and hose. 
 An honored member of the Stock Exchange, 
 While the Gold Board was once within his 
 
 range. 
 He and a brother made up a strong firm 
 That no mad panic ever had made squirm. 
 Our Broker was a rich man's eldest born, 
 Unmarried still, but not at all forlorn. 
 
14 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 He was a man that understood the town, 
 And never to his business played the clown. 
 Men of less wealth than he were farther seeing, 
 But few, if any, were more persevering. 
 Take him at his own trade he's hard to beat; 
 At other things his equal's in each street. 
 Earth is to him a land of milk and honey, 
 And what he well can use he gets for money. 
 Should time, by trials, ever make him mellow, 
 Doubtless he'll make a refined, jolly fellow. 
 The Merchant was a man of rustic sense, 
 Of which he prided more than competence. 
 He was indifferent to much men love — 
 E'en boasted that he never wore a glove. 
 His clothes were of the choicest fabric, while 
 The cut of them was in a long past style. 
 Some forty years ago 'twas doubtless wise, 
 Though now it gave the public a surprise; 
 For oddness will attract the crowd this way, 
 Or if too modest or, extremely gay. 
 He lived a temperate life, liked native wheat, 
 Unbolted, and in diet kept from meat. 
 He believed water good for man and beast, 
 While a warm bath he liked more than a feast. 
 Some shooting pains, and tremors, were his ills, 
 For which he took no nostrums, wines or pills. 
 Friction, he thought, was all that was required, 
 With mountain air, which he so much admired. 
 He was quite rough in many ways to see, 
 Yet had a sort of bearish courtesy. 
 His face once seen could not be soon forgot — 
 Fitting to deck a debauchee or sot. 
 Ah, who could tell how many a battle he 
 Had fought to keep his life in purity ? 
 
PROLOGUE. 15 
 
 And such a face, and yet a blameless life, 
 Teach struggling ones to hope mid passion's strife. 
 He was a man now growing rather old, 
 Who might be quickly taken off with cold; 
 And apoplexy lurked within his blood — 
 All this unto his mind seemed understood — 
 Yet never sighed he when the day was done, 
 Nor frowned in anger at the harmless fun. 
 
 The Driver was a man of thought and note, 
 Who through all seasons wore an overcoat. 
 His form was tall, bizarre and somewhat grand; 
 He could all weathers with much ease withstand. 
 He loved great nature, whether warm or cold, 
 And her extremes had doubtless made him bold. 
 He knew the regular tourists very well, 
 And the attractive parts of mount and dell. 
 He knew the streams where played the speckled 
 
 trout; 
 He knew the time each night the moon was out. 
 He had laid by enough of wealth and store 
 So he might now enjoy, nor labor more, 
 But often, through the year, his friends would seek 
 To bring him from retirement, many a week, 
 And they could do it for his constant prayer 
 Was to have leisure for his friends to care. 
 He'd take them through the glorious mountain 
 
 woods, 
 Through sublime gorges, by the lakes and floods, 
 To wayside inns, where he was almost host, 
 And every keeper made of him the boast. 
 He had some failings, yet his virtues shone 
 So much above them that they seemed alone — 
 Giving the blush to slander, and the hate 
 Of them who'd try to slur a nature great. 
 
16 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 He worshipped at the shrine of many a maid, 
 But ne'er proposed, of them he was afraid. 
 He worshipped at a distance, foolish man, 
 Thinking the fair were angels under ban. 
 The sphere he filled in life it was not high, 
 Though his ideals reached up to the sky. 
 Take him for all, or half, he was a man 
 Who did his best, do better him who can. 
 
 The Poet was a vagabondish one, 
 Who might have lived in ages that are gone. 
 A sort of dreamer, with some common sense — 
 
 More brains in head, than e'er he made pre- 
 tense. 
 His coal-black hair he always wore in curls, 
 So as to draw the admiring glance of girls. 
 His rhyming work ne'er brought him many 
 
 dollars; 
 Only about enough for hats and collars; 
 But a rich uncle, who was of him vain, 
 Helped him to that which often proved his bane. 
 In some respects he was a gallant man, 
 In others he seemed under nature's ban; 
 Or, else he failed to use what she bestowed, 
 And stead of trying with the current flowed. 
 Take him at his full worth he had good days 
 That made the world look brighter by his lays. 
 He loved the woods, he loved all nature's looks, 
 The midnight stars, the oceans, and the brooks. 
 He had the soarings of the vivid mind 
 That flies past reason, leaving it behind, 
 And skips the slower methods of the soul, 
 That go along with gait like to the mole, 
 And, I've to chronicle, to make it clear, 
 That when in town he liked his Lager Beer. 
 
PROLOGUE. 17 
 
 With all his faults his heart was in the right, 
 And for the weak and downcast he would fight. 
 
 The budding Woman was a handsome elf — 
 Fully competent to look after self. 
 Her nose was of the Roman type, but small; 
 The convex bridge seeming to have a fall 
 Since the war times when Caesar crossed the 
 
 stream, 
 In the aggression of a warrior's scheme. 
 She was an author, who might like to vote; 
 Had lectured thrice, and rambling sketches 
 
 wrote; 
 Besides a novel and a dress satire, 
 And a long rhyme not wanting strength or fire. 
 She had a happy look, a lovely face — 
 Fitting to beautify and bless her race. 
 She was yet single, somehow she tarried, 
 Yet had no great objection to get married. 
 Her robes were modest ones, but rich and plain, 
 Though cut not far off from the fashion's reign, 
 And from her ears two golden balls hung low; 
 Her wavy hair tied in a ribbon bow. 
 She was a being that the world might own, 
 And never bring to it a blush or groan. 
 Careless, but elegant; refined and sweet; 
 Natural, but cultured; affable and neat. 
 This woman had some wit, as one may guess, 
 And full of airy, bright suggestiveness. 
 So, seeing Chaucer, laying there so hoary, 
 Proposed that all the guests should tell a story; 
 Or, if the fancy acted strange or wrong, 
 To give a reading be it short or long. 
 "Agreed, agreed," cried they in haste to please; 
 For her sweet sake they'd fall upon their knees. 
 
i8 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Her girlish beauty had the power to bend, 
 And make the roughest mortal a good friend. . 
 So 'twas agreed each one should do his best 
 To tell a tale, to entertain the rest; 
 Or, if imagination needed weeding, 
 From some stray volume present give a reading. 
 As the result of compact, short and clear, 
 The readings which they gave do here appear. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 FEW can know well the mind of him who sees 
 The unwritten Scripture in the works of God; 
 Whose sight can reach far out into void space 
 And see the secrets hidden in the stars, 
 And read the records of the human heart, 
 Beating the same beat through a million years. 
 
 He, the true poet, is a mystery 
 
 Unto himself as to the common crowd, 
 
 He lives his life not in the realm of sense, 
 
 But in the realm of soul; he gives his hours 
 
 Freely to work that will in time uplift 
 
 Out of the sloughs of doubt the growing man. 
 
 Unto the crowd he seems to dwell alone; 
 
 But who would deem him lonesome when he 
 
 hath 
 Bright forms around him, coming ever, going — 
 
THE POET. 19 
 
 Heroes and sages, women divinely fair — 
 
 All those called by his brain forth from the 
 
 depths, 
 The saints and saviors, and the kings and queens ? 
 
 All houseless may he seem unto the crowd; 
 And yet within his mind a palace stands, 
 Filled with the richest furniture and gems, 
 And marbles pure from unknown fairy lands, 
 And carpets like fair lawns in May or June, 
 And ceilings with the frescoes of the skies. 
 
 The crowd may deem him lacking harp and reed ; 
 
 And yet the music of the universe 
 
 He hears, and voices filled with melody 
 
 From far-off planets come to cheer his soul, 
 
 And symphonies borne to him, on the wind, 
 
 From islands by whose shores the mermaids sing. 
 
 Unto the crowd, he seldom travels far; 
 And yet all nature comes before his eyes. 
 He sees the battle in the distant field; 
 He sees the mighty storm, where ships go down; 
 He sees the dreary mountains of the moon; 
 He sees the spread of knowledge through the 
 world. 
 
 He hath nor God nor heaven, unto the crowd, 
 And yet his thoughts flow upward straight to Him, 
 The Mind that rules the system of the spheres, 
 That works eternally but for the best; 
 And his soul holds communion with the lost 
 Who dwell somewhere beyond the mortal stars. 
 
2o ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 THE CHOIR IN THE SKY. 
 
 THERE'S a choir in the sky 
 Once earth's poets were they, 
 Who e'en bless earth to-day — 
 Watching singers pass by 
 
 From our sphere on the way 
 To their new homes on high, 
 
 To a welcome convey, 
 And the heavens glorify. 
 
 Once on hearing them sing — 
 Was I trance-like ? I found 
 They were gathering around, 
 
 Emerson's soul had taken wing, 
 Through my heart pleasure bound. 
 
 And their harps had a ring 
 Of great beauty — a sound 
 
 To the mind comfort bring. 
 
 More majestic and sweet 
 Than the songs often sung 
 In our mundane rasp tongue, 
 
 Seemed to me their rare treat. 
 Their true viols seemed strung 
 
 In an Orphean feat; 
 While their vocal tones rung 
 
 In resonance replete. 
 
THE LEGEND OF LOVE. 
 
 Though possessed of a lyre 
 That would nourish the soul, 
 Each day nearing the goal — 
 
 Mind toward sky — I'd aspire 
 To a name on the scroll 
 
 Of that weird poet-choir; 
 Or would sing mirth and dole 
 
 To their welcome inspire. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF LOVE. 
 
 THE present age has legends, too, 
 And rich as long ago, 
 With skies as full of light and blue, 
 
 And human hearts aglow 
 With love, as when Boccaccio wrote 
 
 Those quaint immortal scenes, 
 Where through his changing fancies float 
 A bevy of fair queens. 
 
 I see the walls of memory's dome 
 
 With pictures covered o'er; 
 I see thereon a mass of foam, 
 
 A wreck, and rock-bound shore. 
 The past, once fair, now dim and pale, 
 
 Looks shuddering in my face; 
 The glorious goals, once in my hail, 
 
 Now fly from my embrace. 
 
22 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 I see the duties that I gave 
 
 Unto the winds, flash by; 
 I see them mount on pleasure's wave, 
 
 And move a-lee and die. 
 The burdens that I cast away 
 
 Come back with greater weight; 
 I watch, but see no morning gray 
 
 Dawn o'er the hills of fate. 
 
 But comfort greets me even there, 
 
 And one on whom I gaze 
 Is lovely as the sylphs of air 
 
 That tread the twilight haze; 
 It is my gracious first, first love, 
 
 Her whom I loved in youth, 
 When on the tree of life above 
 
 Still bloomed the flowers of truth. 
 
 O, she was bright as heavenly light; 
 
 The moon through ether hurled 
 Ne'er looked down on a rarer sight 
 
 Of beauty in this world! 
 The morning sun that gilds the spire, 
 
 And glints o'er hill and dell, 
 Ne'er threw his brilliant gorgeous fire 
 
 Upon a fairer belle. 
 
 What rapture laughed about my heart 
 
 When first I saw that girl; 
 With what a thrilling, throbbing start, 
 
 My brain was in a whirl! 
 The life of those sweet moments pen 
 
 Could ne'er express in rhyme; 
 The thoughts of love, that ruled me then, 
 
 No fairy bells could chime! 
 
THE LEGEND OF LOVE. 23 
 
 I more than loved that charming one; 
 
 I loved her nights and days; 
 I loved her when the sun came on 
 
 Majestic with his rays; 
 I loved her when his twilights paled, 
 
 And gloomed above the lake, 
 While in the west the crescent sailed 
 
 With Hesper in her wake. 
 
 I worshipped her through happy hours, 
 
 And often in my dreams 
 She moved before my inner powers 
 
 In Paradisal gleams. 
 I saw her with the angels pure, 
 
 In supermundane bliss; 
 I saw her while my soul secure 
 
 Gave her devotion's kiss! 
 
 Ah, what if life's a mystery, 
 
 And full of griefs and sighs, 
 If I behold, this side death's sea, 
 
 An angel with mine eyes ? 
 And what if death must be my friend 
 
 Passing the pearly bars, 
 If I may meet where two worlds blend, 
 
 My love beyond the stars ? 
 
 She is the herald of the sphere 
 
 Seen by prophetic sight, 
 A splendid vision sent us here 
 
 To rid the earth of night. 
 All doubts and fears and all their brood 
 
 My heart repels since I 
 Have had this vision of the Good, 
 
 And seen the By and By, 
 
24 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 AN INCIDENT IN THE SERVIAN 
 ARMY. 
 
 HOW the General's heart-blood leaped and run 
 As a letter from home brought the news 
 That his wife was well and his new-born son; 
 
 All his home in his mind he reviews, 
 And a gleam of a tear comes to his eyes, 
 
 A gleam more of pleasure than pain; 
 His wife and his babes are as Paradise; 
 He'd deem himself there if home again. 
 
 A soldier now, a prisoner bound, 
 
 Before him sullenly is brought; 
 Minus two fingers has been found: 
 
 Done that he'd be discharged, 'twas thought. 
 Denied however that the deed 
 
 Was by himself or a coward's brand; 
 A comrade helped him in his need; 
 
 But he'd not name him by command. 
 
 "Art not ashamed," the General asked, 
 
 " Thus dastardly to hurt thy hand, 
 Our army in its work sore tasked, 
 
 The Turks upon our Fatherland ? " 
 "Dear General, pardon," he replied, 
 
 "I've fought the Turks, ne'er shirked before, 
 And bravely charged where thousands died, 
 
 But I'd see wife and babes once more." 
 
INCIDENT IN THE SERVIAN ARMY. 25 
 
 " Indeed," scornfully returned the chief, 
 
 "Thy leave of absence I'll make long; 
 So say thy prayers, and make them brief, 
 
 Prepare to die for this great wrong." 
 A soldier guard was here drawn out 
 
 Before the prisoner, under ban, 
 Who crossed himself, stood grave and stout, 
 
 For not a coward was this man. 
 
 Forgetting something he went o'er 
 
 And placed within the General's hand 
 Some money pieces, three or four; 
 
 He said, "My all — I own no land, 
 Let them be given to my wife 
 
 When of my wretched death she hears. ' ' 
 "Go," said the General, "take thy life 
 
 To her," his eyes brimmed round with tears. 
 
26 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 THE FIRST BUTTERFLY. 
 
 BRIGHT flutterer, with golden name, 
 Freckled from gentle dun to flame. 
 How hast thou dared to venture out 
 Ere the buds begin to sprout ? 
 
 When underneath the sheltering bower, 
 Arbutus hath not shown her flower, 
 Creeping from the modest moss, 
 With her brilliant leaves of gloss: 
 
 When as yet within the brook, 
 Leaves lie pressed as in a book, 
 Held within the Ice King's arms 
 Clasped about their frozen charms; 
 
 Why wert thou not wise to wait 
 Till King Frost should abdicate ? 
 Till the bluebirds pipe in tune, 
 Till the May looks on toward June, 
 Till the dandelion's yellow 
 Lends the lawn a radiance mellow ? 
 
 These few hours of sunshine warm 
 May prelude a fatal storm, 
 Bringing frost or bringing snow; 
 Where, then, frail one, wilt thou go ? 
 Robin's forty times as strong, 
 Yet we do not hear his song. 
 
WITHIN THE GATES. 27 
 
 WITHIN THE GATES. 
 
 IN waking dreams, that bring us gleams 
 Of what has been and what will be 
 We harbor Thought that kindly seems 
 
 To ope the gates of destiny; 
 We see its light bring dawn and rise, 
 Flooding the vistas of our skies, 
 
 And whether qualified or not 
 The mind gives welcome to the guest, 
 
 And would unfold it, that forgot 
 It might not be till man does rest. 
 
 Back, back, until the bygone hours 
 
 Are with us like the present now; 
 On, on, and forward to the powers 
 
 Yet coming slowly to endow 
 The unborn cycles, till at last 
 Man on the earth's but of the past — 
 
 When Desolation working well, 
 With Chaos, has the victory won; 
 
 Hurling through space the orbs that fell 
 Toward the abysses of the sun. 
 
 Ah! man thought once he could survive 
 The ruthless forces which he knew 
 
 Were coming, valiantly alive, 
 Which well might him and his subdue. 
 
 Ah ! robust one — upon the brink 
 
 Of death he was impelled to think 
 
28 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 That, notwithstanding changes dire, 
 The wisdom of his intellect 
 
 Could be a match for cold or fire, 
 Or seeming infinite neglect. 
 
 The moon, though ages so admired, 
 
 Earth's satellite, or sister sphere, 
 Now changed was to twin-circles fired 
 
 Surrounding it. They did appear 
 Like Saturn's rings ere they combined 
 And with their planet forces joined, 
 
 When Titan changes formed them life 
 And glorious spheres from galaxies, 
 
 With beauty and enchantment rife, 
 To roam the future stellar seas. 
 
 Earth had become like lifeless stone, 
 
 Man having vanished from its crest; 
 While plans and hopes, that he alone 
 
 Engaged and cherished, were at rest. 
 Yet there were globes that still had life 
 Upon their surface, joy and strife, 
 
 Where God was still the paradox 
 Of understood and mystery; 
 
 The key creation's door unlocks, 
 And vague opaque eternity. 
 
REST IN INFERNO. 29 
 
 REST IN INFERNO. 
 
 TO Michael the Archangel came the mandate, 
 well 
 To guide St. Paul through Heaven and then 
 
 through Hell; 
 They visited the Heavens and saw therein 
 Felicity and beauty with no stain of sin; 
 Each spirit there symmetrical and wise; 
 Pure heavenly joyousness to all ears and eyes; 
 St. Paul was happy, and aloud he cried: 
 "For this He lived, was crucified and died, 
 And the result is ample for the deed 
 Of Him by Whom from Death mankind was 
 
 freed." 
 
 The Archangel Michael with the great St. Paul 
 
 Went down into the Hells, and saw them all. 
 
 But the Apostle, at the fearful mark 
 
 Evil had made, and with it all the dark 
 
 Distress of soul, and bodily agony, 
 
 Was shocked with sympathy, as he well might 
 
 be, 
 And to his escort earnestly he cried: 
 " Have they no respite here ? " to which replied 
 The Archangel: " No Sabbath know they here, 
 But evermore these scenes of woe and fear." 
 
 Then to the Master, prayerfully Paul said; 
 "Lord, I have seen the wicked, doubly dead, 
 
30 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 My heart, dear Lord, is burdened by their fate. 
 Though their transgressions from Thy laws are 
 
 great, 
 Grant Thou a day of rest to these forlorn 
 In memory of Thy resurrection morn!" 
 And ever since, the wise are wont to say, 
 The wicked rest in Hell each Sabbath Day. 
 
 ON THE FRONT PLATFORM. 
 
 IT rained, and when I got aboard 
 That car, the lowering weather 
 Made every one feel dull and cross. 
 
 We were alone together, 
 The driver and myself; I passed 
 
 My nickel through the door; his throat 
 Was in a muffler, and he looked 
 Betwixt a Southwold and a shote. 
 
 He smiled good-naturedly, then took 
 
 From out his ample waterproof 
 An orange; 'twas a splendid sphere — 
 
 He held it from his mouth aloof— 
 My teeth are watering all day long 
 
 To eat this juicy fruit," he said; 
 I got it on my early trip — 
 
 On such food are the favored fed." 
 
ON THE FRONT PLA TFORM. 31 
 
 " Why not indulge and eat? " I said; 
 
 " This self-denial's hardly right." 
 11 Nay," said he; "you should see my boy; 
 He is, indeed, a comely sight. 
 Of two years old he lacks a month. 
 
 I've a swing off, an hour, at seven; 
 I eat my supper at my home, 
 And there I get a slice of heaven. 
 
 " When I get home, though somewhat tired, 
 
 I try to be myself a while, 
 And when I toss this to my boy, 
 
 You'll see that merry youngster smile. 
 I'll think no more of the freezing weather, 
 
 The lagging hours, the little pay, 
 The comforts of the millionaires — 
 
 You're getting off— well, friend, good day! " 
 
32 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 A MAN SHOULD BE JUDGED AS 
 
 A MAN. 
 
 MEN there are that lay claim for approval 
 On the feeling, that is merely of earth, 
 Thinking they have the right in religion, 
 
 And that some favorite land gave them birth, 
 Who look down with bad eyes and derision 
 
 On who come from a different place. 
 And who may differ with them as to Heaven, 
 
 And to Deity, destiny, race. 
 No, no; men should not be so vain; 
 
 Make your birthplace, man, if you can! 
 Religion's oft shaped by the brain — 
 
 A man should be judged as a man. 
 
 Was in England the place he saw morning ? 
 
 Was it Ireland that first met his sight ? 
 Was in Scotland the hills of his childhood ? 
 
 Was it Wales where he first saw the light ? 
 Is it Russia the nation that claims him ? 
 
 Or in Germany first breathed he air ? 
 Or in France, Spain, Holland or Sweden — 
 
 Or America, Asia, or where ? 
 Fy, fy; love of country is just — 
 
 But each man has rights in this plan; 
 Slaves strut them on mountains of dust — 
 
 A man should be judged as a man. 
 
THE WOMAN IN CAMP—i8 54 . 33 
 
 Is he noble, and to his word steadfast ? 
 
 Does he pay to the workers what's right? 
 Or labors he for they who employ him, 
 
 In true friendship, with vim and delight ? 
 Has he charity for earth's poor weak ones ? 
 
 Does he worship a greater than pelf? 
 Does he grant all the rights to another 
 
 That he claims and demands for himself? 
 Yes, yes; there is good in all this; 
 
 Such doings are on a high plan; 
 In poverty's hell or in bliss 
 
 A man should be judged as a man. 
 
 THE WOMAN IN CAMP— 1854. 
 
 THE sight of a woman was rare in those days; 
 So Deep Canon Camp was set in a blaze 
 When the rumor was started, and sent by each 
 
 door — 
 A woman had got there the evening before. 
 
 The excitement spread wide, away on the breeze 
 Rose racket and cheers, to where the red trees 
 Shadowed the gulches, for the thoughts of each man 
 Were intent on the woman, not on pick, nor on pan. 
 
 Ah, never a miner within all the camp 
 
 But out toward the cabin which held her would 
 
 tramp; 
 Eager the gathering, they envied, ah yes, 
 The fellow who caught but a glimpse of her dress. 
 
34 AD1R0NDA CK READINGS. 
 
 The husband, nonchalent, came to the crowd, 
 And as he appeared Jim Blonde spoke aloud: 
 "Fetch her out here, Lord bless her, she's a 
 
 surprise; 
 We hunger to see her; its good for weak eyes." 
 
 " My wife she is sick, and I, too, feel bad, 
 Been robbed by the Indians, lost all that we had." 
 But Jim Blonde, the speaker, said in reply, 
 "Bring out the woman, we won't let her die." 
 
 She came to the front, her face in a smile 
 
 That went to the heart of each miner meanwhile; 
 
 And welcomes were given, some rough, and all 
 
 strong, 
 Mid waving of hats, and cheers loud and long. 
 
 Three thousand, in gold, was raised there and then 
 Given, with pleasure, by rough -bearded men; 
 Well, the sun will melt ice, and woman can make 
 The heart of a Midas to melt for her sake. 
 
 MY OLD CANTEEN. 
 
 I BRING you out, my old canteen, 
 Near twenty years have passed between 
 The time I saw you last, old friend. 
 I love to think that at my end 
 You may be present, generous one, 
 
MY OLD CANTEEN. 35 
 
 That gave until your all was gone, 
 And filled again your good quart pouch 
 For march, for battle, for the couch. 
 Of all the friends I've known or seen, 
 None was your better, old canteen. 
 
 Dost recollect, when we held the bridge, 
 When Hayniman crept o'er the ridge, 
 Crushed by a sword blow in the head ? 
 How kind you were, for when he said 
 That he was thirsty, all you had 
 You gave in welcome, and were glad 
 That you could ease his thirst. We sighed 
 At his misfortune. Well, he died. 
 Much of the war's grief have we seen, 
 You and myself, my old canteen. 
 
 I well know when I saw you first; 
 I had not then been much athirst; 
 You were respectable looking then. 
 I know I was much younger when 
 I grasped you in my hand, and slung 
 You o'er my shoulder; we were young. 
 Moth eaten now's your dusty coat, 
 And partly rusty is your throat; 
 But no new one shall come between 
 Our old-time love, my good canteen. 
 
 You know the men who kissed your lips, 
 Some died in battle; some in ships 
 Have ventured far from port; and some 
 Still wear the uniform, hear the drum. 
 Some turned from the good drink you gave — 
 One fills I know a drunkard's grave. 
 
36 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Some in the fight for daily bread 
 Are quite successful; some are dead. 
 Few better men were ever seen 
 Than shared your love, my old canteen. 
 
 T 
 
 THE TWO BLOSSOMS. 
 
 WO blossoms grew upon one tree, 
 And both of them were dear to me. 
 
 I watched them through their budding time, 
 And through their beauteous early prime. 
 
 A torrid tempest came one day, 
 And deadly ruin marked its way. 
 
 Alas! it struck the weaker one, 
 
 And soon its bloom and life were gone. 
 
 Under the burning breath it fell, 
 'Mid tears of those who loved it well. 
 
 The other still stands brave and strong, 
 At morn, at noon, at vesper song. 
 
 To it the fatal fever bane 
 Was only nutriment and gain. 
 
 It grows so hale, so sweet, so fair, 
 Amid God's all-embracing air, 
 
 Its life at each and every stage 
 Adding more beauty to the age. 
 
SORREL. 37 
 
 Oh, soul of man! go search and see 
 If thou canst question Diety. 
 
 I bring two blossoms to that shrine, 
 Two of the dearest ones of mine. 
 
 O Father Mind! can we not clasp 
 Thy answer in our mental grasp ? 
 
 When both have done with this blue dome 
 And entered to Thy higher home, 
 
 Shalt Thou not love the weaker flower 
 As much as that which lived its hour ? 
 
 Shalt Thou not make the weak one grow 
 And gain all that is missed below; 
 
 While through the epochs of all time 
 We hail Thy equal love sublime ? 
 
 SORREL. 
 
 MUSING to-night on former years, 
 The war unto my eyes appears, 
 And mid it memories — hopes and fears— 
 My mind goes back to Sorrel. 
 
 That faithful war steed's now no more, 
 That me through dangers safely bore, 
 Yea, through the raids and battles' roar; 
 For dauntless was good Sorrel. 
 
38 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 When the war ended, his fine head 
 He laid upon earth's chilly bed, 
 And soon he slumbered with the dead; 
 And so breath left poor Sorrel. 
 
 Why did he so ignobly die ? 
 He that so oft heard bullets fly, 
 While shells burst through the sulphurous sky; 
 Ay, why did they spare Sorrel ? 
 
 Stout horse! he bore me o'er the soil 
 On many a weary march of toil, 
 While the hot sun made the blood boil; 
 But through it all went Sorrel. 
 
 He oft has chased guerrilla bands 
 O'er ditches wide and swampy lands, 
 And helped to fetter traitors' hands; 
 For swift was my good Sorrel. 
 
 He, too, has charged with flying feet, 
 And followed up the dire retreat, 
 Where the rebels got so badly beat; 
 Ay, you were there, brave Sorrel! 
 
 Poor horse! you're now at peace. The strife 
 Of man no more effects your life, 
 That with all nobleness was rife; 
 And so good night, brave Sorrel! 
 
AT THE GATE. 39 
 
 AT THE GATE. 
 
 ALONE, and by the garden gate she stands, 
 Watching the tender twilight as it lends 
 To our good earth a dreamy atmosphere, 
 That in these calmly sweet September days 
 Enters the soul like echoes of old hymns, 
 Which we have heard in twilights of the past, 
 Giving contentment with this world of ours. 
 
 Her forehead fair is fanned by gentle gales; 
 Her yellow hair is waving in their waves; 
 And her fair person, in the mellow air, 
 Looks like a denizen of Paradise 
 Just dropped to earth to see it go asleep, 
 With all its millions, in the arms of Night. 
 
 She has no lover yet, but in her mind 
 There has grown up a vague, uncertain dream 
 Of what perchance her other part may be; 
 And, like a lonely bird in early spring, 
 Her gentle breast is fluttering for its mate. 
 
 So in her musing, at this twilight hour, 
 While star by star comes out into the night, 
 And planets seem not a day's journey off, 
 She's wishing that the world may grant to her 
 Some one to fill the niche within her heart, 
 That has been vacant, but not known before- 
 Some sweet and ardent nature that will love 
 Her for herself through all the coming years. 
 
4o ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 AFTER THE MASQUERADE. 
 
 A YOUTH in London at a masquerade 
 All dressed up as a prince, his part well 
 played, 
 Greatly enjoyed the dance 
 With a princess of France, 
 A witch from the bizarre times 
 Of castles and romance rhymes. 
 
 So overjoyed was he 
 At the rainbowed royalty 
 Which his dress bestowed 
 In its shimmering load, 
 His mind went astray, 
 In some wayward way, 
 And he really believed 
 
 He was Wales himself, 
 
 With the power and pelf : 
 He was so deceived. 
 
 Next morn, ere the hour of nine by the clock, 
 At the palace door he tried to knock, 
 
 Arrayed for the pageantry, 
 
 And all feathered and free, 
 
 Claiming entrance there 
 
 As the rightful heir 
 
 Born the crown to wear. 
 
 Poor head! turned strange through the power 
 And the charm of a gala hour; 
 Arrested, put past lock and key! 
 All for his tinselled pedigree. 
 
1HE MAN IN THE MOON. 41 
 
 Let us have pity for this son of earth! 
 Shall we say, Alas, for his simple birth ? 
 Ay, the birth of one is the birth of all! 
 The Savior was born in an humble stall, 
 And what czar or prince or chief is he 
 Who can claim a nobler pedigree ? 
 
 THE MAN IN THE MOON. 
 
 WHEN the silvery orb of the night is near full 
 You may see on its face, late or soon, 
 That effigy vague known to children and scalds 
 As the Man in the Moon. 
 
 This man in the moon sits aloft in a tree, 
 
 And one of his functions up there 
 Is to wait on the mythical Queen of the Night, 
 
 A woman that's fair. 
 
 This woman's a goddess with many a name, 
 
 But Cynthia's the one I admire; 
 She reigns through the hours after the sun 
 
 Has put out his fire. 
 
 The man in the moon watches sharp to be sure 
 When the shepherd, her lover's, asleep, 
 
 Endymion by name, who pastures his flock 
 Where Latmos is steep. 
 
 Fair Cynthia gently comes down when he sleeps 
 
 To kiss him most lovingly there; 
 And who wouldn't wish such a shepherd to be, 
 
 To be kissed by the fair ? 
 
42 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Yet they who are wiser than old-time romance, 
 
 Dare tell us the man and the tree, 
 When viewed through the telescope vanish from 
 sight, 
 
 And are dead as can be. 
 
 But Science, avaunt! in the man and the tree, 
 
 And Cynthia, loving and bright, 
 We firmly believe, though not ours is her kiss 
 
 In the moonshine to-night! 
 
 A WAIL FOR WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 GONE over the border land to the haven of rest, 
 tired voyager ! 
 Old mother earth is gracious, and she received thee 
 
 with open arms. 
 She knows her children at sight, and loves and 
 
 glorifies them, 
 And in her embrace she took thee to keep at her 
 heart forever. 
 
 Who would not be such a poet, to be loved by such 
 a mother ? 
 
 Who would not be such a son, to feel such a 
 mother's attractions? 
 
 Thou wert narrow as sin, yet broad as the uni- 
 verse's pulse beats, 
 
 To sing that grime and shine, even as flower and 
 gem were perfection, 
 
CARDINAL MANNING'S PURSE. 43 
 
 A passionate heart hadst thou, with love for thyself 
 and thy kindred, 
 
 Who were of the high and low, no special exclu- 
 sion for any; 
 
 And if there were few tears shed on thy grave, in 
 the Jersey clearing, 
 
 It may not be because worthier ones are lying un- 
 wept and forgotten. 
 
 Another's not left with us now to show the full 
 glory of freedom; 
 
 The flight from the classic and prim to the fresh- 
 ness and grasses of nature; 
 
 The might of the ocean, the factories exalting and 
 vengeful, 
 
 The great spirit of cities, and the audacity even of 
 prairies! 
 
 CARDINAL MANNING'S PALTRY 
 PURSE. 
 
 THIS august personage of ripened age, 
 Through whose good hands vast fortunes 
 passed for years, 
 Had fed the poor so bountifully well, 
 Had wiped the tears from off so many eyes, 
 That can we marvel at him, almost bare, 
 Or surprised or shocked at the trifle left 
 (A washwoman had a heavier purse) — 
 "A sixpence, shilling, sovereign and a half." 
 
44 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Ideals of the Master ruled his life, 
 And all his building was for Paradise, 
 While others hoarded gold and sought estate, 
 The plaudits of the world — the cheer, the fame. 
 More selfish he, yet higher, who saw earth 
 A footstool in the primary school of spheres — 
 A harbinger of joys ineffable — 
 An atom in the palace where God dwells. 
 
 He knew it! 'Mid the eyeless he had sight, 
 And where most others saw but barren wolds — 
 Fit sepulchres for dead to mold and rot — 
 He saw earth's flowers transfigured to the skies; 
 He saw the wheat growths of Eternity. 
 
 SONG OF THE UPLANDS. 
 
 BETTER a glimpse of a star 
 That may never be reached but be hoped for; 
 O better a grand life afar, 
 That at least in the mind can be groped for, 
 Than to have all the senses desire, 
 And all that the passions require, 
 But no more, but no more. 
 
 O better a faith that can cope 
 
 With the doubts of the world and can quicken; 
 O better a life that has hope 
 To illume it, though poverty stricken, 
 Than to have all that riches can hire 
 Or buy, so to feast and not tire, 
 But no more, but no more. 
 
MO UN TAINS AND FOO THILLS. 45 
 
 O better a love that is blind, 
 
 That can see in the loved one no badness; 
 O better a trust in one's kind, 
 Spite of all of its folly and madness, 
 Than to stand all alone mid earth's mire, 
 Having food and raiment and fire, 
 But no more, but no more. 
 
 MOUNTAINS AND FOOTHILLS. 
 
 DEVELOPED human nature is greater than 
 nationality; 
 
 Nor can aught creed be large enough to take in 
 infinite wisdom. 
 
 Men of high thought the world over are harmon- 
 iously minded; 
 
 Worship the self-same God, or ideas of it material; 
 
 Honor Virtue and Truth, and their many attend- 
 ants beautiful. 
 
 'Tis only the somewhat warped who harp on their 
 creed or their nation; 
 
 As if the Beneficent showed prejudice toward 
 temples and places! 
 
46 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 AFTER— B. W. D. 
 
 IF we but knew what web and woof 
 Time, all so passive, would work out, 
 We would have taken a different part. 
 The past is closed. It needs no proof 
 To show I honored him; no doubt 
 In these words of a sincere heart. 
 
 I loved him by what I learned of friends, 
 But never saw his kindly face 
 Until Death's pale lips had him kissed, 
 And now, remorseful, my soul sends 
 This message, that would him embrace, 
 Appreciating what I missed. 
 
 Worthy was he to claim as friend; 
 Liberal enough for all mankind; 
 High in the generous ways of life; 
 Accepting thought the world to mend. 
 To gentle graces he inclined, 
 Cherished his children, loved his wife. 
 
 I wished so much that we had met, 
 Feeling his heart throb in hand clasp, 
 In his companionship to be, 
 His robust heartiness to get; 
 Of his life atmosphere to grasp 
 A share, and eye to eye him see. 
 
Outside the nar&oIvs. 47 
 
 It may not be. Yet I would weave 
 This simple tribute o'er his grave 
 In sorrow for his early fate, 
 While tenderly my heart does grieve 
 For those he left behind, and crave 
 A greeting for this offering late. 
 
 OUTSIDE THE NARROWS. 
 
 I GAZE towards the far-off sea, 
 Nearly unknown it is to me; 
 Ships ride at anchor in its tide 
 Or swiftly o'er its waters glide; 
 Some are so far they lose all form, 
 Or look like snowflakes in a storm; 
 While others rise so clear and near, 
 They almost seem already here 
 In port secure from furious gales, 
 With sunshine on their folded sails. 
 
 Oh ships, upon the further sea, 
 Have you no news to give to me ? 
 Have you not seen from your lookout — 
 Have you not hailed with welcome shout- 
 Them that I knew in other days, 
 That went beyond my mortal gaze ? 
 Oh, are they safely sailing now, 
 With steadfast course and sturdy prow ? 
 Or meet they storms by night and day 
 Mid rock-bound straits, far, far away ? 
 
48 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Some, it is true, seem near to me, 
 
 Almost as on this earthly sea; 
 
 Bright forms serene in pure array, 
 
 That could not wholly pass away; 
 
 While some, like shadows, float through haze 
 
 More dimly than in other days. 
 
 God shield all those, whoe'er they be, 
 That move upon that further sea; 
 And keep them from the evil blast, 
 And bring them unto peace at last! 
 
 TAKEN AWAY. 
 
 WE'VE left what was our home for years, 
 Though much we loved might keep us there; 
 Have tried to take away with us 
 All that we valued, good and fair. 
 
 And though we've moved whate'er we owned, 
 
 Of clothing, furniture or gain, 
 Much dearer to heart and memory 
 
 About that house will long remain. 
 
 Would we could take away with us 
 
 The little ones there entertained, 
 Who in a few but precious months 
 
 The whole of our affections chained. 
 
 Sweet blooms, that Heaven on us bestowed, 
 
 Yet kept their rootlets up on high; 
 No wonder that we could not keep 
 
 Those flowers, whose garden is the sky! 
 
WHAT THE SABRE SANG. 49 
 
 WHAT THE SABRE SANG. 
 
 THE sabre hung in its long resting-place, 
 The fading twilight making hard to trace 
 Its curve upon the wall; the South wind blew, 
 And past my house some running horses flew. 
 I in a dream, somehow have surely seemed 
 Where shod hoofs rang and sabres brightly 
 
 gleamed — 
 Where the scabbard's jingle with the night winds 
 
 mingle 
 Bearing along the sabre's song. 
 
 " Mount was the word, and he and I 
 O'er Southern roadways galloping fly. 
 Some ruddy drops upon my blade 
 Might make a tender heart afraid, 
 But made for raid and daring fight, 
 Such trifles give to me delight. 
 Who cares if women pale — e'en fair ? 
 My master may — why should I care ? 
 
 ' ' The cut which cleft that skull atwain 
 Was parried well, but all in vain; 
 My master's arm was lithe and hale, 
 'T would cleave a helmet made of mail. 
 His parry did avail him not, 
 Beneath the sod he was to rot; 
 He parried for the head alone, 
 His heart was pierced — he fell as stone. 
 
50 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 " Twilight was o'er Burnt Tavern's marge 
 When the enemy made on us a charge; 
 'Twas hard to tell that they were foes 
 Until their rebel yell arose. 
 Their bravest rider I clove down, 
 Nor cared I for the night cloud's frown, 
 Nor timid moon that veiled her face — 
 I warmed within his red embrace. 
 
 " Long have I hung upon the wall, 
 Awaiting for my country's call. 
 Are there no wrongs for me to right ? 
 Are men turned cowards — will not fight ? 
 I'd like some sinewy arm to draw, 
 And show my blade without a flaw; 
 But women now and children reign — 
 When will the brave days come again ? 
 
 " O for a pillow in a hand 
 That could each cut and thrust withstand! 
 The foemen drawn up for the fight, 
 Yells of defiance at the sight. 
 The horses with their nostrils large; 
 The order given for the charge; 
 The onset — where the foe are beat; 
 The scurry — where they're on retreat. 
 
 " I'd give a share I own of life 
 To be again amid the strife 
 Down in the Swamp, 'mid cypress trees, 
 To battle for the Refugees. 
 The long-haired Colonel sank beneath 
 The cut I gave— jumping my sheath — 
 Ah, then I was just full of pranks; 
 The dark-eyed women gave us thanks. 
 
WHAT THE SABRE SANG. 51 
 
 " What is within that makes me feel, 
 Telling my ranking heart of steel 
 That year and year yet I must hang 
 Upon this wall with many a pang ? 
 My master eyes me much at times, 
 Thinking me food no doubt for rhymes: 
 I would he knew that in my heart 
 I'd have betimes a war to start. 
 
 11 O bugler, blow, adown the South! 
 Artillery battery, clear thy mouth ! 
 Infantry corps, turn out and mass! 
 The enemy come through the pass. 
 Now cavalry, behold their flank; 
 It must be broken, rank on rank! 
 Charge on! Let's cut them left and right, 
 Their onslaught shiver in this fight! " 
 
 Still in its long accustomed place it hangs, 
 
 And if it had full consciousness, some pangs 
 
 Would doubtless thrill it, for fools have tried 
 
 The glory of the sabre to deride. 
 
 I in a dream, somehow, have surely seemed 
 
 Where shod hoofs rang and sabres brightly 
 
 gleamed — 
 Where the scabbard's jingle with the night winds 
 
 mingle, 
 Bearing along the sabre's song. 
 
52 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 INTIMATIONS. 
 
 WHILE the soul is idly musing, 
 On thoughts not its own choosing, 
 Oft there come clear intimations, 
 Intuitions, inspirations, 
 Telling of a future life, 
 Far beyond this mortal strife ; 
 And to-night, as we are going 
 With the current gently flowing, 
 Come lovely sentiments of peace, 
 And the mind asks no release 
 From the blessing of their charm, 
 Holding us from every harm. 
 
 We drift along the sacred walls, 
 Where the ivy's verdure falls, 
 And we think upon the graves 
 Whose grassy brink the river laves, 
 While the night is all around, 
 And the stillness is profound, 
 Save the moving, active part 
 Of each palpitating heart, 
 As we float upon the stream, 
 In a sort of mystic dream. 
 
 But see, as we approach our home, 
 How the great cathedral dome, 
 With its lofty golden spire, 
 Wears a crown of seeming fire 
 
INTIMATIONS. 53 
 
 In the fluctuating light 
 Gleaming from the north at night, 
 With its colors green and red, 
 Where the electric shafts are spread ! 
 
 And hark ! across the quiet waves, 
 From the dim cathedral naves, 
 Come sweet voices, singing lays, 
 Quaint and sweet of other days, 
 When the Savior and the saint 
 Were on earth without a taint ; 
 How the wonders that they wrought 
 Were beyond all human thought ; 
 How their benisons abide, 
 And how He was crucified. 
 
 Now they move in happy staves — 
 These soft voices — o'er the waves ! 
 Coming down from Jacob's stair, 
 Where glide the blessed angels fair, 
 Or God's children rest at night, 
 Ere they mount into His sight. 
 
 How calm, how sweet this singing ! 
 
 Surely from celestial lands, 
 
 Over boundless golden sands, 
 Are the echoes winging ! 
 They fall with soothing on the soul 
 
 That has long with pains contended, 
 Presaging rest, as when the goal 
 
 Is reached and travail ended ; 
 Where hope and faith do close in sight, 
 Beyond our thought, of pure detight. 
 
54 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 May we see and hear this way 
 When shall come our closing day ; 
 When shall come the twilight hour ; 
 When grows weak our vital power ; 
 When we're nearly done with life — 
 With its sorrow and its strife ; 
 When our hearts are waxing old, 
 And even fears and hopes are cold, 
 In our darkness and distress, 
 Longing for God's tenderness. 
 In that hour, oh, let there come 
 A great, brilliant light from Home, 
 With rich love and blessing rife, 
 Ushering in the better life ; 
 Voices singing may we hear, 
 Hopeful paeans, calm and clear, 
 From the mansions we shall see, 
 Welcoming both you and me. 
 
 TANTALUS. 
 
 A KING of the past was Tantalus : 
 The gods who held court on Olympus 
 Invited him once to their tables, 
 To dwell in their glory and sunshine. 
 
 He thought he now was their equal ; 
 And fired by brim tankards of nectar 
 His mind was disturbed and unbalanced. 
 Far better he ne'er had been lifted. 
 
LONGING. 55 
 
 He worshipped his children and loved them ; 
 But mightier far his great passion, 
 His desire for the greatest gods' favor — 
 A child, his beloved one, he slaughtered. 
 
 The Furies were gathered, and drove him 
 Down deep in the hells for his rashness, 
 To stay till the dead should be quickened, 
 To suffer in hunger and torment. 
 
 And the gods still dwell on Olympus ; 
 They need not man's foolish performance ; 
 But he who seeks truth and acts justly, 
 May freely partake at their tables. 
 
 LONGING. 
 
 YOU are out with the planets to-night ; 
 And my soul was filled full of despair 
 As you flooded with beauty my sight 
 And vanished in thin upper air. 
 
 Will you stop with great Mercury and Mars 
 If they happen along in your way ? 
 
 Will you pass to the outermost stars ? 
 But wherever you go, do not stay. 
 
 I am mindful of all your charms, 
 As I linger here rugged, and plain ; 
 
 For beauty supernal has arms 
 That conquer and madden the brain. 
 
56 ADIRONDACK: READINGS. 
 
 So while you're afar in the skies, 
 Let no cloud veil the marvelous gleams 
 
 Of the brow and bewildering eyes 
 That flash inspiration through dreams. 
 
 The night slowly weakens ; and soon 
 
 As the heavenly lights disappear, 
 May the daybreak restore the dear boon 
 • Of knowing once more you are near ! 
 
 Hasten dawn, thou fair drier of tears, 
 Bear to earth her far-wandering feet ; 
 
 Each hour is more tedious than years, 
 As I wait her bright footfall to greet. 
 
 Well, to love and adore fills my soul ; 
 
 Naught can ever deprive me of this ; 
 And the thoughts that I would not control 
 
 Sweeten grief with a fanciful bliss. 
 
 ROAMING THROUGH WOODS. 
 
 ROAMING through woods in serious mood, 
 Hearing far waterfalls play, 
 I found, almost in solitude, 
 A crystal spring one day. 
 
 Unseen ere this it might have been, 
 
 And yet it clearly gleamed, 
 Meandering off in discipline, 
 
 While sun rifts o'er it beamed. 
 
ABOVE CAUSALITY. 57 
 
 And so a thought in some careless breast, 
 
 Secret almost and sure, 
 Is found when God's rays on it rest, 
 
 A crystal rivulet pure. 
 
 ABOVE CAUSALITY. 
 
 WHERE ride the inner guides to-night ? 
 A snowflake fell upon my hand, 
 Soft as a spirit's touch, and white, 
 
 Brought back from the interior land 
 Unto a mother's sight. 
 
 I heard some strains of music when 
 
 The moon sank o'er the wood, 
 And if they never come again 
 
 Their meaning well I understood : 
 The singers once were men. 
 
 Wouldst follow up the stair of beams — 
 Good stars have dropped it for our kind — 
 
 To mount above the land of dreams, 
 Where reason permeates the mind, 
 
 Where all exists and nothing seems ? 
 
 Ah ! pity for the soul of him 
 Who never hears the saintly song, 
 
 Nor sees the beings on the rim 
 Of the great zone, where all belong 
 
 When life has reached the cherubim. 
 
58 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 RECEIVED FROM A CHILD. 
 
 AS others were writing our little one 
 Said, "To papa she too would write;" 
 Making an effort, and when it was done 
 'Twas sent in an envelope white. 
 
 Ah ! what pleasure it gave to receive it, 
 For its circles my heart entwined ; 
 
 Though few words were therein to relieve it, 
 And its paper had not been lined. 
 
 'Twas a quaint and beautiful letter, 
 Brimmed full of young effort sincere ; 
 
 Where 's the father from youngster got better, 
 Or one to be treasured more dear? 
 
 For a talisman choice I will choose it, 
 And when shaken by passions wild 
 
 For my safety I '11 gladly peruse it, 
 This letter received from a child. 
 
 She informs me the folks at home love me, 
 That she wishes that I were home ; 
 
 That she prays to the angels above me 
 To watch over me while I roam. 
 
 Though but part of the alphabet 's in it, 
 And to many it seems a scrawl — 
 
 They could never tell where to begin it — 
 Yet I can understand it all. 
 
EN ROUTE TOWARD GETTYSBURG. 59 
 
 EN ROUTE TOWARD GETTYSBURG. 
 
 FROM Col. Aylett, who wore the gray, 
 We get the facts we here array : 
 Lee's invaders were on their way. 
 
 Passing a Pennsylvania town, 
 Greencastle, a modest village brown, 
 Women look out with fear and frown. 
 
 One the Old Flag as an apron wore ; 
 Waved it with pride as she stood by her door, 
 While the soldiers in gray marched past footsore. 
 
 Daring these men — brothers, alas ! — 
 To touch the flag this handsome lass 
 Tries to annoy them as they pass. 
 
 Her pluck and loyalty have charms ; 
 
 Pickett salutes her, no one harms, 
 
 And one marching regiment carries arms. 
 
 Many salute her with a sigh, 
 Thinking of home with moistened eye, 
 As on toward Gettysburg they hie. 
 
 Sarah Smith was the name that she bore 
 When Gettysburg shook with the battle's roar. 
 On Fame's fair page put her name to the fore ! 
 
6o ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 LET WORKERS UNITE. 
 
 LET workers unite! 
 The brain and the hand 
 Be nerved for the fight 
 Now shaped in this land. 
 
 The slave women stitch, 
 The slave man's a boor; 
 
 The rich grow more rich, 
 The poor grow more poor. 
 
 There's freedom for all, 
 And knowledge and bread; 
 
 Who mindeth the call 
 With both shall be fed. 
 
 There's help for each one — 
 The ballot shall preach 
 
 When ignorance's gone — 
 Ay, plenty for each. 
 
 Who huggeth his chains 
 
 Is not for this fight; 
 Where manhood remains 
 
 Let workers unite! 
 
ON THE BRONX. 61 
 
 ON THE BRONX. 
 
 HOW gayly, on this day of June, 
 The Bronx flows, bowered in green, 
 With trees and vines and birds in tune — 
 
 A fresh and varied scene! 
 And in a shady nook there shakes 
 
 A boat in trim attire; 
 Three maidens are within; it makes 
 A picture to admire. 
 
 How charming are they all! lithe forms, 
 
 Arrayed in dainty dresses; 
 Tranquil of mind, no selfish storms 
 
 Could dwell beneath those tresses; 
 And they are gathering sprays of flowers 
 
 From drooping branches, laden 
 With perfumed blooms, to cheer the hours, 
 
 For youth is with each maiden. 
 
 One with an oar (so archly faced) 
 
 The boat to bank keeps press'd in; 
 Another, with fine features graced, 
 
 On damask cushion's resting, 
 Receiving boughs from one who'd wake 
 
 Dead hearts to life — a vision 
 That could delight the poet Drake, 
 
 Who thought this stream Elysian. 
 
62 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 O Bronx! meandering toward the sea, 
 
 Through shadow and through lightness, 
 Never before thou'st seemed to me 
 
 So full of life and brightness 
 As at this time, 'mid birds and boat, 
 
 With maidens gathering flowers; 
 Like elves of fairyland afloat, 
 
 They bless the passing hours. 
 
 THE SONNETEER. 
 
 THE lazy poet is the sonneteer, 
 Who in his twice-seven lines puts all he 
 knows 
 Of something, be it wood, or mead, or rose, 
 Or love, or hate — a wedding, or a bier. 
 He has his pattern always to his eyes; 
 His thought can soar but in this narrow space, 
 And be it Niagara or a pretty face, 
 The limit his expansion ever ties. 
 The rivulet, within its confined bed 
 Of rock or clay, can seldom burst its banks; 
 Its song, though flushed, can never leave the 
 ranks 
 Of small endeavors. With its proudest head 
 'Tis but a small thing to the epic roar 
 Old ocean dashes o'er a mighty shore. 
 
THE BIRD OF HOPE. 63 
 
 THE SPARROWS. 
 
 OUTSIDE my garret window there's a roof, 
 And there the lively sparrows love to come, 
 
 These wintry days, eager to get a crumb. 
 Though feathered warm, in brown and gray, not 
 
 proof 
 Are they 'gainst hunger. From a ledge aloof 
 
 They flurry down, alert and frolicsome; 
 
 And then, again, they're sober-eyed and glum, 
 Anxious that I should give for their behoof. 
 They are abused by some, I freely own; 
 
 And when I gave food I have seen them flare 
 
 Away a while, as if they had a fear 
 Of unexpected harm; but ne'er a stone 
 Would I throw at these gossips of the air, 
 
 That this dull weather fills with chatty cheer. 
 
 THE BIRD OF HOPE. 
 
 GOING through the park I hear thy cheerful 
 song, 
 Sweet bird of hope, song sparrow. At thy 
 
 leisure, 
 Ere other birds of spring come with their 
 treasure, 
 Ere robins clear, and blackbirds harsh and strong, 
 And bluebirds meek, in thickets yet do throng. 
 
64 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Advance guard of the spring, thy dainty meas- 
 ure, 
 
 Though wintry winds prevail, thou singest with 
 pleasure, 
 The coming bud and flower all in thy song. 
 Sing, little teacher, to encourage us 
 
 Whom the March winds are chilling to the core; 
 Who see no spring nor evidence of flowers. 
 Ah, could we doubtful days enliven thus, 
 
 As thou dost on yon leafless branch so hoar, 
 Our world would fuller be of happy hours! 
 
 THE WOOD THRUSH'S SONG. 
 
 OFT have I listened to thy song, sweet bird, 
 Trying to learn it so that I might sing 
 
 It to myself long after in the fling 
 And turmoil of the city, but a word 
 
 Or note I learn not; thine enraptured strain, 
 So filled with beauty, strength and cadences, 
 Has with it so much tree, and lawn, and breeze, 
 
 And consonance, that all my task's in vain. 
 As difficult to learn it as the song 
 
 Made by the streamlet down the mountain side, 
 
 Rising and lowering in a rhythmic slide, 
 Tinged by the zephyrs which the sounds prolong; 
 
 But, like to it, it lingers when away, 
 
 Within the mind, and haunts us many a day. 
 
AT THE ENCAMPMENT 65 
 
 THE CATBIRD'S SONG. 
 
 " /\/l A-YAA, ma-yaa," I hear the catbird crying 
 1 V 1 From out the thicket during day's warm 
 
 hours, 
 When partly resting his melodious powers, 
 
 Near cornfields waving in the zephyr's sighing. 
 But hear him in the morning hours rejoice, 
 
 In middle summer, when his young are growing! 
 
 Behold him then from yonder spruce spire throwing 
 His melody about in marvellous voice! 
 
 Alto, soprano, mezzo, high and low. 
 
 How frolicsome this homely fellow's notes 
 Break on the ear; and hear him when he quotes 
 
 From other birds, the rascal mimics so. 
 And he improves the others' trill or call, 
 For if he only tries, he beats them all. 
 
 AT THE ENCAMPMENT— W. T. H. 
 
 LIKE one appearing from the tomb, he came, 
 Rising my pulse-beats up to fever heat. 
 Long years 'twas as a dead man I did treat 
 His memory, and had sacred held his name, 
 And of his taking-off stern fate did blame; 
 But now he's in my vision, well, complete, 
 While I, all jocund, this new light can greet, 
 For life seems different — not so sad or tame — 
 
66 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 A pleasant surprise 'tis to have him here. 
 
 Deem thou, old friend, in future near to stay; 
 In many meetings we'll recall the old 
 Brave days gone by we fought with so much cheer 
 
 That the Old Flag should conquer and have 
 sway; 
 
 And stay Old Time our memories to unfold. 
 
 THE WELL BROUGHT OVER FROM 
 HOLLAND. 
 
 FRONTING a bluff beside the Tappan Zee, 
 Surrounded by green sward, bubbles a spring 
 
 Wherein the traveler, or the bird on wing, 
 May quench his thirst and quaff cool purity. 
 
 Above, in Wolfert's Roost, once lived a King 
 
 Of Romance, he whose magic pen could bring 
 The Hudson Dutchman back for us to see, 
 The village vroow, or New Amsterdam grandee. 
 
 He drank of your sweet waters, humble fount, 
 And made you famous; even children tell 
 The whimsical story of the imported well. 
 
 You bubble merrily beneath Van Tassel's mount 
 And wayfarers still seek you, for your fame, 
 And for the love of Diedrich Knickerbocker's 
 name. 
 
THE ANGELUS. 67 
 
 A POET. 
 
 BRAIN fibred all for poesy, in this 
 Slow humdrum age of science, work he 
 would 
 
 Creating noble forms on which he could 
 Bestow a worth immortal. Granite, gneiss 
 And sandstone of the mind, all gave him bliss 
 
 Inspired with soul of beauty, brotherhood; 
 
 Then consciously, yet modestly, he stood 
 Enlarging right and joy that none need miss. 
 
 Wrought by his glowing faculties, manifold, 
 Old ruins changed to homes for singing birds; 
 Sleepers of old romance new life began; 
 
 The glories of the future were unrolled; 
 Fair women dead again spoke golden words, 
 And songs were born to cheer the perfect man. 
 
 THE ANGELUS. 
 
 TWO simple souls stopped by a peal of bells, 
 Amid the evening shades softly descending, 
 As homeward from their daily labor wending, 
 They pause to pray while the sweet cadence swells: 
 Two souls sincere, though lacking in book sense, 
 But knowing well the world invisible, 
 Listening, they hear more than the solemn knell 
 Of sounding chimes to wake their reverence; 
 
68 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 So worshipping and spiritual they appear. 
 Devout brain fibres of the very life 
 Are stimulated in the man and wife, 
 
 And they love God and feel the heavenly sphere; 
 They have no science raising mental mists 
 To blind the truth divine, that God exists. 
 
 WASHINGTON ROCK, NEW JERSEY. 
 
 HERE on this giant rock, backed by this wood, 
 He viewed the hostile red coats of the foe, 
 Led by Cornwallis on the plains below, 
 Noting their movements, while concealed he stood. 
 What a vast prospect was before his eyes, 
 Where now fair plains and pleasant towns 
 
 abound! 
 Yonder' s the gray of Staten Island Sound, 
 And here the Raritan low winding lies. 
 New Brunswick's but a dozen jumps, you'd think, 
 O'er there the towers of Brooklyn Bridge so tall; 
 Yonder stands Liberty enlightening all; 
 And there's the gusty ridge of Navesink. 
 How varied are the scenes which spread below, 
 Where Washington once stood and watched the 
 foe. 
 
PASSED OVER THE BRIDGE. 69 
 
 A TAWNY HEAD FROM EGYPT. 
 
 WHERE rude curiosity cannot e'en debase 
 It rests, this marvel from the antique land 
 Of pyramid and sphinx, and palm and sand, 
 (With tufts of hair, warm-bronze, within a case,) 
 An illustration of the dominant race 
 That swayed theworld for centuries, and that 
 
 planned 
 Archives of art and catacombs to stand 
 'Gainst all Time's efforts laboring to efface. 
 These sightless sockets once with love-light shone ; 
 
 This brow command has given men among, 
 And with its intellect may have given tone 
 To governments — ay, even touched our own ; 
 While lips, that might have greeted wife and young, 
 Are now with brain that thought, with voice that 
 sung. 
 
 PASSED OVER THE BRIDGE.— J. E. T. 
 
 WATCHING, through vigils long, the arch of 
 light 
 Spanning the bridge, uniting cities large, 
 Who doubts his mind took note of all the charge 
 Approaching dissolution with its blight 
 
70 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Had put upon him ? Through the long sad nights 
 
 He mused on life, death and eternity, 
 
 Beyond these shadows, where the soul would be 
 Enraptured at the glorious heavenly sights. 
 
 He thought of this and them he 'd leave behind 
 To all the moil and duty of this life, 
 Their future meeting, far from earthly strife ; 
 
 And, gazing on this arch, in his clear mind 
 In time he saw the bridge lights to that shore 
 Where pain, and death and sorrow come no more. 
 
 BELLE'S BABY. 
 
 A CHICK of ruddiest hue, a child of morn, 
 Given to us when night was most away, 
 
 Leaving its watcher, Venus, near the day, 
 To follow when the Light was fully born ; 
 
 Thou art the prettiest baby come to earth, 
 A star of promise that may never set, 
 And full of possibilities to yet 
 
 Bless and adorn the country of thy birth. 
 How thou'rt caressed and crowed o'er every hour; 
 
 How tenderly thou 'rt tended and perfumed ; 
 
 Ne'er a colt so caparisoned and groomed, 
 Ne'er a parterre decked with a fairer flower. 
 
 Why loved and fashioned so I cannot tell, 
 
 Unless it is thou art the child of Belle. 
 
THE FALLEN LEADER. 71 
 
 HELICON. 
 
 A POET bound for distant Helicon, 
 To quaff the nectar of its many springs, 
 
 A draft of which lays bare the soul of things, 
 O'ertook another deviously wandering on. 
 
 Approving not such waywardness, he said : 
 "Straight have I come through jungle, city, mire, 
 Seldom my progress matching my desire ; 
 
 The road seems long; how has thy journey sped!" 
 The other answered, ' ' I have sought the field 
 
 Where birds made melody, where flowers were 
 fair ; 
 
 While rock, and tree, and leaflet, sun and air, 
 Gave me new dreams not hitherto revealed." 
 
 And thus each one thought his own road the best, 
 
 While far away loomed Helicon in the west. 
 
 THE FALLEN LEADER. 
 
 WE placed him on a plane above the crowd, 
 As he proved noble minded in the fight 
 Of equal rights for Ireland, as a right ; 
 And of his work and him — ay, we felt proud ! 
 So deep our faith, we simply never thought 
 That he possessed within his breast a heart — 
 This Titan who made Ireland's enemies smart, 
 Whom every Irishman for help had sought. 
 
72 ADIRONDA CK READINGS. 
 
 'Twas pitiful he should stumble from that place ; 
 Would that he had been wiser, for his foes 
 Could use the lash on him with galling blows, 
 
 And, striking him, they did not help his race. 
 So hard he worked when much he had to stem, 
 Our eyes grow misty when we would condemn. 
 
 ON A POET WHO DIED YOUNG. 
 
 F. S. SALTUS. 
 
 HIS barque was wrecked near to the heights of 
 Fame, 
 And like a mist, on to another sphere 
 He passed away, leaving behind him here 
 
 Thousands that knew him not, nor e'en his name. 
 
 Verse full of life and light, and never tame. 
 
 He likewise left, rare gems that come quite near 
 The Masters' works, those wonders that appear 
 
 Once in a hundred years for men's acclaim. 
 
 Short was his life, yet he developed powers 
 So marvelous the whole world should regret 
 
 His early taking off. What might we see 
 
 Had time been granted for such spiritual flowers 
 To bloom aright ? Then men would not forget 
 
 Him now they know not ; but that cannot be ! 
 
A MIDSUMMER THOUGHT. 73 
 
 MY HORSE. 
 
 MY horse I sometimes think of ; where is he ? 
 Companion in the war for many a day, 
 
 His graceful, glossy flanks of Ruby bay, 
 His delicate head, with eyes that beamed on me 
 Good-naturedly and friendly, or in plea ? 
 
 Fleet-limbed and full of courage for the fray, 
 
 Enduring in the march, though long the way ; 
 Through hunger, dust and thirst; where may he be? 
 
 I doubt he lives. Myself am somewhat gray, 
 And man has twice the travel of a horse. 
 I'm glad I think of him without remorse, 
 
 For kindly was he used in service long. 
 
 I 'm glad we parted friends ; I heard his neigh 
 Over the peach field, like a farewell song ! 
 
 A MIDSUMMER THOUGHT. 
 
 WE love this earth, somehow, if young or old ; 
 And though 'tis often censured, still 'tis ours, 
 And though weeds multiply, it has its flowers, 
 With climates ranging wide from heat to cold ; 
 And he must lack the mind's true scope who can 
 Go through all without a grateful thought 
 At the concordant comeliness that 's wrought 
 On sea and shore, mountain and plain, for man. 
 
74 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Sometimes I think that earth will ever keep 
 Us chained unto its bosom, strangely wed ; 
 That when unto dim eyes we may seem dead, 
 
 Our souls will still be active, not asleep, 
 But living in the essence ; conscious, too, 
 That 'neath us is the sward, and over us the blue. 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 COULD I depict the marvel of thy lines 
 I would be almost equal to thyself ; 
 
 So content I must be to admire thy pelf 
 Of Nature's coinage that thy skill entwines 
 Through all thy sayings, prophecies and pasts. 
 
 Thy mind can claim equality with them, 
 The giant seers and poets, that like masts, 
 
 Well rigged and sailed, are set 'twixt bow and 
 stem 
 
 On earth's great deck, inciting mankind on 
 To emulate their spreading sails of thought, 
 While breezes from the purer spheres are brought 
 
 To swell the canvas, that the weak may con, 
 The strong wax stronger, the rose grow more red, 
 And the material man rise from the dead. 
 
E 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 75 
 
 THE GALLANT ASTRONOMER. 
 
 I. D. J. SWEET. 
 
 YEDEJA, poet, wit, astronomer, 
 A great admirer of the moons of Mars ; 
 Sagacious — almost a philospher — 
 
 Quick at repartee on street, boat or cars ; 
 One evening, lately, walking with some friends, 
 
 Gazing intently on the starry skies, 
 Each planet's orbit at his finger ends, 
 
 The light of knowledge in his eagle eyes ; 
 When pointing quickly upward struck the head 
 
 Of passing beauty — "I beg pardon, Miss ; 
 Pointing out Jupiter, I find instead 
 
 I have touched Venus ; censure not my bliss. ' ' 
 The lady blushed — was pleased — the stars looked 
 
 down, 
 And for the life of them they could not frown. 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 THE fowler's shot resounds through pleasant air, 
 The maples have put on their red and gold, 
 The purple haze envelopes wood and wold, 
 And makes the homeliest things look soft and fair. 
 
 The corn stands in the shock for winter's food, 
 The cows graze lazily along the stream, 
 The distant mountains now much nearer seem 
 Than when the summer heats did o'er them brood, 
 
76 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 The growing colt frisks gayly through the field, 
 Nor thinks of toil in store for him and me ; 
 A sluggish feeling calms our energy, 
 
 And makes the mind to dreamy fancies yield. 
 The Indian summer has possession got 
 Of all our thoughts and senses, and what not. 
 
 AT LAST ! 
 
 LONG years he had been knocking at their door 
 To gain admittance ; but no beggar he. 
 
 For offerings he brought that well might be 
 Accepted by these censors of pure ore. 
 The temple keepers deemed his work a whim, 
 
 Not sense with elegance for cultured eyes ; 
 
 And from a distance eyed him, over wise, 
 As he grew old in waiting, pitying him. 
 The soul immortal of his toilsome life 
 
 Could not be stilled or killed, but grew more 
 bright 
 
 As he approached the end, the death, the night, 
 And his last days with glorious thoughts were rife. 
 Alas ! that he must die the goal to win : 
 His statue, laurel crowned, they placed within. 
 
INTERMISSION. 77 
 
 IDIOSYNCRASIES. 
 
 A SOLDIER of the Cross once had a dream, 
 After a battle, resting by a stream : 
 He saw, upon his way, an Infidel 
 With blood which flowed from wounds both deep 
 
 and fell, 
 A hand quite powerless, and a dragging limb 
 That yielded but a burden sore to him, 
 Trying to reach the stream to quench his thirst. 
 The soldier felt like slaying him at first, 
 But drops like rain now falling from the sky 
 Caused him to turn a sudden glance on high ; 
 And in the blue — 'twas clear — he saw a face 
 Bearded but lovely, with a divine grace, 
 Whose lips still smiled and spoke to him: ' 'Oh spare 
 Thy brother ; what thou hast that let him share !" 
 And strange about the soldier it may seem 
 That when he woke he thought it not a dream. 
 
 INTERMISSION. 
 
 TALK is a pleasantness unto a meal, 
 And laughter aids digestion, peal on peal. 
 It may be all within the realm of prose, 
 Or gossip, or improvement; or, who knows 
 But it may take a moral tone, and then 
 We get the higher standards of the men. 
 
7S ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 It may be rhyme, or rhythm, or poetry — 
 
 How easy on these three to disagree. 
 
 Of attic salt; ideas without rhyme, 
 
 And rhyme without the soul, a mess of chime. 
 
 It may be long-nosed Dante down below; 
 
 Or the quaint conscience Raven of poor Poe. 
 
 How old Don Quixote gave mankind such joy; 
 
 How Mr. Pickwick felt the Bardell boy — 
 
 But, greatest eaters will in time get full, 
 
 And too much gorging makes a tame man dull. 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 HE seems to be at liberty, 
 Yet bound in potent chains is he 
 Who snatched the flame from off Jove's throne — 
 To bless humanity 'twas done. 
 
 They whom he stole it for ne'er come 
 To cheer his mountain martyrdom, 
 Where 'neath the ravening vulture's bite, 
 Silent he suffers day and night. 
 
 Nor cares he, knowing that mankind 
 Will not forever be so blind; 
 And even should his story die, 
 His fire has immortality. 
 
 O poet! lift thy torch, and wait; 
 Heed not the vulture thrusts of fate; 
 The world may heedlessly pass by, 
 But not a living thought will die. 
 
OLDCASTLE. 79 
 
 Alike in crowds, or solitude, 
 Be evermore thy strength renewed; 
 Bear forward, be thou slave or lord, 
 The light which is its own reward. 
 
 OLDCASTLE. 
 
 OLDCASTLE, my sweet native village, 
 That my eyes long so often to see, 
 My mind would receive its worst pillage 
 
 If it could be deprived but of thee; 
 For there is not another on earth 
 
 That can equal thee, home of my heart, 
 While the memories of joy and of mirth 
 That surround thee shall never depart. 
 
 'Tis long since I saw thee, my birthplace; 
 
 'Tis long years since I stood on thy green, 
 Ere wandering afar in this earth race — 
 
 Yet, though far, far away have I been, 
 I feel that the brook is yet singing, 
 
 The fair bluebells and cowslips to charm; 
 While birds o'er the meadows are winging 
 
 As they did in my youth o'er Sky Farm; 
 
 That the fairies of Strawhan are dancing, 
 Taking home frisky wights that are full; 
 
 That at Ruethaw the black dog's enhancing 
 The ghost stories when evenings are dull; 
 
80 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 That the Big River yet has its fishes; 
 
 That Cornbawn's still a mountainous thing; 
 That the Head Inn yet has its blue dishes, 
 
 And Love Lane still retains its pure spring. 
 
 But I wonder if on the play ground 
 
 Have the boys the same games as when I 
 Was one of the crowd in that gay round 
 
 Of the pastimes we all fain would try ? 
 Ah! no; I suppose there are others 
 
 Take the place of those now passed away — 
 More novelties for our young brothers, 
 
 Giving joy and amusement to-day. 
 
 Yet oft when the twilight is falling, 
 
 And the moon her pale crescent displays, 
 Kind memory within me's recalling 
 
 To my mind those most earthly blessed days 
 And hope says I'll be on the morrow 
 
 With the scenes and companions of yore; 
 But I wake from my musing in sorrow, 
 
 For I know we may never meet more. 
 
SIR THDA Y VERSES. 81 
 
 BIRTHDAY VERSES— A. W. 
 
 A LITTLE girl is seven years old to-day; 
 Loved friends have come to see and make 
 her glad; 
 In every tone of voice there is a play 
 
 Conforming to the joy, while none are sad. 
 Enjoyment reigns, the festive hours fly by, 
 
 Commemorating that the earth was blessed 
 When she came down from out God's Autumn sky, 
 Here to remain and be its honored guest. 
 
 In fancy I can hear the music's chime; 
 
 The dainty feast of goodies I can see; 
 The rushing and the rapture when play-time 
 
 Expands itself 'mid youthful revelry: 
 My heart can feel it all and join the throng! 
 
 O youthful hearts! God bless you every one! 
 Roll on their years, oh, Time, 'mid mirth and song! 
 
 Each day like this we'll miss when it is gone. 
 
82 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 THE UNITY OF MAN. 
 
 MAN cannot raise alone, 
 More than can float a stone; 
 The environments of life 
 Bring him peace or bring him strife. 
 Though he strive with great desire, 
 In his burning heart of fire, 
 With his mind in wild delight, 
 In the selfishness of might, 
 To arise above his kin, 
 And to shun them in their sin, 
 With diseases of the town 
 That he would forever frown — 
 Ah! the wavelets of the air 
 Will convey them even there, 
 Where his palace lifts its head, 
 Where he rests on downy bed — 
 Ah! the passions of his brain 
 May there make his labor vain; 
 Or the outside world of thieves 
 May conceal beneath his eaves, 
 And when night is o'er the earth 
 May disturb him in his mirth; 
 And his talent and his gold 
 May not save him in his fold, 
 Nor secure his life-long lease, 
 Nor impart to him much peace; 
 
AFTER THE BATTLE. 83 
 
 For he'll find the low must rise 
 To the height of his own skies 
 Ere his heaven is secure — 
 Ere he ceases to endure; 
 For throughout all nature's plan 
 Is the Unity of Man! 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 THE sun has vanished in the west, 
 Leaving scorched plains and heights at rest, 
 While cooling breezes earth invest. 
 
 The twilight fades above the hill, 
 Where we to-day have fought our fill, 
 And where the enemy is still. 
 
 Fair Cynthia begins to throw, 
 From the soft crescent of her bow, 
 Her showers of silvery shafts below. 
 
 While hills and valleys, meadows, streams, 
 Lie beautiful beneath her beams, 
 Like pictures in a painter's dreams. 
 
 And hark! there comes upon the ear 
 The whip-poor-will's low note, so near, 
 So sadly sweet and coldly drear. 
 
84 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 It throws a gloom upon the heart 
 More than could any song of art, 
 Giving the soul an inward start. 
 
 Ah, sad bird! mournest thou what is fled— 
 Something to which thy heart was wed ? 
 Or is it for the battle's dead ? 
 
 If for these dead, oh, sing away 
 
 Till morning comes, with streaks of gray 
 
 Upon his chariot's ruddy ray. 
 
 For they with heroes now belong, 
 And slain for right or slain for wrong, 
 Are worthy of the sweetest song. 
 
 Ah! must thy music cease so soon ? 
 Faint and more faint thy low notes swoon, 
 Slow dying with the dying moon. 
 
 Perhaps upon life's checkered shore, 
 Where thought at least can upward soar, 
 Thy mournful voice we hear no more. 
 
 And yet methinks I hear thee still, 
 Lingering about yon distant hill — 
 'Tis fancy, not the whip-poor-will! 
 
THE MOUNTED RIFLES. 85 
 
 THE MOUNTED RIFLES. 
 
 IN 'Sixty-one and 'Sixty-two, 
 We went into the fray : 
 From farm, from shop, from school, from mart, 
 
 We donned the war array. 
 The Union was in danger, though 
 
 Its foes, more brave than wise, 
 Did reck not of the Northern hosts 
 That would in time arise. 
 
 Our little band, the Rifles, they 
 
 Did ever well their part, 
 Whether in duty on the flank, 
 
 Or to the foeman's heart ; 
 And, though they're few around us here 
 
 To talk the record o'er, 
 Our standard never kissed the dust, 
 
 But triumphed at the fore. 
 
 How well the olden names sound now 
 
 Of daring fight and scout ; 
 They crowd into the memory, 
 
 We would not keep them out ; 
 From Camp Hamilton to Richmond, 
 
 Three years — to some 'twas four — 
 How many a mile we raided through 
 
 Virginia o'er and o'er. 
 
86 ADIRONDA CK READINGS. 
 
 At Norfolk and at Providence Church, 
 
 Carsville and Isle of Wight, 
 And Joyner's Ford, and Zuni, where 
 
 We had full many a fight, 
 And Blackwater, old Blackwater. 
 
 To there how many a ride — 
 'Twas at the bridge that Wheelan brave 
 
 Was wounded ere he died. 
 
 The Dismal Swamp, and Suffolk, too, 
 
 South Quay and Somerton ; 
 Gatesville, Hertford and Edenton, 
 
 We 've fought and had our fun. 
 The Deserted House and Franklin, 
 
 Scott's Mills and Chuckatuck, 
 And Winton, and at Jackson, where 
 
 We had the best of luck. 
 
 At Gloucester Point and Matthews 's, and 
 
 To King and Queen in vain. 
 With Kilpatrick, as avengers, to 
 
 Where young Dahlgren was slain ; 
 And, if my memory fails me not, 
 
 Sage Oberteuffer, too, 
 Near Warsaw fell in leading on 
 
 His men — a soldier true. 
 
 And Williamsburg and Bottom's Bridge, 
 
 And back unto New Kent. 
 And at Charles City Court House, where 
 
 To victory we went ; 
 And Slatersville, Balt'more Cross Roads, 
 
 And o'er to Jones' Ford, 
 And back near Fort Magruder, where 
 
 The chills and fever bored. 
 
THE MOUNTED RIFLES. 87 
 
 Do you know Bermuda Hundred, 
 
 And Walthal Junction, where 
 That Beauregard came down at night, 
 
 But found his equal there ? 
 And Procter's Creek, Wire Bottom Church, 
 
 And Drury's Bluff so high, 
 New Market Heights and Darbytown, 
 
 Where Freedenburgh did die. 
 
 And Petersburg, Deep Bottom, too, 
 
 And o'er to Chapin's Farm, 
 Up unto the Johnson House, where 
 
 We kept the flank from harm ; 
 Then down to North Carolina, where 
 
 We cut the Weldon Road; 
 When Richmond fell and Lee was beat, 
 
 And cotton-fields were hoed. 
 
 Ah ! how our hearts beat joyfully 
 
 That April morning fair, 
 When with banners soiled and tattered, 
 
 We camped at Capital Square? 
 We had reached at last the city, 
 
 The goal of all our aims, 
 The fort of the Confederacy — 
 
 Great Richmond on the James ! 
 
 We did our part to end the war, 
 
 Success did crown our task, 
 And what was left of us came back, 
 
 In the sun of peace to bask ; 
 Returning to our several homes, 
 
 Our ways begun anew, 
 Each with experience to keep 
 
 His duty well in view. 
 
ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Twenty-five years have passed since then, 
 
 And many are forgot, 
 Death from disease has conquered some 
 
 The foeman's art could not : 
 And who can doubt these vanished ones 
 
 Now reap what bravely sown, 
 And march, and guard, and picket lines 
 
 To us as yet unknown. 
 
 O veteran ones ! O Riflemen ! 
 
 Let 's not forget the past ; 
 Let 's keep its memories fresh and green, 
 
 So they shall surely last. 
 The Union 's out of danger, but 
 
 The men who fought the fight 
 Should never be allowed to starve, 
 
 Or houseless be at night. 
 
 A parting toast I give you, ere 
 
 Out in the night we go — 
 Not as of old to picket, or 
 
 To scout, or fight the foe — 
 'Tis " Our Glorious Flag, God bless it ! 
 
 Long may it proudly wave ; 
 And soldiers of the Union rise, 
 
 When danger comes, — to save." 
 
GENIUS. 89 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 I ASKED three men I met one day 
 What genius was ? — their hairs were gray, 
 And much experience made them sage, 
 And they were bright lights of the age. 
 One said it was a "food from Heaven, 
 That came to some with extra leaven. " 
 Another said 'twas "work, and will 
 To do and dare, and life fulfill." 
 The last one shook his hoary head — 
 "Genius is death" — 'twas all he said. 
 
 Well, here we have three thoughts forsooth ; 
 
 So tell me man, or hopeful youth, 
 
 Which of these three hath spoke the truth ? 
 
 Or, is each one like to a stream 
 
 That images each living scene — 
 
 Thro' which it 's moving in a dream — 
 
 Giving but to the voyager, 
 
 Be he poet or philosopher, 
 
 Whatever come before the eye — 
 
 Whate'er he sees in passing by. 
 
 Is genius then so very fine 
 Not to be measured by a line ? 
 A something secret to mankind — 
 Outside the standard of the mind ? 
 Beyond the compass, well-known rule — 
 Almost synonymous with fool — 
 
9 o AD IRON DA CK READINGS. 
 
 Projecting thought, ideal, sublime 
 To live throughout the coming time ; 
 From Homer, with the Trojan War, 
 That lives tho' kings have gone ; 
 To Clarke that put " Night's mantle on, 
 And pinn'd it with a star." 
 
 NEVER UNKNOWN. 
 
 WHERE'ER they be, rich or hewers of wood, 
 Bound to a wheel for aspiring toward good, 
 Thirsting for things that fade ever away, 
 Building up hopes to come down every day ; 
 Be they well or ill, let them laugh or groan, 
 The gods to themselves are never unknown. 
 
 If they 're seated with Jove to eat and sup, 
 Or drink the lees from the tyrant's cup ; 
 If they dream Elysium's peaceful dream, 
 Or are shut in dungeons without a gleam, 
 They still have pleasures, however alone : 
 The gods to themselves are never unknown. 
 
 The wind may whistle, the storm may come on, 
 And the sun, the moon, and the stars be gone ; 
 The mind can survive, it has its own shore, 
 O'er which the ocean of death cannot roar. 
 Ye cannot deprive it of what's its own : 
 The gods to themselves are never unknown. 
 
SWEET REST TO HIM! 91 
 
 SWEET REST TO HIM ! 
 
 SWEET rest to him, tender and bright, 
 Last mighty captain of our fight ! 
 His country owes him boundless praise 
 For faithful service all his days, 
 With sword and brain true to the right. 
 
 When treason rose in deadly might 
 This gallant, fearless modern knight, 
 In duty sought the battle' s^blaze ! 
 Sweet rest to him ! 
 
 In these last years, with hair grown white, 
 To see him was a pleasing sight. 
 
 Children were happy in his gaze ; 
 
 Women and warriors sought his ways ; 
 His gracious manners gave delight — 
 Sweet rest to him ! 
 
92 AD IRON DA CK READINGS. 
 
 A SON OF EARTH. 
 
 I DWELL within this world of din, 
 Where they who work most chiefly win, 
 And where the people censure sin. 
 I mark the rose's timely fall, 
 I hear the robin's pensive call, 
 And I love God's children one and all. 
 
 I love to read the human thought 
 Which has in volumes been outwrought, 
 By poets who great Nature sought, 
 And philosophers and sages, 
 Whose ennobling thoughts and pages 
 Have come down with all the ages. 
 
 I love to hear the sublime cry 
 Of thunder, rumbling through the sky, 
 While lightning flashes quickly by. 
 I love to hear, brought by the gale 
 And falling on my roof, the hail, 
 Like strokes of strong man with a flail. 
 
 I love to see the downy snow 
 Cover the earth, while winds do blow 
 And sleighs o'er roads a dashing go. 
 I love to see the winter's fire, 
 While there sit youth and aged sire, 
 Telling the tales which all desire. 
 
A SON OF EARTH. 93 
 
 I love to see the morning hour, 
 When dew has jeweled leaf and flower, 
 Ere the Day-god displays much power, 
 While through the air the song bird's notes 
 Come warbling from a thousand throats, 
 And in my heart the music floats. 
 
 I love to feel the calm of eve, 
 When the western zephyrs weave 
 Cool garlands o'er the brows that grieve. 
 I love to muse throughout the night 
 And feel, though seeing not the sight, 
 The planets moving in their might! 
 
 I love to see earth's loving hearts 
 Joined in the love that ne'er departs, 
 Not linked in sordid moneyed marts — 
 Whether Mendelssohn's splendid march 
 Resounds through aisle and Gothic arch, 
 Or they are wed beneath the larch. 
 
 I love to see the hoped-for birth 
 Come glorified upon the earth, 
 While there are joy and healthful mirth. 
 I love to see the laughing child 
 Grow up, not tame nor over wild, 
 But blessed with intonations mild. 
 
 My kingdom is the love that I, 
 'Midst all life's shadows hovering by, 
 Would keep for all beneath the sky. 
 With love I'd reign, with love I'd win 
 All from the paths which men call sin — 
 All to the Light that dawns Within. 
 
94 AD IRON DA CK READINGS. 
 
 ALPHA AND OMEGA. 
 
 AN old man and a child, upon the strand, 
 Severally look toward life's surging ocean: 
 The child, with light experience, will land 
 His ships to-morrow; he has no notion 
 That they to shore 
 May come no more. 
 
 His are the eyes of hope — the radiant lens 
 
 Bringing to his mind whate'er is cherished; 
 The old man, from a varied lifetime, knows 
 That some of his treasured ones have perished — 
 Were lost at sea, 
 Howe'er hoped he. 
 
 The child, blessed one, has merely touched the 
 brine; 
 Life's voyage, storm and calm, is before him; 
 The old man's sailed — now nears the sunset line 
 And shore that, God willing, will restore him 
 His wrecked and tossed — 
 His loved and lost. 
 
' ' THE 79 th HIGHLANDERS:' 95 
 
 "THE 79th HIGHLANDERS." 
 
 N. Y. VOLS., 1861-1865. 
 
 Written on receiving a copy of the above work by William 
 Todd. 
 
 FRIEND Will: I've read your big, braw book, 
 Your labor of love, that certainly took 
 You many years to think on; 
 And by all odds it is the best 
 Of regimental histories: — a bequest 
 For its members well to prink on. 
 
 In spirit I've been with you all — 
 FromBlackburn's Ford, your early call, 
 
 Until at Appomattox; 
 Mid weary marches, darksome days, 
 And battles, not all bringing bays, 
 
 With salt-horse more than fat ox. 
 
 A gallant chronicle all way through, 
 With mirthful incidents which do 
 
 Make it most interesting; 
 And he who says his regiment 
 Can match this record should relent, 
 
 Or is but merely jesting. 
 
 What mighty names this record shows, 
 Where giant armies came to blows, 
 
96 ADIRONDACK READINGS^ 
 
 First Bull Run and Port Royal, 
 James Island and Secessionville, 
 And Kelley's Ford, till fighting still 
 
 Second Bull Run pleased th' disloyal. 
 
 Chantilly, South Mountain, Antietam — 
 The last two names which almost dam 
 
 The stream of Fredericksburgh — 
 Green River Bridge and Blue Springs. 
 At Campbell's Station victory rings, 
 
 With Jackson and Vicksburg. 
 
 At Knoxville where you nearly starved, 
 And at Fort Sanders where you carved 
 
 Your names on the heights of fame; 
 At Strawberry Plains and Wilderness, 
 And at Spottsylvania where you press 
 
 To that charge where victory came. 
 
 At Fort Stedman and at Hatcher's Run, 
 Where the Union Army almost won, 
 
 And the Southern legions toss'd, 
 Till the morn when Petersburg fell, 
 The last chords of the rebel yell, 
 
 Where the Southern cause was lost. 
 
 Well aided by your book I've been, 
 With you on march or camp-fire scene — 
 
 Travel by rail or steamer — 
 Your debtor made in many ways. 
 May health and happiness bless your days, 
 
 Is the wish of E. S. Creamer. 
 
TAPESTRIES. 97 
 
 TAPESTRIES. 
 
 HERE in the room where oft I sit, 
 And where I weave my webs, or knit 
 The thoughts that come into the mind, 
 When the imagination 's kind, 
 At times I'm startled at the way 
 Surroundings with one's thoughts have play. 
 Even the tapestry on the wall, 
 That days we hardly note at all, 
 Shows to one's moods a difference — 
 A something almost kin to sense — 
 Reflecting, like a looking-glass, 
 Much that within the mind may pass. 
 
 When the world seems to be my friend, 
 And nothing happens to offend, 
 The tapestry looks of pattern prim, 
 As if 'twould never show a whim ; 
 Of placid outline, debonair, 
 To breed contentment anywhere. 
 But let, instead, things go awry, 
 Which ever to avoid I try, 
 Fiends from therein look out at me, 
 And hold unnatural jollity, 
 Enlarging parts that hardly hint 
 Of form and face, and fleshly tint, 
 Into queer shapes that broadly grin, 
 And add unto what 's ill within. 
 
9 S ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 THE MODERN ARTHUR. 
 
 KING ARTHUR, he of the Cymric line- 
 Where have time's surges borne him now ? 
 Where they who quaffed his generous wine ? 
 Where she, the precious maid divine, 
 
 Whose health was drunk ? whose winsome brow, 
 And voice, and luscious lips were toasted 
 
 Till nothing but the lees remained ? 
 Yet still the gallant knights all boasted 
 That love, true love, could ne'er be drained ; 
 For that was fed by fire 
 Made by the heart's desire ; 
 And not e'en grim despair 
 Could quench its burning there. 
 
 Our Arthur lives to-day in town, 
 
 Who cares about his modern name ? 
 His Round Table is loaded down 
 With wine that could the others drown. 
 His friends are wanting not in fame ; 
 His daughter, whose bright form of beauty 
 
 Man never saw but would possess, 
 Could wake a hermit's mind to duty — 
 Whose health is drank with a caress. 
 The knights of old again 
 Would live, death's work in vain, 
 If brought but for an hour 
 Beneath her magic power. 
 
THEOLOGY. 99 
 
 BELLS OF MORNING. 
 
 EACH morning, as I lie in bed, 
 I hear a far-off bell's sweet tone 
 Welcome the day gleams, rosy red, 
 And telling me that night has flown. 
 
 So one, upon his dying bed, 
 Hears bells of a celestial tone 
 
 Welcome the soul far overhead, 
 And telling him that death has flown. 
 
 w 
 
 THEOLOGY. 
 
 ORSHIP of God is laudable ; 
 
 His truest name is audible, 
 So that the spirit ear may hear. 
 
 Hell is the fitting recompense 
 
 Of uncouth actions, lacking sense, 
 
 Stifling the laugh, causing the tear. 
 
 Heaven is the fruit of fruitfulness, 
 The answer of true life, to bless ; 
 
 Work and development are here. 
 
ioo ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 ALL things had reached creation, but stood still, 
 Awaiting the divine creative sign 
 To move with life eternal ; and His will 
 Chose music for the signal, gift divine! 
 
 "CHARGE THEM, BOYS!" 
 
 Last words of Captain Owen Hale, Company K, Seventh 
 United States Cavalry, killed fighting the Nez Perce Indians, 
 near Bear Paw Mountain, Sept. 30, 1877. 
 
 CHARGE them, boys !" cried Captain Hale, 
 When he struck the Nez Perces, 
 Who were hidden in a vale, 
 
 Having been pursued for days. 
 Charged his men, and fired as well, 
 And a score of Indians fell. 
 
 Joseph's band returned the fire ; 
 
 Sent some volleys up the hill, 
 With an art that did not tire, 
 
 And a skill that seemed to kill ; 
 But our boys, like gallant braves, 
 Held the ground, tho' on their graves. 
 
"CHARGE THEM, BOYS!" 101 
 
 Fearless Hale got rifle wound, 
 Which with soldiers' pride he'd hide ; 
 
 Cheered his men ; the next one bound 
 Into his throat — breach made wide ; 
 
 Raised his arm, like foe to quell, 
 
 Uttered, "Charge them, boys !" and fell. 
 
 What can be a nobler death 
 One can think, of 'neath the laws, 
 
 Than to give one's truest breath 
 To support a nation's cause? 
 
 Nations build upon such deeds — 
 
 Freedom lives where freedom bleeds. 
 
 " Charge them, boys !" will fire the age 
 
 That is present, or to come ; 
 Add a courage to the wage 
 
 When the bugle sounds and drum ; 
 And our land should bless the speech 
 That brings victory to its reach. 
 
 Would I sang a bolder note ! 
 
 Where all chords of life did teem, 
 Which for eras on might float, 
 
 Married to so brave a theme ; 
 For a theme so worthy fame 
 Might enhance the singer's name. 
 
 Poets, in this age of gold, 
 
 Wanting heroes — this is one ! 
 Patrons of the true and bold, 
 
 Raise the statue ! now he 's gone. 
 Long as valor shall prevail 
 Shall "Charge them, boys!" of Captain Hale. 
 
ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. 
 
 NE'ER tell us that all the endeavor 
 We make shall bring fruitage never ; 
 That there's no such place as heaven, 
 That sinnners cannot be forgiven, 
 That sin, like the wound on the finger, 
 May heal, but the scar will yet linger, 
 Nor vanish through years or tears. 
 
 The answer speaks never to doubt us, 
 Endeavor reaps harvests about us ; 
 While happiness comes to the masses, 
 And fire may restore wilted grasses. 
 When wrong to the stubble-field 's righted, 
 It blooms as it ne'er had been blighted, 
 A meadow of fragrance for years. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 
 
 His remains were brought over from Tunis, at the expense of 
 Mr. Corcoran, of Washington, D.C., and were reinterred, with 
 appropriate services, at the beautiful Oak Hill Cemetery, June 
 
 9, 1883. 
 
 BACK to the land that gave him birth, 
 He's brought to rest forevermore, 
 To mingle with his mother earth, 
 Back from the far Tunisian shore. 
 
JOHN HO WARD PA YNE. 103 
 
 Here we '11 his sacred dust entomb, 
 Beneath his own loved flag unfurled ; 
 
 But who could tomb his song? 'Twill bloom 
 Long as mankind live in the world ! 
 
 What sailor, 'neath the stars or sun, 
 Wherever he may chance to roam, 
 
 Or soldier, when the battle 's done, 
 But in his heart loves "Home, Sweet Home?" 
 
 The emigrants who leave the land 
 That gave them and their kindred life, 
 
 The thousands landing on our strand, 
 All love the song with home so rife. 
 
 Yet he who wrote it seldom could 
 Claim that he had a home. His song 
 
 To publishers brought fortunes good, 
 While he with poverty lived long. 
 
 Now he is back unto his own ; 
 
 A generous man advanced the means, 
 And after three decades have flown, 
 
 His dust is mid familiar scenes. 
 
 Ah ! if his gentle spirit sees 
 
 From the immortal homes on high, 
 
 Retaining yet his faculties, 
 This does his soul much gratify. 
 
 Poor wanderer ! back to home again, 
 To rest 'neath flowers and showers of June, 
 
 Thy simple song from simple men 
 And women shall not perish soon. 
 
ic>4 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 Ah ! who 'd not willingly bear much — 
 Blessed in the fame so great as thine — 
 
 To strike the lyre with master touch, 
 And make the song almost divine ? 
 
 Give thanks ! the road to heaven is free, 
 And song to fame may yet attain ; 
 
 Away from years of poverty, 
 Who conquers here ? John Howard Payne ! 
 
 THE FILLED BEAKER. 
 
 AH ! the time that we spend on abstractions ! 
 With what is their study fraught ? 
 How we dream and revel on the future, 
 
 That delusive dream of thought ; 
 And though water is drawn up in vapor, 
 
 Returning again as rain, 
 What we pass in our lives without prizing 
 May never come back again ! 
 
 How we hunger and hope for bright visions, 
 
 That rarely to us come near ; 
 How we long to gain desolate North-lands, 
 
 That to reach we ought to fear, 
 While the great and enjoyable present 
 
 We neglect, or even shrink, 
 Though its beaker stands filled on life's table, 
 
 Inviting us all to drink ! 
 
A LOOK AT THE POST 105 
 
 A VILLAGE MAID. 
 
 MYRA hath beauties pleasant to behold ; 
 Her silken crown 's adornment for a queen; 
 Her eyes are windows where the soul is seen ; 
 Her mind 's a store of treasure, good as gold ; 
 Her heart is to be won, you say, not sold. 
 
 Never before beneath earth's arching skies 
 Was such enchantment in a maiden's eyes ; 
 
 And yet she 's in the market to be sold. 
 Never was village maiden such a prize, 
 
 Who bids? Bid high, in love, not gold. 
 
 A LOOK AT THE POST. 
 
 ONE way or another 
 This comrade and brother 
 Was not at our meeting, 
 Nor quaffed of our greeting, 
 Of our duty and cheer, 
 The best part of a year, 
 When he came in one night 
 And in evident delight, 
 An enjoyable host, 
 For to look at the Post. 
 
io6 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 He had fought in the ranks 
 And expected no thanks 
 When our land was in throes 
 Of its internal foes. 
 From the war he brought back 
 A sore wound, and alack! 
 A bad habit, to drink 
 More than useful, I think. 
 His old wound often pained, 
 So the goblet he drained. 
 And the pension he got 
 He misused — 'twas a blot, 
 He had faults I confess, 
 And I would he had less. 
 
 He had hard years; disease 
 Got him down on his knees, 
 And for long on his bed 
 Lay his poor ulcered head; 
 But he rallied, got so 
 That about he could go, 
 Yet an omen, bequest, 
 Soon him prophesied rest, 
 And he felt, who knows why ? 
 He was shortly to die; 
 And he went to the Post 
 To say " good-by," almost. 
 
 And the Post did compose 
 Of old soldiers, of those 
 Who braved hearts to the fire 
 Of the South; to the mire 
 Of its roads; to the ken 
 Of its prison and pen. 
 
A LOOK AT THE POST 107 
 
 The old veteran all gray, 
 And the younger one gay, 
 Here assembled as friends, 
 To outwork friendly ends. 
 
 So his home he forsook 
 For to take a last look 
 Of the Post; of these men 
 He might ne'er see again. 
 Some had been near him South, 
 At the red cannon's mouth; 
 Ah, some two, or some three, 
 In the same company. 
 In his heart he cried, quite, 
 As he bade them good-night. 
 
 Afterwards soon to bed 
 
 He laid down his tired head; 
 
 And he suffered great pain, 
 
 Never rallying again. 
 
 He that braved many a raid 
 
 Was of death not afraid, 
 
 And he died (heaven him keep) 
 
 Like a child going to sleep. 
 
 Where's he camping to-night? 
 Ah! his soul may have sight, 
 And from yon spirit coast 
 Take a look at the Post. 
 
io8 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 SOME DIVINE STEPS. 
 
 THE essence of all things that dwells on high, 
 To whom the human soul oft turns for balms, 
 
 Lets downward to the earth, in storms or calms, 
 Steps which gives superb prospects to the sky, 
 And stimulate humanity to pry 
 
 Into Divinity — its suns and fanes. 
 Homer, that glorious step, how grand to try 
 
 And climb it ! From Dante's step e'en the plains 
 Of the departed can be kenn'd. Shakespeare's 
 
 Shows diversity in entireness. Milton's 
 Shows scenes sublime. Goethe's in beauty rears, 
 
 And lovely views give Burns and Emerson's. 
 The needs of souls find here and there a rise 
 
 Of steps divine to help them to the skies. 
 
 BETTER THAN HE KNEW. 
 
 A BAD man in his garden found a weed 
 That caused him trouble, so he thought he'd 
 take 
 And cultivate it, so that he might make 
 It more a source of misery by its seed, 
 
 And thereby trouble neighbors, good and bad. 
 Much valued time he spent in labor hard, 
 Developing this thing in his back yard ; 
 
 And when he deemed this noisome weed he had 
 
STOR Y'S SEMIRAMIS. 109 
 
 Grown to perfection, as to smell and size, 
 To injure much his neighbor's cheerful grounds, 
 When night had spread her mantle on his rounds 
 
 He went, scattering its seeds. To his surprise 
 His culture had developed pleasing powers — 
 Each plant grew up the home of fragrant flowers. 
 
 STORY'S SEMIRAMIS. 
 
 THERE in a modern city sittest thou, 
 The queen that some four thousand years ago 
 Had built the walls of Babylon ; thy fair brow 
 
 Crowned with Assyria's jewels ; a great foe, 
 And conquering princess, that brought 'neath thy 
 
 sway 
 Persia and Egypt, and their mighty force, 
 And north to where Caucasus stood at bay, 
 
 And east to where the Indus found its source, 
 Within the present age again thou 'st won. 
 
 The Teuton, Anglo-Saxon, Celt and Dane, 
 And children of them all, a race begun, 
 
 Acknowledge thy great powers, accept thy reign, 
 And crowd the portals of the courtly scene 
 Where, in thy wondrous beauty, thou art queen. 
 
ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 PRESUMPTION. 
 
 SINGING and playing on a charmed guitar, 
 Her graceful fingers, tapering and white, 
 
 Thrilled all the strings, her voice at middle height, 
 Until the finch let loose his song to mar 
 
 The waves of harmony, so much less sweet 
 His voice was than the lady's. The proud bird 
 Doubtless grew jealous of the strains he heard, 
 
 And sought her matchless cadences to beat. 
 Rash bird ! thou rivalest a magic art ; 
 
 And though in truth thy song is sweet and fine, 
 
 She can make simple melodies divine, 
 And lift to heaven the simple, longing heart. 
 
 'Tis days since I have seen her, but her eyes 
 
 Still thrill my heart with music soft and wise. 
 
 THE VISION OF THE SKULL. 
 
 WITHIN a dream I looked upon my skull, 
 Flesh less and white — I marvelled why 'twas 
 so- 
 Leaving quite plain its convex, high or low, 
 Once with nerve tissue and thought fibre full. 
 
 Some day shall I thus look upon my past, 
 Seeing the whys and wherefores of that time — 
 The causes predisposing mind toward rhyme — 
 Toward imagery immortal, grand and vast? 
 
ROBERT EMMET. in 
 
 Shall I there see the shackles of the mind, 
 Those skull-chains which the brain has on the 
 
 soul, 
 Those birth gifts, which do keep it in control, 
 
 Which limit work and aspirations bind ? 
 Ah, shall I learn that, be we quick or slow, 
 To knowledge by an effort must we grow ? 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 AGAIN thy welcome birthday has come round, 
 O martyr saint of liberty for man ! 
 Again within thy own loved land is found 
 
 The struggle for thy hopes. Another plan 
 Is working now. The dungeon yet can keep 
 
 The hero in its bosom ; the scaffold 
 Yet may have its victims, and we, too, can weep 
 
 To see some wretched ones succumb for gold. 
 But when we look to thee, O mighty one ! 
 
 Our fears and doubts all vanish, noble heart, 
 That to the far-off spirit world hast gone. 
 
 Still art thou in our efforts yet a part ; 
 Still art thou our incentor ; while our tears 
 Keep green the grass above thee through long years. 
 
ii2 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 FAILURE. 
 
 FORGIVE my writing that thy beauty 's rare, 
 Though this the veriest fool might freely own; 
 
 Forgive me if I say that thou hast grown 
 So beautiful that no one need compare 
 Thee with past beauties or the modern fair. 
 
 All of all comeliest lines in thee is shown, 
 
 And this surpassing truth is not unknown 
 To those who magnify where I forbear. 
 
 But I will boldly write that the best 
 Of earth would vanish wert thou from it gone; 
 Naught else so lovely can the sun shine on, 
 
 And shadows dark would then engloom the heart. 
 But many, seeing thou art here and well, 
 Could all of this, and more, much better tell. 
 
 TO THE SHADE OF W. W. 
 
 THOU lover of the cosmos vague and vast, 
 In which thy virile mind would penetrate 
 Unto the rushing, primal springs of fate, 
 Ruling alike the future, present, past ; 
 Now, having breasted waves beyond death's blast, 
 New Neptune's steeds saluted, white and great, 
 And entered through the glorious Golden Gate, 
 And gained the fair celestial shores at last, 
 
WARM DA YS IN DECEMBER. 113 
 
 Still worship'st thou the Ocean ? thou that tried 
 To comprehend its mental roar and surge, 
 Its howling as of victory, and its dirge 
 
 For continents submerged by shock and tide. 
 By that immortal ocean now what cheer? 
 Do crews patrol and save the same as here ? 
 
 WARM DAYS IN DECEMBER. 
 
 THE warmth hangs o'er the naked, bare-limbed 
 woods, 
 
 Enmantling them in garments of blue haze ; 
 And even the ruts made by the spring-time floods 
 
 When that Apollo with his golden rays 
 Sent melted snow in runlets down the hills 
 
 And watersheds, swelling the little streams 
 To treble their capacity of rills, 
 
 Appear like ancient gold with ruddy gleams. 
 Some vigorous maples yet retain their leaves, 
 
 Proud of their mottled dress of fading sheen ; 
 And the slow-running brook his way yet weaves 
 
 By fir and myrtle, and through sods yet green. 
 Some migratory birds in cosy nooks yet stray 
 Where sheltered glades abound and south winds 
 play. 
 
H4 ADIRONDACK READINGS. 
 
 CHRISTMASTIDE. 
 
 PEACE and good will toward men ! Blest 
 Christmastide 
 
 That brings to famished thousands a good meal ; 
 
 While even those immured in cells that steal 
 From others for a livelihood, now bide 
 
 At tables loaded with the best of fare. 
 Children unused to luxuries and joys 
 Now have abundance, are e'en bless' d with toys, 
 
 For did not Christ take such unto his care ? 
 The laborer sick, his family hungry, cold, 
 
 Is now remembered ; wood and coal, and rent, 
 
 And flour and meal, and fowl to him are sent 
 By them that know the genuine use of gold ; 
 
 Whose eyes have seen the shepherds watch by 
 night, 
 
 Or read the Sermon on the Mount aright. 
 
 ON THE HUDSON. 
 
 THE glow of perfect day unconscious lies 
 O'er Hudson's wide expanse this autumn tide, 
 When nature's banners, streaming far and wide, 
 Are mirrored in its waters with the dyes 
 Of Indian summer's painting — darks and brights — 
 Enveloping the prospect, till we seem 
 Wrapped in the splendors of an Orient dream. 
 O river ! whose soft waves reflect all lights, 
 
EPILOGUE. 115 
 
 By farm and palace where mankind may dwell, 
 Happier than by the Shannon, Thames or Rhine, 
 Could I have but a cottage to call mine 
 
 On thine enchanting banks, it would be well ; 
 Where musing, from earth's tumults I'd be free 
 To watch thy peaceful journey to the sea. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 WE find them now within the land of dreams, 
 Where Hope does often clothe the mind in 
 gleams 
 Of what we'd most desire in waking hours, 
 When our best wishes would project our powers. 
 The Professor has at length his long sought boon; 
 O'er the Atlantic rides his great balloon. 
 The Soldier is a general, not content; 
 His friends now talk of him for President. 
 The Mechanic's heart is as light as cork; 
 Has just been chosen Mayor of New York. 
 The Minister now dries up many a tear; 
 An ample salary has he for each year. 
 The Doctor's well, with large estate secure; 
 Can give his service gratis to the poor. 
 The Lawyer is in Congress, sleek as mouse; 
 Has been elected Speaker of the House. 
 The Gambler's made a hit, and flown from strife, 
 Is settled now within the woods for life. 
 The Broker he has horns, has many gored; 
 Has been elected President of the Board. 
 
1 1 6 ADIRONDA CK READINGS. 
 
 The Merchant, in the waters seeking truth, 
 
 At length has found a spring which brings back 
 
 youth. 
 The Driver has a wife, and wayside inn, 
 And friends yet come his services to win. 
 The Poet blooms in fame, is at his prime; 
 Has found a firm to publish every rhyme, 
 The Woman is a wife, with children four, 
 And a good husband who does her adore. 
 
 And so we leave them, trusting that the day 
 Will no reaction bring to mar their play; 
 That the same fancy, which has cheered their night, 
 Will not forsake them when returns day-light. 
 
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