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FLOWERS OF FANCY. 
 
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 BY 
 
 A. C. HARNESS. 
 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR. 
 
 1873. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
 
 A. C. HARNESS, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 
 

 
 MT SISTEE'S PEAYEE. 
 
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DEDICATION. 
 
 Come, Mary, with thy lover eome, 
 And dwell with me in Hymen's home, 
 Where flowers bloom ever, 
 And nothing shall sever 
 The true hearts whieh blend 
 In the mutual friend ; 
 And the oneness of life 
 Of husband and wife 
 Through that mystical tie 
 Which comes from the sky, 
 To charm every duty 
 With innoeent beauty 
 In joy forever. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Harvest 9 
 
 I still will think of Thee 10 
 
 I'm Much Obliged 10 
 
 When other Friends Depart . . 11 
 
 Alone 11 
 
 A Dream 12 
 
 The Dream of Reality 13 
 
 Mollie in Heaven 15 
 
 Eloquence . . .16 
 
 Pleasant Dreams 16 
 
 You gave Him that Arbor Vitae 16 
 
 Presenting a Copy of Moore to a Sick Lady .... 17 
 
 The Mitten 17 
 
 The White Rose-bud 18 
 
 Love 19 
 
 I'll turn your Music over 19 
 
 Good-Night 20 
 
 The Call 20 
 
 Won't you Sing for Me ? 21 
 
 Unanswered Call 21 
 
 The Isle of Love 22 
 
 Another '11 claim thy Hand . . . 23 
 
 It matters not - 25 
 
 Fancy's Flowers 26 
 
 The Lullaby Shower 27 
 
 The Mother's Lament 28 
 
 My Heart hath wandered back to Thee 28 
 
 The Voice of Mary 30 
 
 'Tis only a Bat ,. . .31 
 
 Come, tell Me 32 
 
 They Fall . * 33 
 
 The Shadowy Hand 35 
 
 A Tear of Sympathy 36 
 
 Although I only did Love Her 38 
 
 7 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 Love's Complaint 40 
 
 The Fair 41 
 
 I have Company 43 
 
 Thou Spirit ,45 
 
 The Exile 4G 
 
 Queen of the Flowers . 48 
 
 The Parting 49 
 
 Absent Children 50 
 
 Home-sick 52 
 
 Mary ! 53 
 
 The Genius of Christianity 54 
 
 " Behold how He loved Him" 56 
 
 The Wounded Eagle 58 
 
 The Buzzard Eagle 61 
 
 The Riddle 64 
 
 Africa 66 
 
 The Flood 67 
 
 Gratitude 68 
 
 The Genius of Immortality 69 
 
 Be of Good Cheer, it is I : be not Afraid VI 
 
 Chide him not 72 
 
 My Blessing be thy Woe 74 
 
 Good-by 76 
 
 The Valley of Shadows 78 
 
 The Vale of Purification 78 
 
 Justice 
 
 The Poet 83 
 
 The Beggar's Prayer 84 
 
 A Merry Christmas .......... 85 
 
 An Allegory 86 
 
 Autumn ......•••••• 91 
 
 Valley of Humiliation 92 
 
FLOWERS OF FANCY. 
 
 HARVEST. 
 
 The harvest is come, and the reaper's song 
 
 Is sweetly, merrily ringing, 
 And mingling, as it floats along, 
 
 With woodland songsters singing. 
 
 The time is sweet to the harvest man 
 When harvest yields him pleasure ; 
 
 He gathers in the golden grain, 
 A precious, blessed treasure. 
 
 How dearly I love the harvest field, 
 
 The golden sheaves to gather ; 
 Each field a bouuteous blessing yields 
 
 From our kind Heavenly Father. 
 
 And thee will I thank, O Holy One, 
 
 For plenty — where is ringing 
 The joyous notes of the harvest song 
 
 Which reapers now are singing. 
 
 W. F. COSNER. 
 
 9 
 
JO I'M MICH OBLIGED. 
 
 I STILL WILL THINK OF THEE. 
 
 I still will think of thee, 
 
 But not as once before, 
 For now my heart is free 
 
 To think of many more. 
 
 For then I was thy slave, 
 
 Fast bound in love's sweet chains, 
 With nothing else to crave, 
 
 For hope did soothe my pains. 
 
 Thy smile was then the sun 
 That shone upon my way; 
 
 My days of joy then begun, 
 But, 0, how short their stay ! 
 
 Thy frown came, like the night, 
 With poison-dews of death, 
 
 And, like a with'ring blight, 
 Thy anger's burning breath. 
 
 Another light has risen, — 
 A star that's fixed above, 
 
 To lead me from my prison 
 To its home — requited love. 
 
 I'M MUCH OBLIGED. 
 
 You're much obliged, you're much obliged; 
 
 Oh, no, for one short hour with thee 
 Is worth to me the world besides — 
 
 The richest treasures of the sea. 
 
 If I could sift from Afric's sand 
 
 The brightest gems that line her shore, 
 
 Or bring from every sunny land 
 Their buried heaps of golden ore, 
 
WHEN OTHER FRIENDS DEPART. \\ 
 
 All — all this mingled treasure's gleams — 
 
 Before thy soft eye's pensive glance, 
 Would fade like stars whose twinkling beams 
 
 Retreat before the sun's advance. 
 
 WHEN OTHER FRIENDS DEPART. 
 
 Whilst round thy silken locks 
 Fair fortune binds her wreaths, 
 
 Kind friends you'll find in flocks, 
 And constant pleasures breathe. - 
 
 When sorrow's chill winds blow, 
 And shroud thy face in grief, 
 
 They'll pass you by not slow, 
 Nor once afford relief. 
 
 Then let affection twine 
 Round one that's true to thee, 
 
 As tendrils of the vine 
 Cling to the rugged tree. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Alone, alone, alone I sigh ! 
 
 Yes, even in this merry throng, 
 Where pleasures beam in every eye, 
 
 And joys to every heart belong. 
 
 Alone! oh, yes, I'm all alone! 
 
 Tho' on the swell of music's tide ; 
 No song can cheer, though sweet its tone, 
 
 When thou art absent from my side. 
 
12 A DREAM. 
 
 Alone ! ah, bitter pang to me ! 
 
 Must I, then, bear so sad a lot : 
 To launch out on life's stormy sea 
 
 And be fore'er by thee forgot ? 
 
 Alone 1 farewell, my Mary dear! 
 
 I'll glide along the stream of Time, 
 And moisten with a bitter tear 
 
 Whate'er recalls that name of thine. 
 
 Alone ! no ; that can never be, 
 
 Tho' I should seek the western wilds, 
 
 Or roam upon the dark blue sea, 
 Or dwell on ocean's far-off isles. 
 
 Alone! ah, no ! That gentle form, 
 On which I did with rapture gaze, 
 
 Will follow me through winter's storm, 
 
 Through summer's sun, and autumn's haze. 
 
 Alone ! ah, no ! Those soft blue eyes, 
 Like stars in the azure mists above, 
 
 Will sprinkle on my burning sighs 
 The dewy, soothing tears of love. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 The evening shades were drawing nigh, 
 The stars were gathering in the sky ; 
 Luna, the queen that rules the night, 
 Came forth in royal robes of light. 
 
 A rustling gale struck on my ear, 
 I turned to see if aught were near, 
 When lo, an angel's form divine 
 Sat musing 'neath a stately pine. 
 
THE DREAM OF REALITY. 13 
 
 Her lips were closed in silence deep, 
 Her mellow eyes were far from sleep; 
 Her hair disheveled on the gale, 
 Her cheeks from rosy tint grew pale. 
 
 \ 
 
 With faltering voice and trembling step 
 Up to her side I softly crept ; 
 For in that silent watch of night, 
 On Mary dear I chanced to light. 
 
 I seized, with passion's fervid glow, 
 Her lily hand, as white as snow, 
 And pressed it to my eager lip 
 For fear a chance so dear should slip. 
 
 A smile, in heaven only known, 
 A smile which angels' 'lone has shown, 
 Bright beaming on my darling's face, 
 Made this to me a hallowed place. 
 
 Then growing strong in strength of love, 
 And moaning like the mateless dove, 
 I begged her from my inner heart 
 That she'd become my better part. 
 
 When, quicker than the lightning's flash, 
 My soul the chills of sorrow lash, 
 For Mary dear, who seemed my own, 
 Had fled me when my dream had flown. 
 
 THE DREAM OF REALITY. 
 
 I opt have turned from thee, my girl, 
 To shun thy beauty's awful power; 
 
 I've sought, amid life's busy whirl* 
 Oblivion of the fatal hour 
 
14 THE DREAM OF REALITY. 
 
 That threw around thy form so fair 
 
 The mystic charm of life's young dream; 
 
 Thine azure eyes, thine auburn hair, 
 As once they were, so still they seenr. 
 
 Thy voice, so soft in love's sweet tone, 
 Alas, I'll never hear it more ! 
 
 It steals o'er me when all alone, 
 Like music from some fairy shore. 
 
 The zephyrs' breath from flowery lands, 
 Where angels live in raptures sweet, 
 
 Tell me of plighted hearts and hands, 
 And vows too rash, too indiscreet ; 
 
 Yows made, indeed, with love's consent, 
 For faith had made those vows sincere t 
 
 My heart, in hope's full, sweet consent, 
 Believed fruition's hour was near. 
 
 But when the haven hove in sight, 
 Deceitful fortune turned her tide, 
 
 And drove me in that darkest night 
 O'er billows high and deep and wide. 
 
 And whilst my broken, crazy bark 
 Was drifting in the fearful storm, 
 
 Hope pointed through the gloomy dark 
 To Mary's pretty girlish form, 
 
 And kindled in my heart anew 
 The joy of other, better days, 
 
 When she was kind and good and true, 
 And sweet to me in all her ways. 
 
 Though but a vision now it seem, 
 It lives, nor shall it ever die; 
 
 And dear to me shall be the dream 
 Of life's most fond Beality. 
 
MOLLIE IN HEAVEN. 15 
 
 MOLLIE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Dearest sister, cease thy weeping; 
 
 Sister, shed no tears for me ; 
 I am sleeping, sweetly sleeping, 
 
 Where no dream of tears can be. 
 
 On a bed of blooming roses, 
 
 Sweeter than earth's flowers can be, 
 Softly there my soul reposes, 
 
 Free — from all life's ills set free. 
 
 Yisions now in quick succession, 
 Such as souls alone can see, 
 
 Splendid with divine perfection, 
 Oh, how they enrapture me ! 
 
 Lo ! I see around me blooming 
 Paradisic fruits and flowers ; 
 
 Breezes waft their sweets perfuming 
 All Elysium's dreamy bowers. 
 
 Hark ! I hear the waters murmuring : 
 Life's bright stream is flowing by, 
 
 From its pearly pebbles gurgling, 
 Come and drink, and never die. 
 
 Mingled with the waters falling, 
 Sweet seraphic sounds arise: 
 
 Angel voices sweetly calling, 
 Mollie, welcome to the skies ; 
 
 Welcome to that second Eden, 
 Where no serpent can beguile. 
 
 Cherubs guard the gates of heaven 
 From the tempter's secret wile. 
 
16 YOU GAVE HIM THAT ARBOR VITJE. 
 
 Then, dear sister, cease thy weeping; 
 
 Sister, shed no tear for me ; 
 Sweet, oh, sweet's the dream of sleeping 
 
 Where no dream of tears can be ! 
 
 Written on the death of Mollie Alexander. 
 
 ELOQUENCE. 
 
 They only who have deeply felt 
 
 The wrongs, the woes which others feel, 
 
 Can give to words the power to melt 
 Self-cast and custom-hardened steel. 
 
 PLEASANT DREAMS. 
 
 Thy dreams — what they to-night may be, 
 That I, perchance, shall never know, 
 
 But if thou e'er hadst dreamed of me, 
 Thou couldst not be so cold — no ! no ! 
 
 YOU GATE HIM THAT ARBOR YYYM. 
 
 I gave it, Will, to others too, 
 
 And not to him alone; 
 The gift that I've reserved for you, 
 
 It shaft be all your own. 
 
 'Twas not its sentimental sign 
 
 I meant for him to wear, 
 But only that I might be kind, 
 
 Not sure just where you are. 
 
THE MITTEN. It 
 
 For sometimes Emma's warbling voice, 
 
 Her golden, glossy hair, 
 Would seem to be my Willie's choice, 
 
 Then Phillie's, not so fair. 
 
 The meek-eyed Mollie has her turn 
 
 As vase of your bouquet ; 
 Then Phillie's a forgotten urn, 
 
 With ashes stowed away. 
 
 Still others, whom I may not name, 
 
 Oft meet your gracious smiles ; 
 Why, then, do you think me to blame 
 
 For practicing such wiles ? 
 
 ON PRESENTING A COPY OF MOORE TO A 
 
 SICK LADY. 
 
 The songs that Moore so sweetly sings, 
 Oh, may they cheer thy drooping heart, 
 
 And bid the gloom that sickness brings 
 From thee on fleeting wings depart ! 
 
 Oh, may they waken in thy breast 
 
 A solitary thought of one 
 Who in the hope is more than blessed, — 
 
 The hope this shall be done ! 
 
 THE MITTEN. 
 
 I could not give to her a glove — 
 That sweet, coquettish little love, 
 Although with her so badly smitten, 
 For she'd just given me the mitten. 
 2* 
 
18 THE WHITE ROSE-BUD. 
 
 That little hand, so white. and fair, 
 A little while we'll leave it bare ; 
 May-be when by the frost 'tis bitten 
 'Twill learn to keep its little mitten. 
 
 Not so, that wily little hand 
 E'en now, with many an artful plan, 
 Right strongly I suspect is knittin' 
 For other foolish men a mitten. 
 
 Well, well, you see I'm up to snuff: 
 The one is odd, and not enough ; 
 And, though it cost a deal of trouble, 
 I'll try again, and make it double. 
 
 Takes two at least to make a pair. 
 If she consents 'twill all be fair ; 
 If not, 'twill still be true as written, 
 I'll have at least another mitten. 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE-BUD. 
 
 Thou art too young to love, they say, 
 Because no blush of crimson hue, 
 
 That kindles under passion's sway, 
 Has cast its scarlet robe o'er you. 
 
 Too young to love — were it not strange, 
 That Cupid, nectar-hunting boy, 
 
 Who seeks in beauty, widest range, 
 
 The sweets — the honeyed sweets of joy, 
 
 Should pass a flower so fresh and fair, 
 Nor pause to own thy matchless grace, 
 
 The witch'ry of thine artless air, 
 
 The magic smile that lights thy face ! 
 
PLL TURN YOUR MUSIC OVER. 19 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Just as magicians wave their wand, 
 Thou strange, mysterious power, Love, 
 
 Dost wave the arbor's leafy hand, 
 To beckon breezes from above. 
 
 I'LL TURN YOUR MUSIC OYER. 
 
 Tell me, Lullie, when you're ready, 
 And I'll turn your music over, 
 
 With a gentle hand so steady, 
 You'll be puzzled to discover 
 
 How adroitly I will do it, 
 For away is gone my sorrow, 
 
 And with pleasure I'll pursue it, 
 Since this coming of to-morrow. 
 
 Oh, how long it was a coming ! 
 
 And so long you kept me waiting ! 
 But this pretty humming, drumming, 
 
 Surely puts it past debating. 
 
 It will need no words for telling 
 
 You, but do a little smiling, 
 And you'll find me quick at spelling 
 
 Pretty signals so beguiling. 
 
 Smiles — what pretty signs for turning 
 From the path of life so dreary, 
 
 Which he travels who is journeying 
 All alone so sad and weary. 
 
20 THE CALL. 
 
 But should be be only dreaming, 
 His awakening will be bitter, 
 
 For when smiles are only seeming, 
 They will fry you like a fritter. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Whilst I these silent vigils keep, 
 Sleep, Love, and balmy be thy sleep ! 
 As pleasing may thy night-dreams be, 
 As are my day-dreams, Love, of thee. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Sweet, sweet let thy slumbers be, 
 And angels, may they whisper thee 
 One thought, one kindly thought of me, 
 To linger in thy memory ! 
 
 THE CALL. 
 
 Forgive me, Mary, if I disturbed thy evening's joy I 
 Thy pleasure with one hour's pain I'd not alloy ; 
 Nor would I ever cause thy little heart to feel 
 A moment's grief which I had not the power to heal 
 
 I seemed indeed to be an uninvited guest, 
 For thou wast cold to me and rude, — to all the rest 
 Thou gavest thy smiles and kindly words unasked : 
 From me alone all friendly signs were darkly masked. 
 
UNANSWERED CALL. 21 
 
 O pardon me, if my unwelcome presence cast 
 A shadow o'er thy smiling face, 'twill be the last — 
 Last time that I can bear to see that sweet face sad, 
 When other hearts, all save mine alone, are blithe and 
 glad. 
 
 WON'T YOU SING FOR ME? 
 
 Say, Mary, won't you sing for me 
 The little songs IVe sung for thee ? 
 
 Oh, let thy sweet voice's melody 
 Sweep o'er my rustic minstrelsy ! 
 
 How sweet would be its magic charm ! 
 
 Resistlessly it would persuade. 
 Almost, methioks, it would disarm 
 
 Your cruel efforts to evade. 
 
 UNANSWERED CALL. 
 
 Mary, thou hast denied to me 
 What thou dost grant to all : 
 
 The humble favor asked of thee — 
 A pleasant evening's call. 
 
 Think not, my girl, the loss is mine, 
 
 Although another's gain, 
 Nor think the pleasure all is thine, 
 
 And mine all the pain. 
 
 For mine it is to love — to see 
 What others may not see, 
 
 Thy beauty's untold mystery 
 Belongs alone to me. 
 
22 THE ISLE OF LOVE. 
 
 For I have loved and wooed and won 
 
 The spirit part of thee ; 
 And long- as crystal waters run 
 
 Thy soul shall dwell with me. 
 
 So long as little flowers bloom 
 
 To beautify the spring, 
 And chase away the tedious gloom 
 
 Which dreary winters bring, 
 
 Thy life with mine shall sweetly blend, 
 Our joys shall mingle free; 
 
 And, though thou prove a faithless friend, 
 Thy soul shall dwell with me. 
 
 Inconstancy lives but an hour : 
 
 It is the mortal part ; 
 But Truth, with an immortal pow'r, 
 
 Embalms the faithful heart. 
 
 THE ISLE OF LOVE. 
 
 I dreamed of an isle, — 
 
 'Twas afloat in the sea. 
 An isle more beautiful never was seen, 
 With flowers so fresh and foliage so green ; 
 Some fairy land surely that isle had been. 
 
 And the waves of the sea, 
 
 Pretty as waves of light, 
 Would break in sparkling gleams on the shore, 
 And leave in their ebb the strand, covered o'er 
 With rubies and gems and glittering ore. 
 
ANOTHER \LL CLAIM THY HAND. 23 
 
 'Twas offered to me — 
 
 Pretty isle of the sea — 
 By Hymen, who said it should ever be mine, 
 If only a queen fit to rule it I'd find. 
 I accepted his offer : 'twas just to my mind. 
 
 I selected a queen, 
 
 The fairest of all. 
 Her bearing was proud, and princely her mien : 
 Her footstep — gazelles their wild hills to regain 
 Ne'er bounded so airily over the plain. . 
 
 And as soft was her eye 
 
 As the blue of the sky 
 When morn's distilling its dews from above. 
 Its brightness was veiled in the mists of its love, 
 And as sweet was her song as the song of a dove. 
 
 She too dreamed a dream : 
 
 'Twas revelry and mirth, 
 Where mingled and sparkled their wit and wine, 
 The more they did mingle the more they did shine. 
 I was not in her dream as she was in mine. 
 
 She invited her friends, 
 
 She invited them all, 
 She invited them all but me, but me, — . 
 The only friend who had asked her to be 
 The Queen of his fancied Isle of the sea ! 
 
 ANOTHER 'LL CLAIM THY HAND. 
 
 Another '11 claim thy hand, Mary,' 
 And bask beneath thy smiles, 
 
 In that enchanted land, Mary, 
 Bewitched by beauty's wiles. 
 
24 ANOTHER 'LL CLAIM THY HAND. 
 
 He'll listen to thy voice, Mary, 
 In love's soft, sweetest tone. 
 
 Tell him that he, thy choice, Mary, 
 Thou lovest him alone. 
 
 Long wilt thou watch and wait, Mary, 
 While winter nights drag on, 
 
 His footstep at the gate, Mary, 
 'Tis music's sweetest song. 
 
 Thou'lt greet him with a kiss, Mary, 
 
 'Tis love's own talisman. 
 To him it will be bliss, Mary, 
 
 To grasp thy burning hand. 
 
 Yet he shall never know, Mary, 
 The joy which I have known, 
 
 Nor feel the ecstatic glow, Mary, 
 That once was all my own. 
 
 When o'er my darkened soul, Mary, 
 
 Thy spirit's beauty shed 
 Bright dreams which still I hold, Ma*r, 
 
 Although that spirit's fled. 
 
 Each vision's now a star, Mary, 
 
 A pretty star above ; 
 And though it be so far, Mary, 
 
 Its light shall still be love. 
 
 ■©' 
 
 Still on life's path 'twill pour, Mary, 
 Its twinkling. Yearns of light; 
 
 When life itself is o'er, Mary, 
 That star shall still be bright. 
 
IT MATTERS NOT. 25 
 
 IT MATTERS NOT. 
 
 It matters not, it matters not, 
 
 It matters not to me, 
 What this one says and that one does, 
 
 It matters not to me. 
 I have a friend that's true and kind, 
 
 And ever true shall be, 
 What this one says or that one does, 
 
 It matters not to me. 
 
 I asked if I might be with her 
 
 Wherever she might be, 
 And spend with her those happy hours 
 
 When life is all a glee, 
 When flowers grace the vernal spring, 
 
 And birds sing merrily, 
 When love hath tuned their vocal strains 
 
 To sweetest melody. 
 
 I asked if I might share her toil 
 
 When harvest-time should be, 
 And gather in a common barn 
 
 Its fruits for her and me, 
 And watch with her some tender care, 
 
 Whate'er that care might be 
 Hearts only which have loved can tell, 
 
 It matters not to me. 
 
 I asked if I might spend with her, 
 
 When we both old should be, 
 Life's shortest, fleetest, wintry days, 
 
 So dear to memory, 
 And shelter with her from that storm 
 
 Which beats so angrily 
 On those who have no filial hand 
 
 To lead them tenderly. 
 B 3 
 
26 FANCY'S FLOWERS. 
 
 She answered not a single word, 
 
 It matters not to me, 
 For pretty blushes told as well 
 
 She ever true should be. 
 It matters not, it matters not, 
 
 It matters not to me, 
 That friend, that's ever true and kind, 
 
 Her name — it is Marv. 
 
 FANCY'S FLOWERS. 
 
 Wouldst thou accept a gift from me, 
 A richer one than this 'twould be, 
 But all 's too poor to offer thee, 
 All mine, and all that's dear to me. 
 
 To go with thee through life's long years, 
 To laugh with thee, and with thy tears, 
 If angel eyes might ever weep, 
 To mingle briny floods as deep 
 
 As ever gushed from a heart which felt, 
 When once at beauty's shrine it knelt, 
 Its joy, its grief, its being lost 
 In hers it loved and trusted most. 
 
 To toil for thee, for thee to dream 
 
 Bright Fancy's dreams; ana* though they seem, 
 
 To one who looks with mortal eye, 
 
 But fitful gleams of phantasy, 
 
 Yet lead sweet Fancy by thy hand, 
 I love to roam that fairy-land, 
 And bring with me to earth again 
 Some remedy for mortal pain. 
 
THE LULLABY SHOWER. 27 
 
 Some hope to cheer the spirit's flight 
 When, over death's dark waves of night, 
 'lis wafted to that voiceless shore 
 Which sends an echo back no more. 
 
 Some flower whose perennial bloom 
 In triumph smiles above the tomb, 
 And sweetens with its fragrant breath 
 The air which chills the home of death. 
 
 With thee to sleep beneath that flower, 
 Which hath a strange, mysterious power, 
 To call back each returning day 
 Bright spirits passed from earth away. 
 
 THE LULLABY SHOWER. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MY LITTLE NIECE, LUCY CHIPLEY. 
 
 • 
 
 List, Lucy, list ! that shower of rain ! 
 She hears, she sleeps, she feels no pain ; 
 It trickles a lullaby sweet for thee, 
 Its charm hath set thy spirit free. 
 
 Sweet flower to bloom in fields above, 
 Transplanted by the hand of love ; 
 Oh, how propitious is the hour, 
 A spring morn's vegetatiug shower! 
 
 We saw thy bud, but not thy bloom, 
 That 's hid a moment in the tomb, 
 Until for thee a place is made 
 Where flowers bloom and never fade. 
 
28 MY HEART HATE WANDERED. 
 
 THE MOTHERS LAMENT. 
 
 DEDICATED TO MRS. BERRY, WHOSE TWO LITTLE CHILDREN 
 WERE DROWNED IN THE POTOMAC. 
 
 Where ! where! my children ? where, dark river, where ? 
 "Where ? tell me ! They sunk in thy waters out there. 
 My children ! No answer comes back on my ear. 
 The waters — loud rushing waters — alone I can hear.* 
 This heart, it cannot feel; these eyes, they cannot weep, 
 For they saw them go down 'neath the waves of the deep. 
 
 They're not there, mother, — not under the wave, 
 'Tis only their dust that belongs to the grave; 
 The spark of their beauty that danced in their eye, 
 'Tvvas caught on a sunbeam and flashed to the sky ; 
 When life's waves around thee shall roll dark and high, 
 That sunbeam will guide thee that flashed to the sky. 
 
 They're not there, mother, — not under the wave, 
 
 'Tis only their dust that belongs to the grave ; 
 
 The sound that once moved thee, — their laugh and their 
 
 cry,— 
 We remember its sad notes brought tears to your eye ; 
 'Tis the tone*of the music that's heard in the sky 
 To soothe earth's bitter sorrow and soften earth's sigh. 
 
 MY HEART HATH WANDERED BACK TO 
 
 THEE. 
 
 My wounded spirit hath fled thee, Mary, 
 How oft among the stars to r&am ! 
 
 For, banished from thy presence, Mary, 
 It sought in vain on earth a home. 
 
JUT HEART HATH WANDERED. 29 
 
 From many an eye with beauty beaming 
 
 Came sparkles kindred to its own, 
 And left my spirit fondly dreaming; 
 
 It was not doomed to weep alone. 
 
 When from the cheek the glow was fading, • 
 
 I've felt it sinking on my heart, 
 And listened to its sweet persuading, 
 
 I will be thine, and mine thou art. 
 
 Then on her brow the smile of beauty 
 
 Sat like a queen upon her throne ; 
 In majesty commanding duty, 
 
 My love must rule and mine alone. 
 
 One's beauty charmed for an hour, Mary, 
 Another's wit hath broke the spell ; 
 
 For one was pretty, like my Marj, 
 Another's talked as pleasing well. 
 
 And yet from all this world of gladness 
 My heart hath wandered back to thee, 
 
 And wept in bitter, lonely sadness, 
 To think that thou wast false to me. 
 
 If I have sinned against thee, Mary, 
 
 If I have wandered far from thee, 
 *Twas only when thou wast not, Mary, 
 
 The Mary that thou used to be 
 
 And hast thou never sinned, my Mary? 
 
 And never from me didst thou roam ? 
 Then let thy spirit guide me, Mary, 
 
 Thy gentle spirit lead me home. 
 
 3* 
 
30 THE VOICE OF MART. 
 
 THE VOICE OF MARY. 
 
 What is it, oh I tell me, what is it I hear ? 
 It's melody nieltingly falls on my ear ; 
 My bosom is -heaving, my brain's in a whirl, 
 'Tis the voice of Mary, that sweet little girl. 
 
 This cannot be so, — it is far in the night, 
 I saw but just now in her window a light ; 
 Her window it was, I most certainly know, 
 For it dazzled my eyes like the sun on the snow. 
 
 Then tell me, oh ! tell me, what is it I hear ? 
 
 iEolus, it must be thy harp of the air ; 
 
 'Tis a harp, — 'tis a star, — an angel it seems, 
 
 The strings of its harp are yon star's silver beams. 
 
 A star ! It must be some heavenly thing, 
 So poised upon its fiery wing, 
 That pours round my heart this rapturous glow 
 And whispers a sweet tone soft and so low. 
 
 List, Mary, to the little songs 
 
 Which I would sweetly sing for thee ; 
 
 Each one to thee indeed belongs, 
 For thou didst give them all to me. 
 
 'Twas thy soft hand that tuned my lyre, 
 
 Thy smiles infused its melody, 
 Thy anger gave its spirit fire, 
 
 Hope blended all in harmony. 
 
 But now, alas ! that hope is fled, 
 
 My harp again is all unstrung, 
 But yet is not its spirit dead, 
 
 Nor e'er shall die the strains it sung. 
 
'TIS ONLY A BAT 31 
 
 Wake, spirit of my pride, once more, 
 And quickly string that harp again ; 
 
 Yea, tune it higher than e'er before, 
 And strike a wilder, deeper strain. 
 
 'TIS ONLY A BAT. 
 
 'Tis only a bat, a little wee thing, 
 
 Fear not, it hath neither tooth or a sting : 
 
 'Tis only a bat that flutters and flies, 
 
 Why dodge you your head ? why hide you your eyes ? 
 
 'Tis only a bat, a bird of the night, 
 Mistaking for stars the chandelier's light ; 
 Lo, through the window already it glides, 
 Away on the waves of the darkness it rides. 
 
 But what is that fluttering around my head ? 
 Oh, why do I shake with trembling and dread ? 
 'Tis only a bird, a little wee thing, 
 But why do I start at the sound of its wing ? 
 
 Bright as a bird's of the tropical clime 
 Its plumage, — its notes a musical rhyme, 
 Like dreams of the morning steal over my soul, 
 And bind me with magic's enchanting control. 
 
 Each gleam of its eye an invisible dart, 
 Unerringly aimed at each beat of my heart; 
 As faster it beats, so faster they fly, 
 Sweet charmer, desist or surely I'll die. 
 
 Else draw me within that magical spell, 
 In the smiles of thy beauty permit me to dwell; 
 Then the soft, softest touch that love can inspire 
 Will tune to thy sweet voice the song of my lyre. 
 
32 COME TELL ME. 
 
 COME, TELL ME. 
 
 Come, tell me truly, tell me why 
 You always were so coy aud shy, 
 Why did you never see before 
 The beauty which you now adore. 
 
 Was I not pretty — prettier then, 
 When innocence itself did blend 
 With art without its trickery, 
 Its own enchanting witchery ? 
 
 How often you and I have met 
 At festive scenes I'll ne'er forget, 
 Where pleasure's boat did swiftly glide 
 O'er music's gently swelling tide. 
 
 While Fancy at the helm did stand, 
 And pointed with enchanting hand 
 Adown the stream, whose rippled flow 
 Sweeps on forever on below. 
 
 Along the banks what flowers grew ! 
 The orange, lemon, citron too; 
 How sweet was every passing gale 
 That filled our light boat's silken sail! 
 
 Oh, yes, I saw thy beauty then, 
 But surely naught on earth to thee 
 
 One single charm, dear girl, could lend, 
 Not even girlhood's artless glee. 
 
 I saw then, too, in yonder sky, 
 Afloat on ether waves of blue, 
 
 Bright stars that seemed not half so high 
 Above my reach, dear girl, as you. 
 
TUEY FALL. 33 
 
 As well ambition might propose 
 
 A flight so reckless and so wild, 
 As on thy bosom to repose, 
 
 Bright cherub, though of earth a child. 
 
 Yet maddened by love's wild desire, 
 
 My burning soul essays to rise, 
 On inspiration's wings of fire, 
 
 Up to yon distant starlit skies. 
 
 Oh, would but Genius speed my flight, 
 How soon from that bright world above 
 
 Would I return in rays of light 
 To mingle with thy smiles of love ! 
 
 THEY FALL. 
 
 They fall, they fall, — the markets fall, 
 The butcher sees his glutted stall ; 
 His spirits fall, — he's sick of meat, 
 The speculator in a heat, 
 
 Now curses cattle, swine, and all, 
 The de'il take them when they fall ; 
 My labor's lost, my money's out, 
 And nothing's left but duns and doubt. 
 
 The merchant's wares, too, sometimes fall; 
 
 Clerks know it by his angry call, 
 
 His closely scrutinizing look, 
 
 His watching every hook and crook. 
 
 The laborer's wages likewise fall ; 
 Bejabbers, then, we'll have a brail ; 
 And Paddy, sure, he'll take the lead; 
 Shillalahs, won't they make 'em heed? 
 
 B* 
 
34 THEY FALL. 
 
 And tyrants, they at last must fall, 
 Though thousands now obey their call, 
 Though nations tremble at their name, 
 And fools applaud their deeds of shame. 
 
 The very noblest of them all 
 Great Caesar— he too had to fall, 
 For heaven's decree unbroken stands, 
 Who kills must die by bloody hands. 
 
 And patriots, too, why do they fall ? 
 Oh, tell us, Thou high over all; 
 For surely thy omniscient eye 
 Didst see them aobly live and die. 
 
 They could not brook the tyrant's thrall, 
 Their proud souls loathed their filthy stall, 
 Their house of clay by vile abuse 
 Subjected to a servile use. 
 
 Ye tyrants now in vain may call 
 Yile names, — in vain your curses fall 
 Upon their sleeping, heedless dust, 
 Their spirits rest in heaven, we trust. 
 
 We've not the time to tell it all, 
 
 How ages, nations, stations fall ; 
 
 The young, the old, the rich, the poor, — 
 
 So many, and still many more. 
 
 The high, the low, the great, the small, 
 The stars, — they only seem to fall, — 
 'Tis but a radiant gleam of light 
 That gilds the happy face of night ! 
 
 This seeming's but a seeming fault, 
 For, anchored in the azure vault, 
 The stars, whilst ages roll along, 
 Forever twinkle, twinkle on. 
 
THE SHADOWY HAND. 35 
 
 THE SHADOWY HAND. 
 
 When a child I went with children to play, 
 And frolic and gambol from day to day ; 
 I eagerly sought to join in their glee, 
 And be as they were, so wild and free. 
 A Shadowy Hand with a mystical wand 
 Did beckon to me and beckon me on. 
 
 I went with my gun to the woodlands wild, — 
 For I was a boy and no longer a child, — 
 Resolved to return with such heaps of game 
 As would win for myself a Nimrod's fame, 
 That Shadowy Hand with a mystical wand 
 Did beckon to me and beckon me on. 
 
 I felt my cheek glow with the pride of a man, 
 
 And wildly I rushed into life's busy plan ; 
 
 I eagerly counted its loss and its gain 
 
 As each shifting scene gave me pleasure or pain, 
 
 That Shadowy Hand with a mystical wand 
 
 Did beckon to me and beckon me on. 
 
 I looked upon gold, that glittering dust, 
 
 The idol, the god, whom the world seemed to trust ; 
 
 My touch was a poison and turned it to rust, 
 
 And friends looked upon me with cold distrust, 
 
 That Shadowy Hand with a mystical wand 
 
 Did beckon to me and beckon me on. 
 
 Til go and be happy in love's shady bowers, 
 
 There surely I'll find earth's sweet, sweetest flowers ; 
 
 There swiftly will fly pleasure's bright sunny hours, 
 
 And there I'll defy that phantom's dread powers ; 
 
 No Shadowy Hand with a mystical wand 
 
 Shall beckon to me and beckon me on. 
 
36 A TEAR OF SYMPATHY. 
 
 A Naiad was there in a golden boat, 
 The waves were of silver that kept it afloat; 
 So white was her hand, her face was so fair, 
 Rich, silky, and soft was her dark-brown hair, 
 No Shadowy Hand with a mystic wand 
 Shall beckon to me and beckon me on. 
 
 And the smiles that lit up her soft, blue eyes 
 Were brighter to me than the azure skies, 
 Though lit by the stars, the bright stars above, — . 
 Her smiles were enkindled by the sparkles of love; 
 No Shadowy Hand with a mystical wand 
 Shall beckon to me and beckon me on. 
 
 She dropped in the stream her feathery oar, 
 Her boat like an arrow did shoot from the shore ; 
 Behind her she cast a cold mocking smile, 
 ? Tis only coquette thy treacherous wile ; 
 That Shadowy Hand with a mystical wand 
 Did beckon to me and beckon me on. 
 
 Mysterious spirit, I know not your name, 
 
 Nor whither you go nor from whence you came, 
 
 And yet your power is on me I feel. 
 
 And whether it be for woe or for weal, 
 
 That Shadowy Hand with a mystical wand 
 
 Still beckons to me and beckons me on. 
 
 A TEAR OF SYMPATHY. 
 
 TO MARY, ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER. 
 
 When happy, prosperous days are thine, 
 And joys, like wreaths, around thee twine, 
 It would indeed be passing rude 
 Should I one word or thought obtrude. 
 
A TEAR OF SYMPATHY. 31 
 
 Nay, rather would I choose to die 
 Than violate that sanctity, 
 Where from all eyes save his above, 
 "True hearts are hid in plighted love. 
 
 And yet when sad afflictions come, 
 And death invades thy peaceful home, 
 May I not weep a friendly tear 
 For her who was to thee so dear ? 
 
 So kind to all, so kind to me, 
 Her generous hospitality 
 Dismissed the painful thought awhile, 
 That I was a friendless exile. 
 
 Peace to the ashes of the dead, 
 To peaceful realms her spirit's fled, 
 "Where war's dread tramp is heard no more, 
 And friendship's parting scenes are o'er. 
 
 Yet back those tears must still be kept, 
 The tears that I might once have wept, 
 This office sad, yet pleasing too, 
 'Tis his and his alone to do. 
 
 Who did thy happy thoughts employ, 
 And shared thy hours of sweetest joy, 
 With thine his tears alone may flow, 
 And soothe thy sad heart's deepest woe. 
 
 But soon will come those other hours, 
 When memory's mysterious powers 
 Will lead us to that dreamy shore 
 Where silence wafts the farewell o'er. 
 
 When on that pure and hallowed ground, 
 Where mortal passions are not found, 
 The parting scene you oft renew, 
 There I may come and weep with you. 
 4 
 
38 ALTHOUGH I ONLY DID LOVE IIER. 
 
 Chaste tears, as chaste as the cold touch 
 That crumbled nature's frame to dust, 
 And sent the spirit pure from earth's clod 
 Back to the bosom of its God. 
 
 Like her who taught the truth, be kind, 
 And those whom thou shalt leave behind, 
 With them, when thou shalt cease to be, 
 Forgotten friends will weep for thee. 
 
 Although I only did love her, 
 They tell me she'll marry another. 
 
 Though we should never, never meet again, 
 I would not give thy heart a moment's pain, 
 But truly wish thy future life may be 
 As bright as were my wildest dreams of thee. 
 
 Should one more worthy love thee half as well, 
 And should thy bosom heave a responsive swell, 
 You may iu prosy sweet contentment dwell 
 Till death's sad note shall sound the last farewell. 
 
 And I along in dreams will float the while, 
 Alone upon my fancy's fairy isle, 
 That isle which genius did create for thee, 
 But thou hast left it all alone to me. 
 
 Well, be it so, it still shall be my pride, 
 Though thou refuse to be its queen, my bride, 
 For whilst that isle shall float upon the sea 
 Death's cold, dark wave shall never pass on me. 
 
 When other isles shall be by earthquakes torn, 
 By wild tornadoes of their beauty shorn, 
 Or, heaved by some unknown cause below, 
 Shall crumble and sink beneath the ocean's flow; 
 
ALTHOUGH I ONLY DID LOVE HER. 39 
 
 When ocean's calm again and thou shalt find 
 No track, no vestige, of them left behind, — 
 No hill, no tree, no stone to mark their grave, — 
 Yet still will float that isle on fancy's wave. 
 
 But he must know some sad, sad, bitter hours 
 Who wove in vain for thee that wreath of flowers, — 
 Unfading flowers from fancy's floral land, — 
 For rudely, coldly, hast thou spurned the hand 
 
 Whose fingers, touched by inspiration's fire, 
 With twinkling star-beams strung its mystic lyre, 
 And with the music of thy name, Mary, 
 Did blend its strangely sweet kitharady. 
 
 Think not that there a soul shall stop; 
 Nay, in its flight the stars are not the top, 
 But worlds unknown beyond the azure sky 
 In beauty burst on fancy's raptured eye. 
 
 And music such as mortals may not hear 
 It fain would whisper to thy list'ning ear, 
 And o'er love's 'lectric chord of sympathy 
 Would flash its wild, unearthly melody. 
 
 " Excuse thee ?" yes, I will forget thee too ; 
 For as beautiful as thou wast when true, 
 My idol, queen of all my fancied joy, 
 I'll know thee now but as another's toy. 
 
 Nor didst thou yet, nor canst thou do me harm, 
 I've power to use even thy beauty's charm ; 
 It taught me what I am and yet may be, 
 Thy finger's scorn but points my destiny. 
 
40 LOVE'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 LOYE'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 I asked the little flowers that bloom 
 And shed their fragrance o'er the mead, 
 
 To chase away the pensive gloom 
 That hangs around my aching head. 
 
 They said we bloom to gladden hearts 
 Which have not lived to live in vain; 
 
 But not in Flora's mystic arts 
 Is power found to heal a pain 
 
 That springs from wounds that love hath made, 
 
 In bosoms bared to meet its dart ; 
 The hand that thrust the cruel blade 
 
 Hath power alone to heal the smart. 
 
 I asked the bird whose early song 
 
 (Sweet child of joy, I envy thee) 
 Steals softly on the waking morn, 
 
 To sing one joyous note for me. 
 
 We sing for those whose hearts have found 
 
 Emotions kindred to their own ; 
 But not in music's sweetest sound, 
 
 Nor all her deep, full swelling tone, 
 
 Is power found to fill the void 
 
 Which unrequited love hath made ; 
 
 As well with all its strings destroyed 
 The lute miirht still be sweetly played. 
 
 I asked the brook whose onward flow 
 
 Is one unceasing lullaby, 
 To hush to sleep the sigh of woe 
 
 That breaks upon its melody. 
 
THE FAIR. 41 
 
 When sigh shall answer back to sigh 
 Each may sleep in the other's bed ; 
 
 But where shall sleep the only sigh 
 
 Which from one lonely heart hath fled ? 
 
 Bird of the dark and dreary night, 
 
 Thy mournful song was made for me : 
 
 The solemn gloom, the withering blight, 
 It seem3 hath fallen too on thee. 
 
 For one unvaried, mournful strain 
 
 Makes up thy melancholy song ; 
 A half-hushed sigh in soft refrain 
 
 Still moves the mournful ditty on. 
 
 When I shall reach that far-off shore 
 Where sleep, like a dreamless mystery, 
 
 Comes in a boat with noiseless oar, 
 Unwooed by music's lullaby ; 
 
 Where sorrow's sigh and pleasure's glee 
 
 Alike shall all be vanity, 
 My resting-place, oh I let it be 
 
 Where the whippoorwill shall sigh for me. 
 
 THE FAIR. 
 
 She is sweeter than sugar, 
 Believe it, and taste her ; 
 
 She will stick like a plaster, 
 So mind where you paste her. 
 
 She is quite good for mending, 
 But first you must break her, 
 
 And not much for depending 
 If sooner you take her. 
 
 4* 
 
42 THE FAIR. 
 
 She is good too for spending, 
 But first you must buy her, 
 
 And your trinkets depending 
 Most sorely will try her. 
 
 She is good for deceiving, 
 If fondly you trust her; 
 
 If you're slow in believing, 
 It will blow up a bluster. 
 
 She is quick at discerning ; 
 
 Be sure you can't fool her ; 
 But very dull at learning 
 
 Should you try to school her. 
 
 She is much more than grateful 
 When little you give her, 
 
 But most wonderful hateful 
 When your all you deliver. 
 
 She is kind in obeying, 
 If you can command her, 
 
 But the devil in flaying 
 
 What's under the hand of her. 
 
 In love she is most fickle, — 
 In wedlock she is cross ; 
 
 And sourer than a pickle 
 If you let her be boss. 
 
 In her beauty surpassing 
 All and all else beside, 
 
 And it's this little hobby 
 That she most likes to ride. 
 
 Her virtue is her armor, 
 That wonderful power, 
 
 Mysterious charm of her 
 Most delicate flower. 
 
/ HAVE COMPANY. 43 
 
 Oh, this, this is the treasure 
 
 She ought most to cherish, 
 For wide, wide without measure 
 
 Is her ruin if it perish. 
 
 Her devoted affection 
 
 In grief and in sorrow, — 
 Here all else but perfection 
 
 A model might borrow. 
 
 In friendship she is constant, 
 
 In adversity kind, 
 Like a bath for the body 
 
 And a balm for the mind. 
 
 In watching she is wakeful, 
 
 She is sleepless in care, 
 And that man is ungrateful 
 
 Who loves not the fair. 
 
 I HA YE COMPANY. 
 
 Thou hast, I know, how many friends, 
 
 And each one's kindly smile 
 So sweetly with thy soft smile blends, 
 
 Thou seemest friendship's child. 
 
 Yes, thou hast friends, for fortune's thine ; 
 
 Thy youth, thy beauty, too, 
 Will bring to worship at thy shrine 
 
 The noble, brave, and true. 
 
 The shallow coxcomb too will fetch 
 
 His mimicry of love, 
 And set his artful trap to catch 
 
 This sweet, sweet little dove. 
 
44 / HAVE CO MP A XV. 
 
 To thee he offers too, perchance, 
 A braver love than mine, — 
 
 Mine melts before thy soft eye's glance, 
 And at each word of thine. 
 
 It trembles lest that word should tell 
 What most it dreads might be, 
 
 Its own wild, deep, and gushing swell 
 Was never felt by thee. 
 
 E'en now that cruel word is spoke, 
 
 JEolus free the wind, 
 Juno, what did thy wrath provoke ? 
 
 Oh, why, why so unkind ? 
 
 Why drive my frail bark o'er the sea 
 
 To wildly drift alone ? 
 Have 1 not stooped to worship thee, 
 
 And bent before thy throne ? 
 
 Think not my soul will fear thy hate 
 Because it feared thy smiles, 
 
 It but obeys the voice of Fate, 
 Which bids it spurn thy wiles. 
 
 Nay, though the sea in storms be tossed 
 Till wave is piled on wave, 
 
 And wrecks beneath its billows lost 
 Disclose their hidden graye, 
 
 Still, high above the upper deck, 
 
 Amid the shrieking blast, 
 Its deathless pride will stand erect, 
 
 Undaunted to the last. 
 
 And doomed though thus it be to roam, 
 
 All friendless and forlorn, 
 'Twill mingle with the billow's foam 
 
 The spittle of its scorn. 
 
THOU SPIRIT. 45 
 
 THOU SPIRIT. 
 
 Thou Spirit bright as any star 
 That twinkles in yon azure sky, 
 
 And distant though thou be as far, 
 Thy beauty's gleam shall never die. 
 
 Which poured around my burning soul 
 Affection's sympathetic stream, 
 
 And left me long its waves to roll 
 
 Like Fancy long morn's rippled dream. 
 
 And yet I feel a cloud has passed 
 Betwixt that radiant star and me ; 
 
 I feel that gleam may be the last 
 Sweet smile that I shall ever see. 
 
 Dark cloud, thy length'ning shadows spread 
 Around my soul a deep'ning gloom, 
 
 I tremble with instinctive dread, 
 And vainly seek to shun thy doom. 
 
 Oh, Mary, through that cloud so dark, 
 Would I could see that smile divine, 
 
 Whose kindling sympathetic spark 
 
 Once passed between thy soul and mine ! 
 
 The bursting storm shrieks out " too late !" 
 Its torrents madly round me pour ; 
 
 It is thy hand, relentless Fate, 
 
 That shoves me rudely from the shore. 
 
 Adieu, sweet haven, quiet calm, 
 Where fondly I had hoped to rest ; 
 
 Adieu, sweet smiles, delicious balm, 
 
 That soothed my burning, aching breast. 
 
46 THE EXILE. 
 
 My bark is drifting on the tide, 
 
 Far distant, far from any shore ; 
 The highest curve of the wave 'twill ride, 
 
 And never cast its anchor more. 
 
 Its sails are spread to the wild storm's breath, 
 And o'er the billow's foamy crest 
 
 'Tis hurried to the land of death, 
 Where winds shall sleep and wild waves rest. 
 
 Still, in this tempest of the mind, 
 Betwixt the waves of this wild sea, 
 
 Some sparkling gem I yet may find 
 Of thought which shall immortal be. 
 
 This gem, dear girl, shall gild thy fame, 
 This glowing, burning thought of thee ; 
 
 And Mary long shall be a name, 
 Long after I shall cease to be. 
 
 Then spurn, reject me, if you will ; 
 
 Yea, let thy name another's be ; 
 Yet Mary, sweet name, shall be still 
 
 Akin to this deathless part of me. 
 
 THE EXILE. 
 
 Dear Mary, may you never feel 
 
 The pangs that wring an exile's heart, 
 
 That sever like a blade of steel 
 Affections never formed to part. 
 
 That bring to eyes unused to weep 
 The big, unbidden, bitter tear, 
 
 And startle from their midnight sleep 
 Brave hearts that never dreamed of fear. 
 
THE EXILE. 47 
 
 But should the cruel battle-storm 
 
 Expel you from your happy home, 
 Be ever near some gentle form 
 
 To whisper thou art not alone. 
 
 Even as evening's gentlest breath, 
 That blows upon the drooping flow'r, 
 
 Says softly, sweetly, fear not death, 
 I'll come again and bring the show'r. 
 
 To kiss the fever from thy lip, 
 
 To chase the pallor from thy cheek, 
 
 And bring the nectar sweet to sip 
 
 Distilled from yonder murmuring creek. 
 
 A nectar that will leave no stain ; 
 
 No burning cheek, no bloodshot eye ; 
 No tottering step, no crazy brain ; 
 
 No rash and reckless wish to die. 
 
 But pure from yonder cloudless sky, 
 
 From yon ethereal ocean blue, 
 From heav'n's exhaustless springs on high, 
 
 Shall come this shower of pearly dew. 
 
 And following fast the rolling tear 
 
 That marred thy cheek so white and fair, 
 
 The tear that rolled in grief and fear, 
 The tear of doubt and anxious care ; 
 
 These other drops shall raise their stain, 
 And smooth the furrows they have plowed, 
 
 And lift thy drooping head again, 
 So lately and so lowly bowed. 
 
 Then thou with no inebriate flush 
 
 Wilt greet the rising king of day, 
 But with so pure and sweet a blush, 
 
 'Twill chase his scorching scorn away. 
 
48 QUEEN OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 And he with friendship's softest ray, 
 Will beam upon thy happy face, 
 
 And bid thee live yet many a day 
 
 To bloom and bless thy dwelling-place. 
 
 Just so shall friendship come again 
 
 With Love's own sweet refreshing show'rs, 
 
 To soothe and heal the bitter pain 
 That wrung thy many absent hours. 
 
 QUEEN OF THE FLOWElfk. 
 
 I looked and trembled whilst I gazed, 
 For there amid the foliage green and fair 
 
 1 saw, and stood transfixed, amazed, 
 
 The Floral Queen, — her loose and flowing hair, 
 
 Like silky foliage's graceful leaflets, fell, 
 Half veiling charms so beautiful unseen; 
 
 Deep Mystery that none can ever tell, 
 
 If seen those pretty charms had never been. 
 
 I oft have seen thee in the blushing rose, 
 Unfolding each and every maiden charm 
 
 That chastest Virtue rightly may disclose, 
 And fairest Modesty receive no harm. 
 
 How often, too, when summer showers are past, 
 I've met thee, Fragrant, on the Zephyr's breath 
 
 Oh, heavenly sweets, if ye could longer last, 
 Ecstatic joy to mortal would be death ! 
 
 But ne'er till now thou wearest a human form, — 
 If such supernal Beauty we may call, — 
 
 Like Eden's Queen before the angry storm 
 Fell on her beautv and destroyed all. 
 
THE PARTING. 49 
 
 Thy heaving bosom lifts thee up until 
 Thy footsteps seem to tread upon the air, 
 
 As flowers bending to the Zephyr's will, 
 
 Thou art as graceful and how much more fair ! 
 
 And art thou not the spirit of the flow'rs, 
 
 The fragrant breath that sitteth there unseen, 
 
 Till Love sends forth his waiting summer show'rs 
 To dress in bridal robes his Floral Queen? 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 And must it be that I must sever 
 
 Earth's dearest, sweetest, tenderest ties, 
 
 And look no more, dear girl, forever, 
 Into those soft, deep azure eyes. 
 
 Where I have read Love's fondest story, 
 And felt its wild and rapturous fires, 
 
 And seen its brightest blaze of glory, 
 If glory be a thing that dies? 
 
 For all its hopes are now departed, 
 And all its visions passed away, 
 
 And I, now almost broken-hearted, 
 I, only I, am doomed to stay. 
 
 The cottage with its sweetest flowers, 
 All cultured by thy tender hand, 
 
 And guarded by Love's holy powers, 
 A desert now it seems to stand. 
 
 And never more, when weary, saddened, 
 
 I'll find in it the sweet retreat, 
 Where once my heavy heart was gladdened 
 
 Bv smiles of jov I used to meet, 
 c 5 
 
50 ABSENT CHILDREN. 
 
 And never more in music's numbers 
 Thy voice shall kindle love's desire, 
 
 Or soothe into love's dreamy slumbers 
 The kindling blaze of passion's fire. 
 
 And never more that haud so tender 
 
 . Shall sweep the lute strings of my soul, 
 Till music's warbling waves of splendor 
 In one deep swelling tide shall roll. 
 
 And other things I may not mention, 
 Some lisping, prattling, little toy, 
 
 Which claims for Love its sweet attention, 
 And fills Love's hope with hallowed joy. 
 
 Ourselves again, as in life's morning, 
 A dew-bathed flower fresh and fair, 
 
 With smiles of innocence adorning 
 The face unwrinkled by a care. 
 
 So trusting, hopeful, all-confiding, 
 Receiving everything as true, 
 
 Its pretty smiling joys dividing, 
 This one to me and that to you. 
 
 All, all these dreams shall be another's, 
 All these wild raptures he shall feel, 
 
 For to no eyes except a lover's 
 Can visions such as these be real. 
 
 ABSENT CHILDREN. 
 
 ['ll take a pleasant little walk, 
 4nd have a little social talk, 
 And then I w r ill be well again, 
 And free from ev'ry bit of pain. 
 
ABSENT CHILDREN. 51 
 
 A little laughter with my friends 
 For all my sorrow makes amends; 
 A visit home e'en in my thought 
 Brings that which money never bought. 
 
 A peace no words can ever tell, 
 A quiet, dreamy, soothing spell, 
 Like that sweet hush-a-by baby, 
 Sung by every happy lady. 
 
 Such as never heard a baby cry, 
 And never sung that lullaby, 
 To them this much I will confess, 
 My meaning they will hardly guess. 
 
 For only they who know that sound 
 Which makes a parent's heart to bound, 
 Can tell how happy I shall be 
 My children all again to see. 
 
 A bachelor, ay, a parent, too, 
 A spirit beauty I did woo, 
 Who gave me children fit to love, 
 Bright visions of that world above. 
 
 Where beauty lives in fairest form 
 Unmarred by sorrow's wasting storm, 
 XJnvvrinkled by the wear of years, 
 Unfurrowed by griefs flood of tears. 
 
 But happy in their joyousness, 
 Their being one of blessedness, 
 They go in ever-blooming youth 
 To teach to all this simple truth. 
 
 That life itself ought not to be 
 
 The few brief years which mortals see, 
 
 A limit bounded by the grave, 
 
 Its shore where Lethe's dark waters lave. 
 
52 HOME-SICK. 
 
 But something which will stem death's tide, 
 And o'er its billows safely ride, 
 And anchor on that peaceful shore 
 Where joy shall live for evermore. 
 
 HOME-SICK. 
 
 Dear doctor let me tell you this, 
 'Tis that wherein you always miss, 
 When you attempt to keep me here, 
 My feelings you don't rightly share. 
 
 In this, my friend, you know" I am 
 As weak as any little lamb, 
 To go again back to my home, 
 And live there with my ma alone. 
 
 Remember, then, how I've been torn, 
 By sharp afflictions closely shorn, 
 Temper to me the angry wind 
 And I will be forever kind. 
 
 And then the shepherd of the flock 
 Your little ones will gently rock, 
 And bear them kindly on his arm, 
 And shield them from life's every barm. 
 
 To him I'll offer up that prayer 
 Which he has never failed to hear ; 
 Bless him who helps me in my need, 
 The answer comes, I will indeed. 
 
 I'll bless him with my bounty's store, 
 And he shall never hunger more ; 
 My lambs his little ones shall be 
 Who thus shall serve and honor me. 
 
MARY! 53 
 
 I'll lead them in the pastures green, 
 And by the waters they shall feed ; 
 My children they have ever been 
 Who help my children in their need. 
 
 O MARY! 
 
 O Mary ! in that saddest hour, 
 
 That hour of deep and midnight gloom, 
 
 When I had -sunk beneath the power 
 Of Darkness, — tyrant of the tomb, 
 
 Thy once fair form all bent with grief 
 And withered by the blight of woe, 
 
 Thy woman's heart, it brought relief, 
 The blush had faded long ago. 
 
 The girlish smile that won my love, 
 As fresh and pure as morning's flow'r, 
 
 When like an angel from above, 
 A Naiad robed in mystic show'r, 
 
 Descending on my ravished eye 
 All thy beauty's lovely charm, 
 
 Revealed that which can never die, 
 Nor fell disease nor death can harm. 
 
 The rose had faded from thy cheek, 
 The smile had left thy laughing eye, 
 
 Thy hair disheveled, pale and meek, 
 Thy bosom only heaved a sigh. 
 
 When all, all else beside was waste, 
 
 When strength and beauty had decayed, 
 
 There was there still a dwelling-place, 
 Oasis that will never fade; 
 
 5* 
 
54 THE GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 Though feverish madness parch the brain 
 And eat away the rose of health, 
 
 The heart is still a verdant plain, 
 A storehouse of exhaustless wealth. 
 
 The heart it is that holy shrine 
 
 Where God on earth has deigned to dwell, 
 Its love a beacon-light will shine 
 
 Out through the gloom of death's dark spell. 
 
 When all beside shall cease to be 
 
 My place shall know me here no more ; 
 
 Sweet child of Heaven, Charity, 
 With thee I'll live for evermore. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 " Except ye repent and become a little child, ye cannot enter the 
 kingdom of heaven." 
 
 'Tis this to be a little child, 
 
 Obey, be gentle, kind, and mild, 
 
 And live with cheerful, bright-eyed hope 
 
 Where Fancy roams with boundless scope. 
 
 To revel in that fairy-land, 
 And pluck with artless little hand 
 The lovely flowers blooming there, 
 The flowers that need not culture's care. 
 
 A kindly word, a pleasing smile, 
 Will every heart with love beguile, 
 And chase away dark sorrow's frown, 
 And smooth the waves of an°;er down. 
 
 'o' 
 
 If anger come, — it sometimes will, 
 For children are exposed to ill, — 
 A momentary burst of grief 
 Will conquer hate and bring relief. 
 
THE GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY. 55 
 
 And disappointments too they share, 
 Yea, even down to deep despair ; 
 Again a copious flood of tears 
 Will wash away their childish fears. 
 
 To have a whim and think it hard 
 That from that whim they are debarred ; 
 Mamma, I'll go and do so, so ; 
 No, no, my child, you cannot go. 
 
 A little cry and all is right, 
 The little face again is bright; 
 And mamma now is happy too, 
 For what she bids her boy will do. 
 
 Repent and be a little child, 
 The Saviour said so kind and mild, 
 For such alone shall enter heav'n, 
 To such the kingdom shall be giv'n. 
 
 In fields adorned with sweetest flow'rs, 
 To spend the long, long happy hours, 
 Where juicy fruits in clusters grow, 
 And gushing, sparkling waters flow. 
 
 No tear is there, no sigh is heard, 
 No fitful, fretful, angry word, 
 But peals of joyous laughter ring, 
 Like songs of birds in early spring. 
 
 Then let us seek that goodly home 
 Where nothing bad shall ever come, 
 Where Love in peaceful triumph reigns, 
 And breezes cool the sunny plains. 
 
56 
 
 "BEHOLD HOW HE LOVED HIM. 
 
 « BEHOLD HOW HE LOYED HIM." . 
 
 She came and brought a bunch of flowers, 
 The sweetest tokens of the spring, 
 
 The emblems fair of laughing hours 
 To both the peasant and the king. 
 
 The sweetheart of the morning dew, 
 The fragrant breath of midday show r, 
 
 The sunshine's bride of blushing hue, 
 Chaste matron of the vesper hour. 
 
 Adornment of the bridal robe 
 
 When hope is high and joy is loud, 
 
 And what besides on all the globe 
 So fittingly bedecks the shroud I 
 
 Ye flowers, types of heavenly love, 
 The lily white and Sharon's rose, 
 
 The lamb of patience, faithful dove 
 Wha^mysteries do you disclose I 
 
 >Ti« patience bears till man is pure, 
 And all his sins are washed away ; 
 
 When patience can no more endure, 
 Faith dawns like an eternal day. 
 
 And with her came not flowers alone, 
 But gentle step and modest grace, 
 
 A smile of heavenly beauty shone 
 Upon her meek and pallid face. 
 
 This pure white lily must be Love, 
 It blooms in sorrow's lowly vale, 
 
 And he who speaketh from above 
 Unfolds to us this wondrous tale. 
 
 Not in Solomon's glory's crown 
 
 Of splendor's wealth and wisdom's pow r, 
 Is such a charm of beauty found 
 
 As decks this lovely little flow r. 
 
"BEHOLD HOW HE LOVED HIM." 57 
 
 Tvvas Love that waited at the cross 
 When other friends affrighted fled, 
 Most bitterly Love mourned the loss 
 When all supposed the Saviour dead. 
 
 'Tvvas Love that lingered at the tomb 
 
 And waited for the coming morn, 
 Love watched through all that midnight gloom 
 
 Till life again anew was born. 
 
 'Twas Love that ran with eager feet, 
 When she the coming Master spied ; 
 
 'Twas Love that said in accents sweet, 
 "Hadst thou been here he had not died." 
 
 'Tis Love that weeps, 'tis God that weeps, 
 
 Give ear, O earth, the story hear, 
 The eye whose glance the heavens sweeps, 
 
 For mortals deigns to shed a tear. 
 
 That tear recalls the spirit fled, 
 
 And wakes to life the sleeping dust, 
 
 Gives back to weeping friends their dead, 
 Because in him they put their trust. 
 
 thou who hearest the mourner's prayer, 
 And lovest the humble contrite heart, 
 
 Vouchsafe to her a father's care 
 And do for her a father's part. 
 
 Oh, bless her work so good and true, 
 
 Thou Ruler of the world above, 
 And do what only thou canst do, 
 
 Restore to her a brother's love. 
 
 c*" 
 
58 THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 
 
 THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 
 
 "Our virtue ought, at least, to be equal to our misfortunes." 
 
 Gen. R. E. Lee, Appomattox Court- House. 
 
 I. 
 
 Proud emblem of my country's liberty, 
 
 Thou lordly monarch of the feathered tribe; 
 
 Enthroned on craggy cliff or naked tree, 
 Or riding fearless on the storm's dark tide. 
 
 II. 
 
 Or swooping from some high and low'ring peak 
 Far down into the quiet sleeping vale, 
 
 To clutch with horny talons and bony beak 
 The playful kid, all heedless of its wail. 
 
 in. 
 
 And heedless of the shepherd's cry, thy skill, 
 
 More than a match for man's much-vaunted mind, 
 
 Deep lays a scheme, thy bold, imperious will 
 Performs against the unpropitious wind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In awful moods like these I love the bird, 
 
 Thy skill, thy giant strength, thy lightning speed ; 
 
 Who of thy daring deeds has ever heard 
 
 And envies not thy freedom, free from need? 
 
 v. 
 
 And yet beyond all these I've seen in thee 
 A higher courage, far surpassing pride, 
 That Patience, attribute of Liberty, 
 t hich e'en misfortune's storm-clouds fail to hide. 
 
THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 59 
 
 VI. 
 
 Man's cultured skill of many thousand years, 
 His wisdom misdirected, misapplied, 
 
 Has furnished means to flood the world with tears 
 And gild with transient gleams ambition's pride. 
 
 VII. 
 
 To build great empires up by power's might, 
 To heap together or by force or fraud, 
 
 Till plunder's reached that dizzy, dazzling height 
 Which Folly's dim-eyed votaries most applaud. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O sacred Truth, can such unlovely sight, 
 
 Huge pile of murdered men and states' delight, 
 
 Though round its top blaze stolen jewels oright, 
 A being only blessed in doing right ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 'Tis even so ; mind vies with mind to-day, 
 Nor Genius even spurns the base employ, 
 
 To rush a champion in the murd'rous fray 
 And waste its powers seeking to destroy. 
 
 x. 
 
 For he who bleeds the noble young and brave 
 To glut the insatiate maw of battle-fields, 
 
 To make the remnant left a passive slave, 
 To him each one the palm of glory yields. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And he who best succeeds in finding out 
 Destroying weapons of unheard-of might, 
 
 To bury towns, put marshaled hosts to rout, 
 Is most esteemed the friend of man and right. 
 
THE BOUNDED EAGLE. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Bv engines such as these by lightning driv'n 
 "I've seen eagle, thy arrow wings outsped , 
 wfngs made toVn tie earth and grace t he heav'n, 
 All marred and broken by an ounce of lead. 
 
 xiii. 
 
 And from thine eyry hurled, thy regal _ throne 
 In moek'ry seated on some humble bough, 
 
 Thv power, speed, thy beauty, glory gone 
 
 To be their jest and sport who brought thee low. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thv majesty remains, 'tis native born, 
 
 By wounds, too weak to fly, too brave to run, 
 
 Thou turnest from thy captors as in scorn, 
 Thy dimless eye fixed on the blazing sun. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Thus have I seen the fallen Chieftain stand 
 Amid the fragments of his country s ruin 
 
 The sword of right wrenched from his mighty hand, 
 Defeat, disgrace, his broken ranks pursu.n . 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Where flee ? What do ? his anxious comrades ask, 
 The hero turns his deathless eye to Heav n, 
 
 " To bear misfortune, this is Virtue s task, 
 
 Tbe last command which God to man has g.v'n." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 In Zion's laid a high and mighty rock 
 
 To meet and stem the angry waves of -pow r 
 
 Here Freedom meets the tyrant's ast dread shock, 
 Life triumphs here, 'tis death's last hour. 
 

 TEE BUZZARD EAGLE. 61 
 
 [ Written for the Courier and Advertiser.'} 
 
 THE BUZZARD EAGLE. 
 
 A SUBLIME IDEA AND A RIDICULOUS EAGLE. 
 
 It is impossible to be certain of the sublime. A Pawtucket engine 
 company owned a golden eagle. Not the metallic $20 which has taken 
 wings and is unquestionably rare, but a magnificent live national bird, 
 seven feet from tip to tip. They bought it with a view to having it 
 killed and stuffed. To its rescue came Mr. Dorsey, the prisoner's friend, 
 who, like Dido, not ignorant of misfortune, has learned to succor the 
 unfortunate. He believes in stuffed turkeys, but not in stuffed eagles; 
 and he purchased this one for the equivalent $20 — half gold, half green- 
 backs. Then Mr. Dorsey advertised his purpose to set free the noble 
 bird, and forewarned all people that on Thursday at noon the eagle 
 ahould be liberated. At the appointed day and hour a vast crowd as- 
 sembled. A New York gentleman read a poem, composed by a Provi- 
 dence lady, " dedicated to the eagle now in bondage, but soon to be 
 released to soar to realms of broad blue, to carry to other birds an ac- 
 count of the bounty of Mr. Dorsey, the prisoner's friend and the Peabody 
 of Pawtucket." It commenced : 
 
 " Spread thy wings to the winds of heaven, proud bird; 
 On the pinions of liberty rise ; 
 Soar away from the bounds of mortal power 
 .To a home in thy native skies." 
 
 The band played " Hail Columbia," and, amid the cheers of the crowd, 
 the liberated eagle rose. 
 
 But Pawtucket was his Capua, and luxury had demoralized him. He 
 yielded to gravity and fat, and sat down on a house-top, not a hundred 
 yards away. Irreverent boys snow-balled him, and he rose again, 
 while the band played " Yankee Doodle." But " weight will tell ;" and, 
 after a flutter, he landed in an elm-tree. There — it is positively too 
 bad — he caught in the twigs, and hung a suspended and wretched em- 
 blem. A youth climbed to his release, but the ungrateful bird attacked 
 him with beak and talons. Again the hurrahs, the music; and the 
 eagle arose, this time for the last, but soon settled down on the ground, 
 gave out entirely, resigned his freedom and disgraced his nationality, 
 and was taken back to the engine house, subject to the order of Mr. 
 Dorsey. — New York Tribune. 
 
 " I have no policy, but the will of the people," that is, I have no mind 
 and purpose of my own, — I am not a man, but an overgrown animal of 
 the Darwinian species, to be exhibited by thieves, at the public expense, 
 for the amusement of my brother monkeys, the people. 
 
 Ui-ysses the First, 
 Donkey, King of Monkeys. 
 
 6 
 
62 THE BUZZARD EAGLE. 
 
 Proud bird, when roaming wild and free, 
 
 Thy pinions spread no flight is high for thee ; 
 
 Type of unborn, undying Liberty, 
 That was and is and shall forever be. 
 
 Yet bird so noble, armed in freedom's flight, 
 To suffer and to do — to soar so high, 
 
 Performing 'gainst great powers might 
 Deeds of heroism which shall never die. 
 
 IVe seen thee caught in cunning's well-set trap, 
 Deceived by slothful ease and splendor's pomp, 
 
 Like Samson in Delilah's treach'rous lap, 
 His freedom bartering for a nightly romp. 
 
 Yes, I have seen thee caged and fed, man's slave, 
 By idleness thy mighty wings unstrung ; 
 
 Until thy pampered taste was taught to crave 
 The glutton's food that made thy body dung. 
 
 Thy masters, yet deceived by self-deceit, 
 
 Persuade themselves thou art the eagle still ; 
 
 But truth will soon expose the silly cheat, 
 And make them executors of her will. 
 
 With pomp and great parade they bear thee forth ; 
 
 The crowd keep formal step to martial strains, 
 Their bodies, like thy own, benumbed with sloth, 
 
 Are dead, as bodies strewn on battle-plains. 
 
 So-called heroic verse already made, 
 As full of measure as devoid of sense, 
 
 To gild with glory which shall never fade, 
 Man's deeds of Heav'n defying insolence. 
 
 Here too buncombe's bombastic rigmarole, 
 Great speeches full of hifalutin stuff, 
 
 Here self-laudation reigns with full control, 
 Till Puritans themselves cry out enough. 
 
THE BUZZARD EAGLE. 63 
 
 Who else before has ever yet believed 
 That black is white aud body too is soul? 
 
 Wherever else man has been so deceived, 
 
 He sought his deeds to hide, and not to extol. 
 
 Bat expectation now is lifted high ; 
 
 Upward the buzzard eagle fain would fly, 
 But faith no more illumes his once bright eye, 
 
 To lure his pinions to the azure sky. 
 
 Constrained by force, he more than once essays 
 To spread abroad and fill his feathery sails, 
 
 And plow again the ether's faithless ways ; 
 Alas ! alas ! his every effort fails. 
 
 Amid the scoffing of the senseless crowd, 
 
 He falls back foiled and passive, weak and tame ; 
 
 As ignorant of the curses shouted loud, 
 
 As they who shout are shameless of their shame. 
 
 Take heed, ye vassals, full of plunder's swill ; 
 
 You eat till hate is gorged — till pride is full, 
 You are so fit to do your master's will, 
 
 You haste to turn your tresses into wool. 
 
 Your full-fed lust has lost its shame ; 
 
 You boast your wealth though naked, poor, and blind, 
 Humanity with you is but a name ; 
 
 Blind leading blind a muddy ditch will find. 
 
 Nay, stop ; repent and heed the voice of love ; 
 
 To others do what they should do to you ; 
 And wisdom's word that comes from up above 
 
 Will teach us all what's right and good and true. 
 
 Yes, let forgiveness stand for vengeful hate ; 
 
 Humility exchange for power's pride ; 
 Then happiness shall be our blessed estate,' 
 
 And heav'nly peace will o'er the scene preside. 
 
64 THE RIDDLE. 
 
 The early and the latter rains will come ; 
 
 * And plenteous harvest make the reapers glad ; 
 The vine, the fig-tree, and the cottage home, 
 Will fill with joy the hearts that once were sad. 
 
 The hand will feed us which is ever full ; 
 
 The more he gives the more he has to give ; 
 Delicious fruit from life's fair tree we'll pull, 
 And they who gather there shall eat and live. 
 
 THE RIDDLE. 
 
 My friend, if you can solve this riddle 
 You'll teach me how to play the fiddle ; 
 Yes, joy will touch my new-strung lyre 
 With softer strains and milder fire, 
 And Hope will chase away the sadness, 
 And smiles will light the heart with gladness, 
 And soft as vesper breezes blow 
 In music's tones my soul will flow 
 
 Love is blind, it cannot see, 
 It's deaf and cannot hear; 
 
 Weaker thing there cannot be 
 Than love's bewildering fear. 
 
 Love is dumb, it cannot speak, 
 It's lame and cannot walk ; 
 
 Makes an effort, childish freak, 
 Its own designs to balk. 
 
 Silly love, it cannot think, 
 It knows not what to do ; 
 
 Smiles, a frown, a pretty wink, 
 Will cut it right in two. 
 
 Brave as lions too is love, 
 
 'Tis weaker than a calf; 
 Get a mitten, get a dove, 
 
 You'll get a cry or laugh. 
 
THE RIDDLE. 65 
 
 It resolves to-day, it rues 
 
 Agaiu another day ; 
 Phantom hope love still pursues 
 
 That vanishes away. 
 
 *This day love's idol is 
 
 A beautiful young bride; 
 Pretty blushes all are his, 
 
 His glory and his pride. 
 
 The next day another man 
 
 Has stepped into his place ; 
 Devil take the silly plan 
 
 That beat him in the race. 
 
 Take this tangle out, my friend, 
 
 And tell me what it means ; 
 Useless is the time I spend 
 
 To gather only greens. 
 
 Tell me how I may find out 
 
 If good or ill betide ; 
 Say, shall I be put to rout, 
 
 Or win a beauteous bride. 
 
 This suspense I cannot bear, 
 
 This doubt is death to me ; 
 Tell me and my fate I'll bear, 
 
 Whatever that may be. 
 
 If my lassie love not me, 
 
 Away the charm will go ; 
 Doubts and fears tell me I'm free, 
 
 A spirit whispers, No. 
 
 Freedom is to woo and win 
 
 A gentle, loving bride; 
 Darling one, who's ever been 
 
 My glory and my pride. 
 
 Deck her brow with floral wreath 
 Adorned with gems of thought; 
 
 Wealth to her and hers bequeath 
 Which pt.id has never bought. 
 
 6* 
 
66 AFRICA. 
 
 AFRICA. 
 
 Bright land of flowers, sunny land 
 Of sparkling gems and golden ore, 
 
 We come to plow thy arid sand, 
 And plant upon thy spicy shore 
 
 The fruits which come from years of toil, 
 The fruits of Peace and Liberty ; 
 
 Seeds planted in a genial soil 
 By Heaven's kind humanity. 
 
 Four hundred years thy exiled sons 
 
 Have toiled and sweat in foreign lands ; 
 
 Now God to good our evil turns 
 And lavs on us his high commands. 
 
 My children, now return again, 
 Back to thy fatherland return ; 
 
 Deep forest shade and loamy plain, 
 A long and endless summer sun, 
 
 Will yield for you with labor's care 
 A harvest boundless, rich and full ; 
 
 Spontaneous fruits and flowers fair 
 Your idle hands may ever pull. 
 
 Yea, without labor's toilsome sweat, 
 The natives gather nature's need, 
 
 In ignorance bound, they know not yet 
 The food on which thy children feed. 
 
 Go wake them from their sleep of death, — 
 Go preach to them the living Wovd ; 
 
 My Word is life, my Word is breath, 
 To all who honestly have heard. 
 
THE FLOOD. 67 
 
 THE FLOOD. 
 
 When wickedness had banished Truth, 
 
 And Liberty was basely slain, 
 Stern Justice clad in storms came forth 
 
 To pour on earth a flood of rain. 
 
 Day after day for forty days 
 The angry torrents fiercely fell, 
 
 Till where before the streamlet plays 
 Is seen the rushing billow's swell. 
 
 Proud temples built to idle gods 
 And cities built in human blood, 
 
 Just like earth's other little clods, 
 Are melted in the angry flood. 
 
 The very hills like pebbles sunk 
 Beneath the rising, foaming surge ; 
 
 The angry storm with fury drunk, 
 Moaned out for earth a funeral dirge. 
 
 Affrighted men in dread dismay 
 
 Now wildly seek the mountain-top ; 
 
 The climbing wave and foamy spray 
 Say even here we dare not stop. 
 
 We go to do his awful will 
 
 Whose words of love you scorned to hear, 
 When men their measured guilt fulfill, 
 
 The judgment's sweeping flood is near. 
 
 The ark alone in safety rides 
 
 Above the waves beneath the storm, 
 
 For he whose hand the tempest guides 
 In wisdom's mould had shaped her form. 
 
 The watchful pilot of the ark 
 
 Now bids the light- winged buzzard go; 
 He finds no falling water mark, 
 
 But ever wanders to and fro. 
 
68 GRATITUDE. 
 
 The faithful dove returns at last, 
 
 And brings the olive branch of peace ; 
 
 She tells the angry storm is past, 
 The rising of the billows cease. 
 
 The ark in safety settles down, 
 
 The bow of promise spans the sky ; 
 
 It says, no more the world shall drown, 
 And never more all flesh shali die. 
 
 Long as the san and moon remain 
 Seed-time and harvest still shall come, 
 
 The bursting flood and angry main 
 Shall never leave their destined home. 
 
 For meets and bounds I've set the shore, 
 He said, who all the world hath made, 
 
 The First, The Last, The Evermore, 
 
 And there shall thy proud waves be stayed. 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 There are some things the mouth can speak, 
 There are some things the tongue can tell, 
 
 But sigos and sounds are all too weak 
 To hold the heart's upheaving swell. 
 
 When every utterance else shall fail, 
 The tongue is still, the mouth is dumb, 
 
 The starting tear unfolds a tale 
 
 Which Grecian lyre has never sung. 
 
 The mighty harp that David strung, 
 And tuned to Heaven's highest theme, 
 
 There silent on the willow hung, 
 
 While tears were poured in Babel's stream. 
 
THE GENIUS OF IMMORTALITY. 69 
 
 The Lion sprung' from Judah's tribe 
 
 Did fathom this unfathomed deep, 
 And loose life's ever-flowing tide 
 
 By bidding helpless mortals weep. 
 
 Oh, who can tell the pow'r of Love 
 
 To conquer hate, to conquer fear ? 
 Ecstatic joy from up above 
 
 Is signaled by the falling tear. 
 
 But tears, like Mercy, ought to be 
 
 Unforced yet ever unrestrained ; 
 Unless we keep the fountain free 
 
 The golden bowl will soon be stained. 
 
 The heart is made to melt the ore, 
 The brain is but the fashion's mould ; 
 
 Nor can the coin be bright and pure 
 If once the furnace heat grow cold. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 " Let us cross over the river and rest under the trees." 
 
 Stonewall Jackson. 
 
 They tell me that the past is dead, 
 
 And all its deeds are fled away, 
 That noble men who fought and bled 
 
 To meet and stern the tyrant's sway, 
 
 Have perished in the rushing flood, 
 
 And found beneath a silent grave, 
 While broken hopes, like debris-wood, 
 
 Float useless on the angry wave. 
 
 They tell me that I weep in vain 
 For those who nobly, bravely fell ; 
 
 .Thermopylae's an empty fame, 
 No magic in the name of Tell. 
 
70 THE GENIUS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Manassah too, and Antietani, 
 
 Piled up their slaughtered heaps in vain, 
 The hundred battle-fields a sham 
 
 That poured their showers of bloody rain. 
 
 Forget the brave, heroic dead 
 
 Whispers the despot's viper tongue ; 
 
 And fattened serfs on plunder fed 
 As sweetly sing the tyrant's song. 
 
 But, hark, they only crossed the river 
 To rest awhile beneath the shade ; 
 
 Ye tyrants, tremble, despots, shiver, 
 The trumpet sounds the grand parade. 
 
 I see in battle's stern array, 
 Across the river of death I see, 
 
 The warrior hosts, the blue and gray, 
 Their battle-shout is Liberty. 
 
 Leonidas and Bruce and Tell, 
 
 Thermopylae and Lexington, 
 The thousand, thousand dead who fell 
 
 With Bonaparte and Washington. 
 
 And there beneath yon sheltering tree 
 Stonewall parades his Spartan bands, 
 
 And there the brave and chivalrous Lee 
 In calm and lofty patience stands. 
 
 From every age and tongue and clime 
 The patriot dead are gathering there, 
 
 O Heaven reveal the sight sublime, 
 The living patriot's heart to cheer. 
 
 In front I see the martyred dead, 
 
 Their costumes white as driven snow, 
 
 Their chief in garments died in red 
 Commands the awful trumpet blow. 
 
BE OF GOOD CHEER. 71 
 
 The heav'ns grow black as storm-clouds roll 
 Their dark'ning shadows cross the sky. 
 
 The quaking earth from pole to pole 
 Reveals the Majesty ou high. 
 
 A fire-shower pours its melting rain, 
 
 And thorns and briers are swept" away; 
 
 The earth anew is born again 
 
 And Heav'n resumes his ancient sway. 
 
 Hark, golden harps by angels strung, 
 
 And tuned to soft JEolian strains, 
 Proclaim thy kingdom is begun 
 
 Where Truth's eternal triumph reigns. 
 
 BE OF GOOD CHEER, IT IS I : BE NOT 
 AFRAID. 
 
 Save me, my Father, the billows are high, 
 Oh, hide me, my God, till the storm passes by ! 
 Haste, haste, my Father, oh, haste ! I am weak, 
 I am but a child, yet thy mercy I seek. 
 
 Haste, haste, my Father, I sink in the wave, 
 And the dark, turbid waters will soon be my grave : 
 No father, no brother, no mother is near, 
 To soften the anguish of death with a tear. 
 
 Fear not, my child, for thy Saviour is nigh, 
 Fear not, my child, it is I, it is I, 
 Who ride on the storm and walk on the wave, 
 Fear not, my child, I have power to save. 
 
 Though floods o'er the world in a deluge should sweep, 
 Till cities and mountains were lost in its deep, 
 Though earth should dissolve and the heavens should fall, 
 The least of my children I will hear when they call. 
 
72 CHIDE HIM NOT. 
 
 For death is my captive, the grave is my spoil, 
 Salvation is mine, 'tis the fruit of my toil, 
 The earth is my footstool and heaven my throne, 
 I am God over all, who reigneth alone. 
 
 The storm of my vengeance the guilty shall fear, 
 The thunders of judgment shall startle their ear, 
 Unheard and unheeded their wailing shall rise 
 Who serve not the God that rules in the skies. 
 
 But they who believe me and call on my name 
 Shall bridle the tempest, the billows shall tame, 
 The dark wave of death like a steed they shall ride, 
 For death is my captive, I have humbled his pride. 
 
 Then roll on, dark waters, I dread not your pow'r, 
 If death be but this, oh, then welcome the hour \ 
 The gates are unfolding, the City is near, 
 And music that raptures now falls on my ear. 
 
 I see them descending, an angelic band, 
 
 They meet me, they greet me, extending their hand ; 
 
 My body is sinking, my spirit is free, 
 
 And the joys of heaven are waiting for me. 
 
 CHIDE HIM NOT. 
 
 Oh, chide him not, he was not always so; 
 
 Nor idly boast what thou, if he, would do, 
 Till thou, like him. hast felt in bitter woe 
 
 Remembered joys that perished long ago. 
 
 If what we are we only had to bear, 
 
 The weight of life would be but one short hour: 
 If each night hid in darkness each day's care, 
 
 The least of all could brave Misfortune's pow'r. 
 
GUIDE 11 1 M NOT. *\ 
 
 But when they come in one unending train, 
 
 Pale, pale phantoms of blissful hours that were, 
 
 To show us joys we ne'er shall taste again, 
 The heart that deeply feels must feel despair. 
 
 A father's joy, dreams of a mother's pride, 
 That woke the man asleep in boyish sport, 
 
 The fair one's blush he asked to be his bride, 
 The vows of friends, the world's deceitful court. 
 
 And when the train is past and all are gone, 
 
 Oh, who that feels the sad, sad thought, can bear 
 
 That he in the wide world is left alone, 
 
 With none to share with him life's bitter care ? 
 
 Then chide him not whom God in mercy spares, 
 The wreck of weary and sorrowful years, 
 
 When rudely tossed by life's tempestuous care 
 Mid bill-ows that roll in a sea of tears. 
 
 The Polar star of hope that guides his way, 
 Whom Heaven directs to shun the fatal strand, 
 
 Points out in vain to him the shelt'ring bay, 
 Whose foundered bark is drifting: far from land. 
 
 o 
 
 ■© 
 
 A broken, unwieldy, shapeless mass it lies, 
 Sport for the billows, of the storm a prey ; 
 
 He vainly struggles on and vainly plies, 
 The oar his wreck will ne'er again obey. 
 
 But fly to rescue, ye who yet are strong, 
 
 And he will give you strength, the great I am; 
 
 Forget his faults, remember not his wrong, 
 And Mercy will herself the tempest calm. 
 
 And when we all shall gain the port of Peace, 
 
 Where storms and wrecks and billows are no more, 
 
 His Father, our Father, will prepare a feast, 
 And joy shall ring a welcome long the shore. 
 
 D 1 
 
f4 MY BLESSING BE THY WOE 
 
 MY BLESSING BE THY WOE. 
 
 I trusted one whose heart was false 
 Although his words were fair, 
 
 His manhood's claim an idle boast, 
 His vows were empty air. 
 
 His courteous mien and pleasing smile 
 
 Bespoke a purpose kind, 
 I dreamt not that the serpent's guile 
 
 Concealed a treach'rous mind. 
 
 My welfare seemed to be his thought, 
 My pleasure seemed his care, 
 
 For little trifles that he brought 
 I gave a lock of hair. 
 
 I gave what woman only can, 
 
 An all-confiding trust, 
 A gem which often faithless man 
 
 Has trampled in the dust. 
 
 Well, go and let another be 
 Thy servant, nay, thy slave, 
 
 And keep thy house a jail for thee - 
 And help the pennies save. 
 
 Yes, go, but thou shalt never know 
 The meaning of that name, 
 
 Whose fervid, steady, constant glow 
 Incites to deeds of fame. 
 
 That kindles in the manly heart 
 The purpose which is high, 
 
 That teaches Genius every art, 
 And patriots how to die. 
 
MY BLESSING BE Till" WOE. 75 
 
 A woman's love, they only know, 
 
 The generous and the true, 
 And how, then, ean it ever show 
 
 Its mystery to you ? 
 
 My curse — nay, that thou shalt not take 
 
 With thee where thou shalt go; 
 Forgiveness, that shall be my hate, 
 
 My blessing be thy woe. 
 
 Thou shalt not show at Justice's bar 
 
 One wound made by my hand; 
 Without one wrong's redeeming scar, 
 
 All guilty thou shalt stand. 
 
 Nor shall my thoughts pursue thee there, 
 
 For vengeance is not mine ; 
 Nor would I see a soul's despair 
 
 Consumed by wrath divine. 
 
 Nay, Father, let me see thy face, 
 
 In mercy's milder mood ; 
 Afflictions even by thy grace 
 
 Shall do my spirit good. 
 
 A sadder, yet sweeter joy 
 
 Shall charm the chastened sou!, 
 And hours spent in thine employ 
 
 Shall bring me gems of gold. 
 
 Bright starry gems of pearly hue 
 
 Undimm'd by sorrow's night, 
 Like orbs set in yon vault of blue 
 
 Reflecting heaven's light. 
 
?6 GOOD-BY. 
 
 GOOD-BY. 
 
 The prophet heard the tempest break 
 The earthquake with its heaving shock ; 
 
 He felt the ground beneath him shake, 
 He saw the broken, shivered rock. 
 
 He saw the fire, its lambent flame 
 
 Was flashing 'long the darkened sky ; . 
 
 But in these things no answer came 
 
 From Him whose throne is set on high. 
 
 Deep sorrow tilled the prophet's mind, 
 His heart was chilled with cold despair, 
 
 For Israel's God he could not find, 
 And He alone could grant his pray'r. 
 
 But now there comes a still, small voice, 
 
 Idolaters it dooms to die, 
 It bids the prophet's heart rejoice, 
 
 He spake, the Monarch of the sky. 
 
 We saw the storm break on her head, 
 
 A little girl of tender years ; 
 We saw her prostrate on her bed, 
 
 We heard her cries, we saw her tears. 
 
 The earthquake too we heard it come, 
 Death with its deep convulsive shock, 
 
 To rack her spirit's mortal home 
 And all our ministrations mock. 
 
 The fever with its wasting fire, 
 We saw it feeding on her frame, 
 
 Then died within the heart's desire 
 To plead for her in Mercy's name. 
 
GOOD-BY. >{>l 
 
 Our minds then, like the prophet's mind, 
 Grew strangely cold and deeply dark; 
 
 For hope had fled, nor left behind 
 One lingering ray, one flitting spark. 
 
 It comes, — a still, small voice is heard : 
 
 The Saviour he is passing by; 
 For only they who trust his word 
 
 In death, can sweetly say Good-by. 
 
 Unfathomable mystery, 
 
 What babes and sucklings plainly show, 
 Earth's treasured years of history 
 
 Could never teach the wise to know. 
 
 Who taught the child that word to say, 
 Thou wast not rich in wisdom's lore, 
 
 Nor hadst thou traveled in the way 
 
 Where Science keeps her vaunted store. 
 
 Who taught the childling without fear 
 
 To meet the Monarch of the dead, 
 His footstep kings with trembling hear, 
 
 His presence fills the strong with dread. 
 
 His iron grip hath pulled down thrones, 
 Dragged islands under ocean's wave, 
 
 And buried, with their heav'n-built domes, 
 Proud cities in oblivion's grave. 
 
 The still, small voice the prophet heard 
 When Israel's God was passing by ; 
 
 Death flies before the whispered word 
 Of Him whose throne is built on high. 
 
 Then weep not, mother, — nay, rejoice, 
 And wipe the tear-drop from thine eye, 
 
 For God was in the still small voice 
 That softly, sweetty, said Good-by. 
 
 7* 
 
78 THE VALE OF PURIFICATION. 
 
 THE YALLEY OF SHADOWS. 
 
 Descend to the Yalley, thou spirit of earth, 
 
 Go down, still down, where the shadows are deep, 
 
 The Spirit that leads thee, it is the New Birth, 
 And mortals that follow must bitterly weep. 
 
 Descend to the Yalley with penitent tears, 
 And enter once more the unconscious womb ; 
 
 With faltering footstep, with trembling and tears, 
 Pause not, mortal, but enter the tomb. 
 
 Father, Father, I'm shrinking with dread, 
 From darkness that yawning to swallow me up ; 
 
 My blood is all cold, my spirit is fled, 
 
 If possible, save me from drinking this cup. 
 
 And yet not my will, but thy will be done, 
 
 My strength, it shall fail me, but still bid me come ; 
 
 Oh, thou who hath conquered, thou all-pitying Son, 
 Oh, give me the triumph thy power hath won! 
 
 Be with me while slowly I enter the gloom, 
 
 And while I'm death's captive, oh, guard me with care! 
 
 Deliver me, Saviour, from the might of the tomb, 
 And thou, with the Father, the glory shalt share. 
 
 THE YALE OF PURIFICATION. 
 
 I envy the dead, the silent dead, 
 I envy them their peaceful rest, 
 
 For they who have no aching head, 
 No bleeding heart, they must be blest. 
 
THE VALE OF PURIFICATION. 19 
 
 I envy the dead, the silent dead, 
 
 I envy them their lowly bed, 
 Misfortune brings to them no dread, 
 
 They're waked not by its heavy tread. 
 
 I envy the dead, for them remains 
 
 No bitter cup of grief to drain, 
 No tear to wash away the stain 
 
 Of mortal sins that yet remain. 
 
 I envy the dead, no future frowns 
 On them with woes too big to bear, 
 
 No te,ar of grief their joy drowns 
 In briny floods of cold despair. 
 
 I envy the dead, their work is done, 
 
 The day of toil for them is past, 
 Their harvest sheaves are gathered home, 
 
 They need not fear the winter's blast. 
 
 Then lay me gently with the dead, 
 
 And let me sleep their dreamless sleep, 
 
 My wounded heart so long hath bled, 
 My eyes no more have tears to weep. 
 
 Yes, lay me softly with the dead, 
 
 Aud let me sleep their dreamless sleep, 
 
 Nor name the stone that marks my head, 
 For they who read my name must weep. 
 
 Tears followed me through all Kfe's day • 
 
 Sighs watched my sleepless bed by night, 
 
 Then when the spirit's passed away, 
 
 Oh, mark the place with something bright ! 
 
 /Let flowers with their joyous bloom 
 
 Smile sweetly round my place of rest, 
 My soul shall breathe their sweet perfume 
 And feel the raptures of the blest. 
 
80 JUSTICE. 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 I heard a voice ; it speaks to me : 
 
 It spake to me before ; 
 It is the voice of libertv, 
 
 That lived in days of yore. 
 
 It called me from my mountain home, 
 The shepherd's peaceful ways, 
 
 "Where I had gone to live alone, 
 And dream away my days. 
 
 It led me to the tented field 
 
 To witness noble deeds, 
 Where, 'mid the clang of clashing steel, 
 
 The patriot warrior bleeds. 
 
 It said above the battle's din, 
 
 Above its marshaled tread, 
 " Freedom, for the brave who win, 
 
 'Tis for the deathless dead." 
 
 It bade me see the desert waste 
 That marked the spoiler's path, 
 
 A torch for every dwelling-place, 
 A tyrant's petty wrath. 
 
JUSTICE. 81 
 
 It led me up to Pisgah's top, 
 
 Where Israel's prophet stood; 
 And showed me Israel's peaceful lot, 
 
 And Jordan's rolling flood. 
 
 Oh, bright Elysium, Beulah's land! 
 
 Stay, rapturous vision, stay ! 
 And let me here enchanted stand 
 
 Till life has passed away. 
 
 Oh, touch my lips with hallowed fire, 
 
 Thou spirit from the skies ! 
 To heaven's music tune my lyre 
 
 Before the rapture dies. 
 
 The city with its gates of pearl, 
 
 Thy temple built anew; 
 Bright banner dipped in blood, unfurl 
 
 Thyself to mortal view. 
 
 Lo ! heaven's host in bright array, 
 
 The marshaled, deathless dead; 
 The sun, moon, stars, they melt away, 
 
 Earth trembles 'neath their tread. 
 
 Earthquaked islands lost to sight, 
 Doomed empires, tumbling thrones, 
 
 Fall, crashing fall, a hideous plight, 
 Earth's face a stare of bones. 
 
 A dreadful wasting wave of fire, 
 
 Phal'nx of the deathless dead ; 
 Avenging flood of heaven's ire 
 
 Meets' tyrants pale with dread. 
 
 Where, robbers, thieves, w r here, dastard crew, 
 
 Oh, where, where will you fly I 
 Earth hath no hiding-place for you, 
 
 The lost are doomed to die ! 
 
 d* 
 
JUSTICE. 
 
 Poor widows robbed and orphans starved, 
 
 The martyred ones of earth ; 
 The innocent like lamblets carved 
 
 To furnish devil's mirth. 
 
 They are there to whet sharp vengeance' sword, 
 
 And urge the havoc on ; 
 Extirpate death ; yes, that's the word, 
 
 And mercy show to none. 
 
 Brave sons of freedom, lift your shout 
 
 Of victory on high ; 
 Hell's marshaled hosts are put to rout 
 
 By Him who rules the sky. 
 
 " Peace, peace on earth, good will to man," 
 
 A still, small voice I hear ; 
 'Tis finished, my redeeming plan 
 
 The innocent to spare. 
 
 " To live, to reign on earth with me, 
 
 And sin again no more, 
 Of me (my name is Liberty), 
 
 The prophets taught of yore." 
 
THE PQET. 83 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 The poorest man I ever saw 
 Was one who made an effort 
 
 To dress his back and feed his jaw 
 By writing as a poet. 
 
 He won indeed the pretty smiles 
 
 Of many a village lassie ; 
 But smiles turned out to be but wiles, 
 
 And promises proved glassy. 
 
 A good long while she waited well 
 For him to prove successful ; 
 
 Bui time won't wait, to a village belle 
 Its wrinkles are distressful. 
 
 A cottage home's a pretty dream, 
 A laurel wreath is handsome, 
 
 And real although they be, they seem 
 To be but light and gamesome. 
 
 For work that feeds the mortal man 
 
 And gratifies his passions, 
 The world will open wide its hand 
 
 And feed you on full rations. 
 
 But offer food to feed the mind, 
 The honey-dew and nectar, 
 
 And 'twill not take you long to find 
 Yourself a ghastly spectre. 
 
 The die is cast, the cruel die, 
 Poor fellow ! he has tasted 
 
 The heav'nly sweets of poesy ; 
 
 And though his time seems wasted, 
 
84 THE BEGGAR'S rtiAYER. 
 
 He never can return again 
 To gardens of fall plenty, 
 
 But seeks ambrosia on the plain 
 Where earthly good is scanty. 
 
 In poverty he trudges lone 
 In ways all dark and dreary, 
 
 While kindly Hope points to the home 
 Where long shall rest the weary. 
 
 THE BEGGAR'S PRAYER. 
 
 I ask you for a penny, 
 
 'Tis but a little thing, 
 And yet to very many 
 
 A pleasure it will bring. 
 
 A pleasing glow of gladness 
 Will thrill the feeling heart, 
 
 When it relieves the sadness 
 Of sorrow's cruel smart. 
 
 When you befriend the creature 
 The Creator you adore, 
 
 He taught, the heav'nly Teacher, 
 The gospel to the poor. 
 
 The least of all receivers 
 Of pennies in his name, 
 
 Can for the gracious givers 
 His richest blessing claim. 
 
 Who in life's early morninjr 
 Begat the drops of dew, 
 
 To be the flowers adorning 
 Where Eden's garden grew. 
 
A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 85 
 
 Who decked his virgin daughter 
 
 With lily and with rose, 
 With bright and sparkling water 
 
 That free forever flows. 
 
 Who bade the dust while sleeping 
 
 Assume the form of man, 
 And put into his keeping 
 
 The secrets of his plan. 
 
 Oh, deep and awful mystery, 
 
 To know and not to know, 
 For all earth's living history 
 
 Much more than fails to show 
 
 The secrets of that Being 
 
 Who was and ever is, 
 And vet without the seeing 
 
 I know that I am his. 
 
 A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 
 
 A merry Christmas to you, friends ; 
 
 And do not frightened be ; 
 This present though the devil sends; 
 
 For he is kin to " we." 
 
 And if we only would be kind, 
 And treat him as we ought, 
 
 Himself we would be pleased to find 
 In sweet subjection brought. 
 
 To do us good and not do ill ; 
 
 A servant — not a boss, — 
 Preventative instead of pill, 
 
 Would save us manv a loss. 
 
86 -4A r ALLI.GOliV. 
 
 Temperate let our feasting be, — 
 Nor let it lack good cheer ; 
 
 A right good old apple-toddy, 
 A little wine and beer, 
 
 Will chase the devil from within, 
 And pat him in his place ; 
 
 And this confession of our sin 
 Will add uuto our grace. 
 
 AX ALLEGORY. 
 
 The following poems we consider an appropriate Christmas present. 
 Taken together, they constitute an allegory. The symbolic meaning 
 will be readily seen, both in the sentiment and style of the two poems. 
 The first has the hard solid tramp of the empires which went forth as 
 pioneers in the settlement of the world. The second has the soft, easy 
 flow of that invisible, mysterious spirit which is to-day imperceptibly 
 subdueing the heart of the world. 
 
 Their length, too, is equally expressive. The first indicating the 
 heavy, clumsy machinery of huge organized governments; and the 
 second, the Theocracy of Judaism, as in her palmy days democrati2 1 
 by the genius of Christianity. 
 
 THE INDIAN PROPHET. 
 
 I see upon the distant plain 
 
 Two marshaled hosts in conflict meet, 
 
 The warwhoop answers back again 
 Defiance to the drums' proud beat. 
 
 The arrow winged with native power, 
 
 And guided by a faultless eye, 
 Now meets a leaden hailstorm shower 
 
 That peals like thunder from the sky. 
 
 And fiercer still the conflict grows, 
 And blacker rolls the battle-storm, 
 
 When hand to hand the warriors close, 
 All heedless of the muster's form. 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 The tomahawk uplifted high 
 Is poised a moment in the air, 
 
 Then made with awful force to fly, 
 And buried in the white man's hair. 
 
 The bayonet of glittering steel 
 
 Quick pierces through the savage breast, 
 Till over all the bloody field 
 
 The white and red man sink to rest. 
 
 One stalwart form was seen that day, 
 High towering over all the rest ; 
 
 Wherever hottest grew the fray 
 
 'Twas there his eager spirit pressed. 
 
 The chieftain of the savage band, 
 Their captain and their battle-flag ; 
 
 A giant's strength was in his hand ; 
 His feet were swifter than the staff. 
 
 ©• 
 
 Now pressing hard upon his foe, 
 And striking with resistless might, 
 
 And dealing death at every blow, 
 He seemed the spirit of the fight. 
 
 Until his warriors all had fled 
 
 He never thought to make a pause ; 
 
 Nor until all who stood were dead 
 Would he consent to yield his cause. 
 
 But human strength at last must fail, 
 And human courage too must fly ; 
 
 For desperation's self grows pale 
 When fate has cast the awful die. 
 
 It were but madness not to yield 
 When even hope itself had fled, 
 
 And every warrior on the field 
 
 Had now been numbered with the dead. 
 
88 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 The clouds begin to pass away, 
 
 All hushed and still's the battle-shout ; 
 
 The white mac's skill has gained the day, — 
 His savage foes are put to rout. 
 
 As swift to fly, — as brave to fight, — 
 
 He soon secures a safe retreat ; 
 And from its wild and rocky height 
 
 Surveys the field of his defeat. 
 
 The blood runs down from many a wound, 
 The wearied body fain would rest ; 
 
 Yet, by some awful spell, he's bound 
 
 Some thought that's struggling in his breast, 
 
 To hurl against his conquering foe 
 That mystic dart which pierces death, 
 
 The soul has strung its mighty how, 
 Its shaft's the patriot's dying breath. 
 
 He lifts his bleeding form erect ; 
 
 His swelling bosom heaves no sigh ; 
 But powers of native intellect 
 
 Gleam from his kindling, piercing eye. 
 
 " Boast not, proud foes, of victory, 
 So much the stronger though you be ; 
 
 Tt is the fight of Liberty, 
 Which sets the warrior's spirit free. 
 
 " I see beyond the setting sun — 
 Behind yon palace in the skies — 
 
 The place where mighty rivers run, 
 And where the warrior never dies. 
 
 " Deep, wide, unmeasured forests lay, 
 Along the cool and shady streams ; 
 
 A bright and endless summer's day 
 The foliage gilds with golden beams. 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 89 
 
 " And buffaloes graze on the plain, 
 Which lies beyond the shady wood, 
 
 In pastures bounded by no main, 
 
 Range herds of deer in search of food 
 
 " There, too, the stately elk is found, 
 
 As numerous as in days of yore ; 
 And antelopes there, too, abound, 
 
 In numbers never seen before. 
 
 " There fields of golden harvests wave, 
 
 Uncultured by the plow or hoe ; 
 It needs no efforts there to save, 
 
 Where fruits spontaneously grow. 
 
 " No proud invader there shall come 
 To spoil the red man's hunting-ground, 
 
 To devastate the Indian's home, 
 And pierce his breast with mortal wound. 
 
 " The white man's reached the border mark; 
 
 Proud daring foe no farther go ; 
 I see, — what do I see ?■ — hist ! hark ! 
 
 It is, — it is, — it must be so. 
 
 " Go back! — the land beyond is yours, 
 
 So the Great Spirit has decreed ; 
 Through which the Father-water pours, 
 
 Of more than that you have no need. 
 
 " See, from the far-off hunting ground, 
 
 Which lies beyond the setting sun ; 
 Hist ! hist ! the warwhoop's joyous sound, 
 
 Like wind-winged fire the warriors run. 
 
 "A line of quivering fire they stand, — 
 The avenging hour at last has come, 
 
 To drive back from the fated land, 
 
 By Heaven decreed the red man's home. 
 
 8* 
 
90 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 " Go back ! nor meet the pending doom, 
 Yon crackling, blazing, fiery flood; 
 
 Or dark will be the white man's doom ; 
 The thirsty flames will drink his blood. 
 
 " The God who gave that land to thee, 
 J Twas he who made this desert wild; 
 
 The God who mad,e the red man free, 
 This desert gave the Indian's child. 
 
 ." Great Spirit, God of the Indian's sire : 
 God whom the red man still adores ; 
 
 Oh, free this soul and hurl it, fire 
 
 To burn and blast the Indian's foes !" 
 
 Thus proudly did the prophet speak, 
 
 His eyes emitting fiery gleams ; 
 Whilst from his body, trembling, weak, 
 
 The vital current slowly streams. 
 
 Impatient grew his restless soul 
 To leave and join that spirit band ; 
 
 Nor would it brook the mean control 
 Mortality, of thy weak hand. 
 
 It waited not, the trickling wound, 
 
 The mortal part so slow to die, 
 But wildly at a single bound 
 
 It fl.ashed from the warrior's gleaming eye. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL KIVEK. 
 
 And I saw a bright river, — beautiful river, — 
 
 Where the thirsty shall drink and the weary shall lave ; 
 
 A miraculous touch of the generous giver, 
 To its waters imparted a power to save. 
 
 And I saw this bright river, — beautiful river; 
 
 As deep and as full as the ocean's tide ; 
 And its crystal waters did laugh and quiver, 
 
 Like the blushing smiles of a youthful bride. 
 
AUTUMN. 91 
 
 And unto this river — this beautiful river, — 
 This mystical river — a power was given: 
 
 To float the earth on its breeze-rippled bosom, 
 To the peaceful sunlit shores of heaven. 
 
 And the name of this river was the " Lamb's Wife" ; 
 
 The beautiful bride of the Ancient of Days ; 
 The fullness of good and the fountain of life, 
 
 The wedding reveals his unsearchable ways. 
 
 For sin shall be ended and death be no more 
 
 When the storm-beaten earth shall reach the bright 
 shore, 
 
 And Paradise live on earth as of yore, 
 
 Says he that was dead and is alive Evermore. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Hushed are the songs that lately rang 
 
 Through flowery mead and shady grove ; 
 The birds are flown that sweetly sang 
 
 Where every scene was bright with love. 
 But Spring shall bring the songs again 
 From leafy wood and flowery plain ; 
 But when man's summer day is o'er 
 His springtime is renewed no more. 
 
 Dead are the flowers that lately bloomed 
 
 Along the paths I loved to tread ; 
 They filled the air with sweet perfume, 
 
 I plucked them soon to see them dead. 
 But Spring again shall paint the bowers, 
 And deck the plain anew with flowers ; 
 But when man's earthly scene is o'er 
 His pleasures are renewed no more. 
 
92 VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 
 
 The night is followed by the morn, 
 
 And soon the hours will pass away: 
 The evening comes, when, sad and worn, 
 
 I see forever past the day. 
 But there's a land where all is bright, 
 Where morn gives place no more to night 
 O, let us strive to reach the shore 
 Where Summer reigns forever more. 
 
 W. F. COSNER. 
 
 YALLEY OF HUMILIATION.* 
 
 O, can I lie down in this beautiful valley, — 
 Beneath the fair lilies so fresh in their bloom ? 
 
 For surely no tempest of envy or folly 
 Can visit the garden of sacred perfume. 
 
 The Saviour hath walked in this beautiful valley, 
 And loved to repose on the beautiful green ; 
 
 And pearls and bright gems have been found by the holy, 
 While they in this beautiful valley have been. 
 
 O, can I lie down in this beautiful valley, 
 
 Where dreams are so sweet 'neath the lilies so fair, 
 
 And drink the pure waters unmingled with folly, 
 
 And breathe the sweet fragrance that fills the pure air? 
 
 W. F. COSNER. 
 
 * See Frontispiece. 
 
A TIGHT PLACE. 93 
 
 A TIGHT PLACE. 
 
 (Dedicated to my friends Adam Harness and George F. Cunningham.) 
 
 Who'll help me to a little money ? 
 If nobody will it wont be funny ; 
 Well, well, I'll go to some old friend 
 On whom I once could well depend. 
 
 But friends are scarce when money's out, 
 So I must look and look about. 
 The Pharisee first comes along, 
 But he is quite deaf to my song. 
 
 A worldling, next, Samaritan, he : 
 " My friend, I would, t'were not for she, 
 But know, upon my precious life, 
 I dare not till I ask my wife." 
 
 Poor, silly, silly simpleton, 
 Though in conceit a Solomon, 
 What wisdom this man has in store, 
 Whose wife stands sentinel at the door ! 
 
 His door latch tied with an apron string, 
 High tenor tells who may come in, 
 A little screech may fasten out 
 A friend, and let the good man pout. 
 
 Ah, noble virtue this must be, 
 
 From every good deed to be free ; 
 
 But know, my friend, this whispering pelf 
 
 Is but a nickname for yourself. 
 
 Then call it by some better name, 
 And save your madam from the blame 
 Of bearing for you this petty vice, 
 No better than a beggar's lice. 
 
94 A TIGHT PLACE. 
 
 The Scribe, well, lie will be my man, 
 For he must understand my plan. 
 Quoth he, " Spend not your means that way, 
 For glory, fame, 'twill never pay. 
 
 Nay, keep your little land and stock, 
 And stoop to wear a plainer frock, 
 And here and there a penny pick, 
 And teach it, when it comes, to stick. 
 
 When a poorer devil comes along, 
 Entice him with some little song, 
 Until you get his money bag, 
 Then ride him like another nag." 
 
 Nay, damn your pick-up-penny game, 
 That makes the rich and poor the same, 
 Except the poor his penny lends 
 And feels the good of what he spends. 
 
 His heart is gladdened by the mite 
 That puts a poorer friend in plight, 
 And then he takes, with better cheer, 
 His bread and wine, or cheese and beer. 
 
 He eats and drinks and breathes the air, 
 And wills life's good with all to share, 
 That each small stream may swell the tide, 
 That make's life's ocean deep and wide. 
 
 That all may eat and drink and live, 
 And all have something, too, to give, 
 Till life shall reach from shore to shore, 
 And its spring tide flow forevermore. 
 
 But who will help me in my need ? 
 That friend will be a friend indeed. 
 ' My jockey friend will give a lift, 
 And that will serve my present shift. 
 
A TIGHT PLACE. 95 
 
 Friend George consents to back him up, 
 And that, I guess, will fill my cup. 
 Well, by my troth, with you I'll sup, 
 Old friends, when fortune helps me up. 
 
 A little toddy, too, we'll take, 
 Though church men deem it a mistake, 
 This foolish way to shorten wealth 
 And take a dram, except by stealth. 
 
 To spend the day in heart-strained toil, 
 
 To rob the laborer of the soil, 
 
 Then pay the priest a petty toll 
 
 To wash your sins and shrive your soul. 
 
 This makes the big, swell-bellied great, 
 That boast of wealth and fair estate, 
 Who live to add a little more 
 To heaps already got in store ; 
 
 Yes, house to house and field to field, 
 All these a harvest for them yield, 
 Until they live in fearful dread 
 That all their wants may not be fed. 
 
 Ye Heavens, pity these poorest poor, 
 Who hanker always after more, 
 Till want becomes a fell disease, 
 Which all life's wealth can never ease. 
 
 This craving is a barren waste, 
 Where apples grow which have no taste, 
 Where scentless flowers bloom and die, 
 And songless, featherless birdlets fly, 
 
 Till earth becomes a plaintive whine 
 -Where creatures feed and grunt like swine ; 
 With bellies full they take a snore 
 And then get up and feed some more. 
 
96 A COUNTRY LADDIE TO HIS LASSIE. 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 (On hearing a priest "berating Byron, Sterne, Shelley, Burns, etc., as compared with 
 the inventors of telegraphs, railroads, priestly sects, etc.) 
 
 Let the lightning flash and the thunder roll 
 And wake to life the buried soul, 
 When priests and Pharisees scoff at God, 
 And bend their necks to the devil's rod. 
 
 A COUNTRY LADDIE TO HIS LASSIE. 
 
 I have for thee no titled name, 
 
 No record on the rOll of fame, 
 
 No heaps of treasured wealth in store, 
 
 No piles of gems and glittering ore, 
 
 Nor learning's gilded sophistry, 
 
 A trick mis-called philosophy ; 
 
 Of little men with dandy air, 
 
 Who give what they have not to spare, 
 
 I mean professional advice, 
 That's doled out at a settled price, 
 That makes men sick if they be well, 
 And sends them, if they're sick, to hell. 
 
 Nor have I even learned to rhyme, 
 Nor tricks of tuning words to time ; 
 Indeed, I have not time to spend 
 To make words jingle at the end. 
 
 If trinkets such as these, my dove, 
 You have already learned to love, 
 Alas, but this remains to me, 
 To bid a long farewell tr> thee 
 
VIRTUE, . 97 
 
 But if the pride of youthful joy 
 Which thrills the heart of a country boy, 
 Who dreams that love itself is life, 
 Could coax you to become a wife, 
 
 An arm that's strong would toil for thee, 
 And joys of love would set thee free, 
 And a cottage home would be for me, 
 An Eden in reality. «* 
 
 O could I tell what now I feel, 
 'Twould melt your heart if it were steel, 
 And then the poem I write for thee 
 Would be love, life, and liberty. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 For me I'll keep my little song 
 And take whatever comes along 
 And whether good or ill betide, 
 A merry heart shall be my bride. 
 
 To Virtue's praise I'll tune my lyre, 
 For vice and folly kindle fire ; 
 And this I'll say in Virtue's praise, 
 Her paths are peace, and sweet her ways. 
 
 But what is Virtue ? Help a friend, 
 Give and take and borrow and lend ; 
 And tell the truth at any cost, 
 And take no note of what is lost. 
 
 Quarrel to-day — be friends to-morrow, 
 And feel for one another's sorrow ; 
 Take time to work and time to play, 
 Take time to dance and time to pray. 
 
98 - P AS SION.-r-PLE A SURE.— FORTUNE. 
 
 A time to eat, a time to fast, 
 Dismiss the bad, the good hold fast 
 By kindly deeds the heart renew, 
 And keep its purpose always true. 
 
 Then God be praised for Virtue's ways, 
 By her we'll lengthen out our days, 
 By her we'll triumph over all, 
 And Eden wi» from Satan's thrall. 
 
 PASSION. 
 
 Passion's fire, 
 Jove's kindled ire, 
 
 To make men do their duty ; 
 Choose they fire, 
 The helt is dire, 
 
 That wears away their beauty. 
 
 PLEASUKE. 
 
 I'll live for pleasure, 
 And take my leisure, 
 
 And do whatever I can ; 
 And what I do'll be on the square, 
 And what I cannot do I'll dare, 
 
 To fill life's little span. 
 
 FORTUNE. 
 
 (To Jennie.) 
 
 Fortune's fickle, false as fair, 
 Blue-eyed girl with auburn hair ; 
 Variable as beauty's hour, 
 Transient gleams of lightning power; 
 Art and artful blend in her, 
 Making man a god or cur. 
 
THE MISSION OF TRUTH.— TEE MYSTERY. 99 
 
 THE MISSION OF TRUTH. 
 
 To wake on earth the human soul, 
 A power tyrants can't control, 
 
 Nor slavery's shackles bind ; 
 Through freedom's realms it loves to roam, 
 Its ideal is a cottage home, 
 
 Its lightning is the mind. 
 
 THE MYSTERY. 
 
 The kindly words you spake to me, 
 Securely I have kept for thee ; 
 And for each word a flower shall bloom, 
 Whose fragrance shall survive the tomb. 
 
 O would thy gentle little hand, 
 Consent to cultivate the land, 
 Full of the seeds of precious flowers, 
 Love planted in life's happy hours. 
 
 "Would showers of kindness fall like spring, 
 
 And sunny smiles a summer bring ; 
 
 That barren soil it would renew, 
 
 And flowers, sweet flowers, would bloom for you. 
 
 The flowers already blooming there, 
 Are fading for the want of care ; 
 If not enriched with other soil, 
 I'll lose the fruits of all my toil. 
 
 These flowers and all that yet shall bloom, 
 For some fair bride shall be a groom ; 
 And share with her immortal life, 
 That wills to be a faithful wife. 
 
100 HUMILITY.— PATIENCE.— PRIDE. 
 
 A sweetheart's charms I've seen and felt, 
 At beauty's shrine I've often knelt ; 
 And yet there is an inner place, 
 Of holier love and sweeter grace. 
 
 A temple where life's full and sweet, 
 Where kindred souls in rapture meet, 
 Where new-born joys such pleasures bring. 
 As turns the winter into spring. 
 
 'Tis not a cold and formal tie, 
 That brings us rapture from the sky ; 
 But kindred hearts in rapture free, 
 Entranced in living ecstasy. 
 
 Then, Mary, be so kind to me 
 As to unfold this mystery ; 
 And set my restless spirit free, 
 To tell its untold history. 
 
 HUMILITY. 
 
 Humility means, Be a man, 
 
 And strive to fill the earth with joy , 
 
 And if the gulf of death you'd span, 
 You'd better get a baby boy. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 Thou rock of God, 
 
 On thee forever let me build. 
 
 PRIDE. 
 
 Lift Mary up by manly pride, 
 And beauty see personified. 
 
FLOWERS OF FANCY. 
 
 BY 
 
 A. 0. HABNESS. 
 
 THE LITTLE EVANGELIST; 
 
 OB, THE STREET DANCING GIRL. 
 
 She came like an angel, 
 
 This dancing Fairy, 
 
 With a step so airy, 
 
 And a heart so merry, 
 
 And a song as gay 
 
 As a bird's in May. 
 
 And Avith a love as free 
 
 As the waves of the sea, 
 
 And a smile-lit face, 
 
 And a magic grace, 
 
 She turned to the sky 
 
 Her love-lit eye, 
 
 That dallied with the sunbeam's joy, 
 
 Like a lassie with her lover boy. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY BARCLAY & CO., 
 
 No. 21 North Seventh Street. 
 1873. 
 
THE BIBLE VIEW 
 
 <3> 
 
 OF THE 
 
 PERSONALITY OF GOD 
 
 AND 
 
 THE DEVIL, 
 
 HIS ORIGIN, PERSONALITY, POWER AND DOOM. j 
 
 By PHINEAS A. SMITH. 
 
 AND SHOWN TO BE 
 
 THE WORK OF DEMONS; 
 
 AN EXAMINATION OF 
 
 ITS ORIGIN, MORALS, DOCTRINES AND POLITICS M 
 
 I 
 
 By MILES GRANT. 
 
 FOR SALE WHOLESALE AND RETAIL 
 BY BARCLAY & CO 
 
 , 610 ARCH STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 
 
THeTeNIUS OF DEMOCRACY; 
 
 OI*/, 
 
 THE FALL OF BABYLON. 
 
 A BIBLICAL POEM. 
 
 BY A. C. HARNESS. 
 
 Price, 10 Cents. Wholesale, $5.00 per hundred. 
 
 THE GREAT TRIAL; 
 
 THE GENIUS OF CIVILIZATION 
 BROUGHT TO JUDGMENT. 
 
 \ Political Essay, written in dramatic style, and under 
 tie s tnilitude of a dream ; or the present and future world, 
 as seen through the telescope of Bible faith. 
 BY A. C. HARNESS. 
 Price, $1.00. Wholesale, GO Cents. 
 
 t tOWERS Of V AttCY 
 
 A SERIES OF RUSTIC POEMS, 
 
 Earnest, hearty, and free; religious, P 01 ^'^^ 
 or moral, sentimental, and humorous ; as my whim was 
 when the spirit moved me,-A. C. Harness. 
 
 Price, 50 Cents. Wholesale, 30 Cents. 
 
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