LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 @k'- ^-i$!i^^a 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Poems and Aphorisms. 
 
 A WOODMAN'S MUSINGS. 
 
 / 
 
 BY SIMEON CARTER, BARD OF SOUHEGAN. 
 
 /KAV 4 1393 ; 
 
 Published and For Sale by the Author. Baldwinville. Mass. 
 
 i8q3- 
 
n 
 
 
 Copyright, i8g^. 
 By Simeon Carter. 
 
 Press of The Gardner News. 
 A. E. Stratton & Co., Gardner. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 To AI,I. THOSE WHO IvOVE NATURE, 
 
 Pure, simpi^e and unconventionai,, — 
 
 Who find "Tongues in trees, 
 
 Books in the running brooks, 
 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything ; ' ' 
 
 This voi^ume is sincereIvY dedicated. 
 
 IvOviNG Friends, these songs of mine 
 Are the wind-songs of /The pine — 
 Echoes of what bird and bee, 
 Ci^oud and mountain, said to me. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE author of these poems was born in Wilmington, Mass., 
 Nov. 3, 1824. When eleven years of age his parents re- 
 moved to Amherst, N. H., and settled on the banks of the Sou- 
 hegan river, one of the most lovely and romantic streams in 
 New England. The word " Souhegan " in the Indian tongue 
 means "crooked," and the stream does not belie its name. 
 Here he learned to swim, fish, boat and trap ; here he fell in 
 love with Nature at a very early age. His " book" education 
 consisted of a few short terms at the typical "Little Red School- 
 house " of New England, and was finished prior to his 19th year. 
 In mastering the "three R's " he had no time for grammar, and 
 that was left out. In early life he learned the trade of house 
 painter ; but the greater part of his life has been spent in the 
 forest, as wood-chopper, hunter and trapper. Was married in 
 his 24th year, and still lives with the wife of his youth. In 1858 
 he left Amherst, and after two years' residence in Stoneham, 
 arrived at " Mill Glen" in the southerly part of Winchendon, 
 Mass., where he now resides. These poems were composed for 
 the most part while at work, or when walking ; many of them 
 coming as inspirations, with little effort on his part. The larger 
 
Vlll PRKFACK. 
 
 part, especially those of a humorous and narrative character, 
 were written between the age of 20 and 30, and were mostly pub- 
 lished in the newspapers of the day, under the nom de plume of 
 " Bard of Souhegan." In giving his thoughts to the public the 
 writer does not expect fame or fortune ; but does it to gratify a 
 few indulgent friends, please himself, and fulfill a fond dream 
 of boyhood. He hopes that old and young, grave and gay, will 
 find something suited to their needs. And if his thoughts shall 
 help to speed a lagging hour, or cheer the heart of some lonely 
 wanderer o'er life's rough path, he will be content and satisfied. 
 September, 1892. S. C. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Meshawwa, • 
 
 New England, • 
 
 Alva and lyemma. 
 
 Husking Frolic, 
 
 Sensibility, ■ 
 
 Popping the Question, 
 
 To a Lady, • 
 
 A Peep at the World, 
 
 Happiness, • 
 
 Album Lines, • 
 
 Lament of Connucuck, 
 
 The Slanderer, 
 
 The Writing Match. 
 
 My Early Hopes, 
 
 Death of Lula, 
 
 My Muse, 
 
 The Wreck, • 
 
 Birth of Alcohol, 
 
 A Fragment, 
 
 An Item in the Price of Fame 
 
 On the Death of a Child, 
 
 To Alice, 
 
 To Rebecca, .... 
 Liberty, • 
 The Erring, • 
 Submission, 
 , Fifty Years Ago, • 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 17 
 26 
 
 27 
 30 
 32 
 33 
 34 
 35 
 39 
 40 
 
 41 
 43 
 44 
 53 
 54 
 56 
 58 
 60 
 62 
 62 
 66 
 
 67 
 68 
 69 
 
 73 
 76 
 77 
 
Xll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Henry and Servilla, 
 
 The Emigrant's Song. 
 
 Gems, . . • • • 
 
 A Hard World to Live in. 
 
 Mill Glen, .... 
 
 Ode to Souhegan, 
 
 The Quilting, 
 
 Life on the Land. 
 
 The Sleigh Ride, • 
 
 Good Wishes, • 
 
 To K., After Marriage,- 
 
 Song of the Vegetarian, • 
 
 Why I Love Her, . 
 
 New Year Wishes, 
 
 Leap Year, • 
 
 A Lovely Sight, 
 
 Trust in Man, 
 
 Short Patent Sermon, 
 
 Woman's Love, 
 
 Kitty, .... 
 
 Sister, I'm Sad, • 
 
 The Present, .... 
 
 To Cousin Clara, . 
 
 To Emma, on her Wedding Day, 
 
 True Men, .... 
 
 Extract from an Epistle, . 
 
 At the End of a Letter, 
 
 My Wee Bit Annie, . 
 
 To Our ''Circle," 
 
 On the Death of a Young Lady, 
 
 To Hattie E. Ames, 
 
 The Old Bachelor, • 
 
 To the Old Bach. After Marriage, 
 
 Epistle to L. P. 
 
 Epistle to J. W. P., 
 
 Hamblett's Case, 
 
 Hope, ..... 
 
 My Father. .... 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XIU 
 
 Deserted Homestead 
 
 PAGB. 
 
 Now and Here 
 
 152 
 
 A True Life, 
 
 • 153 
 
 Sister, Come Home, 
 
 154 
 
 Affinities, 
 
 • 155 
 
 Commandments 
 
 156 
 
 A Problem, 
 
 . 158 
 
 Alone, 
 
 . . . 158 
 
 Ideality 
 
 .160 
 
 Duty, 
 
 161 
 
 Immaturity, 
 
 . 162 
 
 Four Jewels, 
 
 . . . 163 
 
 Forgetfulness 
 
 164 
 
 The Test, 
 
 165 
 
 To William 
 
 . 166 
 
 Daughter's Prayer, 
 
 166 
 
 Voyage of Life, 
 
 . . . 167 
 
 The Soul's Quest 
 
 . . . 169 
 
 Beautitude, 
 
 . . . 169 
 
 Paean, on the Death of J. R. W., 
 
 170 
 
 Circles, 
 
 . 170 
 
 Paean — From the Mount of Vision. 
 
 171 
 
 Duality, 
 
 . 172 
 
 The Builders 
 
 173 
 
 To G. J., 
 
 • 174 
 
 Logic, 
 
 174 
 
 My Prayer, 
 
 • 175 
 
 To Sister Kate, 
 
 175 
 
 Growing Old, 
 
 . . . 176 
 
 Aphorisms, 
 
 179 
 
POEMS. 
 
 MESHAWWA. 
 
 AN INDIAN TRADITION. 
 
 THE sun was just rising in his glory and might, 
 The grey cliffs of Monadnocwere bathed in soft light, 
 And far to the westward its broad shadow lay. 
 Where the darkness still lingered in spite of the day. 
 The skies were the bluest ; no gloomy clouds frowned, 
 The hoar frost lay sparkling and white o'er the ground ; 
 The grey squirrel gamboled and played 'mong the trees, 
 Whose leaves scarcely fluttered, so soft was the breeze — 
 In short, 'twas a morning a hunter would cheer 
 As a gem of the season for wild grouse and deer. 
 'Twas a morning that made young Meshawwa's heart leap 
 As he sprang with a bound from the couch of his sleep ; 
 And as he gazed forth on sk}', mountain and grove, 
 Thus spake to Nanema, the wife of his love : 
 " The day god is smiling on Monadnoc's bald crest. 
 The sleep spirit hath bound us too long to his breast ; 
 No hunter should slumber at the dawning of day. 
 To the banks of Contoocook I must hasten away. 
 And ere the sun shines on the mountain's west side, 
 I will bring thee a fat buck, Nanema, my bride." 
 
1 8 POEMS. 
 
 In a twinkling his long bow was skilfull}^ strung, 
 His quiver of death-darts o'er his shoulder was flung. 
 He kissed his Nanema, and with heart free and light 
 He sprang from his lodge, and was lost to her sight. 
 His young wife turned back from the door with a sigh, 
 Some spirit seemed whispering " danger is 7iigh ; " 
 And she feared to Meshawwa some evil might come, 
 And she pra^^ed the Great Spirit to bring him safe home. 
 Ah ! little she dreamed where the danger would fall. 
 To the things of the future, so blind are we all. 
 Nanema, the Wild Rose, one name that she bore. 
 Was a floweret transplanted from the great lake's rough 
 
 shore ; 
 Her home and her kindred were far, far away. 
 Where the bold Narragansetts in the briny waves play. 
 Meshawwa, a stranger, came first to her tent, 
 Exhausted with running, faint, weary and spent ; 
 He had started a she- wolf at the dawning of light. 
 And had chased her till foiled by the coming of night. 
 Her father, a warrior, the flower of his tribe, 
 (No danger could daunt him, no riches could bribe), 
 With a welcome received him, and before him was spread 
 By the hands of Nanema, venison and maize bread. 
 The glance of her dark eye was so soft and so bright, 
 Her form was so graceful, her step was so light. 
 And her rich voice so sweetly on the stranger's ear fell, 
 No wonder a sigh his swart bosom should swell. 
 From that moment he loved her, and he did not depart 
 Till the beautiful maid knew the love in his heart. 
 That love was returned, and ere many moons waned. 
 Consent from her father Meshawwa had gained. 
 
MESH A WW A. 19 
 
 The old warrior blessed them, altho' his heart sighed 
 The day that she left him, the brave stranger's bride. 
 
 Foxfoot and Owegan, two braves of her band, 
 As rivals had loved her, and sought for her hand ; 
 But vainly had sought it, the maid loved them not. 
 Their gifts were unheeded, their vows were forgot. 
 But still they w^ere hopeful, so long as she seemed 
 To love not another. Ah ! little they dreamed 
 That a stranger would win her, till, alas ! 'twas too late. 
 And their love for the maiden was turned to fierce hate. 
 Tho' rivals and foemen, now their object was lost, 
 Each vow'd to have vengeance, whatever the cost ; 
 And, therefore, the better to accomplish their ends, 
 They buried the hatchet, and now were fast friends. 
 
 Meshawwa had not long been gone 
 
 Upon that bright and rosy morn, 
 
 When Foxfoot and Owegan bold. 
 
 Who'd lurked like wolves around the fold, 
 
 Now that the shepherd was away, 
 
 Like wolves rushed in to seize their prey. 
 
 They rudely seized Meshawwa' s bride. 
 
 And with stout thongs her swart hands tied. 
 
 She spoke no word, uttered no prayer, 
 
 But bowed to fate in mute despair. 
 
 The fiends then with a ruthless hand 
 
 Unto the lodge applied the brand ; 
 
 And anxious to improve the day. 
 
 Their captive took and sped away. 
 
 As King Sol at the zenith burned, 
 
 The hunter to his home returned ; 
 
20 POEMS. 
 
 And when he saw the change there made, 
 Since he at earl}^ dawn had straj-ed, 
 So sudden was his sore distress, 
 He stood a moment motionless. 
 No fond wife met him wath a .smile, 
 His lodge a black and smouldering pile ; 
 And all he loved and prized that day, 
 At one fell stroke seemed torn awa3^ 
 He judged, and rightly, w^ho had wrought 
 This mischief foul, and quick as thought 
 His venison to the ground he threw. 
 Leaped high, and like a w^hirlwdnd fiew 
 Around his lodge, noting with care 
 Each leaf and twig and bramble there. 
 To find the trail he scanned the ground, 
 Thanks to his skill, 'twas quickly found. 
 ' ' My wife again ! vengeance or death ! ' ' 
 He shouted with his loudest breath. 
 Then with his keen eye on the trail, 
 Sped swift away, o'er hill and dale. 
 Toward the southeast his course was laid 
 Where wild Souhegan's waters played ; 
 A stream that the fierce mountain shower 
 Swells to a torrent in an hour. 
 As evening shades were drawing nigh, 
 A cloud rose in the western sky ; 
 Heaps piled on heaps, of sable hue. 
 Stood out against the sky's deep blue 
 In bold relief. Noiseless it came. 
 Nor thunder's roar, nor lightning flame 
 Betrayed its coming. 
 
MESH A WW A. 21 
 
 It rolled on, bound by nature's laws, 
 
 Till overhead it seemed to pause ; 
 
 Ten thousand thunders seemed to sleep 
 
 Within its bosom, dark and deep. 
 
 The winds were hushed, no vSound was heard 
 
 Of rustling bough or singing bird. 
 
 In awful silence there it hung 
 
 Waiting an order from the tongue 
 
 Of Him who rules o'er earth and air, 
 
 Whose power to question none may dare. 
 
 Anon the signal peal was given, 
 
 The breast of that dark cloud was riven ; 
 
 Red lightning flashed and thunder roared, 
 
 A flood of rain in torrents poured 
 
 On hill and dale. It was an hour 
 
 The storm-god reigned in all his power. 
 
 The giant beech and sturdy oak 
 
 Submissive bow'd, with branches broke ; 
 
 The lordly pine in all its pride 
 
 Fell thundering down the mountain's side ; 
 
 And men whose locks like snow had grown, 
 
 So fierce a storm had never known. 
 
 A thousand streamlets from the hills. 
 
 From mountains rough a thousand rills. 
 
 Rushing with fury down the steep 
 
 Filled old Souhegan's channel deep. 
 
 And rising with resistless sway 
 
 Flow'd o'er the intervals that lay 
 
 Along its course. 
 
 And many a wolf, and fox, and bear 
 
 Rushed forth, half drowning, from his lair, 
 
22 POEMS, 
 
 And swam affrighted toward the shore, 
 Loud howling 'mid the torrent's roar. 
 The storm had reached its utmost height, 
 Lending a double gloom to night, 
 When bold Meshawwa reached the shore 
 Of that dark stream he must pass o'er. 
 Thus sudden checked, he moveless stood 
 And gazed in silence on the flood ; 
 His only torch the lightning's glare 
 That flashed incessant through the air. 
 He knew the path his foes must take, 
 And unless he good speed could make. 
 They would have passed a deep ravine, 
 (Its sides thick-lined with evergreen), 
 Where he had hoped to meet his foe. 
 And sudden, strike the rescuing blow\ 
 He stood beneath a giant oak 
 And to himself thus loudly spoke : 
 * ' Great Spirit ! Shall I now be foiled ? 
 And have I thus far vainly toiled ? 
 When started on a villain's track, 
 Meshawwa never yet turned back. 
 This raging flood must now be cross' d, 
 And 'Neema saved, or I be lost." 
 His scalping knife hung b}^ his side, 
 His hatchet to his back was tied ; 
 And shouting ' ' Victory ! or a grave ! ' ' 
 He madly. plunged into the wave. 
 His hand was skilled, his arm was strong, 
 And rapidly he shot along ; 
 Sometimes by floating fragments struck. 
 And sometimes diving like a duck 
 
MESHAWWA. 23 
 
 To give a bear a peaceful paSvS, 
 Or to escape a floating mass. 
 At length he neared the channel's course 
 Where waters ran with ten-fold force. 
 Now, brave man, show thy skill in deed, 
 No swimmer sure had sorer need ; 
 Now buffet well the rushing wave, 
 Or thou wilt find a watery grave. 
 Onward he pressed, each nerve was tried, 
 But all in vain — down, down the tide 
 His stalwart form was swiftly hurled, 
 And in its foaming eddies whirled. 
 The youth was brave on field or flood. 
 Flow'd in his veins no coward blood ; 
 For sure the hearts of eommon men 
 To dark despair had yielded then. 
 Beat in his breast a heart of pride 
 That laughed at danger, death defied. 
 His soul was nerved to hope and strife, 
 While breath was drawn, or lasted life ; 
 And even now, the fiend. Despair, 
 Could find no place to enter there. 
 His head above the flood he kept, 
 Till 'neath a tree his form was swept, 
 Whose branches long, dip'd in the wave. 
 And one he grasped, as strong to save. 
 Quick up those hmbs, (hand over hand), 
 He climbed, until he safe could stand 
 On its firm branches. 
 Here safe from harm, a moment's length 
 He paused, to rest his wearied strength. 
 
24 POEMS. 
 
 The heavy thunder rolled and crashed, 
 The lightning still incessant flashed. 
 That tree's huge branches, stout and long, 
 Reached where the current ran less strong. 
 Out on those limbs he nimbly run, 
 
 (As few beside him could have done). 
 Resolved once more each nerv^e to strain. 
 And plunged into the flood again. 
 He split the wavelet's foamy crest 
 That beat against his brawny chest ; 
 With supple stroke tossed back the spray, 
 And glided on his water}^ wa3^ 
 The channel now was fairly pass'd, 
 The wished-for shore, he neared it fast ; 
 And soon stood firmh' on that shore, 
 Souhegan's flood passed safely o'er. 
 The clouds at length rolled to the south, 
 The round, full moon came smiling forth ; 
 The raindrops on each leaf and stem 
 Glittered and sparkled like a gem. 
 The soft light through the branches streamed, 
 And through the dark old forest beamed ; 
 And bold Meshawwa took his w^ay 
 As swiftly as by light of day. 
 At length, just as the da}^ was dawning, 
 
 (A lovely, bright and glorious morning). 
 He spied his foes, short space ahead, 
 Stealing along with weary tread. 
 He now resolved to use his art. 
 To draw his foemen far apart ; 
 Ivcst, should he meet them both in strife, 
 
 'Twould cost his captive bride her life. 
 
MESHAWWA. 25 
 
 To compass this, short to the right 
 
 He turned with stealthy step, and light ; 
 
 Hiding himself as best he could 
 
 Behind a trunk of buttonwood, 
 
 Uttered a cry to imitate 
 
 A raccoon calling to its mate. 
 
 For well he judged that in each breast 
 
 Hunger must sit a clamorous guest. 
 
 When Foxfoot heard the well-known sound, 
 
 He started with a joyous bound ; 
 
 Their silence long abruptly broke, 
 
 And to Owegan, thus he spoke : 
 ' All danger now is fairly passed. 
 
 And we can safeh^ break our fast ; 
 
 For should Meshawwa bold, pursue, 
 (As doubtless he may dare to do), 
 
 His toil and labor will be lost, 
 
 Souhegan's flood cannot be crossed. 
 
 You, with our captive, keep your way, 
 
 While I this good raccoon will slay ; 
 
 And soon your steps will overtake. 
 
 And then a hearty feast we'll make." 
 
 He culled an arrow and strained tight 
 
 His bow of oak, and left their sight. 
 
 Meshawwa gladh" saw his foe 
 
 Coming with stealthy step, and slow ; 
 
 His eye glancing from tree to tree, 
 
 Expecting there his prey to see. 
 
 Meshawwa waited till he came 
 
 So near he could take certain aim ; 
 
 Then threw his hatchet with such force 
 
 His foeman fell a quivering corse. 
 
26 POEMS. 
 
 Then springing forth, the bow of oak 
 And arrows of the dead he took ; 
 (His own good bow and well-filled quiver 
 Were left athwart the raging river) . 
 Then hastened to that deep ravine 
 Whose sides were tangled dense and green. 
 There safely hid 'neath stinted pine, 
 And dwarfish spruce, and matted vine, 
 He saw with a rejoicing eye, 
 Owegan and his bride draw nigh. 
 His hand was firm, his aim was true, 
 The arrow to its head he drew ; 
 lyoud twanged the bow, swift sped the dart 
 Like lightning through Owegan 's heart. 
 He leaped high with a fearful 3^ell, 
 And in death's dark embrace he fell. 
 Meshawwa, rushing to his bride, 
 Severed her bands so firmly tied, 
 And pressed her fondly to his breast 
 With feelings ne'er to be expressed. 
 Nanema's e3"es o'erflow with tears. 
 So sudden, from the worst of fears. 
 Deliverance comes, she scarce can speak. 
 But like an infant, faint and weak, 
 Upon his nianl}^ bosom lies, 
 O'ercome with jov and glad surprise. 
 
 '_ [1848.] 
 
 NE\V ENGLAND. 
 
 FAIR are thy verdant hills and dales. 
 And fair thy glens and nooks ; 
 Fair are th}^ smooth and silvery lakes, 
 Thy bright and sparkling brooks. 
 
NEW ENGLAND. 27 
 
 But fairer still than these I ween, 
 
 The smooth and glossy curls, 
 The bright blue eyes and blooming cheeks 
 
 Of thy sweet Yankee girls. 
 
 Pure are th}' cr3''stal streams and founts, 
 
 And pure thy mountain air ; 
 And pure each violet, rose and flower 
 
 That thy rough soil doth bear. 
 But purer, if it could be so, 
 
 The patriot blood that runs 
 Within the veins of thy bold, brave 
 
 And hardy, freemen's sons. 
 
 Cold are thy ice-bound streams and lakes, 
 
 And cold thy driven snow, 
 And cold the keen and frosty blasts 
 
 That o'er thy mountains blow. 
 But colder still that Yankee's heart, 
 
 How far soe'er he roam. 
 That thrills not when he thinks of thee, 
 
 His blessed New England home. 
 
 ALVO AND LEMMA. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 SOME fifty years ago there stood 
 Fronting the Kennebec's dark flood, 
 A noble mansion, high and proud. 
 And in its rear the dark oaks bowed 
 Their lofty heads. It was a place 
 That nature had adorned with grace. 
 
28 POEMS. 
 
 Here lived a farmer, wealth}- for his times : 
 He did not seek the gems of other climes. 
 But was content to hold the sovereign sway 
 O'er all the land that close around him la}-. 
 He had a daughter ; she was young and fair, 
 With dark blue eyes, and locks of chestnut hair. 
 Hers was a matchless form, a faultless face. 
 Her step and mien were full of native grace ; 
 And she w^as good, affectionate and kind, 
 Her beauteous form did not belie her mind, 
 For that was but the polished casket fair 
 That held the gem more beautiful and rare. 
 Her heart was willing and her hand not slow, 
 The gifts of bounteous heaven to bestow 
 On all the needy and oppressed around. 
 x\ warm, kind friend in her they ever found. 
 
 Her name was Lemma. 
 Near to the mansion stood a cottage low. 
 Close b}' a streamlet, whose unceasing flow 
 Made melody, as o'er the rocky steep 
 It murmured on, rejoicing, to the deep. 
 Around, an air of neatness seemed to reign, 
 And nought was seen superfluous or vain. 
 Here lived a widow ; she was poor indeed 
 In this world's goods, but deep she drank the mead 
 Of sweet contentment, and her hours employed 
 In honest labor, and its fruits enjoyed. 
 She had a son ; he was a manly 3^outh, 
 Not over handsome, but 'twas said in truth 
 That he was honest, brave and good. 
 In virtue's path, than he, none higher stood. 
 
 His name was Alvo. 
 
ALVO AND LEMMA. 29 
 
 He and Lemma loved, warm glowed the fire, 
 
 Each in the other saw much to admire ; 
 
 It w^as their first love, purest of the heart, 
 
 And they had vowed never in life to part. 
 
 But when the youth her father came to ask 
 
 For his fair daughter's hand, (oft dreaded task), 
 
 He was denied the house, spurned from the door, 
 
 For this one reason, simply, he was poor. 
 
 Vainly fair Lemma plead with tearful eye. 
 
 And tears are eloquent. This was his stern reply : 
 
 Go, dry your tears ! The boon I will not give, 
 
 Ye shall not wed 3^oung Alvo while ye live." 
 
 She did dry up her tears, and all that day 
 
 Her heart, than usual, seemed more light and gay. 
 
 At eve she met her lover ; by the light 
 
 Of the full moon that o'er them shone so bright. 
 
 They took their way to a wild rock that stood 
 
 With summit frowning o'er the river's flood. 
 
 Talked of the wrongs their youthful hearts had felt, 
 
 F'ondly embraced, and both together knelt ; 
 
 Said their last prayer, took their last mutual kiss. 
 
 And threw themselves into the dark abyss 
 
 Of foaming waters, that closed o'er 
 
 Their close-locked forms, in life to rise no more. 
 
 From that sad day her father knew no joy. 
 He had so wronged his daughter, wTonged the boy. 
 But all was passed ; it was too late to save. 
 Cursing himself, he went down to his grave, 
 A warning to all parents in those parts, 
 Never to trifle with their children's hearts. 
 
 [1847-] 
 
30 POEMS. 
 
 THE HUSKING FROLIC. 
 
 OLD uncle Pete, once, and myself, 
 Went to a husking frolic ; 
 And, sorely, ere we came away. 
 
 We got the laughing colic. 
 Each lad and lass for miles around. 
 
 We found them met together ; 
 And all were jovial, blithe and free, 
 Good friends with one another. 
 
 We had the corn all in the barn, 
 
 A towering mountain heap ; 
 That had all got to be hUvSked out, 
 
 Ere we could go to- sleep. 
 Some sat on pumpkins, chairs and stools. 
 
 And some on broken boxes ; 
 And laddies all b}' accident. 
 
 Got mixed up with the doxies. 
 
 And every crimson ear we got, 
 
 We gave the jades a kiss for't ; 
 Tho' oft we got a hearty slap, 
 
 That caused our ears to hiss for't. 
 And merrily around the heap, 
 
 The yellow ears did rattle ; 
 Till those that were o'er full of fun. 
 
 Began to show their mettle. 
 
 Young Betty Eee a pumpkin took, 
 
 And at Bob Morris threw it ; 
 Which hit him fair upon the pate. 
 
 Before he fairly knew it. 
 
THE HUSKING FROLIC. 31 
 
 The pumpkin proved a rotten one, 
 And smashed up when it struck him ; 
 
 Knocking him fairly from his seat, 
 So unawares it took him. 
 
 And such a shout as followed then, 
 
 And such a roar of laughter 
 Shook every timber in the barn. 
 
 Between the sill and rafter. 
 Then Bob sat down with rueful face, 
 
 And hummed o'er "Dainty Davie; " 
 Revolving in his mind how he 
 
 Should play the lass a " shavie." 
 
 Soon Bets, rose up to pull some corn, 
 
 And Robbie, always wily, 
 A mammoth pumpkin, round and smooth, 
 
 Upon her stool laid slyly. 
 Then she sat down, nor looked behind, 
 
 And little dreamed of falling ; 
 The pumpkin rolled, and Betty Lee 
 
 Upon the floor la}^ sprawling. 
 
 And such a roar as then rang out, 
 
 I never heard before ; 
 And Bob could neither stand nor sit. 
 
 But rolled upon the floor. 
 And so the evening passed away, 
 
 While fun and frolic cheered ; 
 Until the corn was husked all, 
 
 And the barn floor was cleared. 
 
32 POEMS. 
 
 Then Uncle Pete a fiddle took, 
 
 And each lad took a hizzie ; 
 And such a jig as we kicked out, 
 
 It made us unco dizzy. 
 Fat Maggie Tonikins tripped a toe, 
 
 And tumbled agin Charle}^ 
 Which knocked him o'er wee Tommy Short 
 
 Into a tub of barley. 
 
 Then Uncle Pete's old cat-gut broke. 
 
 But not a bit we cared ; 
 With glee we to the kitchen hied 
 
 Where supper was prepared. 
 And there were dainties, such a weight 
 
 The table scarce could bear it ; 
 But we sat to it with a will. 
 
 And made good shift to clear it. 
 
 The gallants then, their various ways 
 
 Went homeward with the misses ; 
 Nor had their labor all in vain, 
 
 They got their pay in kisses. 
 Old Uncle Pete stuck by the mug, 
 
 Until the last had parted ; 
 Then took his fiddle in his hand, 
 
 And home ourselves we started. 
 
 [1846.] 
 
 SENSIBILITY. 
 
 THY heart so sweetly sensitive, 
 Is like an April sk}^ ; 
 One moment sunshine, and the next 
 Dark shadows o'er it fly. 
 
SENSIBILITY. 33 
 
 One little ray lights up thy soul 
 
 To gladness, joy and mirth ; 
 One little cloud o'ershades the whole, 
 
 And bows it down to earth. 
 
 POPPING THE QUESTION. 
 
 I^VE started out from boyhood's port, 
 On Ivife's tempestuous sea ; 
 Say, Emma, wilt thou step on board 
 And sail the voyage with me ? 
 
 Virtue's the Captain, Peace the mate, 
 And Truth stands at the wheel ; 
 
 His strong hand and his willing heart 
 Shall guide through woe and weal. 
 
 And Kindness, Candor, Hope and I^ove 
 
 Are noted in the book 
 As being the men before the mast, 
 
 Contentment is the cook. 
 
 With such a crew, a ship that's staunch, 
 
 I start on Life's broad sea ; 
 Come, Emma, wnlt thou step on board 
 
 And sail the voyage with me ? 
 
 'Mong bright isles of prosperity, 
 
 'T may be our lot to sail ; 
 Where plenty, peace and happiness 
 Are borne on every gale. 
 
34 POEMS. 
 
 It may be storni}^ winds will blow, 
 Affliction's waves dash high, 
 
 And lightnings of adversity 
 Flash from a lowering sky. 
 
 Gales of misfortune ma}^ arise 
 
 On poverty's dark lee ; 
 Say, Emma, wilt thou dare them all 
 
 And sail the voyage with me ? 
 
 The shores of boyhood lay behind, 
 Ahead, Life's unknown sea ; 
 
 Wilt thou leave Father, Mother, all, 
 And sail the vo3^age with me ? 
 
 [1846.] 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 LADY, I fear thou wilt reject 
 This offered heart of mine ; 
 And will not give me in return 
 
 The precious boon of thine. 
 For, Lady, I've no broad domains, 
 
 Or titles to allure ; 
 No glittering heaps of treasured gold. 
 
 For, Lady, I am poor. 
 My own strong hand and willing heart 
 
 Are all that I possess, 
 With which to gain the wherewithal 
 
 That would a cottage bless. 
 Yes, I must toil from day to day. 
 
 And hardships must endure, 
 To gain what little I enjoy, 
 
 For, Lady, I am poor. 
 
TO A LADY. 35 
 
 I was not blessed with a high birth, 
 
 A title, or a name ; 
 Ah, no, for I was lowly born, 
 
 Far 'neath the feet of Fame. 
 Yet I have dared to think of thee. 
 
 And ask thy love so pure ; 
 And yet, perhaps, it should not be, 
 
 For, Ivad}^ I am poor. 
 
 But, if I read aright, thy heart 
 
 Is generous, and warm, 
 And brave ; it would not fear to fight 
 
 With poverty's dark storm. 
 If, as I trust, this is the case, 
 
 Then, Ivad}^ I am sure 
 You could not love a man the less 
 
 Because that he was poor. 
 
 A PEEP AT THE WORLD. 
 
 WHENE'ER I scan this scene of life, 
 So full of dark, contentious strife, 
 With envy, wTath and hatred rife, 
 
 I'm puzzled sorely. 
 I try to get some good idea 
 Of what it is, and yet I fear 
 Get on but poorly. 
 
 The w^omen, faith ! I cannot read them. 
 But as we men most sorely need them, 
 Whate'er they undertake, God speed them 
 If it be right. 
 
36 POEMS. 
 
 But some, I'm forced to sa}^ will slander. 
 Some from the path of virtue wander, 
 And some will fight. 
 
 The men, they are a perfect jumble, 
 Just thrown together, rough and tumble. 
 Righteous and wicked, proud and humble 
 
 But I'm afraid 
 There's ten to one of vile and wicked, 
 If from the good they all were picked, 
 
 And truth was said. 
 
 The Priest, so reverently will preach, 
 And from the H0I3- Book will teach, 
 And kindly he will tell us each 
 
 How we must walk. 
 Against the path, I've nought to sa}', 
 But he himself don't go that way, 
 
 By a long chalk. 
 
 The Ivaw5'er, he will talk and spout. 
 Justice and equal rights about ; 
 And promise fair to get 3^ou out 
 
 Of any fix. 
 But if 3^our case is not well backed. 
 By good, substantial fees, no lack, 
 
 You'll get but kicks. 
 
 The Doctor's not afraid to swear to 
 Cure all the ills that flesh is heir to ; 
 And just as many more as dare to 
 Attack our race. 
 
A PEEP AT THE WORLD. 37 
 
 He won't believe where one he saves 
 He sends a dozen to their graves, 
 Which is the case. 
 
 The Merchant with a smile will meet you, 
 
 And so politeh' he will greet 3^ou, 
 
 With, ' ' For the world I would not cheat you , ' ' 
 
 And all that sort. 
 But when your back is turned, he'll grin, 
 To think how he has ta'en you in 
 
 And not been caught. 
 
 And there's the wily Politician, 
 He'll fight against all opposition, 
 So he at last may gain admission 
 
 To halls of State. 
 He cares not what the means, a whit. 
 If so be he at last can sit 
 
 Among the great. 
 
 The Printer fills our heads with trash. 
 And says we must not think him rash 
 Because he wants the ready cash 
 
 Paid in advance. 
 We trust his honesty to give us 
 Our money's worth, and not deceive us — 
 
 A lousy chance. 
 
 The Rumseller nor sees nor hears 
 The widow's cry, the orphans' tears, 
 Nor e'en dead men upon their biers 
 That he has put there. 
 
38 POEMS. 
 
 But when at last Death's draught he drinks, 
 If so be there's a hell, methinks, 
 He'll set a foot there. 
 
 The Miser, he will gouge and grind, 
 Pla}^ loose and tight, and undermine, 
 And gladly take all he can find, 
 
 No matter whose. 
 If 'tis the orphans' very last. 
 More closel)^ he will hold it fast ; 
 
 He must not lose. 
 
 The lordly owner of the soil 
 Will force his brother man to toil. 
 While he alone secures the spoil 
 
 Of sweat and pains. 
 This is, methinks, earth's blackest curse, 
 I doubt if there be many worse, 
 
 Where Satan reigns. 
 
 But rich and poor, that motley squad, 
 lyords of the castle and the hod. 
 Will one day want six feet of sod 
 
 Their bones to keep in. 
 Then for the rich it will be bad. 
 No better gravel can be had 
 
 Than poor folks sleep in. 
 
 But hold ! I might go on till night. 
 As fast as I could rh3'me and write, 
 Nor then should have in black and white 
 All I have thought. 
 
A PEEP A T THE WORLD. 39 
 
 So, lest your patience should be tired, 
 Which now is not to be desired, 
 I'll break off short. 
 
 [1845.] 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 THE bliss of life's more equal vShared 
 Than man}^ people think it ; 
 Altho' at times the brittle thread 
 
 Seems sorely to be kinked. 
 The poor man, he will sigh for wealth, 
 
 The rich will sigh for pleasure ; 
 'Tho each may get a different kind, 
 They get an equal measure. 
 
 That poor man is a wretch indeed, 
 
 Who's all the time a grumbling 
 Of his hard fortune, and the like. 
 
 And of his " poor luck " mumbling. 
 Life's path to him's a crooked path. 
 
 Well fill'd with stumps and stones ; 
 And he has all the time to mourn 
 
 Bruised shins and broken bones. 
 
 That poor man is a happy man. 
 
 Who has a mind content 
 With what, (in wisdom passing his), 
 
 Kind Providence hath lent. 
 He takes his labor cheerily, 
 
 And sweetly sleeps at night ; 
 Rises at earl}^ dawn refreshed. 
 
 With gladsome heart, and light. 
 
40 POEMS. 
 
 The rich man on a bed of down, 
 
 That's by his conscience goaded, 
 May muse on ships, and banks, and stocks, 
 
 And on his millions hoarded. 
 May call on Happiness in vain, 
 
 The maiden seems to fear him ; 
 And from some lowly cottage sees. 
 
 But dares not venture near him. 
 
 Some other men have worldly wealth. 
 
 And know well how^ to spend it ; 
 If honest worth they see oppressed. 
 
 With strength they will defend it. 
 Are any hungry, they will feed. 
 
 Are an}' naked, dress them ; 
 And pra3^ers from many a grateful heart, 
 
 And peace and plenty bless them. 
 
 Our happiness we make ourselves. 
 
 Within a certain measure ; 
 For 'tis not as most fools suppose, 
 
 Confined to w^orldly treasure. 
 A thankful heart, a mind content, 
 
 Or hot or cold the weather, 
 Does more to make a happ}^ life 
 
 Than all things else together. 
 
 ALBUM LINES. 
 
 MARY, dear sister, let me speak a truth 
 Soft in your ear, that brings the " fount of youth, 
 Sought for so long 
 By heroes many, as in tale and song. 
 
ALBUM LINES. 41 
 
 lyet love flow forth without dissimulation, 
 
 lyCt love go forth in useful ocaipatio7i, 
 
 Then on 3^our cheek the rose of health will blush, 
 
 And from your throat the song-birds' notes will gush, 
 
 As you go on, upheld by strong Endeavor, 
 
 " A thing of beauty and a jo}' forever." 
 
 [1886.] 
 
 LAMENT OF CONNUCUCK 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HIS BRIDE. 
 
 THE wild-flower has faded, my joys are all dead, 
 The bright hopes of manhood forever have fled ; 
 The whirlwind of sorrow hath burst on the oak. 
 Its roots are all shattered, its branches are broke. 
 My Earlee, ni}^ loved one, my joy and my pride, 
 A shaft from Death's quiver hath torn from my side. 
 Her heart it was guileless, her love it was true, 
 Her soul was as pure as the bright drops of dew 
 That gem the sweet lilies which placidly rest. 
 In a calm, summer morn, on the lake's sleeping breast. 
 Her voice was the wild bird's that sings in the morn. 
 Her foot was as light as the hoof of a fawn ; 
 Her words the brook's murmur, her eye soft and bright 
 Her tresses the raven's, as dark as the night. 
 Her spirit was gentle, her breast all my own, 
 But, alas ! She has left me, and I am alone. 
 Warriors of Sunapee ! Whom now will ye trust ? 
 The oak of the mountain is bowed in the dust. 
 His spirit is broken, his wars are all o'er, 
 Connucuck, as chieftain, will ser^^e j^ou no more. 
 
42 POEMS. 
 
 Ye are bolder than eagles, ye are fleeter than deer, 
 Ye are skillful to handle the bow and the spear ; 
 Ye are fierce in the battle, 3^e are keen in the chase, 
 Ye have served well Connucuck, the last of his race. 
 He has loved you as brother ,s for ye were all true, 
 But the sun is now sinking, he bids 3^ou adieu. 
 He will take his good long-bow, he wall roam o'er the West, 
 He wall follow the sun as he sinks to his rest. 
 Where fancy shall lead him, he will wander alone, 
 He will take no companion to mock at his moan. 
 Fear not for Connucuck, tho' far he should roam. 
 The Spirit of Larlee will guide him safe home ; 
 To his home in that land where the flowers never fade. 
 Where the fond Indian lover ne'er parts from his maid. 
 Where the wild game is plenty, the springs bright and clear. 
 Where the Spirit of Summer presides o'er the 3^ear, 
 Where the forest ne'er bows to the hurricane's blast. 
 And no mantle of grief o'er the spirit is cast ; 
 Where ni}^ Larlee will meet me with love's honeyed kiss, 
 Where all is sweet sunshine, contentment and bliss. 
 Nought, nought is now left that is dear to my heart, 
 My blessing is on 3'ou — and now I depart. 
 
 They spoke not a w^ord, as he turned to the West, 
 For they knew that deep sorrows were filling his breast ; 
 A grief all his own, and which they could not share. 
 And to the Great vSpirit they breathed out a prayer 
 That their Chief soon might go to that land of the blest. 
 And find sweet repose on his fond Larlee 's breast. 
 
 [1847.] 
 
THE SLANDERER. 43 
 
 THE SLANDERER. 
 
 I DREAM ED I stood outside of hell's 
 Dark walls, and cries, and groans, and yells 
 Came from a distance deep within 
 That dark abode of pain and sin. 
 Louder and louder on the ear 
 Those nuirmurs broke, and seemed more near 
 To be advancing, hke the roar 
 Of some dark storm-cloud breaking o'er 
 A mighty forest, old and still ; 
 And rushing on o'er vale and hill, 
 Curses and imprecations dire, 
 Terms of contempt and vengeful ire 
 From myriad tongues I now could hear, 
 Each moment seeming still more near. 
 Toward where I stood the tumult drew. 
 And hell's broad gates wide open flew. 
 Out rushed a being, sore in haste, 
 By demons, imps, and devils chased. 
 Drive him far off ! " loud, Satan cried, 
 And you, gate-keeper, woe betide, 
 If e'er within these walls is seen 
 Another being half as mean ! ' ' 
 A fiend came near. I said, " Pray, tell, 
 Is aught too mean, too vile for hell ? 
 Who can that wretched being be 
 That ye have forced so far to flee 
 From this dark den of sin and shame. 
 Tell whence he came, and what his name? " 
 He grinned a smile of ghastly mirth. 
 And said, " A Slanderer, from Earths 
 
 [i857-] 
 
44 POEMS. 
 
 THE WRITING MATCH, OR THE DUEL 
 POETIC. 
 
 AN UP-COUNTRY TALE. 
 
 COME, listen now, and I will sing 
 A song you ne'er heard sung ; 
 And tell of deeds ' ' Ivang-S3'ne ' ' performed 
 In da3"s when I was 3^oung. 
 
 'Twixt Tomni}^ Loring and ntyself, 
 
 A rivalry in writing 
 Had long existed, and we'd had 
 
 No little goose-quill fighting. 
 Tom was as gay and blithe a lad 
 
 As e'er made rh3'ming clamor, 
 Or ever tied the leather on 
 
 And swung a good sledge hammer. 
 
 He tinkered dail3' at the forge, 
 
 While I jogged o'er the furrows, 
 Or chased the woodchuck and the fox, 
 
 And dragged them from their burrows. 
 Our daddies' houses, his and mine, 
 
 Were somewhat near together. 
 And each had been the other's friend, 
 
 Through fair, and through foul weather. 
 
 In the same seat both sat at school. 
 
 And on our honored master 
 No doubt had fewer tricks been pla3'ed. 
 
 We might have learned the faster. 
 
THE WRITING MATCH. 45 
 
 To church, which was some two miles off, 
 
 We both together walked ; 
 And sometimes upon earthly themes, 
 
 We may, perhaps, have talked. 
 
 And oft in scribbling youthful rhymes, 
 
 Each with the other vied ; 
 And hard in efforts to excel 
 
 Our budding powers were tried. 
 Was Tom a leader in a game, 
 
 I w^as his leader foe ; 
 And manj^ a charge have fiercely made 
 'Neath whistling balls of snow. 
 
 Was it in swimming in the lake. 
 
 Each soonest strove to cross it ; 
 Was it to throw the heavy bar. 
 
 Each farthest strove to toss it. 
 In all our studies, and our sports, 
 
 We two were foemen ever ; 
 Still friends, warm-hearted, kind and true, 
 
 With bitter feelings never. 
 One day, when I felt " i' the vein," 
 
 A challenge strong, I penned it. 
 And by young Charley Ivittlejohn 
 
 I straight to Tom did send it. 
 
 CHALLENGE. 
 
 Old crony, Tom, as we've disputed 
 Thus far, and neither been confuted, 
 I've thought to stop this long contending. 
 And bring the matter to an ending. 
 
46 POEMS. 
 
 I will defy 3'ou now to write 
 
 In good, fair scratching, black and white, 
 
 A trim, smooth -metered, rhyming ditty, 
 
 At once most huviorous and witty. 
 
 I'll give you three long da5'S to make it, 
 
 The same time to myself I'll take it ; 
 
 And meet you upon Friday night, 
 
 Rainy or shiny, dark or light, 
 
 At Uncle Peter's, b}^ the shore, 
 
 And Master Tim shall read them o'er. 
 
 And those that hear them shall decide. 
 
 And by their judgment we'll abide ; 
 
 And there, this point so long contended, 
 
 Shall be that night forever ended. 
 
 Your old Friend, ." 
 
 Now, when young Tom had fairly read 
 
 The note that I had written. 
 He leaped and capered round the shop 
 
 lyike one with frenzy smitten. 
 He wrenched the anvil from the block, 
 
 And three good paces threw it ; 
 And through the window hurled the sledge 
 
 Before he fairly knew it. 
 " Ha, ha ! he, he ! heigh-ho ! " says he, 
 *' Just stop a minute, Charley ; 
 There's pen and ink behind the forge, 
 
 And I will answer fairly," 
 He turned the note that I had writ, 
 
 And on the bellows placed it ; 
 And quick his answer back to me, 
 
 With good black ink he traced it. 
 
THE WRITING MATCH. 47 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 " Old friend and braggart, what you sent, 
 
 Written no doubt with good intent, 
 ('Tho soon I fear you will repent), 
 I've read it through. 
 And o'er the bellows now am bent 
 To answer you. 
 
 It seems you think it nearly time 
 
 It was decided which can climb 
 
 And mount a height the most sublime, 
 
 Parnasian hill ; 
 And reel and knot the jovial rhyme 
 
 With readiest skill. 
 
 At time and place I'll promptly meet you, 
 
 And if I do not fairly beat you, 
 
 I pledge my word that I will treat you 
 
 To grog or beer ; 
 And with three cheers they all shall greet you, 
 
 Who chance to hear. 
 
 By Charley John I send this back, 
 And if 3^ou find the meter slack, 
 Or in the rhyme a flaw or crack, 
 
 I will give o'er, 
 Port helm, and steer another tack, 
 
 And rhjane no more. 
 
 Doubtless you'll think when o'er this poring. 
 In fancy's realm I've not been soaring ; 
 I've done it while you'd thrash a flooring 
 
 Of wheat or rye. 
 Your friend, as ever, Thomas I^oring. 
 
 Good-by, good-by." 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 The appointed Frida)" night soon came, 
 
 The round, full moon shone bright. 
 Casting o'er Nature's sleeping face 
 
 A flood of mellow light. 
 No gentle breezes murmured b}^ 
 
 Or aspen leaf was stirred ; 
 And scarcel}^ to the listening ear 
 
 The slightest sound was heard. 
 
 'Twas sweetl}^ calm on earth below. 
 
 And in the heavens above ; 
 A splendid night for lads to walk 
 
 With maidens whom they love. 
 At eight o'clock I raised the latch 
 
 At Uncle Peter's door, 
 And there sat Tom, and two, three friends 
 
 Who had arrived before. 
 
 Bob Morris with his rudd}^ face 
 
 Was in a corner seated ; 
 With Fifer Jo and Fiddler Bill, 
 
 By whom I loud was greeted. 
 Soon Tim came in with Betty Lee, 
 
 With whom of late he flirted. 
 And 'twixt his elbow and his waist 
 
 Her round arm was inserted. 
 
 Tim was our schoolmaster, as grave 
 
 And sober as a preacher. 
 With twinkling e3^es, and bandy legs, 
 
 A jewel of a teacher. 
 
THE WRITING MATCH. 49 
 
 His nose was red, his hair the same, 
 
 His belly like a hogshead ; 
 And on his shoulders close was set 
 
 A cranium, no dog's head. 
 
 Soon Ralph, the hunter, he came in, 
 
 His red sash girded tightly, 
 And when he stepped, his buskined foot 
 
 Fell noiselessly and lightly. 
 With him came Charley I^ittlejohn, 
 
 A clever, trusty fellow, 
 With light blue eye and forehead high, 
 
 That showed a pate not mellow. 
 
 An hour was passed in friendly chat, 
 
 (The subjects may be guessed), 
 'Till Uncle Pete had left the room 
 
 And laid himself to rest. 
 Then out stepped Charley I^ittlejohn, 
 
 A packet in his hand 
 That held our poems, closely sealed. 
 
 This Tom and I had planned. 
 
 To either one no name was signed, 
 
 Lest those about to try us 
 Should have their better judgment warped 
 
 By something like a bias. 
 Upon the table at Tim's right. 
 
 Two tallow candles burned ; 
 Charles placed the packet in his hand, 
 
 And to his seat returned. 
 
50 POEMS. 
 
 And now each sound was quickl}' hushed, 
 
 No jesting word was spoken, 
 As Tim with circumspection wise. 
 
 One of the seals had broken. 
 By chance, 'twas mine, and as he read 
 
 A smile began to wreathe 
 Around the mouth of Betty Lee, 
 
 Which showed her pearh^ teeth. 
 
 Bob Morris, with his dimpled cheeks, 
 
 He vsoon began to snicker ; 
 And soon from each one in the room 
 
 The peals came loud and quicker. 
 Young Charle}', with his sparkling eye, 
 
 Laughed out like mirth distracted ; 
 And Ralph swore 'twas the funniest thing 
 
 That ever he saw acted. 
 
 And when Tim ended, peal on peal 
 
 Of wide-mouthed laughter roared, 
 'Till near a half hour had elapsed 
 
 Kre calmness was restored. 
 Tim snuffed the candles, opened Tom's. 
 
 And bidding us take heed 
 And make less rtivipiis than before, 
 
 Began again to read. 
 
 For some few lines no sound was heard. 
 Save Tim, distinctly speaking ; 
 
 Soon smothered laughter, half suppressed, 
 From many a mouth kept leaking. 
 
THE WRITING MATCH. 51 
 
 And soon the peals of boisterous mirth 
 
 Were louder than before, 
 And Fifer Jo and Fiddler Bill 
 
 lyay kicking on the floor. 
 
 Bob Morris, he danced round the room, 
 
 His sides with laughter shaking ; 
 And tears ran down o'er Betty's cheeks. 
 
 As if her heart was breaking. 
 Old Uncle Pete the racket heard, 
 
 Which raised his wrath a fraction ; 
 He quickly leaped out from his bed 
 
 To stop such noisy action. 
 
 Respect, he knew, was due himself, 
 
 And he stepped in to claim it ; 
 His only dress an " angel's robe," 
 
 Or shirt, as some would name it. 
 Young Betty Lee, as he came in, 
 
 'Tho said to be near sighted, 
 Sprang from her chair, deep blushing red, 
 
 lyike a wild doe affrighted. 
 
 She bolted quickly from the door, 
 
 And leaped a three-foot wicket, 
 Leaving a piece of her red dress 
 
 A dangling from the picket. 
 Old Uncle Peter's close-knit brow 
 
 Foretold a tempest near, 
 When two, three words from Master Tim 
 
 Fell plainly on his ear. 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 His lips were opened wide to vent 
 
 The storm that was portended, 
 Just as those few words reached his ear, 
 
 And in a smile it ended. 
 His old sides with convulsions shook, 
 
 While both hands clinched the door, 
 Lest he with Jo and Bill should lay 
 
 Upon the sanded floor. 
 
 Tim ended, and fell in a swoon, 
 
 He had held in so long. 
 Rather than we should see him do 
 
 What he had taught was wrong. 
 On gravity in reading ivit, 
 
 Himself he highly prided ; 
 And oft delinquents at the school. 
 
 He had severely chided. 
 
 But now the effort he had made 
 
 Had fairly overpowered him ; 
 Ralph seized a bucket from the sink. 
 
 And with a torrent showered him. 
 The neighbors now rushed in, half dressed. 
 
 To see what was the matter ; 
 And what uncommon cause had raised 
 
 Such an uproarious clatter. 
 
 Tom seized his papers, and my own, 
 And from the door we slipped 
 
 As Fiddler Bill, in getting up 
 The light-stand overtipped. 
 
THE WRITING MATCH, 53 
 
 We left them then, as bevSt they could, 
 
 Their candles to relight ; 
 And o'er a homeward path we tripped 
 
 With nimble foot and light. 
 
 The " laurel wreath " is j^ours, quoth I, 
 
 For 3^ou have won it fairly ; 
 And since that night I've given it up 
 
 That I was beateji rarely. 
 
 [1846.] 
 
 MY EARLY HOPES. 
 
 MY early hopes, my early hopes, 
 How quickly have they flown, 
 Like faded leaves from autumn trees, 
 
 By wintry tempests blown. 
 And there they lie, the lair and bright, 
 
 All scattered o'er the earth, 
 And winter's snows must on them lie, 
 Kre greener ones have birth. 
 
 My early hopes, my early hopes. 
 
 They've melted, quick away, 
 Just like a sparkling gem of dew 
 
 Beneath the sun's warm ray. 
 Another da}^ must pass awa}^ 
 
 Another long, dark night, 
 Ere other gems will sparkle there 
 
 As joyous, and as bright. 
 
54 POEMS. 
 
 My early hopes, my early hopes, 
 
 Deep with the dead they lie ; 
 And pensively the autumn winds 
 
 In sadness o'er them sigh. 
 And many a bright and joyous spring 
 
 Must come and pass away, 
 Ere other hopes upon their graves 
 
 Shall bloom as fresh as they. 
 
 [1846.] 
 
 DEATH OF LULA. 
 
 THE morn was fair, the winds were still, 
 As glanced the sun on Larga's hill. 
 Throwing its shadow, dark and wide, 
 Far o'er the w^ood-lake's sleeping tide. 
 Its dark brown cliffs the waves o'erhung, 
 That from its rocky base were flung ; 
 And up its steepy sides there strayed 
 A wild and beauteous Indian maid. 
 Lula her name, her step was light. 
 Her tresses mocked the darkest night ; 
 Her light, swart limbs w^ere full of grace, 
 Beaut}^ was smiling in her face. 
 She culled the vine and mountain flower 
 To deck that eve, her bridal bower. 
 For she was loved, and 'twas returned, 
 For deep within her bosom burned 
 The sacred flame for young I^atope, 
 Her present joy, her future hope. 
 
DEATH OF LULA. 55 
 
 Boldest in war, fleetest in chase, 
 
 Next to his chief, he held the place. 
 
 A keener ej^e, a surer foot, 
 
 Never upon the track were put ; 
 
 Nor hand than his, more skilled to guide 
 
 The light canoe o'er rippling tide. 
 
 And he had loved fair I^ula long, 
 
 Ivistened, enraptured, to her song ; 
 
 With her in boyivSh days had played, 
 
 With her had through their forests strayed. 
 
 And when that sun had sank to rest. 
 
 That now threw fire o'er Larga's crest, 
 
 He was to make her his for life. 
 
 And take her to his lodge, a wife. 
 
 A chieftain from a neighboring band 
 
 Had sought, in vain, fair Lula's hand ; 
 
 And deadly was the hate he bore 
 
 To 3^oung Latope, and vengeance swore, 
 
 And as the bridal eve drew nigh 
 
 Was lurking round, a secret spy. 
 
 Slyly he hid, where w^ell he knew 
 
 Fair Lula often came to view 
 
 From I^arga's top, the scene below, 
 
 The forest dark, the river's flow. 
 
 That morn she came with flower and vine, 
 
 A rustic, bridal wreath to twine ; 
 
 Sat on the cliff ; her flowers unbound 
 
 lyay on her lap, and o'er the ground. 
 
 Then rushed the chieftain from his lair. 
 And seized her rudely by the hair ; 
 
56 POEMS. 
 
 Muttered, " Ye would not be my bride, 
 
 Ye shall not rest at Latope's side." 
 
 Sank hatchet in her forehead deep, 
 
 And threw her body o'er the steep ; 
 
 Bent o'er the verge in fiendish pride. 
 
 And saw her sink beneath the tide. 
 
 A loud, wild whoop burst on his ear; 
 
 He turned ; his dark cheek blanched with fear. 
 
 With shaft well set, and bended bow, 
 
 There stood Latope, his mortal foe ! 
 
 Quick sped the shaft ; he gave one yell, 
 
 Ivcaped high, and o'er the rock he fell. 
 
 And ere the wavelets ceased to curl 
 
 Their dimples o'er the Indian girl, 
 
 They oped to o'er her murderer close. 
 
 Then settled to a calm repose. 
 
 And oft, 'tis said, at early dawn. 
 
 Upon a rosy, summer morn, 
 
 Ivula is seen ; the rock her seat. 
 
 And wild flowers scattered at her feet. 
 
 And often at the close of day. 
 
 The hunter, with the locks of gre}^ 
 
 To listening youth the tale will tell. 
 
 And point the spot where Lula fell. 
 
 [1847.] 
 
 MY MUSE. 
 
 YH who have felt sly Cupid's darts. 
 Pierce through the centre of 5^our hearts, 
 And you alone can know 
 The love I feel, through woe or weal. 
 For my sweet * Erato. 
 
 * Erato : Goddess of poetry. 
 
MV MUSE. 57 
 
 In truth, she is an unco child, 
 
 Half Scotch, half Yankee, rude and wild ; 
 
 And by the powers above me, 
 She vows and swears, of Adam's heirs, 
 
 The best of all she'll love me. 
 
 One blink from her sweet, laughing eye. 
 Will ease my bosom of a sigh ; 
 
 Which those do say who 're learned, 
 In days of old, the secret told, 
 
 That love was warm returned. 
 
 When life's dark ills are round me presjsed, 
 And grief lies heavy on my breast, 
 
 How gently .she'll relieve me ; 
 Of each dark care will take a share, 
 
 Leaving but half to grieve me. 
 
 And so, when care and sorrow fly, 
 And mirth and pleasure light the ej^e, 
 
 She'll gladl}' take a part 
 In all ni}^ joy ; nor girl or boy 
 
 Can joke with merrier heart. 
 
 She is my friend and, aye, has been, 
 The truest one I have, I ken ; 
 
 And if she does not leave me. 
 The world may sneer, and frown and jeer, 
 
 It can do nought to grieve me. 
 
 [1847.] 
 
58 POEMS. 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 A TRUE TALE. 
 
 COME, seamen, lend a listening ear, 
 A sad tale I will tell 
 Of what, upon our Eastern coast, 
 
 A schooner's crew befell. 
 The vessel's name was Alice Brand, 
 
 Of eighty tons or more ; 
 A staunch, trim craft as ever sailed 
 The dark, blue waters o'er. 
 
 The schooner sailed from Boston, 
 
 Bound to port St. John, the pride 
 Of Brunswick, and the harbor best 
 
 On Fundy's northern side. 
 They had two passengers on board ; 
 
 A youth, well-formed and fair. 
 And one old man, with wrinkled brow 
 
 And locks of silver}^ hair. 
 
 That 3^oung man was a widow's son. 
 
 Her only darling boy ; 
 IvOng- absent, whom she fondly hoped 
 
 To meet again with joy. 
 Alread}^ Grand Menan was passed, 
 
 And the youth's heart beat high 
 To think the trip was well nigh o'er. 
 
 And his dear home was nigh. 
 
 The Captain had, stowed in the hold, 
 Ten casks of Holland gin. 
 
 And two of rum ; that fruitful source 
 Of guilt, and shame, and sin. 
 
THE WRECK. 59 
 
 And this must needs be smuggled in 
 
 To save the duties high ; 
 And craft and caution must be used 
 
 To 'scape the Law's keen eye. 
 
 The better to effect his plans, 
 
 He anchored in a ba}^ 
 Where holding-ground was very poor, 
 
 And 'twas unsafe to lay. 
 Had it not been for that cursed gin, 
 
 The thing had not been done ; 
 And they had lain at St. John's port, 
 
 Before the set of sun. 
 
 That night, before one cask of gin 
 
 Had been removed on shore, 
 A fearful storm broke o'er the sea 
 
 As ne'er was known before. 
 High rose the waves, and the wild blast 
 
 Came fiercely from the sea ; 
 Their anchor was their only hope, 
 
 And dark rocks on the lee. 
 
 That hope was vain, for soon its flukes 
 
 From their slight hold were riven ; 
 And, stern foremost, upon the rocks 
 
 They were with fury driven. 
 Fearful the scene that followed then ! 
 
 No mortal hand could save ; — 
 The youth, the old man, and the crew. 
 
 All found a watery grave. 
 
6o POEMS, 
 
 Next morn that lonely widow came 
 
 Down to the water's side 
 To, find her son, as their cold forms 
 
 Were rescued from the tide. 
 And when at length his cold, damp cla}^ 
 
 Upon the beach was lain. 
 The agony I then beheld 
 
 I would not see again. 
 
 I've witnessed scenes of blood and death 
 
 On shipboard and on shore. 
 But aught that touched my heart like that, 
 
 I ne'er had seen before. 
 " Would God that I had died for thee ! " 
 
 She cried, " M}^ dear, dear boy ! 
 Now gone is every earthly hope, 
 
 Gone the last ra}' of joy ! ' ' 
 
 She stood the picture of despair, 
 
 She could not even weep ; 
 Hers was a woe too keen for tears. 
 
 Hers was a grief too deep. 
 " O, my lost boy ! " she wildly said. 
 
 And sank down by his side. 
 And gently kissed his cold, damp brow. 
 
 And on his bosom died. 
 
 BIRTH OF ALCOHOL. 
 
 THE winds howled wildly o'er the heath, 
 And sighed among the trees ; 
 And groans, and yells, and wailing sighs 
 Were borne upon th^ breezy. 
 
BIRTH OF ALCOHOL. 61 
 
 The clouds, dark lowering o'er the earth, 
 
 With strange confusion piled, 
 In terror fled across the sky 
 
 With aspect drear and wild. 
 
 Each river, calmly flowing on 
 
 In its resistless course. 
 With wild affright turned quickly back 
 
 And ran toward its source. 
 The earth shook to its lowest depths, 
 
 With strong convulsions riven ; 
 Deep thunder rolled athwart the sky 
 
 That shook the vault of heaven. 
 
 Red lightnings flashing from the clouds 
 
 Like hissing serpents go. 
 Illuming with a fitful gleam 
 
 The direful scene below. 
 In agony, Old Ocean gave 
 
 A deep, tremendous roar ; 
 Each wave shrieked wildly as it rose 
 
 And dashed upon the shore. 
 
 The air was filled with horrid yells 
 
 Of demons from below ; 
 All nature seemed in sore distress 
 
 At some impending woe. 
 On such a night as f/ii's, Hell yawned. 
 
 To Alcohol gave birth, 
 And sent him forth, a subtle fiend, 
 
 To doubly curse the earth. 
 
 [1846.] 
 
62 POEMS. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 THE wheels of Time go swiftly round, 
 The years fly fast awa}^ ; 
 And shortly 'neath the clay-cold sod, 
 
 Both you and I must lay. 
 'Tis folly longer to delay, 
 
 Come now and be my bride ; 
 Together let us climb the hill. 
 And go down side by side. 
 
 I 
 
 AN ITEM IN THE PRICE OF FAME. 
 
 saw an old man bent with years, 
 Care-worn and weary now ; 
 His locks, white as the driven snow, 
 
 Fell o'er his wrinkled brow. 
 He sat beneath an old, grey oak. 
 
 With grief his head was bowed, 
 And tears ran down his furrowed cheeks. 
 He sighed, and wept aloud. 
 
 My heart was touched. I gently said, 
 
 " Old man, why dost thou weep ? 
 
 What grief brings sighs like these from thee, 
 
 What blighting sorrow deep ? ' ' 
 The old man slowly raised his head, 
 
 Roused by my gentle call. 
 Come, sit by me," he feebly said, 
 "And I will tell thee all." 
 
AN ITEM IN THE PRICE OF FAME. 63 
 
 I threw myself upon the ground, 
 
 All eagerness to hear ; 
 Drew close up to the old man's feet, 
 
 And bent a listening ear. 
 The old man slowly wiped the drops 
 
 From off his cheeks so pale ; 
 Heaved a deep sigh from his lone heart, 
 
 And thus began his tale : 
 
 " I had a vSon, and I had hoped, 
 (Here freshly flowed his tears), 
 His strong hand would have been a staff 
 
 To my declining years. 
 He was a youth by all beloved. 
 
 Obedient, good and kind ; 
 A handsome face, a manly form, 
 A bright, aspiring mind. 
 
 The time seemed short, backward to look, 
 
 And lightly had it flown. 
 Since he, an infant in my arms. 
 
 To manhood's form had grown, 
 lyife's current then was smooth and fair. 
 
 And calmly did it flow ; 
 And I had hoped those blissful days 
 
 No blighting change would know. 
 
 But he had heard of glittering Fame 
 
 Won on the field of blood ; 
 Where life's warm current from the heart. 
 
 Pours out its crimson flood. 
 
64 POEMS. 
 
 ' Jewels shine bright for me,' he cried, 
 ' High on the tower of Fame ; 
 And, Father, you must let me go 
 And win m3^self a navie. ' 
 
 ' O, say not so, my son,' I said, 
 ' I^ang syne thy mother died, 
 And I do fear if thou shouldst go, 
 
 Some evil will betide. 
 If thou shouldst fall upon the field. 
 
 Or sink beneath the wave, 
 My heart would break, I should go down 
 In sorrow to the grave.' 
 
 ' O, talk not thus, my Father, dear, 
 
 For when the war is o'er, 
 I will return again to thee, 
 
 And never leave thee more. 
 I will recount to thee my deeds. 
 
 And talk of victories won ; 
 Then, Father, thou canst truly be 
 
 Proud of thine only son.' 
 
 He kissed away the falling tear. 
 
 Said, ' Father, let me go.' 
 Thou dost not know a parent's heart, 
 
 I could 7iot say him no. 
 The morning when he left his home, 
 
 How freshly I remember ; 
 The sun shone brightly o'er the hills, 
 'Twas first of gay September. 
 
AN ITEM IN THE PRICE OF FAME. 65 
 
 His snow-white crest waved o'er his brow, 
 
 His eye flashed 3'outhfiil fire ; 
 And my old heart with rapture thrilled 
 
 To think /was his sire. 
 From time to time, tidings would come 
 Of many a red field won. 
 ' Glory but waits. Father,' he wrote, 
 ' To crown thine only son. 
 
 My name stands high in valor's ranks, 
 
 Untarnished by a stain ; 
 Only one bright field more to win. 
 
 And I'll be home again. 
 Fortune has smiled upon my hopes. 
 
 And blessed my youthful powers ; 
 One wreath of glory more to win, 
 
 And all we wish is ours.' 
 
 Three months flew by, and tidings came, 
 
 That bright field had been ta'en, 
 And laurels earned, and glory won, 
 
 But my poor son ivas slain. 
 From that sad day to this, vciy boy, 
 
 I have not known an' hour 
 Of joy ; but sickness, pain and woe, 
 
 In darkness o'er me lower. 
 
 My son was gone, my only hope. 
 
 Cut down in manhood's morn ; 
 And I have tottered down life's hill. 
 
 Benighted, weary, lorn. 
 lyCt war be cursed, (the old man said), 
 
 lyCt Favie be doubly cursed ! ' ' 
 He spake no more, his soul had fled 
 
 To Him who gave it first. [1847.] 
 
66 POEMS. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 
 
 SWEET Susan F., how gently now 
 Upon Death's ic}^ breast, 
 As if in slumber, calm and sweet, 
 
 Thy little head doth rest. 
 How placidly the blue- veined lid 
 
 Shuts o'er the rayless eye ; 
 How motionless th}^ tin}- hands 
 Upon thy bo.som lie. 
 
 In life, thou wert all innocence. 
 
 And joy, and glee and mirth ; 
 One of those golden cords, but strong, 
 
 That bind the soul to earth. 
 And well those friends that dearl}^ loved, 
 
 Maj^ weep around thee now ; 
 So beautiful a bud of hope 
 
 Is blighted on the bough. 
 
 In life, thou wert thy Mother's joy, 
 
 Thy Father's darling pride ; 
 A ray of sunshine, pure and bright. 
 
 That flashed athwart life's tide. 
 A gentle ray, that cheered their path 
 
 An instant, and was gone ; 
 Thy sun of life, that brightly rose. 
 
 Was clouded in its morn. 
 
 But blessed art thou, sweet Susan F., 
 Tho' friends around thee weep ; 
 
 For reckless of life's cares and ills. 
 How calml}^ wilt thou sleep. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 67 
 
 FrCvSh bloom the flowers around thy grave, 
 
 Green be the turf above thee ; 
 Thou hadst the love of mortals here, 
 
 But angels now will love thee. 
 
 TO ALICE. 
 
 ROMANTIC, roguish, romping Alice, 
 Thy heart is gay, and light, and careless 
 Thy spirits are as light and free 
 As the wild winds that kiss the .sea. 
 
 This is with thee life's morning now, 
 No care has furrowed o'er thy brow ; 
 Thy laughing eye is blue and bright, 
 Thy cheek is fair, thy step is light. 
 
 Be blithe and happy while you may ; 
 Joy is a thing that will not stay 
 Long in one place ; it soon is gone, 
 Life has no rose without a thorn. 
 
 Your romping days are nearly flown. 
 You soon will be a woman grown ; 
 For this is now life's early Sprifig, 
 Its Summer, different scenes will bring. 
 
 Tho' flowers of pleasure, fresh and bright, 
 Should lure the hand, and tempt the sight, 
 Be not in haste to pluck them quick, 
 Lest secret thorns should keenly prick. 
 
68 POEMS. 
 
 But then, I would not check the lark 
 In his sweet vSong, by presage dark 
 Of coming clouds, the morn is bright, 
 That is enough ; her heart is light. 
 
 May Slander, with his venomed tongue. 
 No pains bring to th}^ bosom 3'oung ; 
 May man's inconstancy ne'er grieve it, 
 May peace and happiness ne'er leave it. 
 
 But may St thou taste life's purest blisses, 
 Sweet peace of mind, and true love's kisses ; 
 And when its changeful scenes are o'er 
 Find blest repose on heavenly shore. 
 
 TO REBECCA. 
 
 REBECCA, that's a homely name, 
 I tell thee to begin with ; 
 Altho' it is a name I'm sure 
 
 You'll find but little sin with. 
 What is there in a splendid name ? 
 
 Nothing but idle fancy ; 
 The sw^eetest girls I ever knew 
 Were Sally, Betsey, Nancy. 
 
 But, fair Rebecca, I should think, 
 
 (Lord knows I never flatter). 
 Those two black e^^es of thine, so bright, 
 
 Would make a merry clatter 
 Among the youthful, gallant hearts 
 
 That, haply, chance to spy them ; 
 And those red, pouting lips of thine 
 
 Would tempt a saint to try them. 
 
TO REBECCA. 69 
 
 Thy foot, for beauty, size and grace, 
 
 Would rival Cinderella ; 
 Venus could not beside thee stand, 
 
 For Envy quick would kill her. 
 Thy arm was cast in beauty's mould. 
 
 Thy bosom, full and round ; 
 I wonder, really, for thy sake, 
 
 Some score have not been drowned. 
 
 Thy greatest charm is thy good heart, 
 
 A charm that none deny thee, 
 And one that all can plainly see, 
 
 Or else thy looks belie thee. 
 Adieu, fair maiden ; three good things 
 
 I find in thee combined : 
 A homely name, a beauteous form, 
 
 A chaste and lovely mind. 
 
 [1847-] 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 SCENE BETWEEN A STRANGER AND NORTHERNER ON THE 
 HILLS OF NEW ENGLAND.* 
 
 Stranger. T T ARK ! a sound of woe there cometh 
 1 1 On this balmy, southern gale. 
 Blowing gently o'er the hilltops. 
 
 Sighing sweetly through the vale. 
 Comes there a sound of bitter wailing, 
 
 As of millions sore oppressed. 
 As if heart and hand were failing. 
 And the soul was sore distressed. 
 
 * Written before the abolition of slavery. 
 
JO POEMS. 
 
 Hear those moans of bitter anguish, 
 
 As they murmur on the ear ! 
 Hear those groans of deep despairing, 
 
 Hear those yells of mortal fear ! 
 Does no pity swell thy bo.som ? 
 
 Is thine heart a heart of flint ? 
 Is thine eye a dewdrop frozen 
 
 That no tear is standing in't? 
 
 Are thy hands by terror palsied ? 
 
 In thine arm is there no might ? 
 Up! Thou sluggard ! Up, and gird thee 
 
 To do battle for the right ! 
 Northerner YLoXA ! My stranger, look thee southward, 
 
 Raise thy eye to middle air ; 
 See'st thati)ird with pinions wide spread 
 
 Over all the regions there ? 
 
 See his eye in sunbeams glisten, 
 
 Mark his talons and his beak ; 
 See his pinions, broad and downy. 
 
 Fitting shelter for the weak. 
 Stran. God of heaven! Am I dreaming? 
 
 Or do I a vision see ? 
 It is the bird beloved of freemen ! 
 
 'Tis the Eagle, Liberty ! 
 
 And, see ! There is vile Oppression 
 Forging fetters for the slave ! 
 
 Thriving like a lordly willow 
 When its roots the waters lave. 
 
LIBERTY. 71 
 
 See those beings, God's own image, 
 In the sunshine, toil and pant ! 
 
 See the driver with his long whip ! 
 O, my soul is sick and faint. 
 
 See them tearing — O, the pity — 
 
 A fond mother from her child ! 
 See her look of deep imploring, 
 
 Hear her shrieks of anguish wild ! 
 And, another ! God have mercy ! 
 
 See his torn and bleeding back ! 
 See his dark flesh twitch and quiver. 
 
 As his frame the tortures rack ! 
 
 Nor. Now, my stranger, wilt thou taunt us 
 
 That we here inactive lay ? 
 When the lyion watches o'er it. 
 
 Wilt thou take the lamb away ? 
 The dark fiend, Slavery, was banished 
 
 From thine own land o'er the sea ; 
 Here he proudly shouts dcfiarice, 
 'Neath the ivi'ngs of Liberty/ 
 
 Stran. O, thou bird that I have honored, 
 
 Bitter curses on thee rest ! 
 If thou wilt not bend thy pinions 
 
 In behalf of the oppressed. 
 Is thine ear deaf ? Art thou hood-winked ? 
 
 Dost thou hear no slave complain ? 
 See no deeds done 'neath thy broad wings 
 
 That belie thy sacred name ? 
 
72 POEMS. 
 
 Why did God those talons give thee ? 
 
 Was it to protect the strong, 
 Who have need of no protection ? 
 
 Was it to uphold a wrong ? 
 No ! it was not ; and I'll curse thee 
 
 If thou wilt not lend thy might, 
 To succor those who cry for mercy, 
 
 Cursed by Slavery's bitter blight. 
 
 Arouse ye ! Shake the stigma off thee ! 
 
 Now thou covered art with shame ! 
 Arouse ! and show to gazing nations 
 
 Actions worthy of thy name. 
 Mark Oppression, half begotten. 
 
 With thy keen and piercing eye ; 
 Strike thy talons to his vitals, 
 
 That the cursed wretch ma}^ die ! 
 
 Then rise thou o'er a land of freedom. 
 
 Peace, and happiness, and love ; 
 And a million tongues will bless thee 
 
 While the sky is blue above. 
 Toddling babes shall lisp thy praises, 
 
 Sturdy manhood sing of thee, 
 Hoar}^ sages tell the glories 
 
 Of the Eagle, Libciiy. 
 
 [1850.] 
 
THE ERRING. 73 
 
 THE ERRING. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY ON HEARING HER SEVERELY 
 CENSURE AN ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 " One point must still be greatly dark, 
 The moving zvhy they do it ; 
 And just as nearly can ye mark 
 How far, perhaps, they rue it." 
 
 Burns. 
 
 LOOK gentl}- on the erring, friend Maria. 
 On virtue's shrine to see the glowing fire 
 Completely smothered, and its light 
 Forever darkened, is a bitter sight. 
 Does thy young bosom hold a v^oman's heart, 
 And from thine eye no tear of pity start 
 When thou dost see a Sister fallen lov^, 
 Sowing dishonor, reaping bitter woe ? 
 Aye, reaping woe, for mortals cannot sin 
 And hear no murmurs from that voice within. 
 But what is true sin ? Do we ever know ? 
 May not the whirlwind o'er the driven snow 
 Scatter vile matter, and severely smite 
 With many a blemish, its fair surface white ? 
 And is it just to curse the tarnished sji07i', 
 And spare the li'ind that marred its bosom so ? 
 And may not passions, deep within us, strong, 
 Within a measure, force us to a wrong ; 
 Causes that work insidious, subtle, deep. 
 Trample on judgment, and its bounds o'erleap ? 
 Say, canst thou tell me, O Maria, zuhy 
 Are any mortals ivorse than you or I ? 
 Are we, by nature, purer far than they? 
 God, conscience, reason, all will answer, nay ! 
 
74 POEMS. 
 
 Then, O, why is it? There must be a cause 
 
 For all effects, for such are Nature's laws. 
 
 Pause, here, Maria, serious pause, and think. 
 
 Look at the picture ; do not from it shrink. 
 
 Read deep thyself, scan well thy soul, \hy mind, 
 
 Let Prejudice ne'er with his fetter bind. 
 
 Now, canst thou say, never in deed or word, 
 
 Or any action, hast thou ever erred ? 
 
 Never have yielded to temptation strong, 
 
 Or stepped aside to do a knoiving wrong f 
 
 But e'er have been enabled to pursue 
 
 The path of right, as far as right you knew? 
 
 Hast thou lived thus, ni}^ friend, Maria? Then 
 
 Thou mayst be free to judge thy fellowmen ; 
 
 But if wx see, as we are looking back. 
 
 That our own feet oft wander from the track 
 
 Of right and dut}^ then, how can we blame 
 
 Our fellow-mortals, if they do the same? 
 
 At the same points where they have wandered wide, 
 
 Our feet, perhaps, have never stepped aside ; 
 
 But at those points where the}- the path have kept, 
 
 Our nimble feet have o'er the barrier leapt. 
 
 Then, can we, should we, dare we say 
 
 That we, ourselves, are less to blame than the}'? 
 
 But what is Virtue? Canst thou tell me what? 
 
 Show me who has it, and who has it not. 
 
 Where does it flourish, in what land, what soil? 
 
 Is it spontaneous, or the growth of toil ? 
 
 Does it consist in any actions done. 
 
 That all the vile with deep abhorrence shun ? 
 
 If so, pray tell what is the deed or word 
 
 That in their breasts such strong disgust has stirred ? 
 
THE ERRING. 75 
 
 Does it consist in keeping from the touch 
 A precious gem, that none have sought to ckitch ? 
 For, if 'tis so, then all can plainly vSee, 
 Those who are virtuous, could not vicious be ; 
 And to the corps who fight on Virtue's side, 
 The meed of praise could never be applied. 
 The worth of ore no miner can decide, 
 'Till, by the fire, it has been fairly tried. 
 Think not, Maria, that I take the ground 
 That Virtue true, is nowhere to be found. 
 No, God forbid ; but then, a rule so high 
 That none can reach't, beneath our own blue sky, 
 I will not mark ; for much we do below 
 Is right or wrong, just as we make it so. 
 What, to the Jew, is sin beyond degree. 
 The Gentile does, and from the stain goes free. 
 All men are not precisely of one mind ; 
 You may see clearly, I, perhaps, am blind. 
 On certain points, may be, no two agree 
 Of all mankind, that live on land or sea. 
 Take this for granted, how can any give 
 A rule of life by which we all can live ? 
 But there is one, a glorious, heavenly rule, 
 By which the rich, the poor, the wise, the fool 
 Can live. 'Tis this : "To unto others do 
 As you would wish that they should do to you." 
 This, this, is Virtue, in its broadest term ; 
 Of peace and happiness, this is the very germ. 
 O'er life's rough path take this star for a guide, 
 And from the right thou ne'er wilt wander wide; 
 
^6 POEMS, 
 
 Thou wilt be happy, and make others so, 
 And Virtue's robes, with easy, graceful flow 
 And beauty rare, will be around thee cast, 
 And never fade while life itself shall last. 
 Judge not the Erring ! Dost thou ask me why ? 
 We cannot see with God's omniscient e3^e. 
 Each spring, each motive, that ma}' move the heart, 
 The Tempter's strength, or power against his art. 
 We 7iever know, and thus it is not meet 
 That we, 'gainst them, should fill the judgment seat. 
 
 Of all the beings sin hath ever cursed, 
 I would forgive an erring Sister first ; 
 And tho' in guilt I see her fallen low, 
 I'll spare a tear in pity for her woe. 
 
 [1846.] 
 
 SUBMISSION 
 
 I SAW a storm one summer day 
 Break o'er a green grove fair ; 
 Dark lowered the clouds, the thunder rolled, 
 
 And lightning rent the air. 
 The winds seemed gathered like a host 
 
 Of fiends, in vengeful wrath ; 
 And as they, howling loud, rushed by, 
 
 Destruction marked their path. 
 Among those trees a supple birch. 
 
 With branch and root unbroke. 
 Bowed lowly down, prone to the earth, 
 
 Beneath the tempest's stroke. 
 
SUBMISSION. 77 
 
 But when at length the winds were laid, 
 
 And the fierce gale was o'er, 
 Calmly it rose again, and stood 
 
 Majestic as before. 
 
 Near to the birch I marked a sturdy oak. 
 It would not bow beneath the tempest's stroke, — 
 With branches broken, and with roots uptorn. 
 Quickly 'twas laid a shattered wreck forlorn. 
 Ah, then I learned, whate'er be our condition, 
 The beauty, grace, and virtue of submission. 
 
 H 
 
 FIFTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 OW different some customs are 
 To mortals here below. 
 To what they were when I was young, 
 Some fifty years ago. 
 
 One wouldn't work, one wouldn't play 
 
 Or e'en profoundly think. 
 Unless he had a flowing glass 
 
 Of something good to drink. 
 
 A farmer in those good old times 
 
 Could never get his hay. 
 But he must have, besides his help, 
 
 A grog bill large to pay. 
 
 One wouldn't mow an acre o'er 
 
 Without a glass or so ; 
 His scythe was dull, or something else, 
 
 He couldn't make it go. 
 
78 POEMS. 
 
 One wouldn't have a " raising " then 
 
 Without a keg of rum ; 
 Else 'twas no use to ask a man, 
 
 Vox sure he would not come. 
 
 A hunter would not raise his piece 
 And look straight with his right eye, 
 
 Except he had to help his vsight, 
 A gla.ss or two of " white eye." 
 
 One wouldn't treat his friends at all, 
 And be thought anybody, 
 
 Unless he urged them all to drink 
 A glass of good warm toddy. 
 
 One wouldn't come home to his wife, 
 And scold, abuse, and kick her. 
 
 Unless he had to help him on 
 A few^ good horns of liquor. 
 
 A sailor wouldn't sing a song, 
 A Yankee wouldn't whittle, 
 
 With any kind of grace at all. 
 Without having a little. 
 
 The minister would never preach, 
 
 Extempore, or by note, 
 Unless he had a glass of wine 
 
 To guzzle down his throat. 
 
 The lawyer wouldn't plead at all, 
 For plaintiff or defendant. 
 
 Unless he he'd had a glass of gin, 
 And then there 'd be no end on't. 
 
FIFTY YEARS AGO. 79 
 
 The doctor wouldn't ride a mile 
 
 To save a man from dying, 
 But lie must have a drop of ' ' sling ' ' 
 
 Before he'd be for trying. 
 
 One would not mourn, e'en for the dead, 
 
 A friend, however near. 
 But he must have a glass of grog, 
 
 To prove himself sincere. 
 
 But now, thank heaven, we have a way 
 
 Much better and much shorter, 
 To do these things and onl}^ drink 
 
 The pure and sparkling water. 
 
 [1846.] 
 
 HENRY AND SERVILLA; 
 
 OR, THE DEATH BRIDAL. 
 
 F FRIENDS, for a moment lend an ear, 
 A sad song I will sing, 
 That from the eye unused to weep, 
 
 The briny drops will bring. 
 Among New Hampshire's granite hills 
 
 This sad affair occurred, 
 The like of which old hoary men 
 Had never dreamed or heard. 
 
 'Twas in New Boston, lovel^^ town, 
 Near where old " Jo's Hill " frowns, 
 
 And with its bald and rugged head 
 O'erlooks the neighboring towns. 
 
8o POEMS. 
 
 Within the vale two widows dwelt, 
 
 Unknown to fortune rare ; 
 Enough they had for all their wants, 
 
 And some perhaps to spare. 
 
 One had a daughter, just sixteen, 
 
 And bright she was and fair, 
 With sparkling ej^es and glowing cheeks, 
 
 And locks of glossy hair. 
 A son, the other widow had, 
 
 A brave and manlj^ youth, 
 And comely as you oft would see, 
 
 To say no more than truth. 
 
 He loved Servilla long and well, 
 
 (Surely it was not strange), 
 And happy was he in her love ; 
 
 But, ah ! there came a change. 
 What caused this sudden change, you ask ? 
 
 God knows, my friend, the why ; 
 Perhaps it was a better match 
 
 Within the mother's eye. 
 
 Perhaps it was some slanderous tales 
 
 Told at young Henry's cost ; 
 At any rate, whate'er the cause, 
 
 Servilla 's love was lost. 
 No more was he a welcome guest, 
 
 No more the maiden smiled ; 
 Her mother said that Henry N. 
 
 Should never wed her child. 
 
HENRY AND SERVILLA. 8i 
 
 lyike lightning on the sturdy oak, 
 
 Upon his soul it fell ; 
 He felt insulted, injured, .spurned, 
 
 Karth seemed a living hell ; 
 He begged, he prayed, in agony 
 
 No tongue or pen could tell ; 
 He loved, alas ! as few can love, — 
 
 " Not wisely, but too well." 
 
 He felt himself a helmless bark 
 
 O'er life's rough ocean driven ; 
 All faith, all hope, all love of life, 
 
 At one fell stroke seemed riven. 
 ' O God ! " he cried, " I cannot live 
 
 Without Servilla dear, — 
 A lovesick swain, for everyone 
 
 To taunt, and mock, and jeer." 
 
 Reason seemed tottering on her throne ; 
 
 His deep distress had turned 
 His brain, and for some dire revenge 
 
 His stricken spirit yearned. 
 He swore the maiden should be his 
 
 In death, if not in life ; 
 For O ! he could not, would not hear 
 
 Another call her wife. 
 
 With a strong soul he laid his plans, 
 
 Deliberate and cool. 
 And met Servilla one fair morn 
 
 Upon her way to school. 
 
82 POEMS. 
 
 He took the maiden by the hand, 
 " You shall be mine ! " he said, 
 Then drew a pistol from his breast 
 And shot her through the head. 
 
 Then with another shot himself, 
 
 And by her side he fell, 
 And from their wounds the life-blood flow'd 
 
 As from a crimson well. 
 It would have moved a heart of stone 
 
 To've view'd them side by side ; 
 The cold, pure snow their nuptial bed, — 
 
 A dead man and his bride ! 
 
 h 
 
 
 Death was the priest that joined them there, 
 
 With leve the bonds were sealed, 
 And broken vows in after years 
 
 Can never be revealed. 
 Friends, judge them not — God made the heart- 
 
 Our vision is but dim ; 
 Justice and mercy both are His, 
 
 We'll let them rest with Him. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S SONG. 
 
 OH how my heart sighs for the land of the West, 
 Where corn and potatoes luxuriant grow ; 
 Where the soil is so rich that it need not be dress' d— 
 A process so tedious, expensive and slow. 
 
THE EMIGRANT'S SONG. 83 
 
 There the rolling prairie is flower-gemmed and fair, 
 And the plow unmolested can run half a mile ; 
 
 And the seed when once sown needs from man little care, 
 And rivals in product the banks of the Nile. 
 
 New England may boast of her hills and her mountains, 
 Her schools, and her church-spires that point to the 
 sky ; 
 Her bright sparkling brooks and her clear crystal foun- 
 tains. 
 Her apples, and baked beans and rich pumpkin pie. 
 
 Give me the corn-dodger, so yellow and sweet, 
 With fried ham, and turkey, and chicken so rare. 
 
 And wild game and vension, a plenty to eat. 
 
 And such squashes and melons as grow only there. 
 
 There cities spring up like mushrosns from the ground, 
 
 And grow as they never grow here ; 
 And labor in plenty for the poor man is found. 
 
 And a fortune is made in a year. 
 
 Her rivers are mighty, her lakes are the same. 
 
 Her children warm hearted and free. 
 There are some who perfer at the East to remain, 
 
 But a home in the far West for me. 
 
 GEMS. 
 
 WHERE'ER you see a diamond bright. 
 Clear as pure water to the sight, 
 And sparkling like a star at night, — 
 There's a gem. 
 
84 POEMS. 
 
 Whene'er a maiden you have found, 
 By Fashion's glittering bands unbound ; 
 Heart leal and warm, head clear and sound, ^^ 
 There's a gem. 
 
 Whene'er 5^ou see a man of wealth 
 Do good to the poor, as if by stealth. 
 While thousands wish him peace and health,— 
 There's a gem. 
 
 When you have found a priest that teaches 
 Without regard to " coat and breeches," 
 And believes hwiselfoM that he preaches, — 
 There's a gem. 
 
 Whene'er you find a man, forsooth. 
 That eschewed folly in his youth. 
 And lives the golden rule, in truth, — 
 There's a gem. 
 
 A HARD WORLD TO LIVE IN. 
 
 " Life's a fought. 
 The canniest gate the stiife is sair." 
 
 —Burns. 
 
 THE Farmer, so sturdy, he delves and he digs. 
 To raise his fine cattle, his horses and pigs ; 
 In summer, each morning is up with the sun. 
 And toils in the heat till the day it is done. 
 But oft he will lose a fine ox or a calf. 
 And where he sought a whole profit, will get but a half. 
 His grasses so stout it is hard work to mow. 
 And every clip is a grunt and a blow. 
 
A HARD WORLD TO LIVE IN. 85 
 
 Till swearing and tired, he cries out, " I will give in ; 
 Do the best that you can, 'tis a hard zvorld to live in.'' 
 
 The Mechanic goes promptly each day to his work, 
 Not daring to rest, lest they call him a shirk. 
 He hammers, and tinkers, and chisels and drills ; 
 Without him no railroads, no churches, no mills. 
 But the farmer asks high for each thing that he raises, 
 And the priest wants a bit for his prayers and praises ; 
 The merchant must have just a few cents of profit, 
 And the butcher weighs light, not believing in tophet. 
 Thus, beset on all sides, with his outposts well driv' in, 
 He cries out "Alas ! 'tis a ha7^d world to live in.'' 
 
 The Doctor is often called up in the night. 
 
 Through mud and through slush, with old grim Death to 
 
 fight; 
 His powders explode when he don't mean to have 'em. 
 And his pills go down hard, for his patients don't 
 
 crave 'em. 
 Diseases are hidden — he fights on by guess. 
 Trusting that great Allah his labors will bless. 
 He doctors for rash when it proves to be measles, 
 And, spite of great Allah, then "pop go the weasles." 
 Then he says to himself, "Faith! there's small use for 
 
 grieving ; 
 You've gone, my dead friend, from a hard zvorld to 
 
 live in." 
 
 The Merchant is happy, so some people think, 
 Life's thread it runs smoothly, with never a kink ; 
 Btt let him step aside and they take the same spot, 
 And they'll find pretty often a savage old knot. 
 
86 POEMS. 
 
 He oft buys for credit and sells for the same, 
 
 Which is not just like dollars to pay off a claim ; 
 
 And when bills are presented that cannot be paid, 
 
 He oftentimes wishes he ne'er had been made. 
 
 The ladies come in and he takes his goods down. 
 
 With the vain hope of selling a skirt or a gown ; 
 
 They'll ask to see this, and they'll ask to see that, 
 
 From a ten-dollar shawl to a ninepenny hat ; 
 
 Till they've emptied his shelves, and got him in a bother; 
 
 Then they pop out, "Good morning, we'll look a bit 
 
 farther. ' ' 
 In a pet, he exclaims, " This is worse than low thieving ; 
 And certain I am, 'tis a hard ivorld to live in.'' 
 
 The Lawyer, so honest, works hard at his brief, 
 
 Or gets up an alibi, clearing a thief ; 
 
 He'll make out the murderer naught but a saint. 
 
 When all in that region know well that he ain't. 
 
 For a bit of advice he will charge a big fee. 
 
 Sure the Lawyer, some think, must live happy and free ; 
 
 But sometimes his cases come in rather slow, 
 
 And he tires of his law books, — a hideous row, — 
 
 Some clients can't pay, and some won't w^hen they can ; 
 
 Were it not for the law, their own hides he would tan. 
 
 Shut up in his ofhce, he grows spare and pale ; 
 
 In spite of good " Scheidam," "Old Bourbon " and ale ; 
 
 Till he says, ' ' To kill time is the worst case I've striv' in, 
 
 And my verdict is this — His a hard zvorld to live in.'' 
 
 The Printer is bus}^ with type and with ink. 
 Embalming the thoughts other people may think ; 
 Tho' many that creep from the skulls of some ' ' nummies ' ' 
 Are as dead in all truth as the blackest old mummies. 
 
A HARD WORLD TO LIVE IN. 87 
 
 As a luncheon between meals, he often has "pi ; " 
 Tho' the doctor has told him he must not live high. 
 He works with his fingers, his eye and his brain, 
 To set up his types and to take down again. 
 He ever wants " copy," fresh matter and news, 
 But in spite of them all, he can't keep off the blues ; 
 And he says — but I've thought that he might be 
 
 deceivin' — 
 " 'Tis ti^ice as a book, a deuced hard world to live in." 
 
 The Parson exhorts, while he inwardly swears, 
 
 " By the hill o' Houth there's no virtue in prayers ; 
 
 For I ever am thrown in my wrestling with evil ; 
 
 If the Lord's done his best, He's no match for the Devil. 
 
 I've preached upon slavery, slander and rum, 
 
 But at each week-day meeting the people don't come ; 
 
 Except a few elders, all vigorous sinners 
 
 Are off to the circus, the race, or grand dinners. 
 
 They don't seem inclined to believe hell will hurt 'em, 
 
 And, tho' doing my best, I fail to convert 'em ; 
 
 I've reached the conclusion it takes a true saint 
 
 To preach all his litetime and never once faint ; 
 
 And when I reach heaven and my reckoning give in, 
 
 I'll just whisper the judge, ' Twas a hardzvorld to live in.' ' 
 
 The Schoolmaster teaches ideas how to shoot, 
 
 And uses his ferrule or toe of his boot 
 
 To help off the charge, when more gentle means fail, 
 
 Some hitting a cabbage, and others a kail. 
 
 He coaxes and flatters, and studies and writes, 
 
 Sets copies o' mornings, and cyphers o' nights, 
 
88 POEMS. 
 
 Up the old hill of science to force them along ; 
 A rough road at best for the well and the strong. 
 Some mount aloft sudden, and he cheers with a shout, 
 When downward they fizzle, like a rocket gone out. 
 He tries to please all, but some think him too strict, 
 While others want Sail or Dick handsomely licked. 
 Thus, careworn and weary, he almost despairs, 
 Saying — " I^ife has some wheat, but a plenty of tares ; 
 Truth lies in a well, and so deeply I've div' in, 
 I'm forced to exclaim, 'tis a hard world to live in! " 
 
 The Editor serves mental food to the masses, 
 While doing his best to stand well with all classes ; 
 But he finds the great public, so Stern and so fickle. 
 Is quite apt to ' ' cut ' ' him unless he ^dll tickle 
 Their palates with something that's/?r^// every daj^ 
 They sometimes stop work, but he never must play. 
 Then he says to himself, ' ' Were it not for my sheai^s, 
 My life would be clipped of a good many years. 
 I believe with Saint Kitts, there's some righteous de- 
 
 ceivin', 
 If not, then I'm .sure tis a hard zvorld to live in.'' 
 
 [I857-] 
 
 MILL GLEN, 
 
 Mill Glen is a pleasant place 
 Jocund laugh and smiling face 
 Make each day seem full of grace ; 
 Is it not a heaven ? 
 
MILL GLEN. 89 
 
 Here the beauteous Norway pine, 
 With the hemlock still more fine, 
 And the beech with rude outline, 
 lyift their branches skyward. 
 
 Here the robin and blackbird 
 Sing as fine as e'er was heard. 
 But I do not know a word 
 
 That they sing so sweetly. 
 
 Here the partridge and the hare 
 Are deftly taken in the snare, 
 Which the children tend with care 
 In the autumn golden. 
 
 Here the pickerel and the pout 
 By skillful hands are taken out. 
 When June's long days come about. 
 And the sky is hazy. 
 
 Here the mill hums all the day. 
 And the waters dash their spray 
 O'er the rocks and glide away 
 Toward the mighty ocean. 
 
 Here the boat glides from the shore. 
 Two young girls pulling at the oar, 
 Singing the light song of the rower. 
 In the shades of even. 
 
 All around are hills and swells. 
 All around are nooks and dells. 
 Where bright fancy weaves her spells 
 In the hours of leisure. 
 
 12 
 
90 POEMS. 
 
 Now methinks I hear 3^ou say, 
 '* I should like to go and stay 
 In that lovely spot alwa}^ 
 For it must be heaven." 
 
 Only give us hearts of love, 
 All pride and selfishness above, 
 And where'er we rest or rove. 
 Every place is heaven. 
 
 ODE TO SOUHEGAN.* 
 
 All hail ! Souhegan, lovely mountain stream ! 
 
 In wooded glen, where cr3^stal fountains gleam 
 
 And bubble forth in sparkling, dancing rills. 
 
 That 'mong the rocks go trinkling down the hills. 
 
 Leaping and laughing, as in jocund mirth ; 
 
 From towns retired thou hadst thy humble birth. 
 
 In summer time, when Sol with burning e3^e 
 
 Looks down upon thee from a yellow sky, 
 
 And earth is parched, and streams and founts are dried, 
 
 A child almost might dam thy shallow tide ; 
 
 Might wade thee through, as one would walk the land. 
 
 And pla}^ and gambol o'er thy yellow sand. 
 
 But when in Spring the snow melts from the hills. 
 
 And changed to torrents are the trickling rills, 
 
 Running with fury down the rugged steep 
 
 To quickly fill thy crooked channel deep ; 
 
 Then down thou rusheth from thy mountain source^ 
 
 Nor mortal hand can check thy headlong course. * 
 
 *A beautiful river in Hillsborough County, N. H., on the banks of which the Author 
 spent the days of his youth. 
 
ODE TO SOUHEGAN. 91 
 
 Thy ample channel cannot hold thy waves, 
 
 A broader path the rising torrent craves, 
 
 And o'er thy banks flows down on either side, 
 
 A roaring flood, impetuous, foaming wide. 
 
 All those who would thy pride and glory see, 
 
 At such a time mu.st come and gaze on thee, 
 
 And they will feel a strange sensation creep 
 
 Around their souls, to see thy waters leap 
 
 Adown the rocks, like chamois in affright, 
 
 Chased by some hunter down a mountain height. 
 
 They'll own thee glorious, romantic, wild, 
 
 No vStripling's toy, no plaything for a child. 
 
 And thy sweet banks in May or bonnie June, 
 
 An unstrung soul 'twould set in perfect tune 
 
 To visit, stroll among thy glades, 
 
 And sit beneath thy glorious shagbark shades, 
 
 lyist to the murmur of thy rippling waves 
 
 As root, log, stone the rapid current laves, 
 
 Sending forth murmurs mellow, low and sweet, 
 
 Fit music sure a seraph's ear to greet. 
 
 The bob-o'-link, who loves thy turf vSO green, 
 
 Springs from the ground and sings of love I ween. 
 
 Or something else that brings a song as sweet, 
 
 Lively, melodious, varied, never beat. 
 
 The sparrow, robin, blackbird and brown thrush, 
 
 Sing 'mong thy trees, or warble in the brush ; 
 
 And who that hears such concord of sweet sounds, 
 
 Can say no balm has touched their soul's deep wounds, 
 
 However made — by human love or hate. 
 
 Or some keen arrow from the bow of Fate. 
 
92 POEMS. 
 
 All of thy songsters have not beak and wing, 
 
 For just as sweet the " Sons of Jesse " sing,* 
 
 Thy sons, Souhegan, bred upon thy banks, 
 
 Their childhood's home, scene of their youthful pranks. 
 
 And sure, from thee the song spirit was caught 
 
 In days of youth, from what thy music taught ; 
 
 Grew with their growth, and strengthened wath their 
 
 strength. 
 Till all have heard throughout the breadth and length 
 Of our fair land; and e'en be5^ond the sea 
 They've warbled forth sweet sounds of melody. 
 For them I'll speak, and boldly dare to say, 
 When from their homes the farthest league away, 
 Tho' Fortune smiled, and with her bounties blessed. 
 And earth's high lords have flattered and caressed. 
 Their thoughts oft have flown o'er the heaving main. 
 And their hearts yearned for thy fair banks again. 
 What they have been, long may they ever be. 
 An honor bright to Yankee land and thee. 
 Thy verdant banks, a deep alluvial soil. 
 Yield rich reward to those that on them toil ; 
 And nowhere round are found such heavy crops 
 As they can boast, of corn, grass, oats and hops. 
 And those who are by title clear possessed 
 Of some small part, are looked upon as blessed 
 By their good neighbors, having no such claim 
 To thy rich soil, and envied by the same. 
 At Autumn's dawn, what troops of merry girls 
 With glowing cheeks, half hid by glossy curls, 
 And sparkling eyes, and teeth of pearly white, 
 And rosy lips, and spirits gay and light, 
 
 ♦The Hutchinson family. 
 
ODE TO SOUHEGAN, 93 
 
 Meet on thy banks, well dressed in tidy clothes, 
 To pick the hops, and set their caps for beaux. 
 At Milford town, of all thy towns the pride. 
 Two noble arches span thy pent-up tide ; 
 Not long pent up ; no man can bind thee long, 
 Quickly thou'lt leap adown the barrier strong. 
 And onward rush toward thy goal, the sea. 
 Untamed, unshackled, unenslaved and free ! 
 All hail ! Souhegan, lovely mountain stream ! 
 May thy bold sons be ever what they seem. 
 And thy fair daughters eschew all deceit, 
 Speak as they mean, and be as good as sweet ; 
 And to thy praises, at no distant day. 
 Some nobler bard shall dedicate his lay. 
 
 [1849.] 
 
 THE QUILTING. 
 
 COME list ! I'll sing of days gone by, 
 When I was in my prime ; 
 And tell of the merry quilting bee. 
 
 In the mellow Autumn time. 
 'Twas at the house of Deacon lyce, 
 
 There was to be a wedding ; 
 Betty was going to marry Tim, 
 And must not lack for bedding. 
 
 She had a quilt put in the frame, 
 
 And all the maids invited 
 That lived within the neighborhood ; 
 
 Nor were the young men slighted. 
 
94 POEMS. 
 
 They were to come at evening time, 
 
 And have a social play, 
 And see the lassies safel}^ home, 
 
 Or short, or long the way. 
 
 In Mother Lee's " fore room " we met, 
 
 All in the evening early, 
 Tom, Ralph and Bob, and Charley John, 
 
 With glossy locks and curly. 
 The girls were all in highest glee 
 
 When the new quilt was done ; 
 And as they had worked hard and long. 
 
 Were ready for the fun. 
 
 When it was bound and finished off, 
 
 'Twas thrown o'er Bet and Tim, 
 To christen it, as they all said — 
 
 Doubtless an old wife's whim. 
 The frame was quickly taken down, 
 
 Tied up and laid awa}^ ; 
 The chairs arranged around the room. 
 
 And then began the play. 
 
 " Forfeity box " commenced the sport, 
 
 Each guessing as he saw fit. 
 But whether it was right or wrong, 
 
 We made them pay a forfeit. 
 Right merrily the time flew by. 
 
 Guessing and c^oo^iw^ judges , 
 Who laid in them hard sometimes, 
 
 In paying off old grudges. 
 
THE QUILTING. 95 
 
 Charlotte lycroy she gave out word 
 
 That no young man should kiss her, 
 And the gallants in " going to Rome," 
 
 Were thus constrained to miss her. 
 At last it came the turn of Ralph, 
 
 And he swore by his rifle 
 He'd kiss the maid, or pay a " treat," 
 
 Which surely was no trifle. 
 
 And when he reached the supple lass. 
 
 There was a merry tussle ; 
 Her comb soon fell upon the floor, 
 
 Quick followed by her bustle. 
 Her hair unbound, fell down her back, 
 
 And floated o'er her shoulders, 
 That rose from out her low-necked dress. 
 
 Like two snow-coyered boulders. 
 
 She jumped and writhed, and pulled his hair, 
 
 And cuffed his ears, and scratched him, 
 And for a moment then we thought 
 
 The jade had fairly matched him. 
 She struck him fair upon the nose, 
 
 Which tapped a stream of claret, 
 To which he paid but little heed, 
 
 Knowing he well could spaie it. 
 
 Ralph eager followed up the fight. 
 Till round both arms he seized her, 
 
 And with a hunter's strong embrace, 
 Right manfully he squeezed her. 
 
96 POEMS. 
 
 Then kissed her full upon the lips, 
 Daubing her cheeks with scarlet, 
 
 Saying, " Now, my blushing heart}', go — 
 I've done with you, my Charlotte." 
 
 Maggie and Bob they undertook 
 
 To make what's called a "rye cart," 
 And sure, to do the thing up brown, 
 
 I think is quite a high art. 
 He raised one knee, and stretched one arm 
 
 To keep the maid from falling. 
 But did not count upon her weight. 
 
 And down they both went sprawling. 
 
 Betty and Tim they both sat down 
 
 To make a ' ' Lordy Marcy ; ' ' 
 My readers all know what it is 
 
 And how 'tis made I dare sa}^ 
 Tom with two 'kerchiefs made a loop. 
 
 And as their lips met sweetly, 
 He threw it over both their heads, 
 
 And fastened them completely. 
 
 We sang ' ' Green grow the rushes, O ! " 
 
 And played " hunt up the thimble," 
 Which was not easy found, I ween. 
 
 It circled round so nimble ; 
 And many other good old plays 
 
 I have no time to tell. 
 Until the short hours of the morn 
 
 Rang from the old clock bell. 
 
THE QUILTING, 97 
 
 Then there was putting on of things, 
 
 And going off in pairs, 
 Some young and green, diffident, 
 
 Some with coquettish airs, 
 Ralph waited upon Charlotte home, 
 
 And old folks said, " Depend on't, 
 Though he fought hard to kiss her once, 
 
 This will not be the end on't." 
 
 Thus ended Betty's quilting, and, 
 
 To say the truth, next morning 
 I rose behind the sun, and then 
 
 Felt very much like yawning. 
 And tho' some years have flown since then, 
 
 When I was in my prime, 
 I'll ne'er forget that merry night 
 
 In the mellow Autumn time. 
 
 LIFE ON THE LAND. 
 
 SOME love a life on the ocean wave, 
 A life on the rolling sea ; 
 Give them the tide 
 With all its pride, 
 But a life on the land for me. 
 A life on the land where the gay flowers bloom, 
 
 And the wild birds sweetly sing ; 
 Where the children's shout bursts wildly out, 
 Making the welkin ring. 
 
98 POEMS. 
 
 O the wave, it hath loveliness, beauty and grace, 
 
 The wave it hath poetry ; 
 And I love its wild roar as it breaks on the shore, 
 
 But a life on the land for me. 
 
 Some love a life on the heaving main, 
 A life on the dark blue sea ; 
 Give them the tide 
 With all its pride. 
 But a life on the land for me. 
 A life on the land, where the forest trees tower, 
 
 And the deer bounds over the lea. 
 Where the hunter can roam in his wilderness home, 
 
 As wild as the buck and as free. 
 O the wave may bring splendor, the wave may 
 bring wealth, 
 The wave may bring luxury ; 
 And those who are bold may take her fine gol4, 
 But a life on the land for me. 
 
 Some love a life on the mighty deep, 
 
 A life on the stormy sea ; 
 Give them the tide 
 With all its pride, 
 
 But a life on the land for me. 
 A life on the land, where the farmer can toil, 
 
 And turn up the soil with the plow, 
 And in Autumn so bright he can look with delight 
 
 On his sheep, swine, cattle and mow. 
 O the wave, it hath majesty, glory and power, 
 
 The wave hath sublimity ; 
 And those ma}' be blessed who to}^ w^ith her breast, 
 
 But a life on the land for me. 
 
A LIFE ON THE LAND. 99 
 
 Some love a life on the crested wave, 
 
 A Life on the foaming sea ; 
 Give them the tide 
 With all its pride, 
 
 But a life on the land for me. 
 A life on the land where the friends that I love 
 
 Are living around me near. 
 Where oft we can meet in our cottages neat, 
 
 Each other to comfort and cheer. 
 O the wave, it hath beauty glory and wealth, 
 
 The wave it hath majesty, 
 And I marvel not it hath lovers got, 
 
 But a life on the land for me. 
 
 THE SLEIGH RIDE; 
 
 OR, JOKE FOR JOKE. 
 
 THE winds from off the mountains blew 
 The snow was driving fast 
 A blinding tempest o'er the heath. 
 And loudly roared the blast. 
 
 The logs were heaped upon the hearth, 
 The fire glowed bright and warm ; 
 
 The winds without might howl and roar, 
 I heeded not the storm. 
 
 My book had fallen from my hand. 
 
 And I was loudly snoring, 
 When who should slip in at the door, 
 
 But wild young Tommy Coring. 
 
100 POEMS. 
 
 Tom, wicked rogue, aye loved a joke, 
 And now being bent upon it. 
 
 Stepped slyly up and pulled m.y chair 
 From under — what was on it. 
 
 Now I was in a dream so sweet, 
 Just kissing Emma Judden, 
 
 When my heels flew above my head, 
 And I came down full sudden. 
 
 My eyes came open with a jerk. 
 
 (And if an oath is sinning, 
 I'll own I am not wholly pure,) 
 
 And there stood Tom a grinning. 
 
 I hushed my wrath when I saw Tom, 
 For Tommy dearly loved me. 
 
 And I well knew he had but paid 
 A debt he justly owed me. 
 
 " Come sit ye down, friend Tom," I said. 
 (" This joke I will remember). 
 And tell me what has brought you out 
 This rough day in December." 
 
 " The case is this," friend Tom replied, 
 " We've got a sleigh ride brewin'. 
 And six or eight are in the plot. 
 And I've come to get you in." 
 
THE SLEIGH RIDE, loi 
 
 That needs but little talk," quoth I, 
 " You are a winsome coot, Tom, 
 And I'll be with you heart and hand ; 
 When is it to come off, Tom ? " 
 
 To-morrow morning we've agreed, 
 
 If it is pleasant weather. 
 To meet all at the village inn, 
 
 And start from there together." 
 
 Next morning, many a farmer's horse 
 
 Was more than usual curried. 
 And ate an extra quart of oats. 
 
 And to the sleigh was hurried. 
 
 And many a lass was early dressed 
 
 With cloak and muff and tippet. 
 And promptly when their lads drove up. 
 
 Out to the sleighs did trip it. 
 
 Then from the inn we started all, 
 
 A score of lads and lassies, 
 And took the road across the plain, 
 
 And through the Nor' land passes. 
 
 Tom and his sweetheart led the van, 
 
 While I came next in order. 
 With Emma Judden by my side, — 
 
 The fairest on our border. 
 
 Bob Morris he was next behind, 
 
 And next came Charley Tajdor, 
 And as a rear guard to the whole, 
 
 Rode Skysail Jack the sailor. 
 
I02 POEMS. 
 
 And fast and far, o'er hill and dale, 
 Our sleighs went smoothly gliding ; 
 
 While laugh and shout rang wildl}^ out,- 
 O it was merr>^ riding. 
 
 And 'pon my faith I could not tell 
 Which made in truth most noise, 
 
 The bells upon the horses' necks, 
 Or belles beside the boys. 
 
 We stopped all at a country inn. 
 And (true as I'm a sinner) 
 
 Told our good landlord to prepare 
 The best he had for dinner. 
 
 Now I was thinking of the fall 
 Tom day before did gi'e me, 
 
 And slyly from among the group 
 Slip'd out when no one see me. 
 
 Tom's sleigh had a gay dashing front, 
 By which I quickh' found it, 
 
 And loosened every bolt and pin 
 That to the runners bound it. 
 
 And when ourselves and nags had fed 
 We took the road once more. 
 
 And Tom agreed to go behind. 
 If I would go before. 
 
 For two-three miles things went off well. 
 And Tom was gay and merry, 
 
 And very social with his lass — 
 The blushing Sally Perry. 
 
THE SLEIGH RIDE. 103 
 
 But when a cradle hole he struck 
 
 In passing through Horn's valley, 
 The runners slipped from under Tom, 
 
 And set him and his Sally 
 
 Sans ceremony " in the snow ; 
 
 And his good nag not wotting 
 He was so much desired to stop, 
 
 Still kept on homeward trotting. 
 
 Tom shouted with a lusty voice. 
 
 But none were very near him, 
 And our good bells made such a noise 
 
 That no one chanced to hear him. 
 
 Kachone had business of his ozvn, 
 
 Nor knew from Tom we'd parted, 
 Until we all stopped at the place 
 
 From whence we first had started. 
 
 Where's Tom? " quoth I, feigning surprise ; 
 " Where's Tom ? " sa3\s Jack and Sammy ; 
 Here are the runners and the horse. 
 But Where's the top and Tommy ? " 
 
 Then each one stood right sore amazed, 
 
 When up came Tom and Sally, 
 With an old farmer's horse and sleigh 
 
 He'd hired at the valle3\ 
 
 Hurrah for Tom ! " I shouted out ; 
 ' ' Hurrah for Sally fair ! 
 And hurrah for his lumber sleigh 
 And for his si>avi7ied viare / " 
 
104 POEMS. 
 
 Then each one gave gave three cheers for Tom, 
 
 The gallant and true-hearted, 
 Then quickly took his bonnie lass 
 
 And for his home departed. 
 
 And from that merry day to this 
 
 Tom has been like a brother ; 
 He has not played a joke on me, 
 
 Nor I on him another. 
 
 GOOD WISHES. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON THE MORNING AFTER HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 The morn is fresh and bright and fair. 
 
 Sweet flowers are blooming everywhere ; 
 
 Blue skies o'erhead, and .soft gales blowing, 
 
 All nature seems with joy o'erfiowing. 
 
 May this fair morn an emblem be 
 
 Of what life has in store for thee. 
 May thy fair brow with flowers of joy be wreathed. 
 Those vows remembered that you last night breathed ; 
 Those cords ne'er chafe by which Hymen has bound 
 
 thee, 
 And peace and love be ever thrown around thee ; 
 No clouds of grief or dark tempestuous strife. 
 E'er throw a shadow^ o'er the path of life. 
 This morning bright and fair, begins a day 
 Remembered oft as o'er life's devious way 
 Time's car is sped, and when you're looking back, 
 May't ever be a bright spot on life's track ; 
 
GOOD WISHES. 105 
 
 May he who claims thee as his better part. 
 Ne'er rue the day he took thee to his heart ; 
 But, till life's sun sets in a golden west, 
 Deem this fair morn as one supremely blessed ; 
 May he prove generous, brave and kind, 
 A noble soul, to little foibles blind ; 
 And in his wife see ever truest worth, 
 Counting her love the greatest boon on earth. 
 May you prove worthy one so good and true. 
 And love him ever, well as he loves you ; 
 Then all my wishes will be sweetly crowned, 
 No happier pair can on the earth be found. 
 And when at last the scenes of life shall close, 
 And the soul passes to a bless' d repose. 
 May those behind, who knew thee best in life, 
 Speak of thee, Mary, as a model wife. 
 
 TO MY SISTER KATE, 
 
 ON HER LEAVING HOME A WIFE. 
 
 DEAR sister, thou hast left us now 
 A brother's blessing rest 
 Upon thy fair and open brow ; 
 May no dark ills be pressed 
 Around it, and when furrowed o'er, 
 
 May it be by TiDte, not Care, 
 And may the curse of blighted hopes. 
 Ne'er throw a shadow there. 
 
io6 POEMS. 
 
 Our childhood's days have quickly passed, 
 
 Just like the April snow ; 
 And on our cheeks the gales of June, 
 
 In life's warm summer blow. 
 Our childhood's days ! — backward to look, 
 
 How bright the picture gleams. 
 As the soft sunlight of the past 
 
 Throws o'er it its bright beams. 
 
 And yet, perhaps, w^hen our own feet 
 
 Were tripping o'er the track. 
 The path was darker than 'twould seem 
 
 As we are looking back. 
 Those were the days of fantasy. 
 
 Of castles in the air. 
 Of hopes and dreams and romance wild, 
 
 And all seemed bright and fair ; 
 
 But they, like other things of earth, 
 
 For a3^e have passed away ; 
 And in the twilight of the past, 
 
 A picture fair they la}'. 
 But let us trust a God of IvOve, 
 
 That life's summer will bring 
 "yis flowers as fair and pure and sweet 
 
 As those we culled in Spring. 
 
 Sweet sister, thou art gone to be 
 The bride of the lone-hearted. 
 
 And I have left the home of youth. 
 And we are fairly parted. 
 
TO MY SISTER KATE. 107 
 
 Th.^ girl for ivonian is exchanged, 
 
 The maiden for the zvife ; 
 Ties new and strong are round thee thrown, 
 
 That part not but with Hfe. 
 
 O ma}^ you prove a source of love, 
 
 And hope, and joy, and pride 
 To him who loved thee, gently wooed, 
 
 And won thee for his bride. 
 And may life's blessings round thee flow, 
 
 The choicest Heaven can give; 
 Flowers grow so thick along life's path 
 
 That no vile weed can live. 
 
 Sweet sister, art thou gone ? Good by ! 
 
 A brother's blessing rest 
 On thee and thine, until life's sun 
 
 Sets in a golden west. 
 And when thy spirit, pure and free. 
 
 Has gone to Him who gave, 
 May tears from those who knew thee best 
 
 Fall o'er a loved one's grave. 
 
 [1848]. 
 
 SONG OF THE VEGETARIAN. 
 
 YES, brothers, yes ! the scale is turned, 
 A brighter look earth wears ; 
 The new religion that we've learned 
 
 Will cheat life of its cares. 
 The products of our mother earth 
 
 We now eat pure and simple ; 
 Causing our cheeks to glow with mirth 
 And not with blotch and pimple. 
 
io8 POEMS. 
 
 A few days' labor will suffice 
 
 To feed us for a year ; 
 Beans, peas and apples, corn and rice, 
 
 We deem most luscious cheer. 
 Cheap pleasures we have found the best, 
 
 Cheap dishes the most healthy ; 
 And those w^ho eat them with a zest, 
 
 Tho' poor in purse, are wealth3^ 
 
 No Jew could deem swine more unclean, 
 
 Brothers, than we do now, 
 And to eschew it, fat or lean. 
 
 Forever let us vow. 
 How the pure soul shrinks with disgust 
 
 From blood — and cries of fear 
 Of dying beasts, e'en those who lust 
 
 For flesh, like not to hear. 
 
 O who, if they should have for guest 
 
 An angel from the skies, 
 Would say, " sit up and stuff your vest 
 
 With tripe, and ham and pies ; 
 Here are some sausages well fried. 
 
 Some chicken nicely done, 
 Some beef that's neatly smoked and dried, 
 / And pound-cake near a ton. 
 
 Sit up, kind friend, and ply the steel, . 
 
 I trust you will be able 
 To make a good sufficient meal 
 
 At this, my frugal table." 
 
SONG OF THE VEGETARIAN. ' 109 
 
 How ludicroUvS the bare idea ! 
 
 And should we not aspire, 
 Tho' dwellers in a lower sphere, 
 
 To reach at length the higher ? 
 Ho ! brothers of the newer birth, 
 
 I joy to join your band ; 
 And let us speed to make the earth . 
 
 The sighed for "Happy Land." 
 
 NEW YEAR WISHES. 
 
 I WISH that love might banish fear 
 From out your heart the coming year, 
 And ever after ; 
 I wish that home your heaven might be ; 
 And the short hours go rippling free. 
 With happy laughter. 
 
 WHY I LOVE HER. 
 
 YOU ask me why I love her, Tom ? 
 Not because she is fair ; 
 Not for her fresh and blooming cheeks, 
 
 Her dark and glossy hair. 
 You ask me why I love her, Tom ; 
 
 Not for her pretty waist, 
 Altho' she has a form as fair 
 As ever mortal graced. 
 
no POEMS. 
 
 You ask me why I love her, Tom ; 
 
 Not for her lineage high, 
 O no, for she was lowly born — 
 
 As humble e'en as I ; 
 It is not for her soft, white hand. 
 
 Nor for her foot so small ; 
 O no, it is for none of these. 
 
 For none of these at all. 
 
 • 
 
 But I do love her, and I'll tell 
 
 The wherefore and the why ; 
 'Tis for the sweet, good nature 
 
 That sparkles in her eye ; 
 'Tis for her warm and generous heart, 
 
 So full of mirth and glee ; 
 But I do love her best of all 
 
 Because that she loves me. 
 
 ^____ [1846.] 
 
 LEAP YEAR. 
 
 A WORD TO THE LADIES. 
 
 LEAP year has come ; now ladies take it 
 And try and see how you can make it 
 At courting. Faith ! I have been trying, 
 Talking of " Cupid's darts," and sighing. 
 These two years, and they've given back 
 Nought but the " mitten," alias " sack." 
 There does not heave a single breast 
 In sympathy with my unrest ; 
 I do not hear love's whispered tone 
 In gentle answer to my own ; 
 
LEAP YEAR, m 
 
 I see whole scores of tempting lips, 
 
 Red as a pair of bay wood chips, 
 
 And those who have had leave to kiss 
 
 Speak o't as being heavenly bliss ; 
 
 And tho' I often sought to try it, 
 
 The jades to me would e'er deny it. 
 
 And this has been just the returning 
 
 For all my trying, sighing, yearning. 
 
 That they have given; I've thought of ropes. 
 
 But Leap Year filled my heart with hopes ; 
 
 Hopes that some maiden, chaste and fair. 
 
 Would come and ask me just to share 
 
 With her life's sorrow, joy and care. 
 
 lyord knows how quickly I would do it ; 
 
 I would say j'^^, nor fear to rue it. 
 
 But hope's a rogue, and much I fear me 
 
 There'll not a single lass come near me ; 
 
 And, spite of his well-meant suggestion, 
 
 I fear no one will put the question. 
 
 But ladies, I w^ould say, if you'll 
 
 Just come, I'll make the golden rule 
 
 The standard of my every action, 
 
 And try and live it to a fraction. 
 
 Another rule I'd have observed, 
 
 'Tis this — be quick— yfr^/ come, first served. 
 
 [1846. I 
 
 A LOVELY SIGHT. 
 
 I'VE seen the sun in glory rise 
 Above the eastern hill ; 
 Casting a flood of mellow light 
 O'er mountain, vale and rill ; 
 
112 POEMS. 
 
 I've seen him . . at the close of day, 
 
 Refulgent in the west, 
 'Mid gorgeous piles of golden clouds 
 
 In glon' sink to rest. 
 
 I've stood upon the beetling cliff. 
 
 And gazed upon the sea, 
 The distant sail, the coming barge, 
 
 The windward and the lea ; 
 I've stood upon the mountain top 
 
 And viewed the landscape o'er. 
 In beauty spread beneath my feet, 
 
 lyike fairy scenes of yore. 
 
 I've seen of Nature's varied charms, 
 
 Sights beautiful and rare ; 
 But still there's one more blessed than these. 
 
 One more divinely fair. 
 A fair maid o'er a sick one's couch 
 
 Administering relief ; 
 Applying balm for every wound, 
 
 And soothing every grief ; 
 
 Watching with care the painful throbs 
 
 That heave the sufferer's breast ; 
 And yielding with a cheerful heart 
 
 Her own sweet sleep and rest. 
 Her heart in sympathy doth bleed 
 
 For pains others endure — 
 i\ngels would stop in swiftest flight, 
 
 To see a sight so pure. 
 
A LOVELY SIGHT. 113 
 
 Art hath her charms, and Nature, too, 
 
 Her beauties chaste and fair ; 
 But O ! I never have seen aught 
 
 That could with this compare. 
 Wouldst thou seek beauty ? Go and search 
 
 This earth from east to west ; 
 Thou 'It find it when thou find'st a heart 
 
 That feels for those divStressed. 
 
 [1844.] 
 
 TRUST IN MAN. 
 
 WE must trust a man, to save him ; 
 Make him think he is a man ; 
 Then the good that is within him 
 
 Strives to do the best it can. 
 Call him " rascal," and we drive him 
 
 From all goodness by the ban. 
 And the bad that is within him 
 Strives to do the worst it can. 
 
 Distrust never yet has gathered 
 
 One poor soul to God and life, 
 But has often farther forced him 
 
 On to hatred and to strife. 
 As man thinketh, so he can be. 
 
 Make him think he can be great, 
 And the best that is within him 
 
 Strives to reach the wished-for state. 
 
 [1872.] 
 
114 POEMS. 
 
 SHORT PATENT SERMON. 
 
 TkxT : "He that is down need fear no fall, 
 He that is low no pride." 
 
 SO said John Btinyan, many years ago, 
 And I've no doubt it may be mainly so : 
 He that is down cannot have far to fall ; 
 I'm sure, my hearers, this is plain to all. 
 But is it true, the low no pride need fear? 
 I rather doubt it ; you ma}^ think it queer, 
 But I have known some poorer than " Job's cats," 
 (Doubtless in his time they were short of rats) 
 Who walked the streets with haughty step and mien 
 As any grandee that was ever seen. 
 They seem to think the day that thej^ were made 
 God dug the clay up with a silver spade. 
 Then ground it over in a mill of pearls ; 
 Once running through, answers for common churls. 
 But in their case he ground it three times o'er, 
 And lacked for time, or would have ground it more ; 
 Then turned them off upon a wheel of gold, 
 Using more skill by full a hundred- fold, 
 Than e'er before in making man or woman, 
 For they're to be a little super-human. 
 He glazed them o'er with diamond dust refined, 
 While rock-salt serves the balance of mankind. 
 Such princely bodies sure must be well dressed. 
 And nought will do except the very best. 
 Each article of dress must be in fashion, 
 Altho' the bill, they've never paid the cash on. 
 And oftentimes they'll pass you on the street 
 And never see you, tho' your eyes will meet ; 
 
SHOR T PA TENT SERMON. 1 1 5 
 
 Tho' they are low in wealth, and wit, and sense, 
 
 And most things else, except it be pretence. 
 
 There's room enough it seems for pride to grow, 
 
 And we should fear it even if we're low. 
 
 Thus you will see I don't fully agree 
 
 With John the Tinker ; but it seems to me 
 
 If we could get the true humility 
 
 Into our souls, it would drive out all sin 
 
 And selfishness, and pride and lust and hate, 
 
 And usher in that calm and heavenly state. 
 
 That peace serene that made Ben Adhem bold, 
 
 When the bright angel with his book of gold 
 
 Came to his room with a great wakening light. 
 
 On the bright page the good man's name to write. 
 
 Now it may seem to you a paradox 
 
 Abstruse enough to puzzle old John Knox, 
 
 That to get down is the way to get up. 
 
 Yet, so it is ; and I will bet a cup 
 
 Of bottled cider, lemonade, or beer, 
 
 If you will try it for a half a year 
 
 In right good earnest, you will find it so ; 
 
 If you do not, then please to let me know. 
 
 [1858.] 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 I SAW amid the greenwood trees 
 A tall and sturdy oak. 
 And on its head, in vengeful wrath, 
 A whirlwind strong had broke ; 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Its shattered branches plainl}^ told 
 
 How fierce the gale had blown, 
 And all around upon the earth 
 
 Its broken boughs were strown. 
 
 And green and fair, close at its root, 
 
 Upspringing from the ground, 
 A vine of ivy climbing up 
 
 Had twined that oak around . 
 Methought that vine an emblem true 
 
 Of woman's love, the power 
 Of which sustains when troubles come 
 
 And sorrows o'er us lower. 
 
 What tho' that oak had lost its pride. 
 
 What tho' its boughs were driven 
 Before the blast, and its fair trunk 
 
 By thunderbolts was riven ; 
 That ivy vine was just as green, 
 
 And just as closely bound 
 That old oak, as it did before 
 
 The tempest raged around. 
 
 'Tis ever thus with woman's love, 
 
 Affliction cannot break it ; 
 And Fortune's gales adverse may blow. 
 
 Her tempests ne'er can shake it ; 
 It is a love as strong in woe 
 
 As it can be in weal, 
 And all misfortune's bleeding wounds 
 
 Most soothingly 'twill heal. 
 
 [1846.] 
 
KITTY. 117 
 
 KITTY. 
 
 OUR birdling's flown— the little Kitty ; 
 Innocent she was and pretty, 
 And we loved her. 
 Just four winters and four summers, 
 She gave ourselves and transient comers 
 Care and joy. 
 
 All her little ways were cunning. 
 And her feet made music running 
 
 O'er the floor; 
 Her voice was like the birds in singing, 
 And we miss its music ringing 
 
 Through the house. 
 
 But she left us ; as the bird. 
 
 When cold winds his nest has stirred, 
 
 Hies him South, 
 So our darling little Kitty, 
 Innocent and sweet and pretty, 
 
 Ivcft our band, 
 
 For the joyous '* summer land," 
 Where the air is soft and bland. 
 
 There to wait 
 Till the Father bids us meet ; 
 Then our Kitty we will greet 
 
 With loves kiss. 
 
ii8 POEMS. 
 
 That will be an hour of bliss, 
 She will give us kiss for kiss 
 
 With sweet lips. 
 And I'm sure when we have met, 
 That we never shall regret 
 
 Loving Kitty. 
 
 SISTER, I'M SAD. 
 
 SISTER, I'm sad ; and yet I don't know why, 
 And half a tear is lodged in either eye. 
 And yet I cannot help it if I try. 
 
 Sister, I'm sad ; my spirits used to flow 
 Ivike a wild torrent ; now the stream is low. 
 Its waters turbid, and the current slow. 
 
 Sister I'm sad ; I've mused upon the past, 
 Present, and future that's before me cast. 
 Striving in vain to penetrate the last. 
 
 Sister, I'm sad ; I know it is not right 
 When all around is fresh and fair and bright ; 
 I know my heart should all the time be light. 
 
 Sister, I'm sad ; yet those I dearly love 
 
 Are all around me, and I look above 
 
 And trust in Him whose heart was like a dove. 
 
 Sister, I'm sad ; this is a world of pain, 
 A thorny path ; O who would wish again 
 To live it o'er, that in the grave had lain ? 
 
SISTER, PM SAD. 119 
 
 Sister, I'm sad ; but then, it it will not last, 
 I fondly trust, tho' skies are now o'ercast. 
 It will be brighter when the clouds have passed, 
 Then you'll be glad. 
 
 THE PRESENT. 
 
 THE "Sweet by-and-by," and the " I,and o' the 
 leal," 
 I^ook enchantingly fair in the distance ; 
 And mean seems the Present, as oft times we feel, 
 
 But 'tis all that we have of existence. 
 O friends ! we should never look back with regret, 
 
 Because 'tis God's path we are treading ; 
 And I'm sure at the Past 'twill do no good to fret 
 Or look to the Future with dreading. 
 
 Take thought for to-morrow, but live in to-day, 
 
 And earnestly strive to enjoy it ; 
 But if at the future we're gazing away, 
 
 'Twill only becloud and alloy it ; 
 Take thought for the morrow, but let us be jUvSt, 
 
 And own that to-day is a beauty. 
 Whose smiles are all ours tho' we feed on a crust. 
 
 If we're cheerfully doing our duty. 
 
 The sun and the moon are both shining as bright 
 
 As when we were lads or lassies ; 
 And oft times I think if we view it aright. 
 
 The new time the old time surpasses. 
 
I20 POEMS. 
 
 Then let us be happy as we go along, 
 Because we are never returning, 
 
 And the very best word I can put in my song, 
 Is to be always loving and learning. 
 
 TO COUSIN CLARA, 
 
 A TEACHER OF THE " FREEDMEN." 
 
 AS I went forth with the soldier, 
 In nty spirit and my soul. 
 When the warlike bugle sounded 
 And the stirring drum did roll, 
 Went with him on weary marches, 
 
 Hunger, thirst and wounds and pain, 
 In his long and valiant struggle 
 
 E'er he broke the bondsman's chain. 
 
 Broke the chains that bound the body, 
 
 Gave him liberty to go 
 Where he pleased, and when he listed. 
 
 And no man could sa}^ him ' ' No ! ' ' 
 .None could take away his children. 
 
 None could buy him, none could sell- 
 lyong and hard the soldiers' struggle, 
 
 But the brave men did it well. 
 
 So I go forth with, you, sister. 
 
 As you go to free the nmid, 
 To shed light where all is darkness, 
 
 To give eyes unto the blind. 
 
TO COUSIN CLARA. 121 
 
 As of old, we read, the angels 
 
 Rolled the heavy stone away, 
 So that Christ Divine there buried 
 
 Could come forth to light and day. 
 
 So in this day, you're the angel 
 
 Sent, away the stone to roll 
 From the '' Freedman's" groping spirit, 
 
 From his mind and from his soul. 
 And bid the Christ Divine, long buried, 
 
 Christ of wisdom, light and love. 
 To come forth and bless his spirit, 
 
 Ivifting it to heaven above. 
 
 Never was a nobler mission. 
 
 Never was a holier shrine, 
 Where the soul could lay its offering, 
 
 Than the one that now is thine. 
 Clara, you must be a hero, 
 
 Manly, gentle, strong and brave ; 
 'Tis the self-renuncient only 
 
 That the Christ of lyove can save. 
 
 Trust in God and do your duty, 
 
 As the patient soldier did, 
 Though at times the eye is heavy 
 
 And a tear bedews its lid. 
 Know you this, and be not lonely : 
 
 Millions in the spheres above, 
 Kvery good man, every poet, 
 
 Gives thee sympathy and love. 
 
 16 
 
122 POEMS. 
 
 Turn not back and be not weary 
 
 In well-doing ; your reward, 
 Surely it remaineth with you, 
 
 Rest of soul and sw^eet accord. 
 In this war is no discharging ; 
 
 I^ove's sweet labor is our life, 
 And the more it grows within us, 
 
 Feel we less of hate and strife. 
 
 Trust in God and trust Him ever. 
 
 Better word I cannot say : 
 Trust Him in the night of darkness. 
 
 Trust Him in the light of day. 
 Thus the bard unto his sister 
 
 In the far off Southern clime, 
 Sends his soul, and sends his spirit 
 
 In these homely words of rhyme. 
 
 TO EMMA, ON HER WEDDING DAY. 
 
 EMMA, dear girl, on this your wedding day, 
 Soft in your ear I have a word to say ; 
 For ends of use, it seems great Nature's plan 
 That woman frail should consort with a man. 
 Now men, you'll find, are very curious things ; 
 They may be angels wholly void of wings, 
 They may be devils in such fair disguise 
 As to seem angels, in a maiden's eyes ; 
 But being males, and also being human. 
 They've great dislike to being ruled by woman ; 
 
TO EMMA, ON HER WEDDING DAY, 123 
 
 Therefore, the wife who would retain her sway, 
 
 Must move with caution, and bring art in play. 
 
 Now, could I tell you how a man to rule 
 
 With art so subtle, be he wise or fool. 
 
 That in his long life he should never know it, 
 
 I'm very sure that you would thank the poet. 
 
 Good teachers tell us what we should Jiot do, 
 
 And that's the way I will begin with you ; 
 
 Ne'er say " Why didn't you ? " if you have to bite 
 
 Your tongue to keep it out of sound and sight ; 
 
 What's done is done, and those words would suggest 
 
 'Twere not done wisely, which would cause unrest 
 
 Where least you wish it— in your husband's breast. 
 
 " Now, don't be foolish," is another phrase 
 
 You will not utter if you wish your days 
 
 To pass in peace, followed by nights of joy, 
 
 And dreams of sweetness, without earth alloy. 
 
 Do not forget that man and wife are " two," 
 
 And not " one flesh," as some may say to you ; 
 
 And being two, of course you will not try 
 
 To run his body with your brain and eye. 
 
 This old'idea that man and wife were " one," 
 
 Has caused the Devil much delight and fun ; 
 
 If he's the " one," why, then the average wife 
 
 Thinks him a tyrant all her mortal life ; 
 
 If she's the '* one," disguise it as you can. 
 
 He'll think himself at best a "henpecked " man. 
 
 Bach soul is "one," within itself complete. 
 
 And always will be while life's pulses beat ; 
 
 Each one has tastes and feelings of their own, 
 
 Which, to the other, oft may be unknown. 
 
124 POEMS. 
 
 The sweetest duty of the loving wife 
 
 Is to help him to live his own true life, 
 
 And in so doing she a peace will find, 
 
 Good for the soul, the body, and the mind ; 
 
 The highest pleasure you will ever know^ 
 
 Is to serve others, as you onward go. 
 
 Striving to be unselfish as you can. 
 
 Would you live happy with your chosen man. 
 
 A well-cooked breakfast, and a savory dinner, 
 
 (Always so welcome to the average sinner,) 
 
 With floor well-swept, and each thing in its place. 
 
 Will be quite apt to bring a smile of grace 
 
 On that soul-mirror, a fond husband's face. 
 
 Look at his failings with a half-closed eye. 
 
 And all his virtures strive to magnify ; 
 
 Remembering this, that no one ever can 
 
 Find all the virtues in a single man ; 
 
 So, strive to be contented with your lot, 
 
 Deeming it good as anyone has got ; — 
 
 And if you heed my council, as above. 
 
 Mixing much wisdom with your wifely love, 
 
 To this fair day you often will look back 
 
 As a bright spot upon life's devious track. 
 
 Life's path is rugged ; help your mate to climb, 
 
 And he'll help you to reach a height sublime. 
 
 It is not good for one alone to be. 
 
 They climb it better as a he and she. 
 
 The highest gift that soul can give to soul. 
 
 Is ' ' Freedom ' ' ever, while the stars shall roll ; 
 
 Earth would be heaven if every man and wife 
 
 Would help each other live their ozvn true life. 
 
TO EMMA, ON HER WEDDING DAY 125 
 
 Do not forget it, as the years speed by, 
 Changes will come and tears will dim the eye, 
 •'To help each other," is life's battle-cry, 
 And of this wedding 'tis the reason why. 
 
 Emma, dear girl, (kind words are cheap I know,) 
 As with your Samuel out in life you go, 
 To tread its pathway, whether smooth or hard, 
 You'll always have the blessing of the Bard. 
 
 TRUE MEN. 
 
 THE truest men are not mere money-makers ; 
 They sense a higher worth ; 
 Are not ascetics, like the monks and Shakers, 
 But love the good of earth. 
 
 And they are willing long and hard to labor 
 
 For all that they require ; 
 Nor will they cheat a brother, friend or neighbor. 
 
 But to be just aspire. 
 
 Altho' they are not rich in golden treasure. 
 
 They surely are not poor ; 
 But as they sow, look for returning measure, 
 
 And count their blessings sure. 
 
 Full well they know the soul has higher riches 
 
 Than gems of earth can buy ; 
 Their truer wealth is stored up in the niches 
 
 Of mansions in the sky. 
 
126 POEMS. 
 
 That peaceful world of loving thought and feeling, 
 
 Free from all trace of sin, 
 Which is the glorj^ of to-day's revealing. 
 
 The perfect heaven within. 
 
 [1870.] 
 
 EXTRACT FROM AN EPISTLE. 
 
 I'M glad 3^ou've got out from the dark old Church, 
 That leaves both soul and body in the lurch ; 
 I tried to get some food there once, but faith ! 
 I got but husks, and nearly starved to death ; 
 And I rejoice that you have found the food 
 That suits your palate, and is sweet and good. 
 From the same board m.y soul has richly fed, 
 And sprang to life, like I^azarus from the dead, 
 Opened her eyes and found herself alo7ie ; 
 None to work for her, none to atone 
 For any wrong that she might chance to do. 
 And no one's goodness could to her accrue. 
 Ah ! then I saw the need there was of being. 
 And doing seemed the end and fruit of seeing ; 
 I felt that I could have no peace or rest. 
 Till like a child upon its mother's breast 
 I threw myself upon the breast of God, 
 Sa3dng, " Dear Father, I will kiss the rod 
 When thou dost smite me, for I know 
 Thy love is in the blow. Faith will an anchor prove, 
 Steadfast and sure, within thy goodness cast. 
 Blow high or low, it serves me to the last. 
 In my own strength, O Father, I am weak. 
 Yet, by Thy help I'll scale the loftiest peak 
 
EXTRACT FROM AN EPISTLE. 127 
 
 Of high attainment, led by Thy right hand 
 I walk the pathway to the better land. 
 My God is good ; He doeth all things well, 
 Truth, I^ove and Justice ever with Him dwell ; 
 And this doth give me patience, hope and rest, 
 Knowing in all things God's own time is best 
 
 [1858.] 
 
 AT THE END OF A LETTER. 
 
 C"" OOD-BY, my sister, in the fertile west, 
 y Far toward the setting sun, ^ 
 
 I wish you all that's good and for the best, 
 
 Till life's journey is done. 
 I pray that light from out the sunset sky 
 
 May guide your wearying feet. 
 And songs of gladness, when the goal is nigh. 
 
 Your charmed ear may greet. 
 'Twill not be long my sister, e'er we meet 
 
 In that fair summer land 
 Where lyove's true hearts in rh3'thmic measures 
 beat 
 As we walk hand in hand. 
 Good-by, my sister ; take a brother's love 
 
 In these few lines of rhyme ; 
 They'll find you surely, if you are above, 
 Or on the shores of Time. 
 
 [1891.1 
 
128 POEMS. 
 
 MY WEE BIT ANNIE. 
 
 LET Fashion's lassies paint their cheeks 
 An' flaunt in gay attire, 
 An' dance o' nights till they're maist dead, 
 Ivay a' the morning i' the bed, 
 
 Nor dream o' pleasures higher; 
 Gin I had a' the wealth o' kings, 
 
 I wa'd na' gi'e a penny 
 For twenty o' the best o' them, 
 They're sae below my Annie. 
 
 Let Fortune's maids, wi' a' their gowd, 
 
 Ride in their coaches splendid, 
 Wi' liveried coofs aye by their side 
 To help gin evil should betide, 
 
 An' see they weel are tended ; 
 Now, 'pon my faith, gin I could ha'e 
 
 The best ane o' the mony, 
 * I wa'd na' gi'e the smile that plays 
 
 About the mou' o' Annie. 
 
 Let a' your courtly high-born dames 
 
 Coquette wi' laird an' noble. 
 Acting wi' grace Love's tender parts, 
 Tho' a' the time their very hearts 
 
 Are colder than a snow-ball i 
 Tho' they may dweel in costly ha's, 
 
 An' for us poor folks care na', 
 I wa'd na' gi'e for a' their sighs 
 
 Ane rapturous kiss fra' Annie. 
 
MV WEE BIT ANNIE. 129 
 
 Annie is poor, an' so am I, 
 
 An' yet we ha'e a plenty 
 That's guid to eat, an' drink, an' wear, 
 An' a' sic other warldly gear 
 
 As mak's us hale an' canty. 
 I envy na' the rich, their gowd, 
 
 An' for their glitter care na'; 
 I ask o' heaven na' mair than just 
 
 To live in love wi' Annie. [1847.] 
 
 TO OUR "CIRCLE." 
 
 RECITED. 
 
 T'lylv say a few words to the friends. 
 And to the mind that comprehends, 
 I trust 'twill answer some good ends. 
 Now, first of all, to you I'll say, 
 Don't ever fear the face of clay. 
 But say whate'er you have to say. 
 And keep, tho' fair or foul the day, 
 The even tenor of your way. 
 Fear not your father or your mother. 
 Your friend, your neighbor, or your brother, 
 For one is just as good's another, 
 "And better, too," the Paddy said, 
 And he had some brains in his head . 
 Don't smother thoughts within your breast, 
 Till by their weight you are oppressed, 
 But let them out, and you'll find rest. 
 I feel that we should be more free 
 To tell of all we think and see ; 
 
I30 • POEMS. 
 
 I'm not like you, nor you like me, 
 
 And, by exchanging, it may be 
 
 We each may get some new idea, 
 
 To bless, to comfort, and to cheer, 
 
 And lift us toward a higher sphere. 
 
 I trust the sex that's called the weaker 
 
 Won't always look to us for speaker. 
 
 But loose their tongues, and let them run, 
 
 Whether on sense, or wit, or fun, 
 
 As only woman's tongue can run, 
 
 For, ere a man has well begun, 
 
 They've said the w^hole, and got it done. 
 
 This old idea has been a blaster. 
 
 That man was woman's lord and master. 
 
 And ladies, you'll progress the faster, 
 
 When you find out it is not so ; 
 
 But let the wind blow high or low, 
 
 You'll say your say, and go your go, 
 
 Handle the dishcloth, broom or hoe. 
 
 Or even take the scythe and mow, 
 
 Nor care who says, " Why do you so ? " 
 
 There's been much said 'bout woman's sphere, 
 
 And some faint souls have had a fear 
 
 She wasn't competent to steer 
 
 The proper track, but would break out, 
 
 Kick up a dust, and raise a rout. 
 
 And knock the bottom fairly out 
 
 Of good society and order, 
 
 lyike those rude ruffians of the border. 
 
 Now, I will give you my idea 
 
 Of woman's just and proper sphere. 
 
TO OUR '' CIRCLE r 131 
 
 Whatever woman well can do, 
 
 Be it to wash, or bake or brew. 
 
 To nurse a child, or make a shoe, 
 
 To set up type, or print, or write, 
 
 To lecture, doctor, preach or fight. 
 
 Provided it is just and right ; 
 
 Then let her do it with her might. 
 
 And, trust me, she will never rue it. 
 
 For surely 'tis his her sphere to do it. 
 
 If man's a man, so is a woman 
 
 When love goes out to all that's human, 
 
 And she goes onward like a true man, 
 
 Curbing each appetite and passion, 
 Regardless of the call of Fashion, 
 Who fain would bind her with a fetter, 
 Saying, " You must dress a little better; " 
 Regardless of the Church and Steeple, 
 (By which I mean the Priest and People) ; 
 But ever onward, like a river. 
 Or arrow shot from Indian quiver, 
 She seeks to do her highest duty, 
 With all man's vStrength and woman's beauty. 
 Surely my friends we need not fear 
 Because Spirits are round us near, 
 And we're afraid that they may hear ; 
 For we are Spirits 's much as they be, 
 And tho' our bodies made of clay be, 
 We yet can teach them something, may be ; 
 They once had bodies same as ours, 
 And know well how to rate the powers 
 Of those who dwell in earthly bowers, 
 
132 POEMS. 
 
 Where thorns are found among the flowers, 
 And sunshine mingled with the showers. 
 I'm sure they won't be critics hard ; 
 As for myself, their humble bard, 
 I'll give them rhyme off by the yard, 
 Long as they want it. 
 If it don't suit them, sense or letter. 
 Let them speak out and give us better. 
 Or tell my Muse when they have met her. 
 How she can work through my thick skull 
 Something that's not so horrid dull. 
 I'm but a rude, unlearned clod-hopper, 
 A farmer, hunter, and wood-chopper, 
 But if I've strength to pull the stopper 
 From Poesy's vial. 
 On that account don't wait for me, 
 But speak out fearlessly and free 
 Wherever vou may chance to be. 
 
 [1848.] 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 " Death loves a shining mark." 
 
 HE died in youth, in life's bright mom, 
 When Hope's fair buds were green ; 
 Life's path untrod before her lay 
 Its thorns and snares unseen. 
 
 s 
 
 She died in beauty ; as a flower 
 That in the vale takes root. 
 
 When severed by the ruthless scythe. 
 Or crushed beneath the foot. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 133 
 
 She died in innocence ; as pure 
 As dew that gemmed the flowers 
 
 Upon creation's earliest morn 
 In Eden's fairest bowers. 
 
 She died a Christian ; her young heart 
 
 Was filled with faith and love ; 
 She had a spirit meek and mild 
 
 And gentle as a dove. 
 
 She died beloved ; how could she else, 
 
 She loved her friends so dear ? 
 And o'er their hearts a blight is cast, 
 
 And o'er their cheeks a tear. 
 
 Her spirit was too good, too pure 
 
 For this dark world of sin, 
 And she has left us sorrowing here, 
 
 A brighter world to win. 
 
 [1846. I 
 
 TO HATTIE E. AMES. 
 
 UPWARD and onward, O Hattie, 5^ou're going ; 
 Upward and onward, where the flowers never fade. 
 Where the rivers of true love forever are flowing. 
 
 And the warm hearted lover parts not from his maid. 
 Upward and onward ! O fare thee well, sister! 
 
 I know God will bless thee, because I do now. 
 How happy she'll be when the angels have kissed her. 
 And the light crown of innocence shines on her brow. 
 
134 POEMS. 
 
 O Hattie, be cheerful and never despairing, 
 
 Trusting in Our Father, who loveth us all : 
 For the poor and the lowly He ever is caring, 
 
 And without Him not even a sparrow can fall. 
 Unseen spirits love thee, dear Hattie, I know it, 
 
 And you will love them more and more ; 
 True things are revealed to the eye of the poet, 
 
 As you'll find when you reach the fair shore. 
 
 Then fare thee well, sister, but not for a long time. 
 
 For upward and onward must every soul go ; 
 The morning's bright flush and the evening's sweet song- 
 time, 
 
 Are bearing us onward with unceasing flow. 
 Upward and onward ! O sweet, is the measure, 
 
 Tho' clouds are around, and the pathwa}^ is hard — 
 Thy spirit when bathing in heaven's pure pleasure, 
 
 Will think now and then of Souhegan's wild Bard. 
 
 [1858.] 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR, 
 
 TO A BROTHER. 
 
 THE Old Bachelor sits all alone in his cot, 
 Longing to get married, but fears he shall not. 
 Of all men he's the most enamored of woman. 
 But nothing will do that's entirely human. 
 He's searched the rough East and the Western prairie , 
 To find him a Susan, a Jane, or a Mary, 
 And those that are lovely he often can find, 
 But never a one that is just to his mind ; 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 135 
 
 Some girls are too short, and some girls are too tall, 
 Some were born in the spring, and some born in the 
 
 fall ; 
 None will do unless born on the tenth day of June, 
 At ten in the morning, in the old of the moon. 
 Some girls are too fat, and some are too lean, 
 Some girls are too dirty, and others too clean ; 
 One girl knows too much, and one don't know enough, 
 Another's too polished, another too rough ; 
 Too pious some are, others too unbelieving, 
 Some girls are too honest, some too much deceiving ; 
 Some girls are too loving, some don't love enough, — 
 There's none of 'em made of the right kind o' stuff. 
 Some girls are too neat, and others too slack. 
 Too long in the legs, or too short in the back. 
 Too proud or too humble, too hot or too cold, 
 Too rich or too poor, too young or too old ; 
 In short, 'mong the virtue and beauty and grace 
 Of the ladies, none fit the Old Bachelor's case. 
 So he sits in his cot, and the time passes dreary. 
 And he thinks a good wife would make it more cheery; 
 She'd cook him his meals, and she'd clean up the dirt, 
 Sew patches on pants, and sew buttons on shirt; 
 And he thinks winter nights, as he shivers abed. 
 How warm she would keep him from his feet to his 
 
 head ; 
 He thinks of kind words, soft embraces and kisses. 
 And all the unnumbered h3aneneal blisses ; 
 And he thinks a hard lot to him has been meeted. 
 But dare not try to better it, lest he get cheated. 
 Alas ! how I pity the lonely Old Bach., 
 Sitting there like a hen that never can hatch. 
 
136 POEMS. 
 
 O what will become of him nobody knows, 
 He's an object of pity wherever he goes ; 
 In search of a wife he roves round like a comet 
 Year after year, and 3^et nothing comes from it. 
 
 TO THE OLD BACH. 
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 NO more will he sit in the door of his cot, 
 Bewailing his fate and his bachelor lot ; 
 No more will he pine to be " settled " in life. 
 Which means settled well in the arms of a wife. 
 O'er mountain and plain his wife-hunts would vary, 
 Till he found him a Jane on the sandy prairie. 
 Now farewell the trap, and the two-barrelled gun. 
 No longer he roves the wild woods for his fun ; 
 No more from his work he comes home to his cabin, 
 So tired, with hunger his stomach a stabin', 
 And rather than cook him a hoe-cake of lead, 
 At once he " pigs in" to his unmade-upbed. 
 The comforts of life, now he scarcely can lack one, 
 The rusty old stove must give place to a black one. 
 And when from his work he comes home to his cottage, 
 'Tis not all alone he sits down to his pottage. 
 What a change you will see as you look in the larder. 
 The shelves are all clean, and the dishes in order, 
 The windows have curtains, the table a cloth. 
 So different Love's labors from Bachelor's sloth. 
 He oft has complained, growing rude like a hound, 
 Now I hope that his wife will sand-paper him down ; 
 
TO THE OLD BACH. 137 
 
 And such be the power of mind over mind, 
 
 That all will take notice he's growing refined ; 
 
 And when next I see him I scarcely shall know 
 
 Who it is, on his face such a heavenly glow 
 
 Is shining, — so urbane his manner, so mellow his tone, 
 
 I shall shout, " Bless the day Bill quit living alone !" 
 
 EPISTLE TO L. P. 
 
 Stoneham, Jan. i, 1859. 
 
 LUTHER, my friend, — nay more, my brother. 
 For God's the Father and the Mother 
 Of all mankind, — 'tis New Year's day. 
 And as I've naught to do but play. 
 My thoughts keep flowing out to you. 
 Guessing, and wondering how you do, 
 And wishing you a sweet New Year, 
 Praying that Love may banish Fear 
 From out your soul, and give it rest 
 Those only know who have been blessed 
 With pitying hearts, and ne'er condemn, 
 Whatever may be said of them. 
 Brother, as I am looking back 
 But one short year o'er Life's rough track. 
 Some spots I see are brightly gleaming, 
 And in their midst your face is beaming. 
 I bless the day when first I shook 
 Your hand and lead you "like a book," 
 Tho' I did not read all the pages. 
 And shall not for eternal ages. 
 
138 POEMS. 
 
 Those my dull e3^es could fairly scan 
 
 The verdict gave, "An honest man." 
 
 When I saw that you sought the truth 
 
 Amid life's falsehood, wrong and ruth, 
 
 I knew that I had found a brother. 
 
 If I should never see another. 
 
 Some seek the truth for sake of knowing ; 
 
 You seem to seek for sake of doing. 
 
 The one is stagnant, dead and cold. 
 
 Seeing the new, but living old ; 
 
 The other, like a little leaven, 
 
 Works joy, and peace, and life, and heaven. 
 
 Truth wars against old modes of thought. 
 
 And many a battle fierce hath fought ; 
 
 Truth cuts down what we've cherished long, 
 
 And deemed it holy, pure and strong ; 
 
 Truth shows us what we've called our gold 
 
 Is naught but worthless dross and mold ; 
 
 Truth shows us diamonds, pure and bright, 
 
 Where all was loathsome to the sight ; 
 
 Truth is an image-breaker strong, 
 
 And builds up right on grave of wrong. 
 
 Truth will prevail — his mild, soft ej^e. 
 
 The stoutest foeman can defy ; 
 
 Tho' baffled, wearied, and cast down, 
 
 No one can give a mortal wound ; 
 
 Invulnerable from head to heel, 
 
 No thrust of dart, or stroke of steel 
 
 Can ever do him real harm ; 
 
 He is all heart, fresh, living, warm. 
 
 None can for Truth sincerely seek, 
 
 With simple hearts, childlike and meek, 
 
EPISTLE TO L. P. 139 
 
 Willing to take him as he is, 
 (Altho' quite hard I know it is,) 
 
 But sometimes they will find him sure, 
 
 A Brother, Friend, and Lover pure. 
 
 One year ago the path seemed clear 
 
 To you ; to me 'twas dark and drear. 
 
 You lent me books that caused my eyes 
 
 To see more clear the heavenly prize, 
 
 For which I thank you o'er and o'er. 
 
 And doubtless, on the further shore 
 
 Of Jordan, I shall do the same 
 
 If things show clear in memory's flame. 
 
 Tho' small our acts of kindness seem, 
 
 How brightly little ones will gleam 
 
 Like beauteous stars on life's dark track, 
 
 When from some height we're looking back. 
 " Free ye've received, so freely give " — 
 
 Thus Jesus spoke. O could we live 
 
 It in our lives ; could we perceive 
 
 Its glorious truth, I do believe 
 
 We scarce should sorrow know, or grieving. 
 
 In bliss of giving and receiving ; 
 
 Giving sweet sympathy of soul 
 
 To those o'er whom the dark waves roll, 
 
 Of sorrow, chilling, cold and deep — 
 
 The gay world does not see them weep. 
 
 And does not know, or dream, or care 
 
 Of the keen anguish gnawing there. 
 
 'Tis sweet to pour in oil and balm 
 
 To such a heart, to sooth and charm 
 
 With all Love's care and tenderness. 
 
 And feel that we have rendered less 
 
140 POEMS. 
 
 The sum of human wretchedness. 
 Those who give thus, as God doth live, 
 Always receive more than they give, 
 Tho' not in honor, wealth, or fame, 
 (For what is gold ? and what's a name ? ) 
 But in the glorious conscious thought 
 Of owning gems that wealth ne'er bought ; 
 For while the sky is blue above them, 
 They'll know that souls will bless and love them. 
 
 Brother and friend, 'tis New Year's Day ; 
 I from my inmost spirit pray 
 That God will guide you on your way, 
 And shower upon your happy home 
 Rich blessings in the year to come ; 
 May it to children, self and wife. 
 The happiest prove of all your life. 
 Adieu, adieu, — write when 5^ou can; 
 Yours ever — Bard of Souhegan. 
 
 [1858.] 
 
 EPISTLE TO J. W. P. 
 
 PILLSBURY, m}^ friend, perhaps you think 
 I've lost my pen, and spilt my ink, 
 Got out of paper and of rh3ane, 
 Because, forsooth, so long a time 
 Has passed since last I wrote to you 
 Through the " Republican " so true. 
 I've pens enough, such as they are, 
 And ink enough to sadly mar 
 A dozen sheets of of paper white, 
 Should I a notion take to write. 
 
EPISTLE TO J. W, P. 141 
 
 And as for rhyme, tho' I've kept mum, 
 Ere you get through you'll think I've some 
 I rather guess ; if not, so be it. 
 Just spin some off and let me see it. 
 The truth to tell, our town is quiet. 
 And as I do not like to lie it, 
 I have no news ; and as for gossip, 
 I knew you'd rather have a horsewhip 
 Laid somewhat snugly o'er your shoulders, 
 Or run with bare feet 'mong the boulders 
 Of your rough farm, than that I should 
 Before you set such mental food. 
 Thus I've refrained from writing you ; 
 But this day, feeling rather blue, 
 I seized my pen, and said I'd write 
 You something, if 'twas not so bright. 
 Brother, I liked much what you said 
 About the old " Procrustean Bed."* 
 'Tis very much in fashion now, 
 Tho' under different names I trow. 
 Society, Public Opinion, 
 Custom, the Church, Party Dominion : 
 These are the names that now he bears, 
 They serve to catch us unawares ; 
 I came across him in my youth, 
 (Quite young and green I was, forsooth,) 
 He patted me upon the head 
 And thought I'd better try his bed. 
 For everybody did, he said ; 
 If everybody did, I thought 
 Surely Souhegan's wild bard ought. 
 
 ♦Alluding to a poem in the " Republican." 
 
142 POEMS. 
 
 So on his bed I laid me me down, 
 (You know I am a lengthy clown,) 
 My head stuck out over one end. 
 And not being allowed to bend, 
 My feet reached out over the other 
 At least a foot — says I, " My brother. 
 This bed will never do for me, — 
 It is too short; tho' for some wee 
 Bit fellow it may be right ; 
 I can't lie here a single night." 
 Says he, " Hold on ! I have a way 
 To fix them all so the}^ can lay." 
 Two men sprang forth, and seized me tight, 
 One on the left, one on the right. 
 And old Procrustes seized an ax, 
 (To wield, a giant's strength 'twould tax,) 
 And said, " Your feet I'll nicely clip, 
 And also off your head I'll whip 
 Close to the shoulders, then you'll lay 
 Eas3^ enough, both night and da3^" 
 He swung his axe, it made me quail ; 
 Quoth I, " The wrong pig by the tail 
 You've got ! " and then, with all my might 
 I struck out to the left and right, 
 Knocked the two " holders " in a heap. 
 And from the bedstead gave a leap, 
 Bounding into the air and light, 
 And ran for life with all my might. 
 Rich was the lesson of that day, 
 For, since that time, I've kept away 
 From all such bedsteads — I am free 
 To think, and talk, and do and see ; 
 
EPISTLE TO / W, P. 143 
 
 My reason is as good for me, 
 
 As anybody's else can be. 
 
 Customs, and rules, and laws, I scorn, 
 
 They're only fit for cowards born ; 
 
 Let us be free men, lovers, braves ! 
 
 Not Custom's trembling, abject slaves — 
 
 Walk forth erectly, in the light 
 
 Of our own eyes, for 'tis our right. 
 
 Comrade and friend, you have my thanks 
 
 For penning old Procrustes' pranks. 
 
 So dangerous to men with shanks 
 
 As long as yours and mine. 
 
 May this epistle find you hearty, 
 
 A member of no sect or party. 
 
 But ever ready with the pen 
 
 To battle for your fellow-men. 
 
 Or fellow- women, (oft they need it 
 
 More than the men), may wisdom speed it. 
 
 My sheet is full ; I'll write adieu, 
 
 Hoping quite soon to hear from you. 
 
 P. S. — I have some paper and some ink 
 
 Remaining, and a little " think." 
 
 [1859.] 
 
 HAMBLETT'S CASE. 
 
 Recited at an entertainment for the benefit of George Hamblett, in the Town hall at 
 Amherst, N. H., December, 1857. 
 
 DEAR friends, I speak of Mr. Hamblett, 
 He does not loaf, or drink, or gamble it, 
 And yet he's poor. 
 Now, doubtless you would like to know 
 The causes that have brought him low, 
 And all about it. 
 
144 POEMS. 
 
 Well, listen now, and I will tell ; 
 
 He once was strong, and smart, and well 
 
 As anybody ; 
 
 It chanced one day he took a cold, 
 
 (The story's sad, but must be told,) 
 
 And he felt sick ; 
 
 Then, in accordance with a notion 
 That man can cure by pill and potion, 
 
 He sought a doctor. 
 And sent for one whose name was Hammond, 
 Whose skill and science all was gammon, 
 
 As we shall see. 
 
 He came, and with great show of skill. 
 Gave him a powder, or a pill, 
 
 I don't know which. 
 Alas ! for poor young Hamblett now. 
 It kicked up such a devlish row 
 
 With his machinery. 
 
 It never has run smoothly since. 
 And he has been at great expense 
 To patch it up. 
 
 It cracked a band and broke a wheel. 
 And disarranged from crown to heel 
 
 Each nicer part ; 
 lyoosened a screw, and snapped a cog. 
 Set springs and levers all agog. 
 
 And used him up. 
 
19 
 
 HAMBLETTS CASE. 145 
 
 From that sad day he's kept his house, 
 And grown as poor as any mouse 
 
 Within a church ; 
 Grown poor. . , friends, in a double sense, 
 In flesh and muscle, and in pence, 
 
 The more's the pity. 
 
 In summer time he cannot go 
 
 Out o'er the fields where breezes blow 
 
 And wild birds sing ; 
 In winter time he cannot glide 
 O'er the smooth lake, or take a slide 
 
 Adown the hill. 
 
 The varying seasons go and come, 
 He sits and hears the busy hum 
 
 Of joyous labor ; 
 And in their work he fain would join, 
 To gain him health and strength and coin, 
 
 Had he the power. 
 
 Tho' health was lost, still hope was bright, 
 And fiercely he resolved to fight 
 
 To win it back. 
 Altho' one dose had made him sick, 
 Another one might cure him quick, 
 
 For aught he knew. 
 
 First the " Electric Bath" he tried, 
 Poor fellow, till he nearly died 
 
 In the bath tub ; 
 They sent their currents through and through 
 His frame, but could not make it new, 
 
 As he had hoped. 
 
146 POEMS. 
 
 Then next he went to a Clarivoyant, 
 With hope still bright and spirits buoyant, 
 
 Thinking that she 
 Doubtless could tell him all that ailed him 
 And give him (what the others failed him) 
 
 A certain cure. 
 
 The cause, he thought, she told him true. 
 And then she called it that she knew 
 
 A mode of cure. 
 Into some bottles then she puts 
 A syrup made of herbs and roots, 
 
 For him to take. 
 
 He took it, to his heart's content. 
 Until his dimes were nearly spent, 
 
 And patience too ; 
 And so at last, bottle and cup 
 He set aside, and gave it up, 
 
 Almost despairing. 
 
 But one bright morn he chanced to spy 
 A patent nostrum, cracked up high 
 
 In the newspapers. 
 He read it o'er and o'er with care. 
 Saying, " This hits me, I declare ! 
 
 I'll send and get it." 
 
 And then the cost — only a dollar ! 
 He really felt that he could holler 
 
 Right out, for joy ; 
 To be cured up at last, so cheap — 
 It seemed that he could almost leap 
 
 A four-rail fence. 
 
HAMBLETTS CASE, 147 
 
 One bottle warranted to cure, 
 
 Or two, at least, would do it sure ; 
 
 If not, the third 
 Had never yet been known to fail, 
 Kn&four would fairly clinch the nail 
 
 And make all sure. 
 
 He sent and got it, and he took it, 
 Long as his stomach well could brook it ; 
 
 And then he found 
 The more he took to make him better, 
 Disease the closer drew her fetter 
 
 Around his limbs. 
 
 Methinks you ask, " Does he survive yet? " 
 Strange as 't may seem, he is alive yet. 
 
 And happy, too. 
 His body grim Disease may clutch, 
 There is one thing she cannot touch, 
 
 And that's his soul. 
 
 And tho' he sits day after day, 
 And cannot either work or play. 
 
 He is not sad. 
 For he has friends, both good and kind, 
 And the pure pleasures of the mind, 
 
 They are all his. 
 
 And if I read his heart aright, 
 Unnumbered thanks go out to-night 
 
 To you, his friends ; 
 He wishes you a glad new year. 
 And prays that God your barks will steer 
 
 Clear of the rocks. 
 
148 POEMS. 
 
 Dear friends, if b}^ his case you learn 
 Never from Nature's path to turn, 
 
 When well or sick, 
 Then he will feel that all his pain 
 And suffering has not been in vain. 
 
 And he'll rejoice. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 MY heart's a desert drear and wild. 
 A cold and barren waste. 
 No stately trees or flowering shrubs 
 
 Within its bounds are placed : 
 No sparkling streams, with verdant banks, 
 
 Meandering through it flow, 
 But Sorrow's cold and chill}^ winds, 
 Low moaning o'er it blow. 
 
 And Joy's bright sun, far to the West, 
 
 Has faded from Life's sky, 
 And storni}^ clouds, murk}^ and low. 
 
 Dark lowering, o'er it fly. 
 There is no green and living thing 
 
 Within its limits found. 
 Save one dwarf oak that stands alone, 
 
 Deep rooted in the ground. 
 
 That oak is Hope ; tho' small in size, 
 
 Its roots are firmh^ cast ; 
 It bides unscathed Misfortune's storms 
 
 And Sorrow's withering blast. 
 
HOPE. 149 
 
 Firmly it stands, all fresh and green, 
 
 And silentb^ doth say, 
 ' Let not Despair thy bosom fill, 
 
 Wipe tears of Grief away ; 
 
 ' The time will come when stormy clouds * 
 
 Will vanish from life's skies, 
 And leave them clear and blue again, 
 
 And Love's bright sun shall rise ; 
 Content, like dew^ from heaven shall fall. 
 
 And Peace, like summer rain, 
 And what is now thy desert heart 
 Shall freshly bloom again . ' ' 
 
 [1846.] 
 
 MY FATHER. 
 
 OMY father! thou hast left us, 
 Gone to realms of bliss above ; 
 Heaven in wisdom hath bereft us. 
 
 We've no father now to love. 
 Honored Father, we have loved thee, 
 
 All imperfect as thou wert, 
 And for long years we have proved thee, 
 That thou hadst a tender heart. 
 
 Full of days thou wast, and weary, 
 Earth had lost its charms for thee; 
 
 And from sickness, long and dreary, 
 Thou wert anxious to be free. 
 
I50 POEMS. 
 
 When the opening leaves were tender. 
 
 When the maize was young and green. 
 When the r3'e grew fast and slender, 
 
 Thou didst leave us, Sabbath e'en. 
 
 In the balmy morn of Summer, 
 
 When earth wore her fairest dress, 
 Heaven w^elcomed a new comer. 
 
 And the earth owned one the less. 
 Deep in memory, O my father, 
 
 Ever wilt thy image lie, 
 And thy virtues there will gather, 
 
 As sweet flowers that never die. 
 
 [1886.] 
 
 THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. 
 
 THE Homestead is lonely ; no Father is there 
 With his locks growing snowy and brow seamed 
 with care ; 
 In all my successes he felt as deep joy 
 As that which per\^aded the heart of his boy ; 
 In all ni}' misfortunes, as deep grief was felt, 
 No heart was more tender, none sooner w^ould melt. 
 I have not the courage to toil I once had. 
 And e'en when successful, I feel the more sad. 
 And vsometimes can scarcely repress the salt tear, 
 As I think, " Oh, if father could only be here ! " 
 
 The homestead is lonely, no Mother is there ; 
 
 She has gone to the far West, that land famed and fair. 
 
 I see not her form, and I hear not her voice, 
 
 But I will be content, if a sister rejoice 
 
THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. 151 
 
 In the light of them both ; and ere many moons wane, 
 It may be I shall see her and hear her again. 
 But alas ! to the Homestead she comes not as of yore, 
 Its hearth-fire hath gone out, and she lights it no more. 
 
 The Homestead is lonely ; no Sister is there, 
 Tho' once there were three, and all comely and fair. 
 Their voices were gentle, their hearts good and kind, 
 Their eyes to the faults of their brother were blind ; 
 His schemes, tho' the wildest, were not to them wild, 
 They helped and encouraged when others reviled. 
 Where'er they are dwelling, may a God of love bless, 
 And grant that their pleasures may never be less. 
 
 The Homestead is lonely ; no Brother is there, 
 
 Tho' once there were three who would do and would 
 
 dare 
 As much that was manly and noble, I thought. 
 As any three brothers, tho' far they were sought. 
 They were my companions in sports of the field, 
 The rod and the shot-gun they were skilled to wield ; 
 My comrades at labor, as well as at play. 
 To swing^ :, the keen axe-blade, or making the hay, 
 To shake the tall nut-tree, or lay the rough stone. 
 Or any farm labor, to excel them were none. 
 
 The Homestead is lonely ; a Stranger is there. 
 But the loved ones have left it, and why should I care, 
 Its hearth-fire hath gone out, to glow ne'er again, 
 Its Master so dear 'neath the green turf we've lain. 
 
152 POEMS. 
 
 Each home -land, tho' loving, b}^ time must be broke, 
 Tho' keenly, when scattered, the heart feels the stroke ; 
 But I trust that we sometime — with a tear it is spoken — 
 May meet where the home-band will never be broken. 
 
 [1857-] 
 
 NOW AND HERE. 
 
 OTHERS may sing of the " Sweet by-and-bye, 
 In the beautiful " Isle of the Blest," 
 Where all tears are wiped from the weeping eye, 
 
 And the wear\' soul can rest ; 
 But I will sing of another land, 
 
 Not far, far away, but near, — 
 The very spot where my feet now stand, 
 In the beautiful Now and Here. 
 
 The ' ' By-and-bye ' ' is like fairy land, 
 
 And flies from our chasing feet, 
 We never enter its portal grand. 
 
 Or walk in the shaded street ; 
 But the real land, to be loved and tilled, 
 
 Where we can dig and plow, 
 Can sow, and reap, and plant, and build, 
 
 Is the beautiful Here and Now. 
 
 My heart is glad for the " evergreen shore," 
 
 Always so fair and shining. 
 But I know the Present has golden ore 
 
 That needs but Love's refining ; 
 . There are some flowers on the wayside bank, 
 
 The lone pilgrim's heart to cheer. 
 And life is not all a dreary blank 
 
 In the gliding Now and Here, 
 
NOW AND HERE. 153 
 
 Let others sing of the " Summer Land," 
 
 And dream of the ' ' Eden Shore ; ' ' 
 The sun shines bright on this earthly strand 
 
 My feet are now tripping o'er. 
 The " By-and-bye " may be very^ sweet, 
 
 And it gives ni}' heart good cheer, 
 But the joys of the Past and Future meet 
 
 In the glorious Now and Here. 
 
 [1876.] 
 
 A TRUE LIFE. 
 
 LIKE a deep river calmly flows my life, 
 The hours glide swiftly and the days seem 
 short ; 
 Content to live for children, friends and wife. 
 And sweetest pleasure find in deepest thought. 
 
 The passions conquered, now the soul 
 
 Takes its true place and reigns o'er appetite ; 
 
 The flesh, submissive, yields to its control. 
 With holy trust that it will rule aright. 
 
 No longing, hankering, feverish thirst for gain 
 Impels me on to ceaseless toil and strife ; 
 
 Those lighter labors do not taste of pain, 
 That serve to give me every want of life. 
 
 No fires of vengeance slumber in my breast, 
 No pride, or hate, or envy rankle there ; 
 
 But gentle Peace there folds her wings to rest. 
 Leaving no room for darkness and despair. 
 
154 POEMS. 
 
 M}^ love flows out to all of human kind, 
 For everyone to God is just as dear ; 
 
 He is_the Father of each deathless mind, 
 Which makes us brothers, a relation near. 
 
 Now pride, and lust, and hatred all are gone, 
 I feel my freedom, and I shout and sing, 
 
 Just as a bluebird perched upon a thorn. 
 
 Pours forth its praise, some rosy morn in spring. 
 
 I feel contentment when I view the past. 
 
 For 'tis the road by which I've reached this heaven, 
 
 Deep gratitude for present jo3^s held fast. 
 
 And perfect trust that more will still be given. 
 
 [1858]. 
 
 SISTER, COME HOME. 
 
 SISTER, come home ; come to thy land of birth, 
 That blessed spot, the fair New England hills. 
 And livSt once more, while yet you walk the earth. 
 The music of her rills. 
 
 Sister, come home ; come to thy brother's heart. 
 And hand in hand we'll visit those dear scenes 
 
 Where you and I acted life's varying part. 
 When we were in our teens. 
 
 Sister, come home ; and visit once the graves 
 Where rests in peace th}' parents' mortal clay, 
 
 And walk once more where sweet Souhegan laves 
 The shagbark roots so gray. 
 
SISTER, COME HOME. 155 
 
 Sister, come home ; long hast thou tarried West, 
 Tho* Eastern friends are mindful of thee still; 
 
 Now, Father God with ample means has blest, 
 Come home, and fear no ill. 
 
 AFFINITIES- 
 
 IMET a woman, with an eye of blue ; 
 I said, "Woman, are you true? " 
 She answered, " Yes, true as the tempered steel ; 
 I love right on, the same in woe as weal." 
 I said " Woman, will you not forget? " 
 She answered, " Never, till life's sun hath set." 
 
 I met another, with an eye of gray ; 
 
 I said, " Woman, are you true alway ? " 
 
 She answered, "Yes, the needle to the pole 
 
 Is not more true than I am to your soul." 
 
 I said, " Woman, will you not forget ? " 
 
 She answered, " Never, while the crow is jet." 
 
 I met a woman with an eye of hazel, 
 
 'Twas soft and witching as an eye of gazelle ; 
 
 I said, " Woman, are you true ? " 
 
 She answered, " Yes, the plummet and the line 
 
 Are not more true than my soul is to thine." 
 
 I said, " Woman, will you not forget? " 
 
 Forget ! " she answered, " Never ! 
 
 Some may, perhaps, but I remember ever." 
 
156 POEMS. 
 
 I met another — eyes of raven hue ; 
 
 I said, " Woman, are you true ? " 
 
 She answered, " Yes ; the North Star in the sky 
 
 Is not more true and constant, sir, than I." 
 
 I said, " Woman, will you not forget ? " 
 
 Her dark eyes flashing like a coronet, 
 
 She answ^ered, " No ! by Jove, I swear to you, 
 
 I'll ne'er forget, while yonder sea is blue." 
 
 I tried them all, — I trusted ever>' one ; 
 I gave them love, as streams in Springtime run ; 
 But each forgot, and I was left alone, 
 With God's true heart, that beat within my own. 
 
 [1859-] 
 
 COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 NO other Gods before me shaft thou have." 
 We could not, if we would ; 
 There is but one, and he is " all in all." 
 Ye shall not take the name of God in vain." 
 There could not be a greater vanity, — 
 'Tis always best to have a useful aim 
 In all we do or say. 
 Ye shall not any graven image make 
 And bow to worship it." It is not possible 
 To break this plain command. 
 What is true worship ? 'Tis the heart's best life. 
 The holiest aspirations of the soul. 
 Forever rising from its inmost depths, 
 lyike perfume from a flower. 
 
COMMANDMENTS. 157 
 
 ' I am a jealous God ; the father's sin 
 Shall fall upon the child ; ' ' 
 
 (What is he jealous of ? Hath God a rival ?) 
 
 " But to the thousands who obey my laws, 
 The sweetest mercy I will ever show." 
 Father, show me these last, and I will say, 
 As good old Simeon did in days of eld, — 
 
 " In peace serene now let thy servant go." 
 
 "The seventh day is holy, ye shall do no work 
 Upon its sacred hours, for God did rest 
 When He had made the world." 
 Is rest a holier thing than work ? 
 Labor is rest when we have idled long. 
 God cannot rest, for what is rest but death ? 
 Motion and life are ever fast conjoined 
 Past all divorce. Winds blow, tides flow, rain falls, 
 And the swift stream keeps ever on its course ; 
 Flowers bloom, grass grows, and the wild bird 
 Trills forth its note of praise upon the seventh, 
 As on other days. When we are weary 
 It is good to rest. " Honor thy father 
 And thy mother." How easy this would be 
 If all were honorable men and women. 
 
 ' ' Thou shah not kill . " Take down the gallows , then 
 And use the rope to tether out a colt. 
 Or some more noble purpose. " Ye shall not 
 Bear false witness 'gainst thy neighbor." 
 But we do, when false is in our hearts. 
 
 " Thou shah not steal." It is not good to steal ; 
 But Agar thought he should, if pressed for food. 
 Were there no Robbers, there were fewer Thieves. 
 
158 POEMS. 
 
 "Adulter}' ye never shall commit." But he 
 Who on a woman looks with lustful eye, 
 Hath done it now. Where are the sinless ones ? 
 
 ' ' Thou shalt not covet aught that is thy neighbor's. 
 When envy, pride and lust have left the heart, 
 This will be easy kept. 
 
 These are the old. " x\ New Commandment 
 Give I unto thee," a lowl}^ teacher said ; 
 And if 'tis kept, the others are obeyed. 
 "Love one another." O my God ! 
 Teach me to keep the last. 
 
 [1858.] 
 
 A PROBLEM. 
 
 WHEN friendly hands are pressing. 
 And kindred hearts are blessing. 
 And loving lips caressing, 
 ('Tho the why is past your guessing), 
 I am not there. 
 When friends have all forsaken, 
 And the " Magic Staff " is shaken, 
 And Hope her flight is taking, 
 And the stricken heart is breaking, 
 I am there, — then I'm there. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 I AM lonely ; oh, .y^ lonely, 
 With my wife and children two. 
 With a dozen friends around me, 
 And with neighbors kind and true. 
 
ALONE. 159 
 
 I am lonely, oh, so lonely. 
 
 lyike a bird strayed from the flock ; 
 
 my heart is soft as flesh is, 
 
 my heart is hard as rock. 
 
 Other birds look strangeh' at me. 
 
 As I flutter on m}^ way ; 
 When I sing to them, my sweetest, 
 
 For they know not w^hat I say. 
 
 1 have sung it on the mountain, 
 
 1 have sung it in the grove, 
 
 B}' the babbling brook and fountain. 
 Sang my sweetest song of love. 
 
 And I've listened as its echoes 
 
 Died away o'er hill and lea, 
 Listened , — listened , — listened , — listened 
 
 For some bird to answer me. 
 
 I am lonely, oh, so lonel}^ ; 
 
 Heavenly father, can it be 
 That my soul is all too selfish ? 
 
 That I ask too much of Thee ? 
 
 Thou knowest all my soul's deep yearnings, 
 
 All its longings and its needs ; 
 All my spirit's secret turnings, 
 
 All my heart's intents and deeds. 
 
 Purify me, O my father, 
 
 As Th}^ wisdom seeth best ; 
 And when I am pure and holy. 
 
 Then in Thee my soul will rest ; 
 
 Then will end my loneliness. [1861.] 
 
i6o POEMS. 
 
 IDEALITY. 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S GREETING. 
 
 THE year comes round, — Dear heart, I've been with 
 thee 
 B)^ night and day, o'er mountain, plain and sea ; 
 When e'er I listed, as its hours have flown, 
 While we have wiser and have younger grown. 
 
 I've camped with thee on old Monadnock's crest. 
 And slept as snug as two birds in one nest ; 
 In cr^^stal lakes have bathed and played with thee, 
 Picked flowers and berries on the sunlit lea, 
 Strolled o'er the beach, along the sounding sea, 
 As free and jo^'ous as two babes could be. 
 
 In daily labor, often at your side, 
 
 I've stood a helper, scarred and battle-tried ; 
 
 Bowed o'er the bench, or kneeling on the sod. 
 
 We've wrought for good, and so have wrought for God. 
 
 Such toil was play, and at the set of sun 
 
 You've been surprised to see how nuich was done. 
 
 We've nursed the sick, the hungry we have fed, 
 
 Have clothed the naked, and the blind have led : 
 
 Borne wrong in silence, and at insult smiled. 
 
 And said. " God bless you," when we were reviled. 
 
 Unseen, unheard, the Spirit comes and goes. 
 
 As dew in silence falls upon the rose. 
 
 When you've been happ}', and deep peace and joy 
 
 Have filled your being without earth-alloy, 
 
 You did not know my heart beat 'gainst your breast, 
 
 Or that my own to your sweet lips were pressed, 
 
IDEALITY. I6i 
 
 Did you ? It ma}- be ; but I write to say 
 Your so2il to me is lovely as the day ; 
 And with it, freely I can work or play 
 Whene'er I will, and none can say me nay, — 
 A thousand lovers ne\^er in \\\y way. 
 
 Good-night, my angel ! just a dear good night ; 
 May you sleep soundly till the morning light 
 Shall kiss your eyelids, making earth all bright, 
 And Waking you to love that's pure and white, 
 And fair as Christ in every angel's sight. 
 Good night, loved one, good night. 
 
 ________ [^8^5.] 
 
 DUTY. 
 
 THERE is no pleasure half as sweet 
 As Duty nobly done ; 
 Tho' thorns ma}^ pierce my bleeding feet, 
 I 3>et the race will run. 
 
 At times, my heart is faint and weak. 
 
 And I almost despair ; 
 The pathway to the goal I seek 
 
 Is never smooth or fair. 
 
 With purpose set, and manly will. 
 
 Slow, step by step, I climb, 
 Striving to mount o'er every ill, 
 
 And reach a height sublime. 
 
 To live for Good and not for Self, 
 
 Were this my constant aim 
 'Twould make me rich above all pelf, 
 
 And wise above all fame. 
 
1 62 POEMS. 
 
 Just what I give is what I have, 
 
 Not a bead more or less, 
 And all the blessings that I crave 
 
 Come onl}^ as I bless. 
 
 There is no pleasure half as sweet 
 
 As Duty nobly done ; 
 And rest comes to my weary feet, 
 
 With every victory won. 
 
 [1884.] 
 
 IMMATURITY. 
 
 ALL our meanness is our greenness, 
 We shall ripen by-and-bye ; 
 All our greenness is not meanness, — 
 Good, for you and I ! 
 
 Both our meanness and our greenness 
 
 Will grow less together, 
 As clouds fly from the Autumn sky 
 
 And give us pleasant weather. 
 
 Because our meanness is but greenness, 
 
 We'll take heart and hope. 
 Knowing the portal of the immortal 
 
 Day by day will ope. 
 
 If all meanness is but greenness, 
 
 Why condemn another ? 
 The}^ will grow, if 'tis but slow. 
 
 The sister and the brothef. 
 
IMMATURITY. 163 
 
 All our meanness is our greenness, 
 
 But we hate to own it ; 
 We'd have trod a better road, 
 
 Had we only known it. 
 
 FOUR JEWELS. 
 
 TO BE SET IN THE PURE GOLD OF SINCERITY AND WORN AS AN 
 AMULET. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 TRUST in God as in a mother, 
 Trust him as you would a brother, 
 Trust Him when you can no other. 
 
 HOPE . 
 
 Hope for joy the comming morrow ; 
 Tho' to-day you may have sorrow, 
 Do not of the future borow. 
 
 IvOVE. 
 
 Love the one that is the nearest, 
 
 Tho' of souls it is the queerest ; 
 
 Say " dear," if you can't say " dearest." 
 
 DUTY. 
 
 Do the duty first at hand, — 
 
 The simplest rule Love ever planned 
 
 To guide us to the " Better Land." 
 
 [1884.] 
 
64 POEMS. 
 
 FORGETFULNESS. 
 
 LET others ask for wealth or fame or power, 
 Low bending at thy shrine ; 
 But I, O Lord, who come to Thee this hour, 
 
 Ask for a gift divine. 
 Bright gold is good, and fame is passing fair 
 
 And many souls may bless ; 
 But I must humbly ask a gift more rare — 
 Give me Forgetfulness. 
 
 I would forget all envy, pride and hate, 
 
 And never know them more ; 
 All loss and sorrow the stern hand of Fate 
 
 Hath given me, full .store. 
 All injuries, and fretful words and slights, 
 
 That dash the soul with gall. 
 Dimming the brightness of our days and nights — 
 
 I would forget them all. 
 
 Aye, let them all, I pray, be buried deep 
 
 In that unsounded sea. 
 Whose tideless waves forever silent sleep — 
 
 The past eternity. 
 Then the wrapt soul on Love's strong wings can rise 
 
 O'er all the ills that be, 
 Trilling forever from the morning skies 
 
 The light song of the Free. 
 
THE TEST. 165 
 
 THE TEST. 
 
 OR, NATURAL AND DIVTNE LOVE. 
 
 1LOVE thee dearl3^" said my love, one day ; 
 " I love thee truly and shall love alway. 
 Dost thou believe me, lover brave, I pray? " 
 
 ' Now, by what token shall th}- love be known ? 
 And by what testing can thy truth be shown ? ' ' 
 I said to her, one arm around her thrown. 
 
 ' Why, by this token, — that 1 give to thee : 
 Myself, my life, all that I have or be ; 
 What more, indeed, could lover ask of me ? " 
 
 " One little gift, dear love, I ask of thee ; 
 And if 'tis granted, it will prove you free. 
 And prove, past doubt, that you in truth love me. 
 The boon I ask is simply — Liberty ! ' ' 
 
 Then my love shrieked, as if a dagger-knife 
 Had pierced her heart, and drained it of its life ; 
 And cried, "Ask all, ask everything of me 
 But that one gift, and I will give it thee." 
 
 A moment's silence, and God's love divine 
 O'erfilled the soul of this fair love of mine. 
 
 Then my love turned, and with a smile of peace, 
 Said, '' Lover brave, I grant you full release ; 
 For this I know, — did I in truth love thee, 
 I should not fear to grant thee liberty ; 
 My soul would be with perfect freedom blest ; 
 For Love alone can give the spirit rest. 
 
1 66 POEMS. 
 
 " As proof past doubt that I indeed love thee, 
 I bid thee go — no mountain-kid more free ; 
 Rove where you wAV^, you cannot part from me.'" 
 [1883.] 
 
 TO WILLIAM, ON HIS WEDDING DAY. 
 
 WIIvIvIAM, my friend, as yon go on in life, 
 From this day forth, with Hattie for a wife, 
 Remember this : No one can ever find 
 All grace and beauty in one form combined ; 
 Remember this : That you are but a part. 
 Lacking somewhat, either in head or heart, 
 Or both, perchance ; and therefore should you miss 
 To find in her the hoped-for joy and bliss. 
 Think of yourself, a partial, growing man. 
 And strive to be the hero that you can. 
 Think that, it may be, you may fail to fill 
 Her soul with rest ; and therefore, say, " I will 
 Bear and torbear, and like a God forgive, 
 A^^e, and forget — and so in peace will live." 
 ******* 
 
 From m}' heart's core I wish you joy and peace, 
 And ma}' it ever, day by day, increase. 
 As with your consort up life's hill 3'ou climb. 
 To taste at length of joy and bliss sublime. 
 
 [1884.] 
 
 THE DAUGHTER'S PRAYER. 
 
 C"^ RANT me this favor, O my God, I pray : 
 T That when I think of her just passed away, 
 (As I must ever, many times each day), 
 
THE DAUGHTERS PRAYER. 167 
 
 I ma}^ pursue life's pathway in the light 
 
 Of her example, ever shining bright — 
 
 A beacon star to guide me through the night. 
 
 Oh, ma)' her patience breed in me the same, 
 Her love unselfish set my heart aflame, 
 Her charity keep my two lips from blame ; 
 May I possess her courage and her hope. 
 So, tlio' at times I may in darkness grope, 
 I yet shall trust that day at length will ope. 
 
 I should be thankful, tho' my eyes drop tears. 
 That Thou hast given me, for so many years, 
 Such noble mother — few on earth her peers. ' 
 Resigned I would be, Father, to Thy will ; 
 M}' heart Thou knowest, all its good and ill, 
 And with sweet peace thou only it can fill. 
 
 Her heroism, her love, her faith and trust. 
 Grant to Th}^ child (low humbled in the dust), 
 That when I meet her, as ere long I must, 
 I may be worthy of her high estate, 
 And, being daughter, may be also mate — 
 Companion fit for one so good and great. 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 HOW like our life is to a voyage 
 Upon an unknown sea ! 
 To find the " Better Land," where dwell 
 The brave, the true, the free. 
 
1 68 POEMS. 
 
 Sometimes the days are fair and bright, 
 Our good ship glides with ease, 
 
 With every stitch of canvass set 
 To catch the favoring breeze. 
 
 Sometimes the cahn, sometimes the storm. 
 
 The lightning and the gale, 
 And fearfully we stagger on 
 
 Beneath a close-reefed sail ; 
 Sometimes we signal other ships, 
 
 Sometimes they make reply, 
 But oftener the}^ cannot read 
 
 The sign we hang on high. 
 
 Boyhood's fair shores lie far astern ; 
 
 I look ahead, and lo ! 
 The ' ' Islands of the Blessed ' ' loom 
 
 Against the sunset-glow ; 
 With vision purged, I gaze intent, 
 
 And on the strand I see 
 A Father, Mother, Brother, stand 
 
 Waiting to welcome me. 
 
 A Sister, too, with dark brown curls, 
 
 And eyes of heavenly blue. 
 Says, " Brother, do not fear to land, 
 
 I have a kiss for you . ' ' 
 I take in sail and slowly drift, — 
 
 The evening air is balm ; 
 I soon shall let the anchor slip 
 
 Beyond the storm and calm. [1883.] 
 
THE SOULS QUEST. 169 
 
 THE SOUL'S QUEST. 
 
 THE soul goes East, the soul goes West, 
 Pas.sion-driven, 
 Seeking love, and joy, and rest. 
 
 Seeking heaven ; 
 The soul toils hard for fame or pelf, 
 
 (Ah! life's a school!) 
 But finds not heaven while lust and self 
 
 Have the rule. 
 The soul goes West and the soul goes East, 
 
 Pleasure-driven , 
 Missing love and joy and peace, 
 
 Missing heaven. 
 That soul finds love and joy and rest 
 
 On earthly sod, 
 That nobly conquers lust and self, 
 
 And lives for God. 
 
 BEAUTITUDE. 
 
 * * * My soul 
 Is full of melody — its white waves roll 
 Unrestfully, and vibrate to the key 
 Of love divine, causing a harmony 
 Sweeter than mortal ear hath ever heard 
 To fill my being. On my inner sight 
 A vision breaks like sunrise at midnight, 
 More radiant, soft, and glorious, and bright, 
 Than dream of angel. 
 I seem ensphered within a glory-zone 
 Of heavenly beauty, and it is my own ; 
 22 
 
70 POEMS. 
 
 Where'er I go it goes, and night or day 
 It is the same, forever and alway. 
 From good intent, the rays of glory flow, 
 And light the path where'er my feet may go. 
 
 [1859.] 
 
 P^AN, 
 
 ON THE TRANSLATION OF MY DEAR FRIEND JOHN ROBBINS NICKLES. 
 
 OY ! joy ! joy is me ! 
 Surely I should happy be, 
 For the upright man is free ! 
 
 J 
 
 Free from sickness, care and pain ; 
 Free from want of gold or gain ; 
 Free from every earthly stain. 
 
 As a husband, father, friend, 
 
 In him there was naught to mend — 
 
 He was noble to the end. 
 
 Free ! Oh, how my heart is stirred 
 By the music of the word — 
 Sweetest angels ever heard ; 
 
 Ever while the stars shall roll. 
 Highest gift from soul to soul ; 
 Highest gift in God's control. 
 
 CIRCLES. 
 
 TO the lover, love returns, 
 To the hater, hate that burns ; 
 So through life, whate'er we give, 
 Come to us, as God doth live. 
 
CIRCLES. 171 
 
 Scorn, and envy, and disgust, 
 
 Hurt the one that feels them most ; 
 
 Every kind and tender word, 
 
 By your own ear will be heard ; 
 
 Every tear by Pity shed, 
 
 Comes a pearl to deck the head ; 
 
 Every throb of Charity, 
 
 Weaves a robe of Purity 
 
 Which no filth can ever smutch, 
 
 Which no fire of hell can touch ; 
 
 And whate'er we do or say, 
 
 Is our own, for aye and aye. [1886.] 
 
 PiEAN. 
 
 FROM THE MOUNT OF VISION. 
 
 THE clouds at last have parted ! 
 The golden light shines through ! 
 The Poet sings, light-hearted, 
 At sight of all things new ; 
 The mists of lusts are flying. 
 
 The sky will soon be clear — 
 True love no more is dying 
 With mortal dread and fear. 
 
 Woman shall have her birth right, 
 Man's true and loving heart ; 
 
 No more to spend her earth-night 
 In loneliness apart. 
 
 As Maid, or Wife, or Mother, 
 
172 POEMS, 
 
 In strength and joy, and peace, 
 She'll bless each man and brother, 
 
 Giving the soul release 
 Into that land of beaut}'. 
 
 Where Love and Law are one. 
 And sweetest joy is Duty 
 
 Gladly and nobly done. 
 
 Fair Charity shall lead us 
 
 'Mid flowers' of asphodel, 
 Where Lust no more shall bleed us 
 
 With burning darts of hell. 
 Shout ! man, the day is dawning ; 
 
 Shout ! woman, in your joy ; 
 Surely it is the morning 
 
 Of Love without alloy. [1889.] 
 
 DUALITY 
 
 MAN and woman ! they must stand 
 Heart to heart, and hand in hand. 
 Each the other must inspire 
 With love, and zeal, and holy fire, 
 To war against all forms of wrong 
 That keep down souls not pure and strong. 
 Male and female, two in one, 
 The heavenly daughter and the son, 
 Forming the perfect man complete 
 That old Earth, patient, waits to greet. 
 Ye hills and mountains, clap 3^our hands ! 
 Laugh, sea-waves, on your beaten sands ! 
 Sing, breezes, in the leaf 3^ grove ! 
 For man is saved by perfect Love. 
 
THE BUILDERS. 173 
 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 BROTHERS and Comrades ! all who take a share 
 In building up the " Temple of the Truth," 
 Whose dome and turrets raised in middle air, 
 
 Shall shine with beaut}^ and immortal youth — 
 Be not aweary, nor throw down your tools, 
 
 Ceasing to work with hand, and heart, and brain, 
 Because the World has called you cranks and fools, 
 Its best requital for your toil and pain. 
 
 Tho' it seems little one alone can do 
 
 To rear the fane of a New Social State, 
 A million workers, earnest, strong and true, 
 
 In God's own time can rear the structure great. 
 We can dig deep, and clear the earth away. 
 
 Can hew the granite, or can bear the hod ; 
 And as we labor, fervently can pray 
 
 That this our work a glory be to God. 
 
 And when in after 3^ears we shall repose 
 
 Beneath its roof, in innocence and peace, 
 We shall be glad we struck some earnest blows 
 
 To build it up, and give the soul release ; 
 Release from bondage to old modes of thought. 
 
 From Ignorance, that holds the world in thrall ; 
 From the false Creeds that in our youth were taught, 
 
 Darkening life's pathway with a midnight pall. 
 
 Release from Fear, that tyrant grim and old. 
 
 That many a heart hath crushed in dark despair ; 
 
 Release from Envy, lyust and Hatred cold ; 
 
 Filling their place with Christ-love pure and fair. 
 
174 POEMS. 
 
 Up ! Brothers, Comrades, Heroes ! take ye heart, 
 For well ye know 'tis but the seed-time now ; 
 
 But by-and-bye, God's ample harvest cart. 
 
 Will be piled high with golden sheaves, I trow. 
 [1890.] 
 
 TO G. J. 
 
 January i, 1887. 
 
 The year comes round — 
 Time is a circle without break or bound. 
 
 'Tis eighteen eighty-seven. 
 
 And I'm in heaven. 
 I send this message from the throne of grace, 
 
 To greet your radiant face. 
 
 No tongue can tell 
 The glories of the place wherein I dwell — 
 
 The opposite of hell ; 
 
 Light-hearted, joyous, free ! 
 I cannot tell you what I hear and see, 
 
 Or even where I be. 
 It would be lawful, but no tongue can utter 
 The secret deep ; and so I only stutter. 
 To do my best, and silent, rapt, and dumb, 
 Can only say, the King has come ! 
 
 lyong live the King ! 
 
 T 
 
 LOGIC. 
 
 HERE is no limit to the love of God 
 
 He loveth all things that his hand hath made, 
 From highest angel to the lowliest flower 
 
 That blooms unseen in sunshine or in shade. 
 
LOGIC. 175 
 
 There is no limit to the power of God ; 
 
 No hand can balk Him of His heart's desire, 
 And therefore, sometime every human soul 
 
 Must hear His sweet voice, saying, " Come up 
 higher." 
 
 MY PRAYER. 
 
 OTHERS may ask for corn, or wine or gold, 
 When they pray to their God ; 
 For these are good their kind again to buy, 
 
 Here on this earthly sod ; 
 I only ask of the mysterious power 
 
 My destiny controls, 
 But this one gift as my sole boon and dower : 
 A garnered sheaf of souls. 
 
 TO SISTER KATE. 
 
 SHORTLY BEFORE HER TRANSLATION 
 
 ONE by one the years are flowing, 
 Sister dear ; 
 Slowl}^ onward we are going, 
 
 Never fear. 
 We shall go to meet our own 
 
 Gone before ; , 
 
 We shall reap what we have sown — 
 Nothing more. 
 
176 TO SISTER KATE. 
 
 Facing now the sunset sky 
 
 Of our life, 
 Glad to la}^ its burdens by, 
 
 And its strife. . 
 We have much our hearts to cheer, 
 
 As our feet 
 Slowly tread each short 'ning year, 
 
 With love sweet. 
 
 Glad am I, and glad are you, 
 
 Sister dear, 
 That because we have been true. 
 
 We've no fear ; 
 Glad to stay, or glad to go, 
 
 As God wills — 
 On the plains of earth below, 
 
 Or heaven's hills. [1892.] 
 
 GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY. 
 
 " Except ye become as a little child ye cannot enter." 
 
 I'M a boy the second time, I can sing and I can rhyme, 
 And I count it good 
 To enjoy the livelong day at my work and call it pla3^ 
 As a true boy should. 
 
 Old age does not trouble me, I am busy as a bee. 
 
 And I do not fear [leave all. 
 
 To hear the Master's pleasant call, to come forward and 
 In this lower sphere. 
 
GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY 177 
 
 Naught can tarnish beaten gold — perfect love is never old, 
 
 And always keeps us young. 
 And thus I pass, a little child, altho' perhaps a trifle wild, 
 
 The heavenl}^ babes among. 
 
 I live for good that I can do, and to my higher self be true, 
 
 The fires of hell are " banked," 
 And soon they will be clean gone out, and in my boyish 
 glee I shout, 
 
 Let all the Gods be thanked. 
 
 [Jan. 1892.] 
 
APHORISMS. 
 
 Milk of the Word Condensed 
 
 In melIvOw Autumn, nuts I love to pick, 
 
 In the gay forest where I find them thick; 
 
 And bring ( as home I slowly saunter back ), 
 
 A DOUBLE handful FOR THE BOYS TO CRACK. 
 
APHORISMS 
 
 G 
 
 OD is the Whole, love all and you love God, 
 J The soul, and body, sky, and sea, and sod. 
 
 The fount whence flow the streams that bless, 
 Is the inner consciousness. 
 
 Soul-culture is the noblest husbandry. 
 
 The body, sure, is more than raiment fine — 
 More than the body, is the soul divine. 
 
 It has been said that heaven was far above ; 
 But heaven is with us, if we truly love. 
 
 O that by all, this truth were understood ; 
 The love of God is but the love of Good. 
 
 True faith in God, true trust in the Divine, 
 Is a bright pearl from the celestial mine. 
 
 Does man desire to rid the world of sin ? 
 
 He'll find some work who turns his eye within. 
 
1 82 APHORISMS. 
 
 Some find their heroes 'mid the battle's strife ; 
 The greatest heroes are in private hfe. 
 
 What's past, is gone ; to come, an unblown flower — 
 Let us be happy in the present hour. 
 
 Natural love lives only to be blessed ; 
 But love divine must give, to be at rest. 
 
 Bondage is motion, freedom is rest. 
 
 Selfish lovers bind themselves with vows; 
 Pure lovers are free forever and always. 
 
 IvOve asks no promise, and makes none. 
 
 Words of wisdom from the preacher fall on us like 
 water on tightly stopped jugs ; we are not filled, we do 
 not overflow. Let God unlock the fountain of love 
 within us, and streams flow forth forever, refreshing all 
 around. 
 
 Are not Justice and Merc 3^ one ? 
 Are not Love and Wisdom one ? 
 
 Natural love cries ever, " Love thou me " ; 
 But love Divine, " My life is loving thee." 
 
 Nothing can be proved — everything must be self-evident. 
 
 Love marriages are unknown ; the\' are dreamed of. 
 For pure love is like God, without limit and without 
 divisibility — enclosing all. 
 
 The imitator is limited ; the Creator knows no bounds. 
 
APHORISMS. 183 
 
 The running stream ever yields, 
 Yet triumphs forever and always. 
 
 Love truth and fear not — 
 Do good and be happy. 
 
 Sex or station, clime or zone, 
 These to love are all unknown. 
 
 Nature's voice sings sweet alway, 
 " Those have power who obe}'." 
 
 The soul is the centre of the universe ; 
 The throne of God is there. 
 
 The saint, the harlot, and the sage, 
 ThOvSe filled with love, with lust, with rage, 
 Whate'er the life of God hath moved. 
 Each one is equally beloved. 
 
 True act or speech is always what is meant ; 
 Heaven's sweetest cup is filled with good intent. 
 
 The sincere man is God's darling. 
 
 Those who love me keep out of m}^ way. 
 
 Do 5^our best, and in that rest. 
 
 Angels can do no more ; 
 Do 3^our best, and in your breast 
 
 You'll find the " Eden Shore." 
 
 The silent man is the only consistent man. 
 If you can, you may. 
 
1 84 APHORISMS. 
 
 The streamlet trickling down the mountain, 
 Flows ever from a secret fountain ; 
 So true love, tho' forever giving. 
 Flows from a fountain fresh and living. 
 The stream's fount is 'neath the stone and sod- 
 Love's fount is the heart of God. 
 
 We live for aye, no time is lost, I ween ; 
 
 We always must be what we might have been. 
 
 The lover is always a Christian ; 
 The Christian is always a lover, 
 
 Tho' w^e should lose our hands or eyes, 
 
 We can make no sacrifice ; 
 
 Ever}^ action, place, or state, 
 
 Turns for us a leaf of fate. 
 
 From those leaves we learn, 
 
 As they daily turn, 
 
 And from knowledge comes the power 
 
 To make happiness our dower. 
 
 Blows hit the striker .- 
 
 God pays cash ; the reward of labor 
 Is to the laborer — none else. 
 
 Ivies cannot injure a man — 
 Neither the truth. 
 
 There are but two in the universe — God and I. 
 
APHORISMS. 185 
 
 " Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
 The saddest are these: It might have been." 
 Of all bright words the soul can see, 
 The brightest are these : "It 3^et will be." 
 Of all sweet sweet words e'er heard, I trow, 
 The sweetest are " I have found it now." 
 
 Each one is the only begotten. 
 
 There is no death, but all is life eternal ; 
 
 The soul springs forth forever, fresh and vernal. 
 
 Immortal love gives us immortal youth ; 
 For love is life, and life is love and truth. 
 
 If I forgive not, unasked, and without repentance, 
 Peace cannot rest in my bosom. 
 
 That person is the most ' ' accomplished ' ' 
 Who can do the most things in the best way. 
 
 'Tis not what I have that makes me happy, 
 
 But what I am — and this I discover rather than create. 
 
 Three grades of mind upon the earth I see ; 
 
 One says, " Good was, Bad is, and Bad shall be." 
 
 Another class, more numerous, I see ; 
 
 It says, " Good was, Bad is, but Good again shall be." 
 
 Peaceful, tho' small, the other class I see. 
 
 It says, " Good was, Good is, and Good shall ever be." 
 
 This is the Song Eternal of the Free. 
 
 24 
 
1 86 APHORISMS. 
 
 Words indicate facts ; they are powerless to convey feel- 
 ings or perceptions. 
 
 Nothing is good or beautiful until you call it so. 
 
 We could not be happy without a loving, merry heart, 
 Tho' we dwelt in a palace ; 
 With it, a hut does very well. 
 
 What is the highest gift of soul to soul, 
 The highest gift in God's control ? 
 Liberty, always and evermore. 
 
 In discords oft between the man and wife, 
 The strongest party yields, and ends the strife. 
 
 His soul in bliss is anchored fast. 
 Who prays to God to save him last. 
 
 The tides of life flow high and low, 
 
 The same to saint and sinner. 
 And gold may come, and gold may go. 
 
 But Ivove is the only winner. 
 
 Wouldst thou be strong who now art weak ? 
 The joys of earth thou shalt not seek ; 
 Be honest noble, just and kind. 
 The joys of heaven you'll surely find. 
 
 I ask no gems from other lands, 
 Or wealth earned by another's hands; 
 For earth, and sea, and sky are mine. 
 By virtue of a right divine. 
 
APHORISMS. 187 
 
 The soul breathes onl}^ heavenly air 
 When perfect love has banished prayer. 
 
 Thrice blest the soul that naught expects ; 
 'Tis ever such the Lord elects. 
 
 My God is just, go put him in your debt, 
 He'll pay the instant you the claim forget. 
 
 Oh, if my love did but love me, 
 A paradise this earth would be. 
 Oh, if I did but love my love, 
 I'd know the joys of heaven above. 
 
 Has life been for you a bitter disappointment? 
 
 This shows you once had a beautiful ideal. 
 
 Return to the ideal, or spiritual life. 
 
 And Paradise will be regained ; 
 
 Let it be purely spiritual, and make 
 
 No attempt to actualize it in the outer world. 
 
 Behold ! a mystery I tell : 
 
 The path to heaven goes straight through hell 
 
 In passing through to bliss above, 
 
 The fire of hell burns all but love ; 
 
 But when at length you're fairly through, 
 
 Henceforth hell hath no harm for you, 
 
 And you'll enjoy, cleansed from all curse, 
 
 The freedom of God's universe. 
 
1 88 APHORISMS. 
 
 There is but one god — Love ; 
 There is but one devil — Selfishness. 
 Choose ye this da^^ whom ye will serve — 
 You cannot serve both at the same time. 
 
 The sea of grief is shallow — no one was ever drowned 
 in its waters. With my long legs I can touch bottom 
 anywhere, and wade to the shore ; and perhaps help out 
 a friend whose legs are shorter than mine. 
 
 Charity is alwa3^s a virtue ; Chastity may or may not 
 be, it depends on conditions. 
 
 Selfishness alwa^^s depends on conditions, 
 And may be hindered, balked, disappointed ; 
 Love does not depend on conditions. 
 And cannot be balked or disappointed. 
 
 Two persons of large ideality can work together, 
 
 And make play of their work ; 
 
 Two persons of small ideality can work together. 
 
 But cannot make/>/<rK of their work, 
 
 Or anything else ; to them earth-life 
 
 Is a treadmill existence. 
 
 We cannot conceive of any goodness or greatness 
 In others, that is not latent in ourselves. 
 
 Saints are terribly disagreeable to live with ; 
 
 Sinners are amiable, kind, charitable and bewitching. 
 
AHPORISMS. 189 
 
 We do not know how rich we are 
 Until some strong true friend, with vision 
 Purged and clear, shows us the wealth 
 No eye but his can see. 
 
 "There is more joy in heaven over one sinner that 
 repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons that 
 need no repentance." And no wonder, for he knows 
 more, and is worth more as a reformer and benefactor of 
 his kind, than the whole ninety and nine. 
 
 Bleesed are they who are rich in spirit ; 
 
 Their wealth is unbounded, and cannot be counted. 
 
 Pitiful are they who are poor in spirit ; 
 
 No amount of gold or fine linen can enrich them. 
 
 Does my I^ove love another? I am glad of it. I will 
 invite him to my house, and give her every chance to be 
 with him ; for by so doing she will see my unselfishness 1 
 and to her love for me will be added respect and honor 
 for my manhood, and thereb}^ she will be held to me by 
 bonds stronger than steel. 
 
 I love sinners dearly, and good people nearly as well. 
 
 Where do you find one who is not wicked ? 
 
 Where do you find one who is not good ? 
 
 At this moment it seems to me sin is the life of the world ; 
 
 What on earth should we find to do without it ? 
 
 HONOR. 
 
 A man should be as true and reliable as is the sun or 
 the returning tide, or the North star ; his word as true 
 as any word of God that speaks in Nature. 
 
190 APHORISMS. 
 
 SERVICE. 
 
 Whate'er will give thee health, or wealth, or pleasure. 
 I will do, if it is pure and true, and best for you ; 
 Whatever task I undertake for thee, 
 I'll do my best, and serve thee faithfully. 
 
 HUMILITY. 
 
 Humility, of spirit-gems most fair ; 
 
 Worn alwa3'S by the great as sign and warrant 
 
 Of their nobleness — for thee I pray. 
 
 And strive to make thee mine. 
 
 Thoughtfulness and consideration for others is the 
 crowning glory of the saint, the sign of maturity of the 
 spirit, of true manhood, or womanhood, of which it is 
 the glory, and should not be expected in the young. 
 
 Wisdom is the fruit of love, but to love is wisdom. 
 
 Paradise is the pairing of two ; 
 Heaven, the communion of all souls. 
 
 There are two kinds of Chastit)-, positive and negative. 
 One is the chastity of the icicle, cold, negative and repel- 
 lant ; the other is the cha.stity of the sunbeam, warm, 
 magnectic, attractive, and life-giving, making the desert 
 to blossom like the rose, and home to be a haven of rest, 
 and a heaven. 
 
 A man should make his own creed and live it. 
 
 Where is Heaven located ? At the post of Duty, for- 
 evermore. 
 
APHORISMS. 191 
 
 Self-indulgence is buying on credit ; 
 Self-denial is parang in advance. 
 The one must be always well paid for, 
 The other always well rewarded ; 
 One is slavery, the other freedom. 
 
 ' ' When will heaven come to me ? ' ' 
 
 One day I asked a Sage ? 
 Whose inner eye scanned Nature's secret page 
 
 As 'twere an open book ; 
 
 He gave me a wise look, 
 And said, " Take your Ideal for a god and serve it, 
 And you'll find heaven the instant you deserve it." 
 
 The soul is like a kite — the harder the wind blows 
 against it, the faster and higher it rises. 
 
 'Tis certain the pure lover can't say " Dearest " ; 
 The nearest he can come to it is, " Nearest." 
 
 The angels see us as we are, and do not care what we 
 have been. 
 
 Ignorant I am, wicked I may be, sincere I will be. 
 
 The servant is greater than the king. 
 If the king serve not the servant. 
 
 IvOve is the magic key that unlocks all doors of the 
 universe. 
 
 The shortest way to realize the ideal 
 Is to idealize the real. 
 
192 APHORISMS. 
 
 In 111}' Father's universe are many worlds ; each child 
 has one of its own, which it creates and lives in. 
 
 How shall I be always wath those I love ? 
 B}^ loving those I am with. 
 
 The highest compliment you can pay me, when we two 
 are together, is to act as if you were alone. 
 
 Love is the one thing that does not change ; 
 Hate, Envy and Ambition at length tire out. 
 
 The fires of hell burn free, and by their light 
 
 We see Heaven's gate, as stars are shown by night — 
 
 Always wide open, and nailed to the w^all, 
 
 And none can shut it, be they great or small. 
 
 Natural, or passionate love, is like fire — a good serv- 
 ant, but terrible master ; Divine love is like sunshine, 
 universal in application, giving warmth and life to all. 
 
 Altho' I give the sweetest love to you, 
 
 I've none the less for ever}^ longing heart. 
 
 For I can love a million, pure and true. 
 With perfect love that is not given in part. 
 
 As one at the bottom of the well can see stars. 
 So the soul from the most degraded condition 
 May see the stars of righteousness and rest. 
 It seems absolutely necessary for some souls 
 To reach that condition before the}^ can see them. 
 " Pride ruined the angels, their shame them restores." 
 
APHORISMS. 193 
 
 " 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have 
 loved at all," so said a poet; but I think he erred. 
 None ever loved and lost ; for love doth bless himself, 
 and is enriched with all the wealth he gives f ore vermore . 
 
 Without Purity, no Freedom; without Freedom, no 
 Purity. 
 
 There is but one sin — Selfishness ; but one virtue — 
 lyove. 
 
 In heaven itself some saints may shirk ; 
 In hell the lover finds his work. 
 
 With joyous song I greet the morning sun. 
 
 Light-hearted am at even ; 
 Where'er I go my soul has joy and peace, 
 
 For I myself am heaven. 
 
 Devotion to principle, without love, gives a character 
 cold, just, merciless, perhaps brilliant; love without devo- 
 tion to principle, gives a character weak, vacillating, per- 
 haps vicious. Devotion to principle, with love, gives a 
 character brave, sweet, tender, "beloved of gods and 
 men." 
 
 As the running stream, when dammed, flows back on 
 itself, rising higher, higher, higher, till finally it leaps 
 over all obstruction, a thing of beauty and of power ; so 
 the soul, when baffled and opposed, turns within upon 
 itself, eats its own heart, and learns to "suffer and be 
 strong," till at length it surmounts all opposition, and 
 goes on its way in strength and majesty, a thing of 
 beauty, free and joyous forever. 
 
 25 
 
194 APHORISMS. 
 
 The eternal verities, from where I stand 
 Loom up like mountains, beautiful and grand ; 
 Henceforth I fear not, for I plainly see 
 All things are safe and will forever be. 
 All things are good and will forever be — 
 Thanks be to God, who gives me this to see. 
 
 Manhood, and not manners, captivates the true wo- 
 man ; she cannot resist it. 
 
 The glor}^ of the Divine love is this : It allows the 
 free play of Affinities — Selfishness will not allow it. 
 
 The soul that lives to bless the world is always at 
 home ; the soul that lives to be blessed by the world, to 
 be pleased by Pleasure and loved by Love, is still in the 
 wilderness, some distance from home. 
 
 'Tis your own wit that makes you wise, 
 
 And not a mother's : 
 'Tis your own strength that makes you strong, 
 
 And not a brother's ; 
 'Tis your own love that makes you rich, 
 
 And not another's. 
 
 Saints work in silence ; sinners make a good deal of 
 noise. 
 
 " O where is heaven, dear Prince ? " a student cried. 
 " Where'er I am," the smiling Prince replied. 
 
APHORISMS, 195 
 
 True love speaks ever in the present tense. 
 For perfect love is its own recompense ; 
 It does not love for crowns, or golden dust, 
 Or love returned — but simply that it must. 
 
 Things you don't think much of you should not think 
 of much. 
 
 The ' ' pearl of great price" cannot be bought with a vSong; 
 A "great price " only will buy it, but 'tis worth the cost. 
 
 The sweetest lips are those that speak no blame. 
 
 'Tis better beautiful deeds to do, 
 
 Than beautiful things to own ; 
 To your highest light 'tis best be true, 
 
 Tho' you silent walk, and lone. 
 
 I cease my quest— the short days fly 
 
 On wings of morn and even ; 
 Yet more and more, " the universe grows I," 
 
 And I myself am heaven. 
 
 The storm but serves to deeper root the oak, 
 Tho' now and then a tender branch is broke ; 
 So obstacles but show the soul its power, 
 Unknown and latent — a most royal dower ; 
 And it is doubtful if there e'er could be 
 A Socrates without a Xanthipee. 
 
 God begins us ; we must finish ourselves. 
 
196 APHORISMS. 
 
 Alone, alone, upon its upward way 
 
 The skylark sings ; 
 Alone, alone, the soul must rise each day, 
 
 On tireless wings. 
 But now and then, like lonely ships at sea, 
 
 We meet a brother craft, 
 Speak a few words of loving sympathy 
 
 Then part as winds may waft ; 
 But this one thought does give me joy and hope 
 
 And lingers in my brain ; 
 That those we need, and who need us, 
 
 Sometime will meet again. [1892.] 
 
 But nuts and ferns dear friends, 
 
 To-day I give. 
 Diamonds and goi.d, to-morrow. 
 
 If 1 1.IVE./