\5 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS/ ~7'S~7TT? ©i^ap ^wM^ ?ii Shelf;.. /^'^CJ'^^ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. POEMS AND CHARADES :7^ y BY > MARY C. BARRETT BROWN WITH A KEY AND ANSWERS IN VERSE NEW YORK 1888 Entered accordiuo to Act of Congress, in the year 1888, by E. P. BUTTON & CO., In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. Press of J. J. Little & Co. Astor Place, New York. Contents. PAGE Introduction " Ah ! I was young, and it was May 141 Alpine Flowers. Where the morning's tint of rose loi Autumn Leaves. On glowing hills So Autumn Sunset ^-+9 Away from the hills in their autumn brown 169 Back, back. Away, away from the sweeping storm 166 Breath of the Pink, and red rose glow 13S Christmas. Spring hath its deep hued violet 142 Confession. His domino he casts aside 5^ Crimson and gold, ruby and green I53 Departure i53, 158, 160, 167 Easter Flowers ^38 Eyes of blue and hair of gold ^39 Fair Lady L • ^^7 A Fish story ^^^ Family Portraits 12S February Fourteenth. It was silvery light 25 Florida Roses. The wintry day draws to a close I45 Flower of Paradise • • 34 Flowery May with lavish hand .' 39 From the west the sunset fire. ^3^ Future. The future is to be 37 Gayly the curtains of purple and gold 141 Go, little shell and spray of green 136 Golden Wedding Songs 125, 170 Graduating Hymn ^°^ 22 Home, My 3 CONTENTS. How eagerly is childhood's day 137 Jack in the Pulpit. The Preacher ' 141 Litchfield 149, 150, 153, 158, i6o, 166, 167, 169 Looking back 17, 150 Many Sails 161 -^lay 39 The Mayflower and Galatea 169 New Year's Gift 156 An Oasis 158 O happy they who dwell at rest 165 Old Pair of Shoes lOO Pansies 138, 141, 175 Pink and purple and white 140 Puritan and Genesta 158 Preacher, The 141 Return 150, 153, 166, 169 Ring gladly out, oh golden bells 125 Rosabel 159 A Rose 145, 157 Sea shells. Go, little shell, etc 136. 137 Smile on, through tears infrequent shed 148 So fierce was Sol, I needs must fly 153 Songs — Golden Weddings 125, 170 The Champion of the Free 2g Rallying Song — Flashing and bright 31 When the bright bouvardias flame 85 Spring hath its deep-hued violet 142 Sweet Peas 140, 161 That wondrous rose so delicately fair 157 The leafless hills against the sky 149 The open sky and breezy hills 150 There's many a thing we do not know 157 The robin and the blackbird come 160 The wintry day draws to a close 145, 146 Thou dear delight of gardens old 138 • COXTUNTS. ■ 5 PAGE These flowers the field of life have won 175 To Violet. We circle round our little paths 69 To her who taught the charming art 50 Unconquerable on sea or land 158 Valentines 25, 139 What is it men and women all despise 100 When summer smites the fainting land 15S ACROSTIC CHARADES. I. On quiet hills was the humble birth 40 VI. O sought by men in thronging bands 45 VII. Go bring the harp or light guitar 51, 56 X. Unknown thy youth, for thou wast old 63 XII. Alas, the cunning hands that wrought 73 XIV. When the spring with bugle breath 81 XVII. When Tyre sat joyously beside the sea gr XX. A growing grace hath my shapely form 104 XXII. Thou wast fashioned by Nature 112 XXV. Breathe but my name, as though 'twere a spell 120 CHARADES AND ENIGMAS. II. My First waves on the peaceful shore 43 III. While mortals look for my First to the sky 43 IV. My First is Thou in foreign speech 44 V. Just when the Heavens grew blue and high 44 VIII. Grammatical charade 58 IX. More cords than once great Samson bound 61 XI. The highest gift of Heaven to man 68 XIII Beside the cottage fire of peat 77 XV. Like mighty watchers gathered round 87 XVI. Full twenty miles John traveled o'er 89 XVIII. O where are they upon whose fields 97 XIX. What is it men and women all despise 100 XXI. The bell its midnight stroke had pealed no G CONTENTS. I'AGE XXI II. Gypsy — Yes, these were her words n6 XXIV. From my First my Second was borne by the air.. . 119 XXVI. A maiden walking on her way 139 XXVII. The dewy branches sway and sigh 143 XXX^III. The winter day draws to a close 146 XXIX. She lingers long within her room 151 XXX. It runs all day and it runs all night 154 XXXI. All day long I rocked and I swung 155 XXXII. It is a fish that swims the wave 168 KEY. I. Rome and Tyre ; II. Flagstaff. 187 III. Bluebell ; IV. Tulip ; V. Snowdrop 187 VI. Ophir and Sheba. Glowing with autumn beauty. . . 188 VII. Moore and Byron. Fairer the forms 190 VII. Moore and Byron. His domino he casts aside 56 VIII. Grammatical charade 194 IX. Hemlock. The blessed Chi-istmas Eve draws nigh. . 196 X. Thebes and Tadmor ; XI. Hair ; XII. Peru and Inca 199 XIII. Bag-pipe. In the golden autumn weather 200 XIV. Oak and Elm. Lovely leafage of her thought 203 XV. Hornet ; XVI, Pump-kin 204 XVII. Coral and Pearl. Wildly the winds of March 205 XVIII. Fox ; XIX. An Old Pair of Shoes 206 XX. Leaf and Root. Athwart the glory of the autumn wood 207 XXI. Absalom and Solomon ; XXII. Fo.\-glove 210 XXIII. Horse-chest-nut. In the grand old days 211 XXIV. Man-hat-tan 212 XXV. Palm and Pine. I come from the desert 212 XXVI. Current 213 XXVII. Lark-spur; XXVIII. Brad-ford 214 XXIX. Fire-fly ; XXX. Town clock 215 XXXI. Rose-bud ; XXXII. Bass 215 jJntrobuction. Mary Chadwick Barrett, the wife of Hon. Addison Brown, was the only child of Dr. Dustin Barrett of Hudson, N. H., where she was born Dec. 24, 1827. Her father was a descendant of the first settlers of that region, and died at the age of 36, in her fourth year. He was so esteemed and beloved for his skill as a surgeon and physician, and for his genial personal qualities, that after nearly sixty years he is still spoken of with affection in the com- munity where he lived and practiced ; and the sweetness of his fine, benevolent nature had impressed itself fully even upon her childish memory. After his death she removed with her mother to the home of her grandfather, Joseph Chadwick, Esq., — a country farm-house in Bradford, Mass., where she lived until the death of her mother, in her nineteenth year. Through her maternal grand- mother, Mary Parker, she was a descendant of Parson Balch, the first minister of the East Parish of Bradford. After her mother's death, she became for a time a member of the family of Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq., for whom she always re- tained a great affection. In 1S49 *''"^ graduated at Bradford Academy, in which a few years before her death, she established a scholarship in memory of her grandfather, one of the founders of the Institution. After her graduation, two years were spent in teaching ; first in Hudson, the Mecca of her affection ; after- wards at the Academy in Greenland, N. H., and at Newbury, Mass. In the midst of her zeal in this work, appeared the first decisive failure of the delicate and unstable nervous organization, inherited from her maternal grandmother, that was to prove the bodily affliction of her life, — the " Mordecai in the gate" of her future (p. 160). After three years of invalidism she had meas- 7 8 INTliODUCTION. urably recovered ; and in 1856 slie was married to Judge Addison Brown of New York, where she resided until her death, April 26th, 1887. She was buried at Woodlawn Cemetery. Her last illness was brief, and without suffering. The day be- fore her death she calmly said : " Do not be troubled; if it must come now, it is as well ; I have faced this thing for years." No immediate danger, however, was apprehended. The next day she desired some favorite hymns to be read to her, and while listening to them, — among others, " Nearer My God to Thee," — she passed imperceptibly into unconsciousness, as into the gentlest sleep, and in a few moments ceased to breathe. It was a translation " upon joyful wing," rather than the death that human nature fears. Twenty years ago her earlier verses were printed in a little volume to make a pleasant surprise for her as a Christmas and birthday gift. A few copies were distributed among friends, who since her decease have desired that her later poems might be added. She never made any pretension, however, to the gifts of a poet ; and in her self-distrust and invalid condition, she never attempted serious and elaborate composition, such as her evident poetic feeling and imagination might, perhaps, have war- ranted her in undertaking. With the exception of the two cam- paign songs of 1856, nothing that she wrote was designed for pub- lication. All grew out of special occasions ; and nearly all of her verses were addressed to correspondents in the interchanges of friendship. They are printed, in the form in which they were sent, as a memorial of their author to those who loved her, and who would cherish her memory. After her first prostration, she never regained firm health. She Scarcely knew a day free from suffering. Seasons of illness and partial recovery succeeded each other in varying alternations. During two-lhirds of her married life she was chiefly confined to the house, and during most of that time to her room ; often in such distress that death was a wished-for relief. Her life was an almost incessant struggle with debility and suffering ; a vain quest for some remedy ; a never-ending study of the causes of that con- stitutional malady which eluded the physicians' art, and which was INTRODUCTIOX. 9 for long periods so pressing as to exclude all other thoughts. The most effective relief was found in fresh air. and in physical exercise when she could bear it ; when she could not, only mental occu- pation remained ; and upon that, quick fatigue set narrow limits. It was in these depressing circumstances, to which her patient and heroic spirit never succumbed, and amid the cares of the house- hold, the direction of which she never surrendered, that most of these verses were written ; partly as an agreeable mental occupa- tion, an intellectual diversion and pastime in the solitude of in- valid life ; and partly from affection for her correspondents, whom she invested with something of an ideal atmosphere, and with whom she loved to communicate in other than the ordinary forms. Her best poetic work was all inspired by some personal feeling. " Looking Back," breathes the pathos of love for another's happy home I)y one who had known what it was to have none. " My Flovver," was addressed to a loved sister-in-law, upon the birth of her first born. " To Violet," was composed for a very dear newly found cousin. "Alpine Flowers," for a life-long friend. The motive of the " Grammatical Charade" is found in the last two lines. All of the acrostic charades, and most of the other charades, were carefully prepared as anniversary messages on Christmas and Lady day, for the correspondent whose place in her heart is shown in the song "When the bright bouvardias flame." "Tansies" was composed for a very early and revered friend, and is an expansion of the few lines on the same subject at p. 138. " Many Sails," was written in acknowledgment of a pro- fusion of richly colored and varied Sweet Peas. A number of minor pieces, such as brief stanzas written on postal cards to her correspondents in lieu of letters, announcing a departure to the country, or a return ; and many other trifles of little or no literary merit, conveying some acknowledgment, or brief message, have been included ; because they illustrate her habits, and her fondness for rhythmical expression, as well also as that natural gayety of temper which was so great a relief to her through years of invalidism. Illustrative of the latter trait is the following note, which accoinpanied a copy of "Many Sails," — a poem in which sweet peas are enigmatically treated. 10 INTRODUCTION. My Dear A. : This little addition to your Thanksgiving dinner I hope will not prove unwelcome. It came into being this summer, while I was in Litchfield. ' It was not intended as a charade ; but you can look upon it as such, if it is not too transparent. If it will not serve that purpose, I beg you to consider it a Bouquet. Should you find it neither fair nor sweet enough for that, perhaps it may furnish material for soufi ! But if too thin for that, and fit for nothing else, as a last resort you ca.n parch it ; and if there is truth in an old saying, that will at least make it lively. Perhaps to most people that have passed the morning and the high noon of life, there is always more or less of a " by-the-rivers-of-Babylon " feel- ing that saddens all holidays and anniversaries ; and no ships, alas, can ever bear us back to the happy and careless days of childhood, or to the joyous New England Thanksgiving as wc knew it in the olden times. Hoping that each of my little ships will bear you a kindly Thanksgiving greeting, and that none of them may be wrecked on the voyage, I am yours, etc. Fancy and imagination were large elements of her intellectual nature, and gave charm and color to all her verse. She was natu- rally meditative and reflective, and her enjoyments were largely in the ideal. She loved to linger in contemplation of beautiful ob- jects ; not for themselves only, but for the suggestions they awak- ened, in which thought and fancy traveled far away in the realms of histoiic association, or of spiritual analogy. If her fancy seemed at times to become fanciful, it but envvreathed some subtle thought, or delicately touched in symbol some question of the spiritual life. There was, however, nothing unreal or visionary about her. None was more genuine in all her ways and thoughts ; none more practical, none of more vigorous common sense, or sounder in judgment ; none stood more firmly on the solid ground of truth and fact ; and few observed more closely, or had a firmer grasp of the broad facts of life and experience. From youth up, devotion to the real and the genuine, abhorrence of equivocation and deceit, and sturdy fidelity to the truth, were dominant traits. As a living force she stood through life, and in all things, emphati- cally for thoroughness, faithfulness, and truth. Even in the most subtle and fanciful of these poems, accurate knowledge of her sub- ject, and perfect fidelity in description, attest the clear uprightness of her mind. Hers was one of those many-sided natures in which opposite characteristics impart richness and vigor to the whole. 12^^ TRODUCTION. 11 Similar contrasts existed in her sympathetic and emotional nature. With a vivid sense of the just and the unjust, her heart sank, and her faith trembled, before the vast panorama that life unfolds of suffering in man and brute. It was the enigma never solved of " the weary and the heavy weight Of all this unintelligible world." The cloud never lifted. Mrs. Browning's lines were often on her lips : " In all your music my pathetic minor Your ears shall cross." Yet she had a " spirit gay as rose-crowned June," ever bursting. into fresh bloom through all the environments of sorrow ; full of jest and humorous anecdote, and quick in witty repartee. In the stanzas ' ' To Violet " she depicts some of her own traits in the common "heritage of joys and pains." " The quivering nerve, the steadfast will, The self-distrust, the silent pride : Life's jubilant and minor chords In each were stirring side by side. Through all the long effacing years No change the constant type had known ; Still inward turned the pondering gaze, And still the spirit dwelt alone." A class-mate, in writing of her, refers especially to '' her truth- fulness ; her exquisite carefulness for the truth in the smallest details of school life." She continues : "She never allowed herself any evasion, but brought every word and deed up to the standard of e.xact truth. . . . Her use of text books was, for a school girl, rather singular. She seemed to use them, not so much for what they actually contained, as for what they suggested, and for the thought they stimulated. . . . Not that she was in the least careless about facts, for I well remember an incident that has had great influence on me since. A lesson in Ancient Geography contained an unusually long list of unpronounceable Oriental names, and I said I should learn but one or two of them, and let the rest go. She replied : ' S., there is no danger of learning too much ; let us not skip anything.' " Her fondness for poetry, her love of flowers, more particularly of wild 12 IXTRODUCT TOX. flowers; her sympathy for dumb animals, and her kindness to them, were as marked characteristics of her girlhood as of her later years. I should say that through life one of her strongest mental characteristics was introspec- tion. She looked inwardly upon her own thoughts and feelings. She asked for proof of many things from what she had thought and experienced her- self. In her later years, as in her school days, she seemed to me never able to accept any teaching or theory on any subject, from the trivial aflairs of every-day life up to the highest religious themes, without first having thought it out within herself. Always retiring in her disposition, both mentally and outwardly, those who really knew her will always remember her for her ready wit, her love of the beautiful, and her loyalty to the truth." Her verses are full of thought, yet melodious in rhythm. Great as was her love of poetry, she had Utile liking for unmusical verse. She neither enjoyed, nor retained in memory, the rugged metres that, however much in vogue at times, seemed to her to lack the essential element of true poetry, beauty of form. The magnificent sweep in thought and rhythm of such poems as Browning's "Saul" was her delight. Milton, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Coleridge, Byron, Scott, Moore, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Hemans, Whitiier, Long- fellow, Holmes, were her chief favorites. Her memory was an inexhaustible store-house of the best poetry, drawn, not from these authors only, but from all miscellaneous and anonymous sources ; gathered up and retained without effort from her early days, when the poems of Whittier, and Bryant and Longfellow, circulating in newspapers, presented a new ideal of vigor and beauty in American verse. For her own use she preferred the simplest forms, such as are most easily retained in memory. Yet some of the best of the charades are framed in more stately and more difficult metres. The reflective and introspective side of her mind, though less marked in her verses than in her conversation and correspondence, are apparent in such pieces as "Looking Back," " To Violet," " Many Sails," " Pansies," and in many of the charades. She had " That inner eye which is the bliss of solitude," and that imagi- nation which is " the master light of all our seeing." This disposition was inborn, early developed, and scarcely even increased by the confinement that fostered it ; so that though none enjoyed more than she the stimulus of other minds, rarely was any one less dependent upon others for mental incitement. Her mind was active ; her interests wide ; her memory exact and retentive. INTRODUCTION. 13 She read moderately, but thought more ; and what she got from others was in thought worked out anew. These qualities, with a strong individuality in thought and expression, gave to her conver- sation and correspondence a substance and a flavor of originality that formed their special charm. Nature in all its forms was a never-failing inspiration and joy. Flowers were always at her side, both in invalid days and in days of health. They were cultivated, indoors and out, with sedulous care. In her latter years she was much interested in our native birds ; and by merely watching their movements from her window, or from her couch upon the piazza, she was able to recognize and identify many species. She was long a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and deeply interested in that humane work. The aid obtained for this cause in Philadelphia a few years ago by the publication of some of these charades with others, gave her great pleasure. All animals alike enjoyed her sympathy. At the Central Park, at one time, there was a friendly mouse, that during a wliole season came at the usual hour to the common rendezvous to receive from her hand his daily portion. Among trees the hemlock was her favorite evergreen. So touched was she by its grace and elegance, and its pathetic voices, which she could not define or express, that she wrote to Whittier a few years ago, hoping that he would treat it more fully than he had yet done. But only Poets Laureate write to order; and her request had no other immediate result than the following pleasant reply: " Danvers, 2d Mo. 7, 1884. " Dear Friend : ■' I have read thy letter with great interest. Thy praises of the hemlock are well deserved. The hemlocks of East Haverhill about half a mile from my old home were a great delight to me in boyhood. We used to bring home branches for brooms. When dry we threw them on the blazing wood fire, and the crackling fusillade suggested a great battle. On our lawn here are several fine trees. " I would like to do what thee suggests, but I greatly doubt if my verse would be as poetical as thy prose description." In the troubles of her young days, her chief solace was in ram- bles by the neighboring lake, or on the hill-sides, or in the woods. Later in life, the city, much as she enjoyed, when well, its intel- lectual and aesthetic resources, became, in her invalid condition, in 14 IXTRODUC TION. a double sense a "pent-up Utica." She longed for the greater freedom of the country, where every scene and every season had its own immeasurable charm. She never wearied of dwelling on the delights of her summer home at Litchfield. Of a temperament meditative, imaginative, and impressible, she • early felt that sympathy with the life of Nature, as if it were permeated with human consciousness and sensibility, which is often expressed in her verses. " Our early feeling's finer thrill hath more, Perchance, of Nature's lore Than all our riper years bestow ; For in my childhood did I love to go To sit and dream where hill-side violets grow ; Nor dared to break a stem. Lest this glad earth and life were dear to them." To the last she could never cut a stem without misgiving. As in the beginning, so at the end ; — her last piece, an imaginati\'e •dream of the conscious life of flowers — a counterpart of the life of man, intimating that immortal life she was so soon to enter. Her •last stanza accompanied her to the tomb. tier poetic feeling was vivid and strong and genuine. In the suffusion of that light, all things shone with a new significance. Loving beauty and gladly recognizing it everywhere, she delighted most in the beauty of the simple and the common, which by virtue of their universality speak to the imaginative ear with more multi- tudinous voices. The Poet, whose " song makes the nations glad," to her was King by virtue of his imagination, whose " purple wings In golden sunlight flash and change ; A splendor touches common things Transforming them to rare and strange." And whether it were the " Pansy at her feet," a drive in the coun- try, a deserted homestead, a foreign scene, a tale of travel, a friend, a poem, a character in fiction, a loved author, a biblical hero, — all were invested and interpreted by the same imaginative light ; for which, as Coleridge says, " from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory enveloping the earth." INTRODUCTION. 15 It was in the intensity of her enjoyments through this side of her nature, that despite all her sufferings, she was fond of repeating al- most daily Browning's lines : " How good is our life, the mere living ! how fit to employ All the heart, and the soul, and the senses, forever in joy ! " To her, the room of the invalid was not solitary ; but populous with visions. " Fancy shall brightly paint for me. The silent mountain's awful form. The rush and sweep of mountain storm ; On lonely heights the sweet bell's call, The roar of foaming waterfall ; And see within this narrow street The Alps' grand beauty at my feet." Though for many years she had looked forward to travel that was denied to her, she had no repining amidst the inexhaustible beauty near at hand. She was in true accord with the sentiment of Whittier's lines, which she often repeated . " Yet on life's current, he who drifts Is one with him who rows or sails ; And he who wanders widest, lifts No more of beauty's jealous veils, Than he who from his doorway sees The miracle of flowers and trees ; Feels the warm Orient on the noonday air. And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer." To such a nature, our poetic literature, past and present, sup- plied inexhaustible enjoyment. Poetry became a necessity, a daily food, a solace in trouble, a refuge in affliction. The mas- ters of song lifted the spirit to the ideal mounts of Transfiguration, where troubles for a time lost their power. The charades evince many of her characteristic qtialities. Choosing foundation words that have some poetic relations, she sought to make of each word and cross-word a little poem by itself ; compact in thought, and yet not so clear as to dispense with skill and knowledge in guessing it. The expertness of her cone- 16 I N TR D UC TIO X. spondents in this field led in some cases to the selection of subtle topics and words of infrequent use. In the confinement of illness, the study, care, and inventive resource which their construction de- manded, the skill of her correspondents in guessing them, and the frequent replies in verse, gave her an enduring pleasure. She continued them for a number of years, delighting, in this occasional interchange to " Catch again The sweeter answering song." For those not acquainted with their construction, it may be stated that two words of the same number of letters being first chosen for foundation words, cross-words are then found that have for their first and last letters respectively the successive letters of the two founda- tion words ; making, therefore, as many cross-words as there are let- ters in each foundation word. In the annexed Key the responses in verse will be found to contribute much to the interest of the reader ; and with a knowledge of the answers, the fidelity, breadth, and elevation of the original descriptions are also more apparent. The introduction into the charades of many biblical subjects and allusions was the natural result of the careful study of the Bible to which she had been accustomed from childhood. Among all other works, none, in her estimation, could rival in poetic beauty, in pathos, in elevation, power and grandeur, the collection of that Book of books. But the works of all pure and noble souls tend to the same end. Prophet, Priest and Poet are of one min- istry, to the exaltation of the ideal, the abnegation of self, the purification and consecration of the spirit ; and thereby to that final reconciliation, which is found in the conscious, intelligent union of the human Will with the Divine. IMJEMS AND OHAHADES. Cooking i3ack. ^HUT the door and come away ; Faces that we here have known, Step and voice, are gone to-day, — Leave the dear old house alone. Leave it in the tender light Of the early evening hours ; To the voices of the night, Murmurina: as once did ours. 18 LOOKING BACK. This was home ; I cannot go — When I once have passed this door And the open gate, I know I can call it so no more. Up the wide and shady path Other steps than ours shall come ; Other circles round the hearth Gather here and call it home ; Speaking, in familiar tone. Household names by us unheard ; While each name that we have known. Grows a strange, forgotten word. Then, as now, will morning come, Glancing through the ashen-tree. Lighting up my vacant room, Where so oft it wakened me. When the glowing sunsets stream Through this window to the west. Who will linger here and dream Past that glory walk the blest ? On tlie door-step, as before. When the summer nights are bright. LOOKING JiACK. 19 We shall come and stand no more, Watching with a calm delight Rival beauties in the sky, Eising moon, and tapering spire ; One in brightness sniling by, One forever pointing higher. Gone are books and pictures all, Grone are all familiar things From the echoing room and hall, Where my lightest footstep rings. Rushing sounds are in my ears, All around me is so still ; Mingled voices of the years. Come and cliarm me at your will ! I close my eyes — I will not see The loneliness and gloom ; The loving hand comes back to me, And smiles light up the room. I hear again remembered strains. The songs we loved so well. The stirring march of battle plains, The mass's solemn swell ; 20 L K 1 N (I B A C K . The tripping measures, marked and clear. The dancers' foot-fall light ; And, sounding down the stairs, I hear The lingering ''good-night." 1 see my father in his chair, My father, kind and wise ; The silver shining through his hair. The home-light through his eyes ; My mother sitting by his side. With busy brain and hand. Watching with mingled love and pride O'er all the household band ; My eldest brother's thoughtful look. Upon his Greek intent ; And Charlie o'er a witching book Of Scotia's great romancer bent ; I hear my sweet-voiced sister sing. As in those pleasant days ; My noisy brother's clear laugh ring, And watch his roguish ways ; While I, the youngest and the pet, Climb round from knee to knee ; LOOKING BACK. 21 I feel tlie smothering kisses yet, The arms encircling me. The sacred page before me lies, The sabbatli light grows dim, And our united voices rise In choral evening hymn. I'm sad no more, now let me go ; I carry hence to-night The love of all, the warm heart-glow. To make our new home bright. Let blessings on thee, dear old home. On sill and roof-tree, rest ; And blessings on the hearts that come To build anew love's nest. As exiled birds throng o'er the sea. When winter months are o'er. Sweet memories shall flock to thee, And sing around thy door ; Till, pausing in the house or street. Men say, "The wind prolongs, And, loving them, doth still repeat The echoes of their songs." 1859. SXln ^omc. • And what is home, and wlioic. but with the loving ? Happy art thou that canst so gaze on thine ! .My spirit feels but in its weary roving That W'ith the dead, where e'er they be. is mine." — MlJS. HEM.\N3> HERE is your home ? 1 asked a child, Who bounded light and free ; She sweetly raised her blue eyes mild. And tlnis she answered me : " 'Tis where the wild bird sings at morn On spray bedecked with dew, And young lambs gambol on the lawn The long bright hours through. MV HOME. 23 **'Ti,s where my mother sits and sings To me the evening h^-mn, When twilight gray its shadow flings. And trees and flowers grow dim." Where is your home ? I asked a maid With brightly beaming eye ; She pointed down the distant glade And answered merrily : *"Tis where yon cottage smoke ascends Up from the green wood dim. And o'er the eaves the breeze now bends The poplars tall and slim. "'Tis where my brothers meet at night Around the cheerful hearth, And sisters, with their faces bright. Join in their joyful mirth." Where is your home ? I asked of one Who'd seen youth pass away, Who half life's pilgrimage had run. And reached meridian day. 24 31 y II03IE. '•'Tis where mj happy cliildren play, When sinks the golden sun, And where their sire at close of day Keturns, his labor done ; ii>n\ 'Tis where the evening meal is spread, Sweet by the taper's light. And sleepy infant lifts its head, And sweetly lisps '* good-night.'" Where is your home ? I asked again Of one bowed down with years ; She raised her aged form with pain, And answered through her tears : • 'Tis where my" children long have slept, Low in the church-yard cold ; And bitter, burning tears I've wept Alone, unseen, untold ; 'Tis where the cypress mournful waves O'er each dear kindred head ; 'Tis there, amid their quiet graves — My home is with the dead." 1845. if febxxiaxia -fourtcentl). Mose-Rose Bower — The opening of the Fourteenth Flower. 5'T WAS silvery light one winter night, The wreathing snow on the earth lay light, Wr^ When twelve soft notes from the bell of time Fell on the air with a musical chime, And dying far in waves away, Caught the quick ear of a listening fay. From his downy couch he started forth, A moment glanced at the snow-clad earth. Then waved his wand with a toss of his hair. And his clear laugh rang through the frosty air ; So soft it rose, so sweet it fell, As 'twere the echo of distant bell. Hark ! there comes a sound on the breeze, A murmuring sound, like the hum of bees, 26 FEBRUARY FOURTEENTH. At the call of the fay — 'tis his ready car, That glows, as he mounts, like the evening star His steeds, the flying winds, that drew The glittering car o'er the path of blue. On his course he met a messenger-dove, Whose soft neck wore the hue of love ; And he said, ''Wilt go with me, ssveet bird. Where flowers bloom by light airs stirred, And take from me a message of love To this land of snows — thou radiant dove ?" Together they hied where the constant sun Showers his gifts on the summer zone. The fairy sought to find him a bower. Till the perfumed breath of a hidden flower, Stealing out on the languid air, Whispered "here" to the weary pair; Then he cooled his cheek in a drop of dew, And forth from the lily a leaf he drew ; The dove had given her tiniest feather For the fairy's pen as they came together ; Then he dipped the pen in the violet's cup Till it drank the liquid sweetness up, On a tuft of moss sat down to write, While the dove stood by the roguish sprite ; FEBRUARY FOURTEENTH. 27 A soft, sweet light was in her eye, While the fairy wrote right merrily. But what he wrote I never could say, For a moss-rose bud was right in my way ; But this I know, 'twas exceedingly kind, For when the fairy went to find His fragrant wax on the clover top, I saw as he came 'twas a honey drop. The seal he placed on the wax was this. The little print of his fairy kiss. From the golden curtain of her bed The silk-worm gave her shining thread, To tie it round the downy neck Of the dove, that sped on her course, till a speck Was all I could see in the sky's deep blue ; Yet she tarried not, but onward flew. Till the dawning light of the waking day With rosy flush on the white earth lay ; Then taking the leaf from under her wing. And fluttering down in a mazy ring, She paused where the sun shot, bright and still,. His golden arrows on a window sill. The master looked forth to see if the morn Was bright as the dreams of his wishes born. 28 FEBli UA BY FO UB TEE X TH . And caught the leaf the dove had brought With tireless wing and loving thought ; But dreamed not, till he reached this line, The fairy had sent — a Valentine. 1849. il\]c (!riiam^3ion of tlic £xu. TUNE—" The Brave Old Oak." 'ERE'S a song for the chief— the brave young chief, Who never turns back on his path, Though the tierce red man lead the hostile van, And war-fiends shriek in wrath. Where the mad winds whirl, and the snow-waves curl, Where banner ne'er was known, 'Mid eternal snows, our proud flag rose. And streamed from the frost-king's throne. Then sing to the chief, the brave young chief, Who never turns back on his course, ■ Though the ice-cliff rise to the frozen skies, And the storm-clouds mutter hoarse. With a fearless hand, to a waiting land. He unbarred its western gate ; And a tide of gold to the far east rolled. And a shout for a new-born State. 30 THE CHAMPKjy OF THE FREE. Through dangers dread, by his strong arm led, Fair science came in his train ; Like the comet's track, through the midnight black. He left his path o'er the plain. Then sing to the chief, the brave young chief, Who brings in the victor's car Rich spoils for the sage from Nature's page, For Freedom's flag a star. In Freedom's fight, as firm for the right, And strong as the rock-based hills ; Like the charging note from the trumpet's throat, His name through the broad land thrills ; In peril's hour he will not cower, Let the wild storm howl and rave ; Through the fiercest blast, in his firm hand gi*asped, Our fathers' flag shall wave. Then sing to the chief, the dauntless chief ; A nation's pride is he ; Be the proudest name of his triple fame, The Champion of the Free ! 185G. JRalhnng Song. AIR— " Sparkling and Bright." LASHING and bright, in its starry liglit, We'll fling out the flag of the freeman, And its folds shall wave, with a power to save "Wide as the breeze they stream on. Then float away, till freedom's day Lights up the Kansas valley, And blood-stained men, like beasts to their den, Shall fly from the Fremont rally. If we were dumb, from the stones would come A cry of shame and sorrow ; And the granite brow, raised proudly now, Would blush to meet the morrow. Then float away, &c. 32 RALLYING SONG. The brave Northwest, by the lake's broad breast, Shouts for the banner proudly, And the voice of the free, from the eastern sea To the gold-hills, echoes loudly. Then float away, &c. The blood of the slain, on the fertile plain. And the sighs of the bound in prison, Call not in vain ; at the clank of the chain, The basest soul has risen ! Then float away, &c. The friends of right iiave gathered in might ; The slumbering host is waking ; And the voice of its wrath, like the storm on its path. The oppressor's power is breaking. Then float away, &c. Slavery's fruit, the force of the brute, Shall ne'er smite the lip of reason ; Nor lawless power, in its haughty hour. Brand with the mark of treason. Then float away, &c. BALL YIN G S N G . 33 The world from afar is watching the war; We hear the quick heart beating ; From the true and the brave, beyond the wave, On every gale, comes greeting. Then float away, &c. As the north star true, with the prize in view, We'll fail or falter never ; On the flag of the free let the motto be, Free speech, free soil, forever. Then float away till freedom's day Lights up the Kansas valley. And lilood-stained men, like beasts to their den, Shall fly from the Fremont rally. 1856. iHn i^loroer of JJarabise. '^;< ^^ife^ EFOEE the April violets (^© Unclosed their azure ej^es, ^ .!&?. There bloomed within my happy home A Flower of Paradise. Fresh from that land of love and life. Into my hand 'twas given ; Still glowing with those softer skies, And fragrant still of heaven. My more than rose or violet, Or lily, spotless white. Or all in one — my matchless flower, My blossom of delight ! J/r FLOWER OF PARADISE. 35 I never knew how in my heart Lay nestled singing birds, Till that sweet breath awoke their song, Too rapturous for words. I never knew what hidden streams Of gushing love could spring. Till that soft touch unsealed their founts, With rainbows glittering. My home is more than palace now. Such guests arrive each hour; For angel bands, through starry ways. Come down to guard my flower ; That flower which I henceforth must tend On through the coming years ; In light and shade, athwart my soul, How sweep my hopes and fears ! As bends the o'ercharged nectary, Exhaling on the air, My swelling heart its incense lifts. And mingles praise with prayer. 80 JI Y FL W E R O F P A R ADISE . My eyes are dim with hap])y tears, The brimming cup runs o'er ; And yet, God, a mother's heart Woukl ask one blessing more : That yearning heart cries out to Thee, Thou, strong in love as power, That on these miry shores of Time No stain shall touch my flower. For 0, I know the tiny bud Unfolding in this room, When suns shall fade and worlds are wrecked, An amaranth shall bloom. 1859. (l\)c -fuUnc* f^HE Future is to be — and all its folded >' M buds ^ Expectant wait through dreary hours be- fore the dawn ; We see afar, with eager eyes, the rosy flush, And catch the swelling murmur of the coming morn. The Future is to be — the morning star With silvery voice sings sweet and clear, arise ! The distant mountain-tops are crowned with light ; A flood of glory sweeps the flashing skies. The Future is lo be — and though awhile With untaught steps we linger in the vale ; Afar the shadowy hills of promise rise, Whose dazzling heights are ours to scale. * Unfinished. 38 THE FUTURE. The Future is to be — that promised land Whence mortal step has never brushed the dew ; Rich with the gold of life, the glow of thought. Its unwrought mines are opening to our view. The Future is to be — and fancy strays Down opening vistas ever gay with flowers, And bringeth thence her bright exotics home, To blossom through the cheerless winter hours. The Future is to be — and our young hearts shall feel Their ardor and their freshness borne with years away ; The dew of life shall vanish, and its morning glow, Though urged with bitter tears, shall yet refuse to stay. The Future is to be — and dark with night and cloud The swelling waters of that unknown shoreless sea ; Voyager, be wise, trim prayerfully thy sails ; The Future, the unending Future, is to be. 1861. %'LO\YERY May, with lavish hand, Casts her jewels o'er the plain, As she glides from land to land, Kissing Earth to joy again. Saw we not her emerald robe Flutter through the blossoming trees : Felt we not her loving breath On the gentle southern breeze ? And her mild eye beams above us, Cloudless eye of deepest blue, Like the glance of those who love us. Thrilling all our spirits through. For our life is in its May, Gladness wings the rosy hours ; While 'neath sheltering boughs all day Our budding life unfolds in flowers. Hope sings with bright birds in the air, And fancy waves her glittering wand ; And May, with bird and flower, is fair- Life's glorious June is just beyond. 1. QVcrostic (Slliaiabc. I. '^^^^^N quiet hills was the humble birth u&i^ Of u proud one, peerless on the earth, ^^ To whose wondrous face, in its charmed urn. Painter and poet will ever turn. II. She sat as a queen on the rocky shore That never shall know her beauty more ; And her shining robes in their festal pride Rivaled the 2florv of even-tide. AJOEOSTIC CHARADE I. 41 She gazed on the sim as he sank in the west, And over the blue sen's heaving breast She counted her messengers swift and fair, Whose white wings fluttered in the golden air. 1. Defeated oft, yet never slain ; Immortal, though sustained with pain ; Traitors to me, to sure decay The mightiest tend and pass away. 2. At home where Art and Learning dwell. The untutored savage owns my spell ; Mankind I charm with subtle art. That fires the soul and thrills the heart. The buried Past I make ap])ear. And call the shadowy Future near ; I paint the victory over death. Yet live and die with mortal breath. 3. From fervid suns my fathers drew The glowing heart and dusky hue. And marshaled first their conquering bands Where springs the palm in orient lands. 42 ACROSTIC CHARADE 1. Nor strong alone where foenian fulls, Tliey reared the wondrous palace walls ; And Science touched their brows with light While other tribes yet groped in night. But why their noble deeds rehearse ? I live myself in deathless verse ; The sunny hills once knew their fame — A lonely waste now bears my name. 4. When the home-lights gleam afar, Tenderly as love's own star, Wakens then with sudden start All the longing in my heart. Then I weep and dream alone Over memories all my own ; Breathe no word my kindred spake, Or my lonely heart will break. 1865. Cliarabc H. -^l&^Y First waves on the peaceful shore, Where sluggish stream flows half con- '^^^^i_ cealed ; And 'mid the smoke and battle roar It waves above the bloody field. The veteran walks a grateful land, My Second in his hand is found ; Silent it waits the chief's command, Or swiftly sweeps the battle ground. My Whole is borne inanimate Where friend and foe fall side by side ; If victory the land elate, It bears aloft the country's pride. Cliarabc HI. While mortals look for my First to the sky. And list when my Second is heard on high, My beautiful Whole a lassie has found Lowly and silent on the ground. €l)arabc IV. My First is taou in foreign speech, My Second is a part of thee; So close it lies within thy reach, This little wordy mystery. My Whole a cup shall gayly lift, To greet the smile of blooming May ; Rubies and gold, a queenly gift. That May shall kiss and bear away. Cliarabc Y. Just when the heavens grew blue and high, My First, that was so pure and bright, Ere it could rise into the sky, Passed in my Second out of sight ; Before it vanished from the earth, My Whole rose through it at their birth. VI. Acrostic Cljarabe. f^^ SOUGHT by men in thronging bands, \Yhen thy rare glories charmed the sight, And filling still their eager hands With all thy treasures rich and bright. Who seeks thee now, save dreamer lone That loves the viewless wealth of thought, The mantling mystery round thee thrown, More than the solendors monarchs sousfht ? 46 ACROSTIC CHARADE VI. In vaiu he seeks from clime to clime, Still lured by faintest gleam or sound ; Faded from out the night of time, The missing star is never found. II. The veil that hides an unknown life Before our gaze one moment lifts ; The ranks move forth, but not to strife, A royal train with princely gifts. Thy pomp and power in lands afar Stand at a peaceful city's gate ; Stand not as armed lords of war, And not as suppliants they wait. The pageant fades and all is still ; Hero nor bard hath left a name ; A woman's royal thought and will Alone adorn thy roll of fame. 1. The struggling steps are faint and slow. For mortal strength and courage fail ; In ambush lurks the cruel foe. And death is in the rising gale. ACROSTIC CHARADE VI. Shout, leader, with thy last faint breath ; Hoj^e lifts her rustling banner high ; Far o'er the dreary waste of death A green branch waves against the sky. 0, faint and worn and hunger-pressed. There sheltering boughs, fruit-laden, glow ; soft green vales, land of rest, Where cooling founts of water flow ! 2. One gave the wanderer gifts and rest, Moved by the beauty at his side ; And one the wanderer's sons distressed ; And one — the sea rolls o'er his pride. To one, the night with visions teems. No warning voice or sound he hears ; In mute procession, through his dreams. Walk, darkly veiled, the coming years. Like wave on wave by wild winds swept To break on some far silent shore. They lived, they died, one title kept ; One name the generations bore. 48 .1 Cli S TIC on A RA DE VI. s. None questioned my nn bounded power To rule the lowly and the great ; Though doomed to change within an hour, Yet men looked up to me as fate. They studied long my look to read, Or catch my meaning from a sign ; No voice proclaimed what I decreed To those who lived but to divine. Revered by Egypt in its might. And sought by old Chaldea's kings, A rival shared my lofty height ; I haste to join forgotten things. 4. On glancing feet, when nights are clear. Soft silver bells make music sweet ; But sweeter far to tuneful ear The music of thy flying feet ; Thy tripping feet, so swift and light The subtle Greek esteemed thee fit To bear his arrows keen and bright. Those barbed arrows tipped with wit. ACROSTIC CHARADE VI. But now heroic deeds to tell, (Alas, no more 'jieath Grecian sky) Thy flowing accents sink and swell, Thy sounding feet unwearied fly. 5. The sea low murmured long to thee, But held its moaning mystery fast ; Xor won from thee thy secret key, The key that kept the buried past. A thousand years had made thee old, And careless of thine ancient trust ; Yet ere the years relaxed thy hold. The key was crumbling back to dust. One grasped that key with patient hand, And light streamed on the dusty walls Behold the past unveiled and grand— A pictured life in silent halls ! I860. 4!» VII. QVcrostic (!ri)cuabc. To R. T. W. To her who taught the charming art 1 dedicate this new charade : If faulty found in every part. It lacked her graceful aid. A little vase like carved snow, Blue violets in bloom. One sunny day two springs ago I found within my room. ACROSTIC CHARADE VII. 51 All me ! could I but breathe to-day The memory of those hours Through these pale buds, this slender spray, How sweet were Fancy's flowers ! 1867. I. vw,,,=^;^0 bring the harp or light guitar, 1^^ When night unveils her first soft star ; ^)^ No hand like his can touch the strings, No song like that the master sings. As sweet as bells heard o'er the sea, When evening gathers dreamily. Those songs of love and fond regret And yearning memory linger yet. A spirit gay as rose-crowned June, Where sang the sisters Song and Tune ; Green be the wreath and proud the place We yield to wit, and song, and grace. 11. What music in that nature stored, Yet wailed through all a minor chord ; A voice of pain from soul distressed, A moan, a cry of wn'ld unrest. 53 ACltO S TIC CJIA R A I) E VII. The glories of the shadowy past, The call of Freedom's trumpet blast, The mountain thunder and the ocean's roll All thrilled by turns that stormy soul. What subtle bond tliat heart allied — Its fiery strength and gloomy pride — To sunny Nature, gay and bright, And joyous as the morning light ! 1. How fair was thy proud dwelling-place, Thou alien kin of mighty race ! Thy flock-white hills by theirs did swell — Thy sons with theirs might never dwell. Yet in their matchless sage's veins, In his who sang their sweetest strains. And down through all their proudest line, That haughty blood flowed tinged with thine. How sore thine armed strength they broke ; Yet wore for weary years thy yoke ; No diadem is on their brow, And thy strong sceptre 's broken now. ACEOS'TIC CHARADE VII. 53 Thy fields are lone — no more are stirred Their silent airs by bellowing herd ; Thy smitten cities make no sound, No shouting fills thy vintage ground. 2. To distant days these strains belong — A golden sunset glow of song ; The stirring lays of battle cease, The minstrel wakes the notes of peace. He sings the victor of the plain, Eager his peaceful home to gain ; Nor moved by soft persuasive art From the firm purpose of his heart. Eipe wisdom's praise the numbers breathe. And olive with the laurel wreathe, When, years and conflicts over-past. The weary warrior rests at last. 3. Thou unknown land beyond the sea, "where may voyager seek for thee ? Still sigh thy groves with murmurous sound, As when no trees like thine were found ? 54 ACROSTIC CHARADE VII. Thy peerless trees that, fair and tall, Lent strength and grace to kingly hall, And stood in silent beauty where Men tiironged the sacred gates of prayer. Thy precious gems to kings were known, Thy lustrous gold adorned a throne ; Still hast thou jewels all unwrought. And rarest gold, no longer sought ? No stately ships, a white-winged band, Seek now thy shores, thou storied land ; Time's soundless waves, that never rest. Have worn thv name from earth's broad breast. The bright, warm skies above me glow; Beneath, the dark sea- currents flow ; Yet still I draw from earthy shores The tide of life that through me pours. Alike to me the rush of feet Where eager trade and gossip meet. Or lover's dreamy notes that float From idly drifting pleasure boat. ACROSTIC CHARADE VII. 55 For life above, and sea below, In restless tides may ebb and flow ; They thrill nor vex a marble frame, That centuries find and leave the same. ^. Thine unstrung harp is heard no more, Thy children sigh on many a shore, And wait with yearning hearts that break For some strong hand its chords to wake. And yet thy blood leaps strong and bright ; Lol where the bravest meet in fight, Tlie victor of a hundred fields Before thine iron warrior yields. The music of that silver tongue On which entranced the nations hung. The marshaled thought in glittering line. With all its force and fire, were thine. How fair thy waters — soft thy sky, How green thy fields in beauty lie, Thy gifted sons, how bright a baud ; Yet sorrow dwells in all thy land. VII. dllie (Confession. 18 domino he casts aside. And drapery more long than wide ; The secret's out— the riddle guessed, And Japhet's father stands confessed. Swift thought that answers back to thought, Like flashing telegraph has caught The sly deceivers, " Masks and Faces," And prisoned them in tuneful places ; Made each his little part confess, With every trick of voice or dress ; So ends the wordy masquerade, And thus confession must be made : 'Tis Moore, that singing turns his face To watch sad Byron's haughty grace ; That silent Night, without a star, Is mighty Moab crowned Avitli Ar. The minstrel sings as Night draws nigh His evening song, — the Odyssey ; AVith almug lute, and veiled eyes The Phantom, Ophir, charms and flies ; THE CONFESSION, VII. 57 That marble face without a glow, The famed Venetian Rialto ; Uncrowned and bowed, sad Erin stands "With withered shamrock in her hands — Erin, the gem to Fenians dear, Who dash our laughter with a tear. As one who sings on sheltered lake Some simple strain, such as he may. Hears with dehght the far hills break Their silence, answering back his lay ; Till echo all the charmed air fills With strangely sweet responsive notes. And music from the voiceful hills O'er listening lake and valley floats : And, half unmindful of his song. Yet still he sings it o'er and o'er. And so repeating lingers long To catch those voices from the shore ; So I repeat a little snatch, So needless words I still prolong ; And listening wait if I may catch Again thy sweeter answering song. vni. (^Grammatical Qlliarabc. To K . W. F. ' -^ REPRESENT six parts of speech, ... — Yet am one word, though made from three ; ^.- Two of the three are simple each, The other, one or two may be ; But true it is a single word, Though oft as two its parts are heard. My First's a little link in speech, By which I'elations may be traced ; And, as the linguists further teach, Its being is on reason based ; Grammarians give two names to it, As different offices make fit. My Second, is a sturdy verb, And bears a scltish name ; Unchecked by conscience' steady curb, It tends to wrong and shame : But poor and hard their mortal lot Who dare despise or heed it not. O R A 31 JI A TICA L C HA BADE VIII. 59 My First and Second now unite ; The verb is selfish then no more, And carelessly surrenders quite Whate'er it sought to grasp before ; But gains a power beyond all art To soothe the wronged or aching heart. My Third's a word that's made to stand Forever in another's place ; 'Twere hard indeed did we demand The two agree in every case ; And if a quarrel should ensue, No third could Judge between the two. If to my First you now will add At once my Second and my Third, They breathe a wish so deeply sad By mortal ear 'tis seldom heard ; A fear that haunts the lover's heart, A fate from which the bravest start. My Fourth, an adverb, will oppose Whatever company it's in ; Transform alike both friends and foes, E'en sin by it becomes not sin : 60 GRAMMATICAL CHAR ABE VIII. The stout dissenter could not live Unless it took the negative ; Joined with the rest yet let it he, It cannot work them any harm ; It coiiti'adicts the other tJiree, But contradicting makes their charm ; They 'd only beg to be forgot If this, their foe, were added not. Pronounce my Whole, and, marvel strange, Beyond magician's subtlest power, To petals fair the stiff words change, And, changing, form a lovely flower ; A wish — a sigh, — that 'scapes from me, To fly on timid wings to thee. March, 1867. IX. diarabc. FlKST. ^^^^ORE cords than once great Samson bound, My straight and slender form confine ; ff Yet am I made to turn around, And oft the lowest place is mine. Tliough she hath pierced me throngli and through. Still at my lady's feet I fall ; But if she once my bonds undo, Then must I cease to be at all. Second. Trusted in palace and in cot, My virtue's spring is hid from view ; I guard the wealth I value not. And secrets keep I never knew. 62 CHARADE IX. Yet when my inmost being's stirred, Though to a fixed and constant end, Without a single warning word, I turn alike on foe and friend. Whole. From servitude and bondage free. How bright the common life they share ! Behold a fringed canopy Light swaying in the scented air ! A sweeter grace, a loftier strength. In their united life are seen ; The meek and faithful come at length To stand, like trees, forever green. 1868 X. 'Acrostic Qlliarabc. '^ItS^^'a^NKNOWN thy youth, for thou wast old When hoar antiquity was young; Thy wonders Roman pen hath told, Thy glories Grecian bard hath sung. 63 64 ACROSTIC CHARADE X. Though 'mid the rivers situate, Vain was the sea thy rampart wall ; Stern Hebrew lips foretold thy fate, The conquering Persian wrought thy fall. Thy common life, thy kingly power. Thy rites through those long ages known, A leaf's imprint, a fossil flower. Men trace to-day in sculptured stone. II. A king thy fair foundations laid. Thy lonely site the Hebrew chose ; Fair palace wall and temple made The desert blossom like the rose. Oft at the close of burning day. The weary caravans of trade Paused where thy gleaming beauty lay, Beueath the clustering palm-tree's shade. Smitten by Eome, Tartar, and Turk, Forgotten when their wrath was spent, Where tjironged thy merchants, robbers lurk. Within thy courts they spread their tent. ACROSTIC CHARADE X. 65 1. How fair thy groves when tabor called, And king and conrt at eve drew near, And, in the moonlight, silver-walled, The listening city pansed to hear ! How dark thy groves when drums were beat, And deafening shout, and horrid din, And shriek, and wail, and trampling feet, Proclaimed afar thy shame and sin ! The silent city sits alone, x\nd tabor's sound, and singing breath, And king, and rite, and name are gone ; The dead fill all that Vale of Death. 2. The plot is formed, but waits the blow, While, doubtful, 'neath the sheltering jiight. With noiseless step and whisper low, Leader and band prei)are for flight. No secret foe that band shall smite, . For bright the crescent moon appears ; And not from triumph, but from flight. Shall date their long victorious years. 66 A Cli S TIC CIIA BADE X. And she who opens wide her gates Receives unknown a conquering power ; Lo, thronging pilgrims round her wait, Who count her sacred from that hour. 3. Wandering from Plato's native shore, He dwelt beside the reedy Nile ; The charm of Egypt's secret lore Perchance made glad his long exile. Yet what to him was clime or race. Or alien tongue with accent strange ? His chosen realm was broad as space, The truths he sought shall never change. And still his work stands perfect all, Nor line nor base hath ruin hid ; While Greece has seen her temples fall, And Time has touched the Pyramid. 4. The king stood waiting on the height, Broad stretched the tented plain below, And rank on rank, in armed might. He saw encamped the dreaded foe. ACROSTIC CHARADE X. 6-; But from the hills, poet-soul, Another vision meets thine eye ; Far down the coming years unroll, And nations pass like spectres by. No cry broke through thy lofty strain, Nor turned thy dreamy eyes away ; Eose there no shadow of the slain Among the A-isions of that day ? 5. How bright it lay across the sea, A wondrous land, whose golden gleam Shone through a haze of mystery, A fair mirage, a glowing dream ! And, lured across the treacherous main, Ah ! many a one returned no more ; And ships their strong wings beat in vain, And never reached that fabled shore ; Which, reached, had only mocked their sight ; Dull earth and stone — a common land. As golden glow and purple light Fade from the hills whereon we stand. <>8 CHARADE XI. 6. Why art tliou gone from lonely wood. And from the city's crowded ways, Where 'mid its throngs thy statne stood, The cunning master's pride and praise ? Strange follower in his joyous train Whose brows the vine and ivy bound, Thy peaceful realm, thy sylvan reign, Knew only pleasure's careless round. I'hen why, where life and joy were gone, And Ruin sat in mournful trance. Oh, why shouldst thou uplift a horn. And haste to lead a demon's-dance ? 1868. XL Cliorabe. To C. H. C^ '^i^^\ HE highest gift of heaven to man, ^wC ^Vlien all its various gifts we scan ; lis^fi-'^ That which we always lose with sorrow. And sometimes are obliged to liorrow ; The lover's gift, the poet's song. Which art makes short, and nature long ! Ho iliolct.— S. i3. or. lE circle round our little paths, About us kindred orbits lie, Unknown, till some conjunction sheds A tender brightness through our sky. Thy father and my mother played Beneath oue branchi7ig household tree As strangers meet their children met, Beside the broad, dividing sea. 70 TO VIOLET. Unknown to each the other came From paths diverging through the past ; What strange attraction urged our steps To meet beside the sea at last ? In days remote our sires had dwelt Beside its waves in some far land ; Our one ancestral name* still kept The sound first caught upon its strand. Perchance within each heart had slept, An inborn memory profound ; As gathered shells are said to hold For evermore the ocean's sound. As tides responsive rise and flow When silent, unseen forces draw, Tiie common tide within our veins, Had owned some dim, mysterious law ; A voiceless hint, and prophecy From soundless depths no thought can reach ; Blind gropings of a sympathy Too subtle for our grosser speech ! * Chadwick. ro .VIOLET. 7 And thus we stood beside the sea, Strangers in face and voice alone, While clear above all varying notes Uprose the common nndertone. The quivering nerve, the steadfast will, The self-distrust, the silent pride, Life's jubilant and minor chords. In each were stirring side by side. From bygone generations came The life that circled in our veins. And on its current bore along A heritage of joys and pains. Through all the long effacing years. No change the constant type had known Still inward turned the pondering gaze, And still the spirit dwelt alone. The clear-cut features of the soul Are shaped by no uncertain chance, But moulded by a power within Bevond the reach of circumstance. 73 TO VIOLET. How fitly stands the leopard's head Emblazoned on our father's shield ; He cannot change the ebon spots Once stamped u])on his tawny field. marvellously within tlie sea The pearl is formed, the coral wrouglit ; And strangely from the vital tide Are shaped our sympathy and thought. Deem not the Will our only law ; Still rules a far-transmitted force That binds at once each little sphere, And sweeps it on its destined course ! Dec. 8, 1868. XII. QVcrostir (!ri)arabc. I. LAS, tlie cunning hands that wrought .f^^jm^ To perfect lines the enduring stone, ,i,<^ 1=? Traced not the mystic signs of thought, And legend tells thy birth alone. Thine iris banner ruled the fight, The wliile thy flocks in safety grazed ; Secure beneath its fortressed height, Sunlit, thy golden city blazed ; Till, victim of unnumbered wrongs, 'Twas thine with mournful pride to hear Tiie cruel conquerors chant thy songs, Whose sweetness won the alien's ear. 73 74 ACROSTIC CHARADE XII. II. Not from philosophy or school Did thy far-reaching wisdom spring ; The tempered firmness of thy rule, At once a warrior, priest, and king. Half seems it true that from the skies Was traced thy strange ancestral line ; Its diudem of many dyes Encircling brows of birth divine. Nor claimed the earth thy sacred dead ; A dazzling radiance rested where, With folded palm and low-bowed head, They sat as in tlie hush of prayer. 1. As snow-fall mute the marble stands. With fair head bowed and wings at rest ; So deftly touched by sculptor's hands A waiting soul is there expressed. Below the reach of ocean's moan, Warm-hued the painter's fancy glows ; His sceptred queen sits on her throne, A dainty sea-shell lined with rose. ACROSTIC 'CHARADE XII. While tender- voiced the poet sings, An exile from her home afar ; A penitent with offerings, And lo ! the shining gates nnbar. 2. A plaint the dewy valley fills, Impatient bleat the folded flocks ; No shepherd calls them to the hills. Nor sounds his pipe among the rocks. Why hath he left his fleecy care ? Last eventide his eye was bright, His ruddy cheek glowed fresh and fair As crimson bars of evening light. To-night the lonely moon shall kiss A fair young face in dreamless sleep ; And evermore the hills shall miss The watch that he was wont to keep. 3. Disdaining not thy softer charms, The warrior bore thee in his train, When, with the clash of Moorish arms, He filled the echoing groves of Spain. 76 ACROSTIC CHARADE XI J. No part was thine in that fierce strife, Though oft was drawn thy skilful bow ; For Islam's warrior vexed his life "With discords thou could st never know. Yet answering to thy welcome call, Thy followers came in joyous throngs From low-roofed cot and lordly hall, With garlands gay and festal songs. 4. Thy dream was true, brave Genoese ; The frail barks reached thy promised land. Oh, long-sought isle in unknown seas, What keel shall graze thy flying strand ? Like cloud-isles from the sunset sky. Faded the old Hesperides ; And El Dorado's glories lie No more a dream beyond the seas. But fadeless still from age to age. Fairer than fabled realms of old, Hero and poet, saint and sage. In dreams thy sunlit hills behold ! 1869. xiir. (jri}iuabc. ^^^j^^ESIDE the cottage lire of peat, l^w At dusk the white-haired grandam sits ; ^§i3c The cat's soft purring at her feet, The click of needles as she knits, Are all the sounds within the cot, And these tjje grandam heedeth not. Her thoughts to-night are far away, As, gazing in the tire, she sees 78 CHARADE XIII. Again the clear blue sky of May, The snowy domes of blossoming trees ; And walks in youth's enchanted land, While Robin holds in his her hand. The busy fingers move more slow, The knitting drops upon the floor, And lost in fifty years ago. She hears his step without the door ; Then gathers up her work in haste, Which in my First is quickly placed. Now shadows glide along the walls. And lengthen weirdly overhead, Till, wliere the brightening firelight falls, The simple evening meal is spread. And, fond as youthful groom and bride. The sire and dame sit side by side. They talk of all their homely joys. And all their little household cares ; AVith tender pride speak of their boys. And wonder how their lassie fares ; Their boys are men in middle life. Their Jennie long has been a wife. CHARADE XIII. Then graiidsire sits with half-closed eyes And muses in the old arm-chair, While clouds like moonlit vapors rise And settle round his silver hair ; For half an hour no word he spoke, And then my Second fell and broke. Then starting as with sudden fright. He said, "I must have had a dream: I seemed to stand on some vast height, And saw beneath a flowing stream That strangely changed to fields of grass, With many a blithesome lad and lass ; '•And they were dancing strathspeys gay, And passed beneath a flowery arch ; Then that too seemed to fade away Before an army on the march ; I heard the charge sound loud and shrill. And saw them storming up the hill ; "Then came a crash, and then I fell. And woke to find it all a dream." The grandam smiled, as knowing well 80 AUTUiMN LEAVES. How sound, in sleep, as siglit may seem ; For merry idlers, in their stroll, Had passed the cot with my sounding Whole. 1870. '^nlnmn t! canes. To C. C. ^^^■^N glowing hills Bright autumn gilds Her trembling leaves with gold; Or on the plains. Pours through their veins. Like that fair queen of old, Her molten gems in lavish pride, The glowing ruby's burning tide. These duller leaves Where fancy weaves Her modest colors pale and cold. How faint they show ; No light, nor glow, Nor prisoned warmth, they hold ; But we'll confess with weary sigh, My leaves, like hers, at least are dry. XIV. QVcrostic (jri)arabc. 1. ^HEN the spring with bugle bieath Hangs the hills with pennons green, M^ Laggard thou, the crowding ranks Wait thy tardy banner's sheen. When the summer suns are fierce, All thine arms are shining bright ; Then thy polished mail withstands Every fiery dart of light. 6 «3 - 1 r; BO ST I r r //a bade x rv. Winter sounds liis angry blast, Scarce a tremor through thee thrills. Though he clutch thy crown of bronze, Mighty monarch of the hills. II. When the airs of sjjring are warm, When the summer moons are soft, Oently wooed, thy drooping beauty Riseth gloriously aloft. When the autumn's breath is cool, In her still and pulseless days. O'er the green unfaded meadows Hangs thy airy dome ablaze. Tremulous with every breath, Like a spirit overstrung. Lowland queen of grace and beauty. Who thy perfect charm hath sung? 1. Starry blossoms from thy head Thick as whitening snow-flakes fall. ACROSTIC CHARADE X T Y. m Ere thy real glory gleams In a sable coronal. Prophet strain and classic song, Through the ages coming clown, Chant thy honor and thy praise, Sign and emblem, victor's crown. Lie the old and glorious lauds In their dream of long decay ; Soft their storied mountains stand. Mantled with thy silver gray. o .Skies uplifted, blue and high, Gurglings in the wayside rills, Warblings in the balmy air. Leafy haze on far-otf hills ; A^iolet buds, that lift dwid leaves Bleached with winter's storm and cold, White anemones, that spring Blushing from the fragrant mould; ACROSTIC CHARADE XIV. Shadows on the sunny iBelds, Sudden dropping of the rain, Evening lights on tender grass, Night and mist above the plain ! 3. One upon Euphrates' banks, One beside the Nile's broad flood, One upon tlie Persian hills. One by suered Jordan stood. Bannered hosts and mighty men. Gold and purple, rich array ; Tjife and glory had thoy once, Others like them have to-day. Still the stars behold them fall. Watching from their far-off towers In their courses still they smite Earth's imperial century-flowers. 1870. Song. To R. T. W. Ki^y^HEN the bright bouvardias flame, ^^W When the tender violets blow, '«^^ Though my lips breathe not thy name, Like a fountain's hidden flow 'Tis murmur'd deep within my heart ; So kind thou wast, so dear thou art. Trembles soft a silver star Through the evening's rosy glow ; Toward its beauty, higli and far. Hearts in love and longing go ; Once I watched its light with thee. Star of love and memory. 86 SONG. On the silence, e'er the prayer Breaks the organ's swelling tide, High upborne from strife and care, Life and being glorified. E'en within that hallowed place, Asks my heart for thy dear face. Hope and promise of the spring, Twilight's sweetly pensive thought. Gleam of fancy's soaring Aving, Dream of beauty deftly wrought. Finely touching soul or sense. Waken fond remembrance. 1871. XV. €\]avahc. FlKST. ^^^%"-IKE mighty watchers, giithered round !^L^ To guard a proud and separate land. v^^ Each with its hallowed memories crowned. The glorious mounts of Israel stand. Still royal Ilermon wears his snows, As when her seers his praises sung ; Her leafy veil, where Kedron flows. On tender Olivet is hung. Though cedars fail fn^n Lebanon, On Carmel's steep the jasmines bloom ; Nor is thy mournful glory gone. Thou hast, rocky mount, thy tomb. Second, The oleander's answering blush Gives back the evening's western glow. The arid hills with purple Hush, And the blue waters sleep below 88 CHARADE XV. Tin vexed by oar, the waters sleep, And every swelling sail is gone ; The sea-bird's wing, with fearless sweep, May linger here at dusk or dawn. For fisher's call, and torches' glare, Disturb the lonely sea no more ; Nor when the morn breaks still and fair Shalt thou be found along the shore. Whole. Where wind, and storm, and slow decay Had worn on high a sheltering cleft, When skies were bright at noon of day. An Amazon her fastness left. Armed only with a poisoned lance, In black and shining gold arrayed. No hoof-beat told her swift advance, Device nor banner she displayed. Ah ! never yet, in haste so tierce, Rode warrior forth with gentle will : Oh, woe for those her lance shall pierce, She goeth forth to rob and kill ! 1872 XVI. Cl)orabc. '^ULL twenty miles John traveled o'er, To stand with kindred on the spot The ancestor whose name he bore Had chosen for his lonely cot, 'Twas on a bright October day, A clear stream gushed from out my First, When turning from the dusty way, John Smith would fain have quenched his thirst. 15ut though he waited many an hour, From mid-day till the sun did sink. And though he strove with all his power He could not get a drop to drink. Ah, cruel fate, ah, luckless name ; Alas, alas for poor John Smith, That morn before him thither came My Second with its thirsty kith. As well count flying desert sands, So said the wondering lookers-on, 90 CHARADE XVI. As try to count the striving hands That kept the cup from waiting .Tohn. Weary and sore athirst, at last He looked about with eager quest. As through a neighboring gate he passed To find some thing whereon to rest. Though thrifty farmers leave no stone Or mouldering stump for easy-chair, Like some old monarch's gilded throne My Whole gleamed in the moonlight there. John slowly closed the heavy gate, His strength and patience well nigli spent. And on my Whole sat down to wait Till from my First my Second went. I cannot tell how long he stayed ; If till my Second drank its fill, Ah me, I'm very much afraid That there poor John is sitting still ; Unless "neath dull November's sky My Whole has been "knocked into pi-e." XVII. Qlcrostir d^liiuabc. I. ^Y ^lEN Tyre sat joyously beside the sea, ^k'^j 'Mid gems and 'broidery, '^ Which merchant princes bought and sold. And scarcely spicy Sheba's proffered gold Outshone her sumptuous purple's lustrous fold. Amid her treasures lay The branches plucked from gardens fresh to-day. 92 ACROSTIC CHARADE XVII. wondrous gardens, blooming still and fair, Where gales of fragrant air Ne'er sweep along the silent bowers ; No singing bird, or bee among the flowers, E'er breaks the long, strange stillness of the hours, Nor summers come, nor go, And thousand winters leave nor frost nor snow. II. How sweetly, grandly, swells the poet's strain ! Whose wisdom holds but vain This precious thing for ages sought. Whose gleam in far-off gates of old was caught. This wondrous, shining keel by hands unwTought, — A lonely voyager's ship ; Lo ! Ishmael saith it drops from Wisdom's lip ! Where restless waters fret the burning sand On Coromandel's strand, Or break with foam and tempest's roai' From Indian seas on Araby's high shore, It lies to-day as in the days of yore. Within its sea-girt walls, Fair as still lakes on which the moonlight falls. ACROSTIC CHARADE X V 1 J. 93 ' 1. Silent and dark the serried pines rose high Against the glowing sky, And in the evening's golden ray, With gleam like marble dome and wall, there lay On the green plain the city of a day, Whose midnight lamps would flare Where yester-night the glow-worm lit the air. Gay Jest and song, the sound of many feet. Were in abode and street ; Nor sign uor portent to foreshow. Like fleecy summer clonds when west winds blow, Like sun-tonched banks of tardy April snow. Before the morning light That city fair should vanish from the sight. 2. The song of faith rose clear and high that day, AVatching the proud array Of shield and lance in burnished line, While o'er the dust of kings in cloistered shi-ino, As voice of prayer and vow to gnard the sigji In silence died away, A flame from off the altar led the way. «4 ACROSTIC C II A R A I) E X VII. A baleful moon whose crescent never fills Hiings low o'er Judah's hills. And in its light that flame shall pale, And where its shadow falls shall captives wail ; Ten thousand liearts of steel shall faint and fail That now beat high with trust : hearts that failed ! flame now turned to dust ! 3. Lone queen, where solemn sounding pine-trees sway, Wander thy thoughts away, E'en while their music fills thine ear, Grieving that their dark shadows fall so near. And more and more divide thee, year by year, From the blue, sunny sea Beside whose waves thy youth rejoiced to be ? Then, like an eager lover, at thy feet That sea sang promise sweet Of all the future held in store ; Now, faint and far and changed, its mighty roar Comes like dim, fading memories of yore, And in thy day's decline Thy past and future call^, — the sea and pine. ACROSTIC CHARADE XVII. 95 4. Fair was it with a biuiuty rich and warm, Had mystery thrown no charm, No twilight veil of mantling haze, Around it in the old and dreamy days, Ere man, irreverent treading Nature's ways. Had yexed with questionings The air once tremulous with Fancy's wings. No more shall Fancy see clear shining tears Dropped from celestial spheres To harden in the ocean's brine ; No more in those still forms a soul enshrine ; With clearer, poorer thought we half repine That wiser days should know It was a life outwept long years ago. 5. Our early feeling's finer tiirill hatli more Perchance, of Nature's lore Than all our riper years bestow ; For in my childhood did I love to go To sit and dream where hill-side violets grow, Nor dared to break a stem, Lest this glad earth and life were dear to them. 96 ACROSTIC CHARADE XVII. If conscious life dwell in the flower or tree, Gave it no pang to thee To leave the first warm breath of spring, The summer sunshine round thee shimmering, The breezy hills where thou didst toss and swing, To droop, and fade, and die, The while thou gavest immortality ? 1872. XVIII. QTlliuabc. I. f^M"^ WHERE are they upon whose fields, '^^0 Wearing their fretted golden crown ^^^ Of full-eared corn, the harvest moon In those rude days was looking down ? When like the meadow's vapory breath A curling smoke rose thin and slow, That darkened to a flame-lit cloud. Then brightened to a fiery glow ; As bore my AVhole the avenging brand. In speechless terror and in haste ; And for the corn and purple vine, Was left a black and smoking waste. 7 07 98 CHARADE XVIII. 11. The air is like the furnace breath Above the parched and fainting plain, And in tlie cloudless evening sky There hangs no promise of the rain. Though starry nights distil no dew And burning days withhold their showers, Unwithered stands the tender grain, Unscorched the glowing garden flowers. From ceaseless springs my Headless whole Hath slowly drawn their sure supply ; And bursting sheaf, and swelling fruit Shall laugh beneath a rainless sky. III. As creeping moss in forest aisles Will hide the rugged rock at last. So gathering tradition veils The mighty leaders of the past. And sounding through the silent years. To heavenly utterance may swell A mortal voice, like his who spake Within the Groves of the Gazelle. CHARADE XV ill. 99 Thus numbered with the gods to-day, A geutle-souled reformer stands, The Head and Body of my whole Within the stranger's walled lands. IV. If in the day of haughty power A hand upon the wall had shown The ruined temple, and the waste Of crowded cities overthrown, How had the unnerved hand refused Its skill from that jorophetic hour ; Nor traced within the walls of death The boast and symbol of their jjower, Whose wondrous forms the curious bear To lands they knew not, o'er the sea. But leave the Body of my whole. To stand there for eternity ! 1873. XIX. (Enigma. ^"^=^7^^ HAT is it men and women all despise, kcv^V Yet one and all of them do liiffhly prize, '<^p^ Which never was for sale, yet any day The poorest beggar can the best display ; Which kings possess not, though full sure am I, For that cheap luxury they often sigh ; Which never bride would own, yet woe the day When without one a bride should go away ; Which we can never have till long we keep, Which oftentimes we toast, but never eat, Which every man should have for growing corn. Which tired husbandmen delight to own ; The very thing to take to a sick room, Its coming silent as spring's early bloom ; A little thing, oft wet with mother's tears ; A great, soft, yielding thing, which no one fears ; A thing so holy that we often wear It careful hidden from the world's rade stare ; Dear to my weary soul, sing, my muse. The bliss of wearing an old pair of shoes ! 100 QVlpinc i^IotDcrs. To A. C. H. HERE the morning's tint of rose Flushes warm the mountain snows ; Where the gold and purple lights Grlow and fade on "Alpine heights;" Where the shepherd's gay song swells, In the sunny mountain dells, Eocked by winds and nursed by showers, Grew these little Alpine flowers, Which thy kindness brought to me Erom that fair land beyond the sea. Choice by love's fine instinct made ! Gold may tarnish, fabrics fade, Jeweled riches take them wings, *' Chance and change" come to all things, 101 102 ALPINE FLOWERS. All that man hath made, or wrought. Products fair of skill or thought; But these modest Alpine flowers, Made of sunshine, dew, and showers. Will, like Friendship tried and true. Year by year their bloom renew ; And when each cup and bell I see. Fancy shall brightly paint for me The silent mountain's awful form. The rush and sweep of mountain storm. The lakes, in which reflected lie The white clouds in the noonday sky ; The solemn night, whose clear stars shine Above the dark and sighing pine ; The precipice, and Jagged rocks. The soft green vales, and bleating flocks ; The shepherd-peasant's happy lot. The rustic beauty of his cot; All hues and forms of earth and sky. That thrill the soul, or charm the eye ; The vision thus half real grown. The ear shall hear the avalanche moan. The mountain streamlet's tinkling flow. The grazing herd's far evening low ; ALPINE FLOWERS. 103 On lonely heights the sweet bell's call. The roar of foaming waterfall ; And all the sounds that soothe the ear To which all nature's sounds are dear : Thus, sitting at the warm fireside, With ease I climb where, far and wide. Stretches the glacier's frozen flow, And cloud and storm are far below ; And see within this narrow street The Alps' grand beauty at my feet ; And thus each little Alpine flower. Shall have for me a four-fold power, — Flower, and picture fair, shall be, Music, and pleasant thoughts of thee ! 1873. XX. QVcrostic Cljorabe. I. GEOWIXG grace hath my shapely form, From the moment it bursts upon the sight ; 'Ah ! life hath its sunshine, as well as its storm ; I turn from the shadow away to the light ! I tremble and weep, but not with pain. And my sighs at even are not of care ; For the life-tide swells in every vein, As gayly I dance on the very air, I dance in the moonlight clear and cold. And my beanty brightens the older I grow ; I dance in the sunlight, clad in gold; Like a living ruby, I blush and glow. 104 ACROSTIC CHARADE XX. 105 11. Through the broad green earth and isles of the sea, In their soundless paths my kindred run, And their curious toil's dark mystery Is hidden alike from the moon and the sun. When the silent summons is borne to me, With a quicker life my libers thrill. As toiling for beauty I never shall see, I run to my work in valley or hill. No alchemist gray, though his wildest dreams The crucible's magic should haply fulfill, Dare match the pride of his cunning schemes. With the meanest fruit of my marvelous skill. 1. The sea-weed dank, and the slippery stone. Were fairer to him than the greenest turf ; And the music of man had uever a tone So sweet to his ear as the sound of the surf. Bound the home of his fathers, his stronghold of rock, The ocean for ages had dashed and beat ; And its waves, that broke with a roar and a shock, Were a wall to him from the spoiler's feet. 106 ACROSTIC CHARADE XX. At noon in liis armor securely he slept, And trusted in vain to the treacherous tide ; Like a coward, away from the rock it crept, And his armor with crimson the spoiler hath dyed. 2. In silence it slept by the cold gray rock, 'Neath the hemlock dark, the beech, and the oak ; High up in the sky sped the noiseless flock, Beating the air with a soundless stroke. So soft through the wood was the west wind's sigh. That the delicate fern was scarcely stirred ; From the lake below to the hill-top high. Not a word was breathed, not a step was heard. When the last gleam faded at twilight's close, And shadows lay dark on the lone hill-side. The whip-poor-will's plaint from the yalley arose^ And then it awoke — it awoke and died. 3. Impetuous one on the mountain born. Go, haste thee down from its lonely heights. Beyond the vales of olive and corn, And past the gardens of gay delights. ACROSTIC CHARADE XX. 107 For crowned with flowers and graced with art, The beautiful mother of glorious sons Shall give thee a place in her sunny heart. And room beside her immortal ones. Her welcome is A\ain, thou wilt hasten away, Borne by the tide of thy being along : Thy fate forbids thee to rest for a day, In the home of genius, art, and song. 4. Solemn with age, and stately and grand. The broad roof springs with an airy grace O'er the dim aisles stretching on either hand, And twilight and reverence dwtdl in the place. Hath the harp or the organ a voice so sweet. That it dare to rob the listening ear Of the rhythmic sounds low down at the feet, Or the long drawn sigh that is breathing here ? From a land that lieth beyond these bounds. An echo or memory wakens from sleep. As that sigh, like a voice from the infinite, sounds Through the soul's recesses, silent and deep ! 1874. (Prabuating t)nmn. School. ,j£^'H ANGEFUL and fleeting, life's young hours; "i^Mi^-^ Mist on the stream, dew on the flowers ; Lovely a moment, may not stay ; All that is bright haeteth away. Senior Class. One thus far has been oui* path, One our hopes and one our fears ; Severed wide our paths must be Leading down the vale of years ; Each must tread her path alone, Savior, guide her to thy throne ! Scliool. When sorrow clouds life's changing siiies. And dark the way before us lies, Our hearts will turn to this loved spot, A changeless star that setteth not. Senior Class. Loved and honored one, to thee Who hast taught our steps their way, Warmer thanks than words can speak Grateful hearts would give to-day ; 108 GRAB U A T I N G H Y M N. 109 Thine is toil all price above, God reward thy truth and love ! School. Choose ye a high and holy way, And, daily struggling, watch and pray. Till in the realms of light ye dwell ; There may we meet ; oh, faro ye well. Senior Class. Ye, who take our vacant seats. Coming as we pass away. Oh, waste not the golden hours, Mid life's flowers ye may not stay ; For life's struggle arm ye well. Still press onward ; fare ye well ! School. A voice is hushed amid our strain That shall not swell on earth again ; By living streams, 'mid fadeless flowers. She sings a sweeter song than ours. All. At the hour of song and prayer. We have been a happy band ; May we, with no missing voice, Meet again at God's ris-ht hand, no CHARADE XXI. Sweet the ransomecl song to swell Farewell, sisters ! Fare ye well ! Bradford Academy, 1849. XXI. (JTIjavabc. I^HE bell its midnight stroke had pealed, And all the summer night was still ; The full moon hung o'er roof and field, AVhen noiseless steps stole round the hill A startled scream, a cry of pain, A moment's gleam of fluttering white ; Ho ! to the rescue, speed amain ! My First with her is swift of flight. They searched the country far and wide, Each caverned hill, each wooded glen ; At noon, the shady spring beside, Young Arthur paused with hound and men. Fair Evelyn loved the lonely place ; Nor track nor trace their search hath found, But sudden joy lights up his face, He lifts my Second from the ground. CHARADE XXI. The liglit fades slowly in the west, He lingers in the garden walk, With smile, and glance, and lovers' jest, And snatches sweet of tender talk ! 0, red, red rose, your blushes hide ! Lily, your cup with night-dews fill ! Close draws he to the lady's side — Bells of my Wliole, hang mute and still ! Ill XXII. '!^crostic (Clitirabe. I. ^V^HOU wast fashioned by Nature with exqui- site care ; Si^^'^P What triumph hath Life that thou mayst not share ? The praise of thy beauty a nation doth fill, And the charm of thy speech wins its heart to thy will. But the trumpet is sounding, the battle is o'er, And the pride of thy locks is heavy with gore I And the sole tender word to thy memory left Is the wail of the wronged whom thy death hath bereft. II. The voices of legend and history have told Of flashing of jewels and gleaming of gold ; Of palace and garden, of temple and fount. Of music and dancing, and treasure past count ; Of the sweep of a thought that moaned like the sea. Discoursing of life, of beast, and of tree ; We sigh not to-day for the pageant and pride, But thy thousand sweet songs tliat in silence have died ! 113 ACROSTIC CHARADE XXII. 113 1. ' When o'er the wide sea no path had been shown, And bejond its l)lue waves still lay the unknown, Where pui'ple-winged Fancy saw island and shore, \yhose phantom-like beauty no foot might explore, E'en then thou wast gone from thy place in the sea, Nor mariner since hath cast anchor by thee ; Wast thou too a dream, to fade at the light, Or do the dark waters but bide thee fi-om sight ? 2. Fair Inez her lattice will softly unbar If lightly is touched the Spanish guitar ; The sons of brave Scotia to valor are stirred When the sound of the pipe through her mountains is heard ; The pipe of the Scot, and the harp of wild Wales The bard hath attuned to his country's proud tales ; But touching thy strings, in song or in psalm, No minstrel hath sung of the land of the palm, 3. Farewell to the herd and the peace of the field, There waits thee a crown, with the spear and the shield I 114 ACROSTI C C II A It A D E X XII. A spirit presagefnl had shrunk from the strife That heneefortli sliall harass and weary thy life ; Like a cedar long wrestling, uprooted at length On the storm-swept mountains, so perished thy strength ; Whose rival e'er chanted a dirge such as thine. Grand, mournful, and tender, as wind in the pine ? Joy, radiant one, joy immortal was thine, All harmony of color and sound to combine ; Now tinting the delicate pink of the shell. The blue of the sky and the nodding hare-bell ; Or charming the ear with the notes of the lyre. And breathing thi-ough verse all its sweetness and fire ; In thy numbers the secrets of prophecy lay, And thy beauty majestic was crowned with the bay. 5. I sat for an hour 'neath the shade of thy planes And watched the soft light on the city's white fanes. And heard the grand flow of a musical tongue, And caught the keen thought as living it sprung A CM OS TIC CHARADE XXII. 115 -From the lips of a master whose genius there tniced The channels of thought ages had not effaced. The glow of that hour and the light of that day With twilight's brief reverie faded away. 6. The prelude is hushed to the records of old ; Anon is their burden in melody told ; A strain rises clear, a sweet silver rill, That swelling, and deepening, and lingering still, Is lost in the chorus of music's glad daughters, As rivers are lost in the ocean's loud waters ; And viol and voice and the organ's deep roll With Faith's sacred themes are thrilling the soul. 7. Doth the palm tree rustle, or the south wind sigh. That a note of strange music is filling the sky ? With faces upturned in silence men stand, For o'er harp or o'er lute there moveth no hand ; It was but a moment, its breathing had ceased. As Aurora blushed warm along the glad East ; And Fancy will dream, the skeptic despite, 'Twas the dumb lips' thrill at the kiss of the lio-ht '' 18T5. ^ ^-^^ XXIII. (t\)axabc. "ES, these were her words : " Far, far away /rJJl/ For thee a precious treasure lies, g.^ To be won by many a weary day, And counted beneath the evening skies.*' She took his silver, and scanned his palm. And muttered with sign and hint obscure ; But the heart of youth beats high and warm. Its faith untried holds a promise sure. IK) CHARADE XXIII. 117 ''But which is the way, and where doe's it lie ? These well worn roads — 1 know them all ; That led, she said, toward the sunset sky, The treasure was found as the shadows fall. The heart of youth is bold and strong. The way may be rough, but what do I care ? The way may be rougli and the journey long. But my First," he said, ''shall bear me there." Nay, nay, my First and thou on that way. Though faring together, must journey alone ; What each has gained at the close of the day Must be to the other forever unknown. The heart of youth is strong and bold. But dark were the words the Gypsy said ; When thou hast fathomed the meaning they hold, A silver crown shall rest on thy head. His eye was bright, his cheek was flushed As he turned his face from the home of his youth ; His eager feet its violets crushed. In his haste to prove the Gypsy's truth. He searched the forest depths alone, And beat the earth for a tell-tiile sound ; 118 CHARADE XXIII. He peered in ertch cave, and upturned each stone ; In vain, my Second he never found. Nay, nay, my Second with strongest bands The promised treasure never could hold ; Did the cunning Gypsy say that thy hands Ever should grasp either jewels or gold ? When the harvest fields were full of joy The wanderer's heart grew weary and sore ; And he longed for the home that sheltered the boy, And sighed for the trees by his father's door. When there at length he drew his rein, Sapphire and gold above him shone ; But the Gypsy's wealth — in heart and brain. There was it garnered, and there alone. Ah, then he guessed her meaning well. Like a flash of light it shot through his soul ; And only my Third on his white hair fell. As he counted his gain beneath my Whole. 1875. Nay, nay, the poor Gypsy falls on her knees, Imploring your pardon, kind lady, if you please. CHARADE XXIV. 119 Do you say 'tis a web of deceit slie luith made ? Call it rather a sort of a Gypsy charade. She promised him wisdom when he should be old ; Giddy youth saw but visions of jewels and gold ; Spoke the poor Gypsy false, though vain was his quest, Though his hair grew white ere her riddle he guessed ? land of illusion where search must be vain ; Is not all the world seeking castles in Spain ! 1876. XXIV. Olljarabe. jj^J^^^ROM my First my Seco7id was borne by the air ; My Thi7'd then darkened a face once fair ; And my Whole is an isle of pleasure and care, At once we would and wouldn't be there ! XXV. Acrostic QThrtvabc. I. REATHE but thy name, as though 'twere a ^^ spell, The minarets rise and the light domes swell, The caravan stretches for weary miles. And a vision floats by of tropical isles ; The pyramid reddens in the light of the morn ; T!ie pride of Palmyra from ruin is born ; An army sweeps past, an emblem they bear, And a shout as of triumph rings out on the air. Shake out thy fair plumes, stately and strong. To thee the wild realms of the desert belong ; In the blast of its sands and the glare of its sun. The victory of life from its death thou hast won ! II. No legends of glory, no gleams of romance The charm of thy beauty and gi-andeur enhance ; 120 ACROSTIC CHARADE XXV. 131 But the broiitli of thy fragrance steals to the heart With a sense of the joys Nature holdeth apart ; Telling of hillsides, rocky and lone, Whispering of plains where shadows are thrown On a soft russet carpet that covers the ground, And the insect drones in the stillness profound. In the silence of solitude sing in thy bower, Touching strangely our hearts with thy voice's weird power ; The heights and the depths are met in its tone, A sound as from far with a hurden unknown. 1. There are grottoes whose echoes no voice has stirred, There are groves where the sound of the axe is not heard, There are domes that are crowning no house of prayer. And a wonderful builder dwelleth there. The tides of the sea and the currents of air In their motion and flow are hasting to bear, To gather and bear, from the land and the sea, What he waiteth to fashion marvelously : 124 ACROSTIC CHARADE XXV. Yet what if to priest in the oak's dark shade, In the baron's hall when the feast was laid, Thy meanings were one, though seeming at strife, A mystical promise — immortal life I 1876. Gong. GOLDEN WEDDING OF MR. AND MRS. ADDISON BROWN, DECEMBER, 14, 1877. Ring gladly out, oh golden bells, With deeper note.*, more soft and slow Than rang with lightsome peals and swells The chimes of fifty j'ears ago. ^v-^f^ HE youthful feet no longer stray 'Xji'i' Among June roses blushing red; l^^"^. Yet on this bleak December day The silver locks are garlanded, With wreaths that wear no fading glow, For love's own flower by sunshine nursed, Through fifty years transmuted slow, Into its Golden bloom has burst ! 125 126 (f OLDEN WEDDING SONG. Let winter in the leafless bower Pile white .md high his drifting snows ; O'er this rare bloom he has no power, No frost can blight the Golden Rose ! Spring had its bliss of hope and dream For ardent youth and blooming maid ; And weaving life with that bright gleam, How fair a work the years have made 1 The summer day and toil are done. Its burden and its heat are past ! And sitting in the evening sun. Their shadows side by side are cast. And peace is in the harvest ways, In fields long wrought with faithful care, Where love and peace lend autumn days The Indian summer's golden air. Still clear the past in memory lies, A softened picture bright and warm, With scarce a cloud in all its skies — Blest skies, undarkened by a storm. GOLDEN WUUDING SONG'. 127 How much of joy, how little grief, What hopes fulfilled, what vanquished fears To-day are bound in one glad sheaf — A golden sheaf of fifty years! That tranquil Joy transmitted lives. Bright after-glow from calm days spent, A golden heritage that gives The sunny heart of full content. And ciiildren's children join the song; Closer the widened circle nears, Praying that God will still prolong In health and peace His Grift of years : And grant that when full late shall swell Tiie Earthly Song to Heavenly Psalm, In that far land where angels dwell, The Golden Kose become a Palm ! i^omilii Portraits FOR THE FOREGOING OCCASION. ^Ij^T^VAY, how can muse with unstrung nerve, \!)^M Make limping flight of fancy serve To paint the guests, the grand display, The golden gifts that grace this day ? The task, i)erhaps, were not so hard, If hut the theme had hetter bard ! Away all fears — let us begin, As fit, with hero and with heroine ; Nor call the name of each successive sitter. But leave them to be guessed — 'tis fitter ; Then, if the picture's thought no compliment. Why, for your neighbor it was meant ! See, first, a head to catch the passing eye, A voice whose tones are melody ; A man industrious, frugal, and content ; Whose busy years in peace were spent ; 128 FAMILY POR^'RAITS. Whose mellow voice and kindly face Are but the tokens of an inward grace Beyond the reach of polished art, The outcome of a gentle heart ; Whose dealings just, whose pleasant word Leave founts of bitterness unstirred ; Upon whose honest life and name His fourscore years have fixed no shame; Who, since that mythic period when He was the "most excitable of men," While round the hurrying seasons ran, Grew more and more a just and gentle man. As though his ear had caught again The ''Peace on earth, good will to men." To generations yet nnborn of boys Descend his patience, and his golden voice ; So shall their wives have cause to bless His memory for their happiness. See, next, the woman by his side, For fifty years his help and pride ; Whose cunning hand and busy brain Have wrought for household weal and gain ; Whose industry and steadfast will, 9 129 130 F A M ILY PO It Tli A I TS . Well seconded by taste and skill, From scant material could evoke The graceful dress, or shapely cloak ; Nurse, housemaid, seamstress, all complete, Knew how to make the two ends meet ! Her busy feet, unwont to roam. Still kept the pleasant paths of home. And at her hearthstone best content, Her days and strength for children spent ; Her energy no ebb has shown, And now, when seventy years have flown. Which have not had the power to hide The stately beauty of the bride, She stands to-day straight as a palm, Unsprung against the sunset's calm ! Again the bard is sore perplexed, Whicii way to turn, or what say next ; For if he found it hard to sing To thrumming of a single string. How shall he choose his notes aright When two such wondrous lines unite; Or hope with fitting skill to trace The blended lines in each new face ? F A MIL Y PORTRAI TS . 131 The mother's head, the father's eyes, Just hint the double character that lies Beneath the thinning, soft brown hair, In which each parent has a share; A pleasant voice, a kindly heart, A mind alert, in business smart ! A student, fond of many a book ; An active man, by hook or crook That puts his well-planned purpose through. And prompt alike to think, or do ; The soul of music in him pent Oft rasping ears as it finds vent ! The step elastic, active mind, A little prone to fall behind — To fall behind, but not so far That sudden jump won't catch the car \ And yet this man, so prompt to work. The bard has known to play the shirk ; For as for doing household chores, Ah, that's the thing his soul abhors ! The puzzled bard can only guess Whence this lone streak of laziness ; Nor, where so many virtues meet, Explain this chaff amidst the wheat ! 133 FA3IILy PORTRAITS. The father's head, the mother's eyes Prepare us for a new surprise. 'Tis said, '^variety's the spice of life ;" The wonder is how, free from strife, Two divers characters can take Their several traits, and from them make A third distinct, a human soul, From fragments shape a rounded whole ; And how to manhood's prime should reach The fashion of the mother's speech ! And wise is he who understands How father's head on mother's shoulders stands ! The busy hand, the studious mind. Action and thought are here combined ; The courteous manner, ])urpose fixed. Shows things can be most nicely mixed ; As from two opposites are made That pleasant drink called lemonade ! If every virtue's not possessed, 'Twas that some might be left for the rest ! Again, oh bard, the numbers roll, The mother's head, the father's soul. Through patient gentleness she 's strong, Her dower, affection and sweet song ; FAMILY PORTRAITS. 133 Generous of sympathy and pelf. And thinking hist of her unselfish self ; Time gently touch each line and curve, And bring new strength to shattered nerve. If the poor bard here seems to halt, 'Tis not his subject that 's in fault ; But using couleur de rose without stint. He just received a gentle hint : "Though very fine such colors sound, It's just possible they'll not go round !" Another combination now is found, Master of checkers and sweet sound ; Fingers and voice that move in tune, A temper sweet as day in June, A heart that sees and means no ill, A ready smile, a stubborn will. And now but one is left unsung. Youngest the household band among ; Whose days in silent calm abide. Whose profile is the family pride ; Whose shapely head 's the home of sense ; Whose prudence seldom gives offence ; 134 FA3I1LY PORTRAITS. And, jewel of virtues, rarely sung, From censure keeps her well ruled tongue ! Then younger ones ; — but oh the din ; Stop, prudent bard, ere you begin ; There's not a wingless goose but knows It's possible to tread on toes ! Then, as for aliens, grafted in, They scarce can hope a word to win Upon this festal, family day, Deserve it howsoe'er they may : Then let the Muse in passing say. It may be sometimes they supply Some infinitesimal deficiency, That's in their perfect partners found. All heterodox as this may sound ! The artist owns his clumsy touch. Too little here, and there too much ; More deftly shaded, each fine face Had caught perhaps more subtle grace ; But pray forgive his awkward brush. He plied it with such haste and rush! So late the thought there scarce was time To string the helter-skelter rhyme. FA3IILY PORTRAITS. 135 If but the Muse had fresher wing. He'd gladly stay and try to sing The golden Rose, the Cup, the Shoe, The Eing, the Watch, the Salts, and Music new ! However much his song's admired. By this time, bard and guest are tired : Therefore he begs you will allow The singer now to make his hoio ; Give some a greeting, some a kiss. Wishing each guest long years of bliss. And many a gathering glad as this ! Dec. 14, 1877. Ho a ®. to.* 0, little shell and spray of green, And let your changeless beauty say That love and reverence, guests unseen, Are Avith her on the Christmas day. Say that to earth, to life, that brings Such secret joy, such keen delight, To musing thought, to all fair things. Say — she hath lent an added light! QLo €. or. ROM the west the sunset fire Kindled with a rosy glow ; High uprose the slender spire From the valley green below ; And we walked upon the height. While the light of evening fell * This and the two following^ were written on ( hristmas cards bearing sea-shell designs. 136 SFA SHELLS. 137 On the belfry far and white, ''Like," you said ''a sea-worn shell!" Subtle thought and lovely night. Closely linked, in memory dwell ; Cast, friend, from fancy's height Light as fair on this sea-shell! do Ca. C. ^. OW eagerly in childhood's day, Mid rougher ways, 'neath clime more harsh, We sought among the fragrant hay The clam-shells from the far salt marsh ! And scarcely now the rarest shell By sea- wave cast on sunnier shore. Could make our dull hearts leap and swell ^As those poor clam-shells did of yore; Oh glad child-heart, more rich than kings, Content and blest with simple things! Christmas, 1878. Ho X\. H. U). EEATH of the pink, and red-rose glow, ^h And spiraea's delicate wands of snow ; 4lf^ And fretted ferns, and buds that swell With the secret of beauty they may not tell : And hyacinth bells, from whose glistening rows The hoarded fragrance overflows ; 0, sweetest of messengers, silent and fair, My heart has read the message ye bear, — A message of love in sweet accord With the Easter morn of the risen Lord ! April, 1879. -4— > ®o (E. C HOU dear delight of gardens old, 'Tis said : " There's Pansies, that's for Thought ; " But this leaves half thy charm untold, flower with sweetest meaning fraught ! We'll grant to Thought thy living gold ; But in the purple with it blent, Imagination's wealth behold ; And Thought and Fancy give — content. 138 XXVL Oil) at abc. ^ MAIDEN walking on her way Was by my First assailed ; jy And all unused to such rough fray, Her woman's courage failed. And well her woman's tears might start, And well might she be sore dismayed. As she beheld with sinking heart My Second, which my First had made ; Yet she the trysting place had sought AVith raiment daintily arranged ; And now the Whole of her sweet thought By this mishajj was changed. Cliilbren's t)alcntincs. ' '""I' YES of blue and hair of gold, ^ Half her sweetness can't be told ; Little Lady Bessie mine May I be your Valentine ? Shy little Evelyn, tears are brine, Bright be your eyes, says Valentine. Gay little Susie, all sunshine. She'll make a happy Valentine. 139 ®o Qi. or. ^.* INK, and purple, and white ; White, and purple, and pink ; AVhich is the source of keenest delight. Which is fairest of all, do you think ? The white is pure as the trackless snow. Or the unwritten brow of a child ; But something there lacks of depth and glow In its purity undefiled ! The purple is grave as an autumn day, A day in chill November, When the clouds are dark, and the sky is gray, And the heart will sigh, and remember ! But the pink, the hue of the early morn. The tint of the bright sea-shells. And the delicate blush of young love born — Ah, the pink ! — there beauty dwells ! Ocean Beach, Aug., 1881. * On receiving a box of sweet-pea blossoms. 140 JJanst} £atc5.* \^^ AYhY the curtains of purple and gold Sway in the breeze above the brown mould ; Dear little Pansy, still and content, Sits in the sun in the door of her tent ; Thinking the earth is so green and so bright, And the sun is giving such warmth and such light, And the sky is so blue, and the air is so sweet, She 's glad she 's alive, from her head to her feet ! Easter, 1882. ^^^ ®lie J)reacl)er. To R. T. \\. ^-^H, I was young, and it was May, When first I learned the preacher's name ; And now — it is a winter's day. And Jack, dear Jack, is just the same ; Jack in the Pulpit ! well I hear ; He speaks like far-olf bells to my ear ! 1884. * Written on the back of Easter cards having colored pansy faces, sent to several young friends. 141 Ctliristmas. To S. E. B. I^c^^p^^ PRING hath its deep-hued violet, j|2^ Smihng with April tear drops wet : '^'^7^ Roses and lilies, queenly and fair, Breathe their souls on the summer air. Autumn hath asters and rod of gold ; But what hath the winter, leafless and cold ? Lily and violet, touched by decay, Have faded from field and garden away ; By wayside and wood no longer nod The starry aster and golden rod ; But the heart's blest sunshine, potent and warm. And mightier far than cold and storm. Has warmed sweet fancy's hidden root Till her frailest flowers have ripened their fruit ; — Fruit like the fabled gardens of old. And the Christmas tree has its apples of gold ! 1882. 142 XXVII. Cliavabc. To R. T. W. ^^^ HE dewy branches sway and sigh, The winds of dawn begin to blow, Fast fade the golden stars on high, The daisies whiten fast below. Sir Roland kneels at Ethel's feet. His fond adieus and vows to pay ; And then through meadows fresh and sweet From castle gate lie rides away. And gayly nods the favor blue He in his helmet proudly wears, And in his loyal heart and true, Her image tenderly he bears. Though thrice the days shall grow to years Ere he that lovely face shall see, Yet as he rides my First he hears, That singeth now so joyously ! 143 144 CHARADE XXVII. On, on, his good steed bears him well, O'er burning plain, and parched stream, Till where the war cries fiercest swell. His sjjcar and helmet foremost gleam ! And nightly 'neath the evening star, And nightly 'neath the Syrian skies. He breathes her name who dwells afar. He sees the Heaven of her blue eyes. Then pining in the captive's cell, The only fear his brave heart knows, Lest she, beloved so long and well, Should count as false her lover's vows. — For love and life the Knight doth ride, The sleeping guard is far behind, And with my Second at his side. The steed is flying like the wind ! From feast and dance and minstrel sonjj The fairest lady turns away ; His lands are broad, his will is strong. Who sues for Ethel's hand to-day ; And dark has grown her father's frown, And in his eyes fierce gleamed the light FLORIDA ROSES. 145 As at his feet, low kneeling down, She bi-eathed the name of her true knight. Who vowed to claim her as his bride When thrice the buds to flowers had grown ; And now her bitter tears to hide, She seeks her garden bower alone. Like dewy violets, her eyes ; Her brow and cheek, as lilies fair ; Till with a sudden, glad surprise, The warm, red rose is flushing there, Beneath her tears fast falling down. As my Whole is laid on her golden hair. In the soft moonlight, — a sapphire crown. From minstrel Knight to lady fair ! 1883. i^loribii lioscs. To A. G. D. [HE wintry day draws to a close. Chill and dark with early gloom ; When lo, a summer scent of rose Breathes joy and ghidness through my room ; More sweet than rose on wintry day The kind remembrance far away ! Dec, 1883. 10 XXVIII. (illiavabc. To A. C. H. '^^v^^l^HE winter day draws to a close, iL|jP Like flame the western windows glow, ■i^^^l And flnshes warm a tint of rose Along the hills of glistening snow. And where the pine-tree boughs oerspread The marble smoothness of the road, With many a creak and groan, the sled Creeps slowly on with toiling load. 146 CHARADE XXVIII. 147 The impatient woodman sees the gleam Of evening lamps far down the lane, And urges on his slow-])aced team, Which feels my First with sudden pain. The shallow mountain stream sang low, When morning arched her azure sky ; At noon the white clood mountains glow, And pile their toppling crests on high. A wind is in the tall tree-tops, They bend before the sudden blast ; A whirl of leaves, and large lone drops, And then the summer shower falls fast ; Till swollen torrents foam and roar. And leap from every rocky height; And he who nears his cottage door, My Second may not pass to-night. Fair acres, sloping to a stream That flows beneath the willows' shade ; [ Through clustering evergreens, the gleam Of tapering spire and white facade ; 148 CHARADE XXVITI. A charm as of enchanted realms Thrown nightly round thy pleasant liomes ; The Slimmer glory of thy elms, With moonlight on their leafy domes ; Ah ! these are fair ; yet love I more Thy lonely ways through field and wood ; For there, within my "Whole of yore, The lilacs and the farm-house stood. 1883. To L. H. ^I^^MILE on, through tears infrequent shed, J^l Tears bright and brief as April showers, ^^'' Till all the happy paths you tread Shall bloom and glow with sun-kissed flowers. Beam tenderly, O love-lit eyes ; Kind fate the Eden hours prolong In which you walk that Paradise Where love transmutes all tears to song. ^n !:^utixmn Gunset. ^ ^■<^ ^HE leafless elms against the sky A matchless purple tracery made. And on the autumn-tinted hills, Cloud-swept, the lights and shadows played. Slow sank the red sun in the west, And touched the gleaming spire with light, And in the rose-flushed evening sky The harvest-moon shone broad and white. Lake, hill, and wood, the wide expanse. In still and dream-like beauty lay : — The quiet of the coming night, The glory of the parting day. Ah ! when this dear Earth grows so fair, And all my soul with rapture fills. My doubting heart will often ask, Is aught more fair on Heaven's far hills ? 149 150 LOOKING BACK. And then, rebuked, my spirit hears The sweet mysterious written Avord : *' Eye hath not seen, nor heart conceived What waits for those who love the Lord." Litchfield, Oct, 14, 1883. Cooking Back. To A. C. L. '^^^^ HE Open sky and breezy hills — Alas, I've left them far behind, And in this "pent-up Utica," Some other comfort I must find. 0, Litchfield, thou wast passing fair, When first I saw thy emerald hills ; And now that I am far away. Thy beauty still my memory fills. When wert thou loveliest ? who shall say ; When green were all thy fields and ways. Or when the autumn sunshine lay On gold and brown through shortening days ? N. Y., Nov., 1883. To R. T. \X. ^HE lingers long within her room. Sweet Elsie, with her cheek of bloom, To knot a ribbon, or wind a curl ; And very glad is the heart of the girl, As her glass gives back her pretty face, Her rounded arm, and form of grace; The love-light in her hazel eyes. And changing color that comes and flies ; And the maiden, in truth, is very fair. With the sunset light on her chestnut hair ; And, glad she is fair, glad for his sake. Trips lightly away my First to make. 152 CHABA BE X XIX. My First to make, and the board to spread With the snowy cloth and light sweet bread. And precious china, quaint and old. And berries red, and butter like gold, Tlie fragrant tea, and the flaky tart. And, triumph of housewifely art, To that tempting board with its dainty cheer My Second to-night will not draw near ! The maiden's heart and step are light ; She knows who '11 be the guest to-night. And lead her forth, with a reverent hand, To walk in that enchanted, land Where low, fond words, and love's first kiss Are the sweetest draft life gives of bliss ; To walk in that land in a golden dream. Though the feet but stray by the old mill-stream. Unheeding the breath of dewy flowers. While the minutes grow to flying hours ; Unheeding th'e music, soft and low. Of the rippling stream in its quiet flow ; Unheeding all but first young love. With the light of the solemn stars above, And the light of my Whole below ! 1884. ^Departure. To A. C. H. ^'0 fierce was Sol, I needs must fly Afar, where hills rise cool and high ; The lovely place is all the same : In maple boughs will orioles flame ; The gleaming lake a sapphire lies : Far off the hills in grandeur rise ; On emerald fields I feast my eyes ! Litchfield, June, '84. Ueturn. To A. c. n. ^^ EIMSON and gold, ruby and green, ^j- Purple and sunlit russet brown. Most fair from ever-changing light and shade ! rainbow hills, in autumn sheen, I've left you all for this great town, Where every horrid noise is made ! Chimneys I see, and dull, brick walls. Clothes-lines, and foreign servant girls ; Nocturnal friends grimalkin calls. And clouds of dust the fall wind whirls. But crowds, and dust, and rattling street, Because they 're home, are somewhat sweet ! N. Y., Nov., 1884. 153 XXX. Uibblc. To Addie M. ^!^^^ciT runs all clay, and it runs all night,. />, ^W And in the morning 'tis still in sight: "VM-J^ It runs all night, and it runs all day, But it never moves an inch away ; While 'tis just as busy as the bnsiest bee. Counting what you never can see. It never was known to speak a word. But all about the town 'tis heard ; To call the workers when 'tis light, And bid the boys to bed at nighc ; It bids the strong man go and come, And sends the little children home. All this and more 'tis known to do Each day and week, the long year through ; While all the time it keeps its place, And holds its hands before its face. 1884. 154 XXXI. Ho Qllice. LL day long I rocked and I swnng, Vnd I scarcely was noticed when I was young; When I was young, and wlien I was small, I rocked and swung with never a fall. In only one suit was ever I seen, And that from the top to the bottom was green ; Perhaps the cut was not very new, But the Jii was as perfect as a lady's shoe. All day in the sun, all night in the dew, Taller and stouter how fast I grew ; So well was I fed, so well was I nursed. On every side my suit at last burst ! My pretty green suit — I could wear it no more. But I never was half so handsome before ; The bee murmured it soft, and the bird sang it loud, And perhaps you will think that I felt very proud ; Nay, nay, little friend, indeed 'twas not so ; I blushed, and I blushed, till all a-glow ; And you love me for blushing from top to toe ! 1884. 155 '^ talc Nm gear's ©ift. To S18TER S. ^HIS bread-plate, I fear, Is too late for New Year ; ^Wl If ever a plate Can come too late, Provided there's anything in it; And this one I'll fill To the brim with good-ioill, Which, though unseen, is a pile, You can take from a while. Without fearing to lessen or thin it. And I send you a plate. And one for your mate. And one for each of the children four ; And with these you can feast. From biggest to least. On that same good-will mentioned before. February five, eighty-live, Feguiliiiy time, Hoping all will safe arrive ; VVitli childish rhyme. 156 Qio c. or. ^^^^HERE'S many a thing we do not know, And life hath many a glad surprise, ^jft^^ll As when through veil of melting snow, We see the arbutus first rise. Yet when the winter days are drear. And we walk musingly along, One could but start if he should hear Shy hidden birds burst into song ! ^ llosc. To A. c. n. ^^C^HAT wondrous rose, so delicately fair. Less flower it seemed than folds of tinted Or dream of rose, some snowy bnd might hold ; And holding, blush to find itself so bold As e'en to dream that bud might bring to birth Flower so etherial 'raid the thorns of earth ! If flowers have souls, might we not softly say. We saw the spirit of a rose that day ! March 6, 1885. 157 Ql\]c Puritan anh tl]c (Senista. " The breakinar waves dashed high." To K. B. C. Y^^^NOONQUEKABLE on sea or land, England still finds that grand old name ; '