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 TME-LOST-EARJ 
 
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 'COULD WE THINK WITH HIS THOUGHTS AS HE HIDES IX THE SHADOW 
 THAT FALLS FROM THE FOOTHILLS — " 
 
THE LOST EARL 
 
 WITH OTHER POEMS AND 
 
 TALES IN VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE 
 
 ii 
 
 ?3 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 BOSTON 
 D LOTHROP COMPANY 
 
 FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS 
 
30?7 
 
 Copyright, 1888, 
 
 BY 
 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 APOLOGY .... 11 
 
 THE LOST EARL 13 
 
 HOW THE KING LOST HIS CROWN 19 
 
 MY CAREER 22 
 
 CAPTAIN SEABORN ........ 29 
 
 SENATOR GRANDILOW 41 
 
 "WHEN WE CAME HOME FROM THE WAR" . . 45 
 
 THE KANSAS FARMER 48 
 
 A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY 53 
 
 AFTER THE SALE 63 
 
 THREE WORLDS . 75 
 
 THE SEEKING 84 
 
 HYMN OF THE AIR 88 
 
 THE POET 94 
 
 AT MOUNT DESERT 103 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE BELL-BUOY AT MOUNT DESERT . . . . Ill 
 
 THE CABIN 110 
 
 ODE 122 
 
 AFTER THE CONCERT 125 
 
 QUATRAINS AND EPIGRAMS 128 
 
 WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS . .... 134 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 1. " Could we think with his thoughts as he rides in the shadow 
 
 That falls from the foothills — " Frontis. 
 
 V 2. " ' Taboo ! taboo ! ' Too late the call : 
 The clumsy idol fell at once 
 Against the mummies on the wall," etc Page 30 
 
 , 3. -"All 
 
 Swept out by the sheriff's sale." Page 64- 
 
 y ±. " She entered, a young man's happy bride, 
 She crowned his home with hope and pride, 
 And now goes forth by an old man's side, 
 
 A weary wanderer." Page 73 
 
 5. "A dismal, dolorous sound, 
 
 You would say, heard anywhere, 
 
 Be the weather foul or fair." «... Page 116 
 
 6 " Setting forth, in column and row, 
 
 Whatever a penny of gain can show." Page 134 
 
 7. " ' Ho ! ho ! wa'al, wa'al ! that's a queer idee ! 
 
 That's a curi's ca'calation ! '" Page 148 
 
 Note. — For the illustrations which accompany "Widow Brown's Christmas" the 
 publishers are indebted to the courtesy of Messrs. Harper & Brothers. 
 
THE LOST EARL 
 
 WITH OTHER POEMS AND TALES IN VERSE 
 
APOLOGY. 
 
 I ask my soul ivhy, day and night, 
 I pore and ponder and indite. 
 
 Vainly, my life long, I have sought 
 To find some utterance for my thought, 
 By lip or pen, by word or token, 
 To speak what in me lies unspoken ; 
 My tongue gives freely all the rest, 
 But locks the sweetest and the best. 
 
 I lived remote, I labored long, 
 In tale and rhyme, romance and song, 
 To sow that seed of heavenly wheat 
 That tortures me with inivard heat. 
 I grasp, I reach to deeps internal, 
 I scatter forth the fiery kernel ; 
 In vain projected, it returns, 
 And in my bosom beats and burns. 
 
 The uttered iv or d falls cold and dead, 
 The living word is still unsaid. 
 And should it be my fate for ever 
 To fail, in ceaseless fond endeavor, 
 To sow the souVs exhaustless seed, 
 And reach to deeps that still recede, 
 I still, by eldest law, must choose 
 The blissfid thraldom of the Muse, 
 Bend all to her imperious will, 
 And still her last commands fid fill. 
 
THE LOST EARL. 
 
 WITH his lariat coiled on the horn of his sad- 
 dle, 
 Face "bearded and bronzed, in the broad-shadowed 
 hat ; 
 High boot-tops, and fringed leather leggings astraddle 
 His bronco's brown sides ; pistol-belt, and all that ; 
 His shout ringing out, a bluff, resonant basso, 
 
 Above the herd's bellowing ; hand that can hurl 
 At a gallop the long-looped and wide-swinging 
 lasso, — 
 There rides — can you fancy ? — the son of an 
 earl. 
 
 With the best and the worst a familiar companion ; 
 
 Who often in winter, at twenty below, 
 While guarding his cattle within the deep canon, 
 
 Camps down in his blanket, rolled up on the snow ; 
 Bold rider and roper, to aid in a round-up, 
 
 Head off a stampede, run the ringleaders clown : 
 In him — does he pause to remember ? — are bound 
 up 
 
 The hopes of a race of old knightly renown. 
 
 13 
 
i 4 THE LOST EARL. 
 
 The world's pampered minion, he yet, in requital 
 
 Of all its proud favors, could fling them aside 
 As a swimmer his raiment, shed riches and title, 
 
 And plunge into life, breast the turbulent tide! 
 Some caprice, yon infer, or a sudden declension 
 
 Of fortune, the cause ? Rather say, the revolt 
 ( )f a strong native soul against soulless convention, 
 
 And privilege shared by the roue and dolt. 
 
 He chafed at the gilded constraints of his station, 
 
 The bright ball-and-chain of the name that he bore ; 
 Grew sick of the smiles of discreet adulation, 
 
 That worshiped, not worth, but the honors men wore. 
 With falsities stifled, with flatteries sated, 
 
 He loathed, as some player, his wearisome part, 
 The homage of lips where he righteously hated, 
 
 The rank that forbade him the choice of his heart. 
 
 (For that choice, it is told, fell to one far below him 
 
 In station, who yet was so loyal and true 
 In the love which he won, she could love and forego him, 
 
 And even his nobleness nobly outdo ; 
 AVI 10 scorned to climb up to a class that would scorn to 
 
 Receive her its peer ; and refusing to dim 
 The coronet's brightness her brow was not born to, 
 
 Lived maidenly faithful to love and to him.) 
 
THE LOST EARL. 15 
 
 Was it then, in despair at the pitiful wrangle 
 
 His preference raised, he resolved to be free, 
 To escape from his toils, break the tyrannous tangle 
 
 Of custom and caste, of descent and degree ? 
 In this lot which he chose, has he sometimes repented 
 
 The impulse that urged him ? In scenes such as 
 these, 
 Hard lodgment, hard fare, has he never lamented 
 
 The days of relinquished enjoyment and ease ? 
 
 Was that impulse a fault ? Would he speak, would 
 he tell us 
 
 His sober conclusion ! For good or for ill, 
 There are tides of the spirit which sometimes impel us, 
 
 Sub-currents, more potent than reason and will, 
 That out of our sordid conditions uplift us, 
 
 And make our poor common humanity great. 
 We toy with the helm, but they draw us, they drift 
 us, 
 
 They shape the deep courses of life and of fate. 
 
 But then comes regret, when the ebb leaves us 
 stranded 
 
 In doubt and disaster : was such his reward ? 
 How much we might gain would the fellow be candid, 
 
 This volunteer ranchman who might be a lord ! 
 
1 6 THE LOST EARL. 
 
 Could we think with his thoughts as he rides in the 
 shadow 
 
 That falls from the foothills when, suddenly chill, 
 Far over the mesas of lone Colorado 
 
 The fast-creeping twilight spreads solemn and still. 
 
 From the rose-tinted, snow-covered peaks, the bright 
 sources 
 
 Of torrents and rivers, the glow pales away ; 
 Through canons and gulches the wild watercourses 
 
 Rush hurried and hoarse : just the time, you would 
 say, 
 For our exile to fall into sombre reflection, — 
 
 The scion of earls, from the uppermost branch 
 Of the civilized tree, in its cultured perfection. 
 
 Set here in the desolate life of the ranch ! 
 
 Amid wastes of gray sagebrush, of grama and bunch- 
 grass ; 
 
 The comrade of cowboys, with souls scarce above 
 The level of driven dumb creatures that munch grass ; 
 
 Self-banished from paths of preferment and love, 
 An unreturned prodigal, mumbling his husk : 
 
 At least so your sapient soul has divined, 
 As he gallops far off and forlorn through the dusk. 
 
 But little men know of a man's hidden mind. 
 
THE LOST EARL. 17 
 
 In his jacket he carries a thumbed pocket Homer, 
 
 To con at odd spells as he watches his herd ; 
 And at times, in his cottage, (but that's a misnomer ; 
 
 A hut with one room ! ) you may hear, on my word, 
 These cool summer twilights, (in moments not taken 
 
 For washing his dishes or darning his socks,) 
 On strings deftly thrummed a strange music awaken, 
 
 Mazurka of Chopin's, sonata of Bach's. 
 
 As over the wide-shouldered Eockies the gleam 
 
 Of day yet illumines the vastness and distance 
 Of snow-hooded summits, so shines the still beam 
 
 Of high thought, high resolve, on his lonely existence. 
 (And a maiden, they say, of her own sweet accord, 
 
 Who to-night may be sailing the moonlighted sea, 
 To the ranchman brings what she denied to the lord. 
 
 Idle rumor, no doubt. But, hoAvever it be) — 
 
 Our knight of the lasso, long-line aged Norman. 
 
 Now guiding his herd to good jDasture and drink, 
 Now buying and selling, stock-owner and foreman. 
 
 Feels life fresh and strong ; well content, as I think, 
 That the world of traditional leisure and sport 
 
 Without him should amble its indolent round. 
 Though lost to his title, to kindred and court, 
 
 Here first in rude labor his manhood is found. 
 
iS THE LOST EARL. 
 
 His conclusion is this, or I sadly mistake it : 
 
 " To each his own part ; rugged action for me ! 
 Be men, and not masks ; fill your sphere or forsake it. 
 
 Use power and wealth ; but 'tis time to be free 
 When the trappings of life prove a burden and fetter. 
 
 The walls of my forefathers' castle are stanch, 
 But a cabin, with liberty, shelters me better. 
 
 Be lord of your realm, be it earldom or ranch ! " 
 
HOW THE KING LOST HIS CROWN. 
 
 THE King's men, when he had slain the boar, 
 Strung him aloft on the fisher's oar, 
 And, two behind and two before, 
 In triumph bore him along the shore. 
 
 " An oar ! " says the King : " 'tis a trifle ! — why 
 Did the fisher frown and the good wife sigh ? " 
 " A trifle, sire ! " was the Fool's reply : 
 " Then frown or laugh who will : for I, 
 Who laugh at all and am only a clown, 
 Will never more laiiffli at trifles ! : ' 
 
 o 
 
 A runner next day leaped down the sand, 
 
 And launched a skiff from the fisher's strand ; 
 
 For he cried, — " An army invades the land ! 
 
 The passes are seized on either hand ! 
 
 And I must carry my message straight 
 Across the lake to the castle gate ! " 
 The castle he neared, but the waves were great, 
 The fangecl rocks foamed like jaws of Fate ; 
 And lacking an oar the boat went down. 
 The Furies laugh at trifles ! 
 
 o 
 19 
 
20 HOW THE KING LOST HIS CROWN. 
 
 The swimmer against the waves began 
 
 To strive, as a valiant swimmer can. 
 
 "Methinks," said the Fool, " 'twere no bad plan 
 
 If succor were sent to the drowning man ! " 
 To succor a perilled pawn instead, 
 The monarch, moving his rook ahead, — 
 Bowed over the chessmen, white and red, — 
 Gave " Check ! " — then looked on the lake and 
 
 said, 
 " The boat is lost, the man will drown ! " 
 King ! beware of trifles ! 
 
 To the lords and mirthful dames the bard 
 Was trolling his latest song ; the guard 
 Were casting dice in the castle yard ; 
 And the captains all were drinking hard. 
 
 Then came the chief of the halberdiers, 
 
 And told to the King's astounded ears : 
 
 " An army on every side appears ! 
 
 An army with banners and bows and spears ! 
 
 They have gained the wall and surprised the 
 town ! " 
 Our fates are woven of trifles ! 
 
 The red usurper reached the throne ; 
 The tidings over the realm were blown ; 
 
HOW THE KING LOST HIS CROWN. 21 
 
 And, flying to alien lands alone 
 
 With a trusty few, the King made moan. 
 
 But long and loudly laughed the Clown : 
 " We broke the oar and the boat went down, 
 And so the messenger chanced to drown : 
 The messenger lost, we lost the town ; 
 And the loss of the town has cost a crown ; 
 And all these things are trifles ! " 
 
MY CAREER. 
 
 MY mother, they said, was a soldier's child ; 
 My father played in the band. 
 She was pretty and gay, he was handsome and wild, 
 
 And she gave him her foolish hand. 
 He owed so much that he couldn't pay, 
 He borrowed some more and they ran away ; 
 But my poor mother, whom he outran, 
 Put up at an almshouse, where began 
 (I think I never just knew the year) 
 
 My career — 
 My extraordinary career ! 
 
 He ran so well she lost his track 
 
 In the little delay I made ; 
 He ran so far he never came back, 
 
 And there, of course, we stayed ; 
 And, while the decrepit old pauper wives 
 Tossed me about, she brightened the knives, 
 And set the table, and swept the floor, 
 And scrubbed as she never had scrubbed before ; 
 
 But still watched over, with many a tear, 
 My career — 
 
 The beginning of my career ! 
 
MY CAREER. 23 
 
 In lap, or cradle, or on all-fours, 
 
 I thrived, and made my way, 
 And tumbled about the poor-house doors, 
 
 Till a lady came, one day, 
 A wealthy widow, who begged for me. 
 U I want your beautiful boy," says she, 
 "' To fill the place of the one I have lost. 
 I will love him and rear him, and spare no cost 
 
 To form his mind, and give him, my dear, 
 A career — 
 
 Maybe a distinguished career ! " 
 
 My mother took on at a terrible rate, 
 
 And called it a sin and a shame ; 
 She would keep her darling in spite of fate ; 
 
 But consented, all the same. 
 To the widow's she went, and left me there, 
 Then fled in despair, I never knew where, 
 A childless mother, to mourn and roam ; 
 While I had luxury, friends, and a home, 
 
 With everything that could aid and cheer 
 My career — 
 
 My fortunate career ! 
 
 My friends were as kind as friends could be, 
 And they gave me teachers and books ; 
 
24 MY CAREER. 
 
 But I never could see their use to me, 
 With fine clothes and good looks, 
 
 Money to spend, and a fortune still 
 
 Awaiting me in the widow's will. 
 
 So, very possibly, I looked down 
 
 On the poor, industrious youths in town, 
 
 And followed, as proud as a prince or peer, 
 
 My career — 
 Already a gay career ! 
 
 I could drive and dress and dance and dine, 
 
 With exquisite grace and dash ; 
 My taste was fine in horses and wine, 
 
 And I sported a sweet moustache. 
 The widow, no doubt, sometimes complained 
 Of the rather high tone which I maintained, 
 My talents wasted and youth misspent, 
 And wept at the way her money went ; 
 
 For, though it was pleasant, I own 'twas dear 
 My career 
 
 Was a pretty high-toned career ! 
 
 " I have lost a bet ! I must pay this debt I " 
 
 I coaxed ; she couldn't refuse. 
 A genteel fellow sometimes will get 
 
 Into scrapes, and where' s the use 
 
MY CAREER. 25 
 
 Of having a fussy old woman about, 
 Who can't, or won't help a fellow out ? 
 I rushed from her presence a hundred times, 
 And threatened to plunge into horrid crimes, 
 
 To end as a robber or buccaneer 
 Mv career — 
 
 My desperate career ! 
 
 It was long to wait for a grand estate, 
 
 But I was in luck at last. 
 I was tall and straight, I was twenty-eight, 
 
 And, though a trifle fast, 
 A party the girls were mad to catch ! 
 Considered a most amazing match 
 By smiling mammas and bowing papas, 
 And a deucedly delicate thing it was, 
 
 With sirens on every side, to steer 
 My career — 
 
 Safely my free career ! 
 
 For why should I marry, and have the care 
 
 Of children and a wife ? 
 'Twas burden enough, by George! to bear 
 
 My own light butterfly life — 
 A thing I never could understand ! 
 With fashion and wealth; gay friends at hand, 
 
26 MY CAREER. 
 
 No thought for another, there weighed on me 
 Sometimes ►such weariness and ennui 
 
 As few would have fancied could come near 
 My career — 
 
 My enviable career ! 
 
 Yet I should state that I chose a mate, 
 
 For a very good cause, indeed. 
 It was rather late ; I was forty-eight ; 
 
 My moustache had gone to seed ; 
 And, worst of all, one clay I found 
 My fortune was high and dry aground ! 
 So I looked about, resolved to win 
 Some widow, as rich as my first had been, 
 
 From the rubbish of beggarly debts to clear 
 My career — 
 
 My really superb career ! 
 
 Too lucky by half, I may say it now, 
 
 Was I when I went to woo. 
 I didn't get on so well, somehow, 
 
 With Widow Number Two. 
 A woman of taste, she couldn't but be 
 In love with an elegant man like me ; 
 But she was a shrew, and she soon took fright, 
 Drew her prim lips and her purse-strings tight, 
 
MY CAREER. 27 
 
 And eyed witlx an eye quite too severe 
 
 My career — 
 Jealous of my career ! 
 
 She scrimped me up and she screwed me down, 
 
 In a most ridiculous way. 
 For a man of renown, the beau of the town, 
 
 'Twas extremely little pay. 
 There never was husband fond as I — 
 Particularly when she came to die ; 
 But in her will she was cruel still, 
 And cut me off: with a codicil — 
 
 Pulled up ? of a sudden, as will appear, 
 My career — 
 
 My fashionable career ! 
 
 Of the schemes I tried when drifting about 
 
 There's little enough to tell. 
 As a mixer of fancy drinks, no doubt, 
 
 I might have succeeded well. 
 I had no other art or trade ; 
 And the fine, rich friends I asked for aid 
 Grew cold, scarce deigning at times to use 
 A word of pity or poor excuse ; 
 
 But viewing with secret glee, I fear, 
 My career — 
 
 My steady down-hill career ! 
 
28 MY CAREER. 
 
 My buttoned coat had a hungry look ; 
 
 I sponged from bar to bar ; 
 Whoever would trust or treat, I took 
 
 A glass or a bad cigar. 
 Homeless, alone, I walked the street ; 
 The old faces now that I chanced to meet 
 Passed by, with a smile at my altered style, 
 My tight cravat, and my battered tile ; 
 
 And jubilant youngsters turned to jeer 
 My career — 
 
 My often zigzag career ! 
 
 No need to relate what buffets of fate 
 
 I afterward underwent. 
 I am feeble of gait ; I am sixty-eight ; 
 
 My back and my knees are bent. 
 To the passers-by I have held my hat ; 
 But, Heaven be thanked, there's an end of that. 
 To the poor-house I have come home, at last, 
 To the poor-house where my first years passed, 
 
 Old and infirm, to finish here 
 My career — 
 
 My rather played-out career ! 
 
CAPTAIN SEABORN. 
 
 OUR ship went down, and not a boat 
 Outrode the storm's intensity ; 
 But I alone was left afloat 
 
 Upon the blue immensity : 
 My raft and I together lashed, 
 
 The wild seas racing under us, 
 Till reefs uprose, and breakers dashed 
 About us, blind and thunderous. 
 
 Still, like Mazeppa to his horse, 
 
 I clung, while, half submerging me, 
 On foaming shoals with fearful force 
 
 The winds and waves were urging me. 
 I swooned : I woke : my dim eyes glanced 
 
 Upon a hideous rabblement 
 Of islanders that round me pranced 
 
 With frantic yells and babblement. 
 
 Half-drowned they dragged me from the sea 
 
 Up the white beach, and, seating me 
 Against a skull-encircled tree, 
 
 Made ghastly signs of eating me. 
 
 29 
 
30 CAPTAIN SEABORN. 
 
 The frizzled women crouched to look 
 
 My body over curiously ; 
 The tattooed braves above me shook 
 
 Their battle-axes furiously. 
 
 Forth from my sailor's pouch, to buy 
 
 My life of those fell savages, 
 I drew such slight effects as I 
 
 Had saved from the sea's ravages. 
 With thimble, coins, carved ivory ball, 
 
 I nattered and invited them ; 
 A rusted jack-knife, most of all, 
 
 Astonished and delighted them. 
 
 Then fruits they brought and mats they spread 
 
 With singular celerity : 
 Not death I gained, but gifts instead, 
 
 And cannibal prosperity. 
 I lived with them and learned their speech ; 
 
 I curbed their fierce brutality, 
 And strove with simple truths to reach 
 
 Their dim spirituality. 
 
 The arts of peace, the love of right, 
 
 I tried to teach ; economy 
 Of health ; what makes the day and night — 
 
 Some notion of astronomy ; 
 
CAPTAIN SEABORN. 31 
 
 Treatment of neighbors at a feast — 
 More genial ways of toasting them ; 
 
 To love their fellow-men, at least 
 A little, without roasting them. 
 
 No white sail found those coral bays, 
 
 Wide rings of reefs defending them ; 
 And so I lived my savage days, 
 
 With little hope of ending them. 
 Three frightful years ! Though loved by some, 
 
 A priest-led faction hated me, 
 Until it seemed that martyrdom, 
 
 For all my pains, awaited me. 
 
 Fearful of change, and not content 
 
 With foiling and defeating me, 
 My enemies once more were bent 
 
 On finishing and eating me. 
 And so, not choosing to assist 
 
 At their proposed festivities, 
 (All the more reason to resist 
 
 Their cannibal proclivities ! ) 
 
 With scant provisions snatched in haste 
 
 My small canoe encumbering, 
 Into the dim sea's rolling waste, 
 
 While all the isle was slumbering, 
 
CAPTAIN SEABORN. 
 
 One midnight, when the low .late moon 
 Across the shoals was shimmering, 
 
 I paddled from the still lagoon 
 And channel darkly glimmering. 
 
 Five days adrift ! the indolent 
 
 Warm waves about me weltering : 
 The snns were fierce, my food was spent, 
 
 And I was starved and sweltering : 
 When ho ! a ship ! How strange to meet 
 
 Fair manners and urbanity ! 
 How strange my native speech, how sweet 
 
 The accents of humanity ! 
 
 Thus all my efforts to redeem 
 
 That sinister society 
 Were left behind, a nightmare dream 
 
 Of horror and anxiety. 
 My changeful life was full and fleet ; 
 
 But long the hope attended me, 
 To see that land again, and greet 
 
 The chiefs who once befriended me. 
 
 So, as I sailed those seas once more, 
 When many years had passed away, 
 
 My ship dropped anchor off the shore 
 Where I had been a castaway. 
 
CAPTAIN SEABORN. 
 
 Amicl the reefs Ave rowed to land, 
 
 And, eager as a lover is 
 To seek his mistress, to the strand 
 
 I strode, to make discoveries. 
 
 Less changed than my own life, appeared 
 
 The wondrous island scenery ; 
 Near by, the groves of cocoa reared 
 
 Their fans of waving greenery ; 
 There the old, shaggy, cane-thatched town ; 
 
 And, habited still sparingly, 
 The islanders came straggling down, 
 
 And heard my questions staringly. 
 
 With signs of woe their arms they flung 
 
 When I, in broken sentences 
 Of their well-nigh forgotten tongue, 
 
 Inquired for old acquaintances. 
 " Dead ! dead ! " my friendly chiefs and they 
 
 Who from the isle had driven me. 
 But when I spoke my sobriquet, 
 
 The name the tribe had given me, 
 
 'Twas strange ! the sudden eagerness 
 And zeal with which they greeted it. 
 
 " Son-of-the-Great-Sea-Mother ? yes ! " — 
 They joyfully repeated it. 
 
 33 
 
34 CAPTAIN SEABORN. 
 
 " He's there ! " — They pointed. Bound to know 
 What this amazing blunder meant, 
 
 Forthwith I followed to a low, 
 Rude door, in utter wonderment. 
 
 Their temple ! lined with sacred stones 
 
 And heathen curiosities ; 
 Dried birds and fishes, reptiles' bones, 
 
 And various monstrosities ; 
 Relics and charms, strung round the place, 
 
 Trophies of fights and scrimmages ; 
 And, propped behind the central space. 
 
 The rudest of carved images, — 
 
 Which I myself with shells and knife 
 
 Had shaped, in my captivity ! 
 A task to keep my heart and life 
 
 From purposeless passivity. 
 The mouth too wide, too short the nose, 
 
 How well I recollected it ! 
 Now here, a grinning idol, those 
 
 Sad wretches had erected it ; 
 
 Tricked and bedizened in a style 
 
 Preposterous and laughable ! 
 I gazed ; the guardian priest the while 
 
 Eying me, grimly affable. 
 
CAPTAIN SEABORN. 35 
 
 Swarthy and tall, with hideous smirk 
 
 Admitting me to see it, he 
 Called it great magic, handiwork 
 
 And image of their deity ! 
 
 " Out of the ocean, in his sleep," 
 
 ('Twas hard to listen seriously ! ) 
 " He came to us, and in the deep 
 
 Vanished again mysteriously. 
 Pie taught our people " (thus the priest's 
 
 Narration is translatable ) 
 " To discontinue at their feasts 
 
 Some customs he found hatable ; 
 
 " Not to hunt men, although we were, 
 
 As now, a strong and bold people ; 
 Nor beat our women ; nor inter 
 
 Alive our sick and old people ; 
 To have more clothes and fewer wives, 
 
 With houses more commodious ; 
 To speak true words, and make our lives 
 
 In other ways less odious. 
 
 "These changes we found politic, 
 Though backward in assuming them. 
 
 So now we leave our old and sick 
 To starve, before inhuming them. 
 
36 CAPTAIN SEABORN. 
 
 While yet some rich men on the coast 
 
 Practice the old polygamy, 
 The poor have one wife, or, at most, 
 
 Confine themselves to bigamy. 
 
 "And though some warriors of renown 
 
 C ontinue anthropophagous, 
 'Tis rare that human flesh goes down 
 
 The low caste man's oesophagus. 
 Woman we seldom beat, while she 
 
 Is faithful and obedient ; 
 We only hunt an enemy, 
 
 And lie when it's expedient. 
 
 " Old men remember, still a few, 
 
 How he appeared and talked with them ; 
 Though not till he was gone they knew 
 
 A deity had walked with them. 
 This image in his hands became 
 
 The very form and face of him ; 
 So now we call it by his name, 
 
 And worship it in place of him ; 
 
 " And in our sorceries draw from it 
 Responses and admonishment." 
 
 All which I heard with infinite 
 Misgiving and astonishment, 
 
THE CLUMSY IDOL FELL AT ONCE 
 
 AGAINST THE MUMMIES ON THE WALL," ETC 
 
CAPTAIN SEABORN. 39 
 
 That fable thus should swallow fact, 
 
 And truth to myth degenerate, 
 And I by wooden proxy act 
 
 The god, for tribes to venerate ! 
 
 I said, " The being you adore, 
 
 Who came and went in mystery, 
 Was but a sailor washed ashore ! " 
 
 And told the simple history. 
 " My words and work your prophets foiled, 
 
 They treated me clespitefully, 
 And I escaped." The priest recoiled, 
 
 And glared upon me frightfully. 
 
 "And as for this dumb log" — I felt 
 
 Such absolute disgust with it, 
 I twirled my walking-stick and dealt 
 
 An inconsiderate thrust with it. 
 " Taboo ! taboo ! " Too late the call : 
 
 The clumsy idol fell at once 
 Against the mummies on the wall, 
 
 The rattling skins and skeletons. 
 
 The priest, in horror at my speech, 
 Had glared, aghast and stammering ; 
 
 But now he raised his warning screech, 
 And half the tribe came clamoring. 
 
4 o CAPTAIN SEABORN. 
 
 My comrades hurried me away, 
 While, close behind us clattering, 
 
 The mob pursued us to the bay, 
 And clubs and stones fell pattering. 
 
 Embarking, we in haste let fall 
 
 The gifts which I had brought for them, 
 But more than this, alas for all 
 
 My hopes ! I could do naught for them ; 
 Nor could I venture more among 
 
 The clans of that vicinity, 
 Because I had with impious tongue 
 
 Denied my own divinity. 
 
SENATOR GRANDILOW. 
 
 IF I were Senator Grandilow, 
 Mounting the marble portico, 
 Going to speak where Sumner spoke, 
 To waken the echoes Webster woke, 
 While the anxious nation waits to hear 
 Peals of warning or notes of cheer, 
 Wouldn't my pulse tingle and my heart glow, 
 If I were Senator Grandilow ? 
 
 I say to myself, when Grandilow 
 Looks smilingly down on friend and foe, 
 Thumb in waistcoat, quite at home 
 Under the flag-topped senate dome, 
 Fearless of front and valiant of lung, 
 With a nimble wit and a silvery tongue, — 
 " Ah, would some power on me bestow 
 The glorious gifts of a Grandilow ! " 
 
 I gaze in wonder at Grandilow ! 
 His eloquence bursts, a bright jet d'eau* 
 Diamond-crested, rainbow-spanned, 
 A pillar of light over all the land, 
 
 4; 
 
42 SENATOR GRANDILOW. 
 
 A beacon of hope to a people long 
 Groping in shadows of doubt and wrong ; 
 At least I fancy it might be so, 
 If I were Senator Grandilow. 
 
 For, if I were Senator Grandilow, 
 
 A chosen chief, would I forego 
 
 The privilege of the hour and place, 
 
 To lead, enlighten, and lift my race ? 
 
 To rise sublime above private ends, 
 
 The clamors of faction, the claims of friends, 
 
 And strike for the right one downright blow, - 
 
 If I were a leader like Grandilow ? 
 
 Would I (suppose I were Grandilow, 
 Sachem of the mighty bow ! ) 
 Envenom my shafts with spleen and pique, 
 Make base alliance with ring and clique, 
 And mix with solemn affairs of state 
 Powwow of passion and party hate ? 
 Well, yes, I might, but would I, though, 
 If I were Senator Grandilow ? 
 
 I am not skilled, like Grandilow, 
 To graft my fortunes and make them grow 
 On flourishing boughs of the nation's tree ; 
 I haven't the arts of such as he, 
 
SENATOR GRANDILOW. 43 
 
 Prosperous patriots who have made 
 Their country's service a thriving trade ; 
 Her needs their steps to rise by ; — no, 
 I haven't the knack of a Grandilow. 
 
 Is it fitting (pardon me, Grandilow, 
 If the question seems malapropos) 
 That a favored son should bring to her 
 A thrice-divided love ; prefer 
 To the public good his party's call, 
 Clan before party, and self before all ? 
 Are there no debts, but the debts you owe 
 A certain Senator Grandilow ? 
 
 For, let me say to you, Grandilow, — 
 Mounting the marble portico, 
 With your fist gripped full of the bolts of fate, 
 For a stand-up fight in the strifes of state, — 
 The horizon is larger than your hat, 
 The world is wider than your cravat, 
 A fact you possibly may not know ; — - 
 Think of it, will you, Grandilow ? 
 
 No patent-reaper, Grandilow, 
 Will reap a harvest we do not sow ! 
 Error is violent, truth is strong ; 
 The present is brief, the future long ; 
 
44 SENATOR GRAND/LOW. 
 
 And History writes with an iron pen ; 
 Time wags his sifter of deeds and men, 
 And into it straightway we must go ; 
 Where then will be Senator Grandilow ? 
 
 Then take my advice, dear Grandilow ! 
 
 Don't soar so high nor stoop so low ; 
 
 Quit your trained horses of craft and pride : 
 
 The world admires the way you ride, 
 
 But the world has other things to do 
 
 Than to watch the hoop while you jump through. 
 
 The Senate isn't a circus show, 
 
 Senator ! Senator Grandilow ! 
 
"WHEN WE CAME FROM THE WAR." 
 
 SOXG OF THE POOKHOUSE VETERAXS. 
 
 OUR people, when first we came home from the 
 war, 
 Before they forgot what the righting was for, 
 Came out with gay bands, and a wonderful noise 
 Of cannon and shouting, to welcome us boys. 
 Our riddled old regiment marched in its rags 
 Under arches of triumph and billowy flags, 
 That made the poor shred of our ensign ashamed ; 
 And orators under an awning declaimed • 
 And loud were the plaudits ; and handkerchiefs 
 
 waved 
 When they talked of the Union our armies had 
 
 saved, 
 And vowed that our victories made up a debt 
 Which a bountiful nation would never forget, 
 
 When first we came home from the war. 
 
 But the fervor of greeting died out with the sound 
 Of the guns and the trumpets, and some of us found 
 
 4S 
 
46 -WHEN WE CAME EROM THE WAR." 
 
 That with toil and exposure and wounds badly 
 
 healed 
 We had left the best part of ourselves on the field; 
 While at home younger men had stepped into our 
 
 place, 
 And put us old limpers quite out of the race. 
 Our welcome wore off, and the often-told tale 
 Of our services soon became hackneyed and stale. 
 Kind souls, when we offered small wares at their 
 
 doors, 
 Would buy them in pity, but voted us bores, 
 And could hardly believe that the blue-coated tramps 
 Were ever acquainted with battles and camps, 
 Or ever came home from the war. 
 
 At length they decided to settle us clown 
 
 In the almshouse, with other poor wrecks of the 
 
 town. 
 No parade of gay bands and great crowds thronging 
 
 near 
 With flags and orations to welcome us here ! 
 But the rosy-faced keeper received us, and said 
 That we ought to be thankful for shelter and bread. 
 Now, troubled no more with our needles and soap, 
 And the sight of gaunt men without health, without 
 
 hope, 
 
"WHEN WE CAME FROM THE WAR." 47 
 
 Who sadly remind them of services past, 
 Our kind-hearted people have leisure at last 
 To forget all about what the fighting was for, 
 And the promises made when we came from the war, 
 When first we came home from the war. 
 
THE KANSAS FARMER. 
 
 WE talked or read, or idly sat, beholding, 
 Betwixt the wire-strung poles and April sky, 
 From dawn till dusk, the endlessly unfolding, 
 Swift panorama of the land sweep by. 
 
 The twilight closed upon a lonesome prairie, — 
 A paling sunset pierced by one faint star, 
 
 Above a house low-browed and solitary, 
 Seen from the windows of our passing car. 
 
 For miles there was no other habitation. 
 
 Out from a neighboring marsh a heron took flight, 
 Rose, gray and silent as an exhalation, 
 
 And grew a speck far in the fading light. 
 
 Framed by the doorway in the frowning gable, 
 The figure of a man stood dark and still ; 
 
 No roof beside, but just a turf-walled stable, 
 
 Half-thatched with grass, half-sunken in the hill. 
 
 4 8 
 
THE KANSAS FARMER. 49 
 
 A solemn mule couched on his bony haunches ; 
 
 A lank sow leaned and rubbed against her sty ; 
 No tree, but one bare locust, in whose branches 
 
 Turkeys were roosting, black against the sky. 
 
 The man stood gazing, gaunt of frame and gloomy ; 
 
 So melancholy and so motionless, 
 A sharp compassionating thrill shot through me, 
 
 With thinking of his utter loneliness. 
 
 Far from the cheerful light of human faces, 
 The glow of friendly converse, how could he 
 
 Endure a lot as bare of all the graces 
 
 As the surrounding hills of house or tree ? 
 
 He gazed as if with sad surmise and longing — 
 As thick as sparks above the rushing train, 
 
 His kindled thoughts and aspirations thronging 
 Toward some great good which he could never 
 gain. 
 
 He saw each clay that mighty, thundering shuttle 
 Across the continent hurled to and fro ; 
 
 But of the life, the invisible and subtle 
 
 Wide web it wove, how little could he know ! 
 
5o THE KANSAS FARMER. 
 
 The train flew on, and, snugly housed within it, 
 
 We saw the lonely exile left behind ; 
 But not till that brief vision of a minute 
 
 Was photographed forever in the mind. 
 
 The train sped on with loud, relentless clanging ; 
 
 But gentler fancies in my heart awoke, 
 As I recalled, in the wan twilight hanging 
 
 Above his roof, a wreath of cottage smoke. 
 
 Symbol of household cheer the whole world over ! 
 
 Perfect contentment brims no mortal breast ; 
 The dweller with the prairie dog and gopher, 
 
 No doubt, has his due portion with the rest. 
 
 His evening meal upon the coals was cooking ; 
 
 A babe, I fain would think, made glad the house ; 
 A wife, I'm sure ; but he was anxious, looking 
 
 To see his boys come driving home the cows. 
 
 No thought had he to join the world's great battle. 
 
 Or follow in the ranks of wealth and pride. 
 His home, his farm, his own small herd of cattle, 
 
 These are his world ; he knows no world beside. 
 
THE KANSAS FARMER. 51 
 
 Though few of life's fair consolations enter 
 
 The door, to us so desolate and dim, 
 That cabin on the prairie is the center 
 
 Of the round earth and rolling heavens to him. 
 
 He, too, — so fancy runs — has his ambition : 
 To build a barn, renew that two years' loan, 
 
 Improve each day a little his condition, 
 
 And leave his children's better than his own. 
 
 To petty cares, the lack of tools and fences, 
 
 To rains, droughts, weeds, the price of pork and 
 corn, 
 
 He gives his years ; yet finds its recompenses, 
 Even in the life we picture so forlorn. 
 
 Man, to the last a child, who still amuses 
 Himself all day with trifles great and small, 
 
 Cherishes most the few poor toys he uses, 
 
 But, given too many, learns to scorn them all. 
 
 Sweeter than ease, sometimes, is rude privation ; 
 
 Less tedious than long leisure to live through 
 Are days full packed with healthful occupation ; 
 
 Too many friends, as irksome as too few. 
 
5 2 
 
 THE KANSAS FARMER. 
 
 How little for our daily need suffices, 
 
 Could each but know, contented with his share ! 
 
 The frugal dish, which luxury despises, 
 
 Is to the humble sweet and wholesome fare. 
 
 With hope, a constant, cloud-illuming crescent, 
 With love, and work for head or hands, these 
 three, 
 
 Alike the mightiest king or lowliest peasant 
 Finds life worth living, each in his degree. 
 
 Culture and gold' ara good, but not by building 
 More stately porches may we look to win 
 
 Peace to our dwelling ; nor by gayly gilding 
 The fountain can we raise the flood within. 
 
 We ply the fount with toil and rest and revel, 
 One casts in empires, and one bagatelles ; 
 
 Still happiness in men will seek its level, 
 As water from one source in many wells. 
 
 
H 
 
 A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 E fell in a wayside brawl, not far from his 
 mother's door. 
 We picked him up, two or three of us ; one ran on 
 
 before, 
 To give her a decent warning, while we turned into 
 
 the place, 
 Lugging him, horribly limp, with his hat laid over 
 his face. 
 
 We heard a sharp voice in the doorway : " Don't fear 
 
 but I shall be strong ! 
 What is one sorrow the more to a heart that is seared 
 
 with wrong ? 
 My son ? something dreadful ? They've killed him ! " 
 
 And tearless, terrible eyes 
 Looked down on us and our burden : no wringing of 
 
 hands, nor cries : 
 
 53 
 
54 A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 But, going before, she cleared the lounge that we laid 
 
 him on ; 
 Uncovered with her own hand the face upstaring and 
 
 wan, 
 The small, dark wound in the temple, and slow, dull 
 
 trickling red ; 
 Then writhed in a spasm of horror and agony over 
 
 the dead. 
 
 The doctors came and looked grave ; there was 
 
 nothing more to be done ; 
 And there the old mother sat by the side of her 
 
 murdered son, 
 Bigid, erect, and under her neatly combed white 
 
 hair 
 Her gleaming features fixed in a frozen and fierce 
 
 despair. 
 
 The neighbors gathered round, where she sat tearless 
 
 and grim ; 
 Full of compassion for her, but hardly sorry for 
 
 him ; 
 Full of compassion for her, but wondering if, on the 
 
 whole, 
 'Twere better to wish her joy, or weakly attempt to 
 
 console. 
 
A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 55 
 
 She seemed to fathom their thoughts : " Yes, little 
 
 cause," she said. 
 " Did ever he give while living, that I should mourn 
 
 for him dead ! 
 And life is so full of misfortunes that death seems 
 
 far from the worst. 
 Yet he is the hahe of my bosom, the child I have 
 
 borne and nursed. 
 
 " The same ? 0, merciful powers ! 'twas well that I 
 
 couldn't see 
 On the innocent forehead I kissed the horror that 
 
 was to be ! 
 Not see these clotted locks in the silky hair I 
 
 curled — 
 The happiest mother and prettiest baby in all the 
 
 world. 
 
 " He sickened, too, that summer, just after his father 
 
 died ; 
 And well do I recollect how I clung to him then, and 
 
 cried. 
 And called on the cruel fates, and promised to 
 
 forgive 
 All their unkindness to me, if only my child might 
 
 live. 
 
5 6 A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 "•Spare him!' I said, ' whatever my widowed life 
 
 must bear ; 
 Spare him ! ' And the cruel fates, in mockery of 
 
 my prayer — 
 Or was it Heaven, to punish my obduracy and 
 
 pride? — 
 Seemed in mercy to grant what mercy would have 
 
 denied. 
 
 " There are sons who honor their mothers ; and is 
 
 there an earthly joy 
 Like hers who watches the growth in grace of her 
 
 one dear boy ? 
 But look at us now, and tell me if ever I was 
 
 one 
 That dreamt she was such a mother and he would be 
 
 such a son ! 
 
 " I bore with his childish passions, and petted his 
 
 whims, until 
 They grew to be snarling faults of ingratitude and 
 
 self-will. 
 I tried to curb and restrain them, but they were too 
 
 fierce and strong, 
 And they turned and tore the hand that had fostered 
 
 them too long. 
 
A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 57 
 
 " I hid in my heart, and pardoned, whatever wrong 
 
 he had done ; 
 And strangers said : ' What a treasure you have in 
 
 your only son ! ' 
 And oil ! he was fair to behold ! And I marveled 
 
 how he could lie 
 Always so kind to others, and never kind to me. 
 
 " Upon those who gave him least, he could smile like 
 
 an angel of light ; 
 Upon me, who gave him most, he vented his anger 
 
 and spite. 
 Was it his, or mine, the fault ? And whose, at last, 
 
 was the blame, 
 When the fire in his blood broke out in open riot and 
 
 shame ? 
 
 " He was as he was : perverse — a nature that under- 
 stood 
 
 Nothing of self-denial, of duty or gratitude : 
 
 No aim but the hour's enjoyment, no higher ambition 
 on earth 
 
 Than just to be ranked good fellow with fellows of 
 shallow worth. 
 
58 A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 " With a greed that had no eyes to see beyond the 
 
 day, 
 Me and my slender savings he looked npon as his 
 
 prey ; 
 In the sieve of self-indulgence pouring his powers 
 
 and gains ; 
 Never counting the cost in future losses and pains. 
 
 " He was as he was : if your boy is born with a 
 crippled limb, 
 
 Or blind, or deaf, do you think of laying the blame 
 on him ? 
 
 And one is infirm of reason, and one is deformed of 
 soul, 
 
 And one, a Goliath of passion, a pigmy in self- 
 control. 
 
 " He was as he was, from his birth — no will or wish 
 
 of his own ; 
 Or the will was flesh of his flesh, the wish was bone 
 
 of his bone. 
 It is easy to say, we are free to follow evil or 
 
 good; 
 Whatever we follow or leave, the choice is in our 
 
 blood. 
 
A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 59 
 
 "0, yes! he should have cared for good men's 
 
 counsel and praise, 
 And heeded the pleading love that strove with him 
 
 all his days. 
 But the force that obeys the magnet is not in stone, 
 
 but in steel ; 
 And the secret is in ourselves of the influences we 
 
 feel. 
 
 " He was as he was ! He was born so ! No need to 
 question why 
 
 He was cursed with faults that neither his father had 
 nor I. 
 
 Traits good in themselves sometimes appear in strange 
 excess, 
 
 And generous heats name out in folly and reckless- 
 ness. 
 
 "You sooner might track the wind, or an under- 
 ground stream to its source, 
 
 Than some inherited taint through its hidden and 
 fitful course — 
 
 The vice that has lurked so long in generations 
 past, 
 
 To burst its decent bounds and rage in our sons at 
 last. 
 
6o A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 " He was as he was ; accuse him, excuse him, what 
 
 you will : 
 And I, who have loved him most, and pitied, accuse 
 
 him still. 
 For, though we may bear and forbear, and pardon, 
 
 and suffer long, 
 The right is forever right, and the wrong is eternally 
 
 " And I am his mother ; and all that is left of my 
 
 boy lies there ! 
 The frolic of youth, and the frenzy, alternate sport 
 
 and despair ; 
 Desire that would have dissolved — a mere lump in 
 
 his cup — the earth ! 
 Gone out like a flame that is quenched, like a fire 
 
 that is dead on the hearth. 
 
 "I can neither rejoice nor grieve — my heart is like 
 
 stone in my breast. 
 He was naught but a burden and thorn, and I know 
 
 that what is, is best. 
 Yet I shall be lost without him. The very trouble 
 
 and care 
 That pass with him out of my life will leave it empty 
 
 and bare. 
 
A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 61 
 
 " I would hope ; I would pray for him ! Is there 
 
 another and happier sphere, 
 Where the soul may arise from the cloud of evil that 
 
 clung to it here ? 
 Or has he rushed into that world all aflame with the 
 
 passions of this ? 
 I would hope ; I would know ! I cannot look into 
 
 the dark abyss ! 
 
 " Maybe not all are immortal ; the souls of sinners 
 
 may die, 
 Burn briefly in Heaven, and vanish, like meteors 
 
 dropped in our sky. 
 I shall follow him soon, I shall follow ; and oh ! that 
 
 our spirits may live, 
 If only to know each other, to know and embrace 
 
 and forgive ! " 
 
 The neighbors gathered near, and departed, one by 
 
 one ; 
 And there the old mother sat by the side of her 
 
 murdered son, 
 And talked, and now and then brushed the flies from 
 
 the livid face, 
 Till the coroner hurried in, and she rose to yield him 
 
 place. 
 
62 A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 With a sob in her voice, she moved at last from the 
 
 dead man's side, 
 A hard, dry sob from the source which grief long 
 
 since had dried, 
 And still with the icy despair, the look out of eyes 
 
 that had shed 
 So many tears for the living, they had none to weep 
 
 for the dead. 
 
AFTER THE SALE. 
 
 THE wagon, with high fantastic load 
 Of household goods, is at the gate ; 
 The shadows darken down the road ; 
 
 Why does the old man wait ? 
 Bureau, bedstead, rocking-chair, 
 Upturned table with heels in air, — 
 Whatever the grudging fates would spare, — ■ 
 Lie huddled and heaped and tumbled there, 
 A melancholy freight ! 
 
 " Of all his riches," the teamster said, 
 
 " Now only this precious pile remains ! 
 A blanket and bed for his old gray head, 
 
 For all his life-long pains. 
 Hard case, I own ! but they say that Pride 
 Must have a fall." His ropes he tied 
 In the chill March wind. "Hurry up ! " he cried, 
 And gathered in the reins. 
 
 The old wife bows her stricken face 
 
 On the doorstone, weary and worn and gray. 
 63 
 
64 AFTER THE SALE. 
 
 The old man lingers about the place, 
 
 Taking a last survey ; 
 Looks in once more at the great barn door, 
 On the empty mow and the vacant floor : 
 All the gains of his life have gone before, 
 
 And why should he care to stay ? 
 
 Only a stool with a broken leg 
 
 Is left, and a bucket without a bail. 
 
 The harness is gone from hook and peg, 
 Even the whip from its nail : 
 
 Dreary shadows hang from the wall. 
 
 No friendly whinny from shed or stall, 
 
 Nor unmilked heifer's welcoming call ; 
 
 The poultry and pigs have vanished, all 
 Swept out by the sheriff's sale. 
 
 Back to the dooryarcl well he goes 
 
 For a parting look, a farewell drink. 
 
 How drippingly that bucket rose 
 
 And poised for him on the brink, 
 
 In the summers gone, and plashed his feet, 
 
 When the men came in from the harvest heat ! 
 
 How blessedly cool the draught, how sweet, 
 'Tis misery now to think. 
 
— • ' ALL 
 SWEPT OUT BY THE SHERIFF'S SALE.' 
 
AFTER THE SALE. 67 
 
 What scenes of peaceful, prosperous life 
 Once filled the yard, so desolate now ! 
 
 When he often would say to his pleased, proud wife, 
 That the farm appeared, somehow, 
 
 More thrifty and cheery than other men's, 
 
 With its cattle in pasture and swine in pens, 
 
 Bleating of lambs and cackle of hens, 
 And well-stored crib and mow. 
 
 The early years of their proud success, 
 
 The years of failure and mutual blame, 
 Are past, with the toil that was happiness, 
 
 And the strife that was sorrow and shame. 
 She came to him hopeful and strong and fair — 
 Now who is the sad wraith sitting there, 
 With her burden of grief, and her old thin hair, 
 Bowed over her feeble frame ? 
 
 " Do you remember ? This well," he said, 
 
 " Was sunk that summer when Jane was born. 
 She used to stand in the old house-shed 
 
 And blow the dinner-horn, 
 In after years, — or climb a rail 
 Of the dooryard fence for a cheery hail, — 
 Then run to the curb for a brimming pail, 
 When I came up from the corn." 
 
68 AFTER THE SALE. 
 
 Why think of her now ? against whose name 
 His lips and heart long since were sealed ; 
 
 Whose memory in their lives became 
 A sorrow that never has healed. 
 
 Her step is on the creaking stair, 
 
 Her girlish image is everywhere ! 
 
 He hears her laughter, he sees her hair 
 
 Blow back in the wind, as she comes to bear 
 His luncheon to the field. 
 
 " 'Twas a terrible wrong ! " The old wife spoke, 
 Swaying her gaunt frame to and fro. 
 
 " I'll say it now ! " Her strained voice broke 
 Into a wail of woe. 
 
 " It haunts me awake, it haunts me asleep ! 
 
 And silence has been so hard to keep — 
 
 So long ! — but there is a grief too deep 
 For ever a man to know ! " 
 
 A quaver of anguish shook his tone, 
 
 His look was pierced with a keen remorse 
 
 " The blame, I suppose, was all my own ; 
 And I have no heart, of course ! 
 
 Great Heaven ! nor any grief to hide ! " 
 
 Lifting his gloomy hat aside, 
 
AFTER THE SALE. 
 
 He looked up, haggard and hollow-eyed, 
 Like one whose burning soul had dried 
 His tears at their very source. 
 
 " No, no ! I don't mean that," she wept. 
 
 "I've felt you suffering many a day, 
 And often at night when you thought I slept, 
 
 And when I have heard you pray 
 Until it seemed that my heart would burst. 
 And as for the blame, you know, at first, 
 I claimed you were right, and did my worst 
 
 To force her to obey, 
 
 "For the dream of our lives had been to make 
 
 Our Jane a lady fit for a lord ; 
 Our schemes were all for our children's sake, 
 
 And it seemed a cruel reward 
 To see her with careless scorn refuse — 
 For all the arguments we could use — 
 The men you most approved, and choose 
 The one you most abhorred. 
 
 " But when she had chosen and all was done, 
 You needn't have been so hard and stern 
 
 We might have forgiven the poor dear one, 
 And welcomed her return. 
 
7 o AFTER THE SALE. 
 
 You never could know what she was to me, 
 You never will know how I yearn to see 
 My child again — how homesickly 
 I yearn, and yearn, and yearn ! 
 
 " She chose for herself, and who can tell ? 
 
 She braved your will, it's true, and yet 
 She may, for all that, have chosen well. 
 
 And how can we forget ? 
 We chose for Alice, and unawares 
 Rushed with her into a rich man's snares, 
 Who tangled us up in his loose affairs, 
 
 And dragged us down with debt." 
 
 "Well, well ! " — with a heavy sigh — " Let's go ! 
 
 I haven't been always wise. Ah, Jane ! 
 Some things might not be done just so, 
 
 If they were to do again. 
 But Alice is dead and the farm is gone ; 
 Our hopes, and all that we built them on, 
 Friends, wealth, are scattered hither and yon, 
 
 And only ourselves remain. 
 
 " These boughs will blossom and fruits will fall 
 The same ! When I changed the orchard lot, 
 
 And fenced it all with good stone wall, 
 And planned the garden plot, 
 
;5v3Y vi 'l ' 
 
 
 1 
 
 ■— --^UjV--^ ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
AFTER THE SALE. 73 
 
 And built the arbor and planted trees, 
 And made a home for our pride and ease, 
 We little thought these were all to please 
 Strangers who knew us not ! 
 
 " Others will reap where we have sown ; 
 
 But others never can understand 
 What watchful care these fields have known, 
 
 Or how I loved the land. 
 Here maids will marry and babes be born, 
 The sun will shine on the wheat and corn, 
 Crops be gathered and sheep be shorn, 
 
 But by a stranger's hand. 
 
 " Come, wife ! " With bitterest vain regret, 
 Remembering all good things that were, 
 The old man yet can half forget 
 
 His woes, in pity of her. 
 She entered, a young man's happy bride, 
 She crowned his home with hope and pride, 
 And now goes forth by an old man's side, 
 A weary wanderer. 
 
 With slow, disconsolate, broken talk, 
 
 They look their last and pass the gate ; 
 
 The wagon is gone and they must walk ; 
 A mile, and it's growing late. 
 
74 AFTER THE SALE. 
 
 She bears a parcel, he lifts a pack. 
 But what do they see there, up the track, 
 Against the sunset, looming black ? 
 Tis strange ! the wagon is coming back 
 With its melancholy freight. 
 
 And what is the driver shrieking out ? 
 
 Now Heaven for a moment keep them sane ! 
 " Turn about ! turn about ! " they hear him shout, 
 
 As he flourishes whip and rein — 
 " You've a home and a good friend yet, you'll find ! 
 A coach is following close behind ; 
 A face — a voice — ; Heaven be kind ! 
 0, lips that tremble and tears that blind ! 
 
 0, breaking hearts, it's Jane I 
 
THREE WORLDS. 
 
 i. 
 
 IN youth the world, a newly blown 
 Prismatic bubble, 
 Shows the enchanted soul her own 
 Enchanting double. 
 
 The light and dew of heavenly dreams 
 Filled my young vision, 
 
 And life rose clothed in orient beams, 
 Bright apparition ! 
 
 Then love in each fair bosom beat, 
 
 A pure emotion ; 
 And friendship was a long and sweet 
 
 Ideal devotion. 
 
 Woman was truth ; and age was then 
 
 Holy as hoary. 
 Strangely about the brows of men 
 
 There shone a glory, 
 
7 6 THREE WORLDS. 
 
 A radiance shed by my rapt sight 
 
 And reverent spirit ; 
 How changed the life, how paled the light, 
 
 As I drew near it ! 
 
 'Twas my own ardent youth ( alas, 
 
 How unsuspected ! ) 
 Whose image in the bubble's glass 
 
 I saw reflected. 
 
 magic youth, that could suffuse 
 
 The bright creation 
 With its own dreams and rainbow hues 
 
 Of aspiration ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 The wondrous years no more were mine, 
 
 When fervent Fancy 
 Eemade the world by her divine, 
 
 Sweet necromancy. 
 
 But still, as paled that earlier flame, 
 
 My zeal grew warmer 
 To serve my kind ; and I became 
 
 A world-reformer. 
 
THREE WORLDS. 77 
 
 For every problem then I saw 
 
 Some new solution, 
 Could T remodel human law 
 
 And institution ! 
 
 To wed in work the heart and mind, 
 
 Make life a mission 
 Of wise good-will to all mankind, 
 
 Was my ambition. 
 
 Bondage and ignorance should cease ; 
 
 Reason and culture 
 Should banish war, the dove of peace 
 
 Succeed the vulture. 
 
 But patiently as I reshaped 
 
 The old equation, 
 I found some factor still escaped 
 
 My calculation. 
 
 No philosophic scheme, nor act 
 
 Of legislature, 
 Can yoke the storm and cataract 
 
 Of human nature. 
 
7 8 THREE WORLDS. 
 
 The moral crusade may proceed 
 
 By means immoral ; 
 And too much zeal for peace may lead 
 
 To many a quarrel. 
 
 A thankless task has he who tries 
 
 To chip and model 
 The world to just the form and size 
 
 Of his own noddle. 
 
 Is it because of hopes long tossed, 
 Or heart grown harder ? 
 
 Now I have also something lost 
 Of that last ardor. 
 
 No dungeon door will cease to creak, 
 
 Nor chain be broken, 
 For any word I hoped to speak, 
 
 But leave unspoken. 
 
 My noon is past, as many things, 
 
 Alas, remind me ! 
 Slowly about my shadow swings, 
 
 Lengthening behind me. 
 
THREE WORLDS. 79 
 
 The unaccomplished task laid down 
 
 I leave to others ; 
 The voice, the victory, and the crown, 
 
 To you, my brothers ! 
 
 Not doubting, though my lips be dumb, 
 
 But trusting wholly 
 In that fair time which yet shall come, — 
 
 Shall come, though slowly. 
 
 Not in our hurrying years, but late, 
 
 Through generations, 
 The race shall rise which I await 
 
 With perfect patience. 
 
 Youth's brave illusion, manhood's hope, 
 
 Vision of sages, 
 Are augury and horoscope 
 
 Of future ag:es. 
 
 A harp-like sound is in my ear, 
 A far-off humming : 
 
 I see the golden cloud, I hear 
 The chariots coming ! 
 
8o THREE WORLDS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Nearer and sweeter than I thought, 
 
 One world has waited, 
 Though not the world my fancy wrought, 
 
 Or hope created : 
 
 A world of common light and air, 
 
 Of earth and azure ; 
 Of love girt round by fear, and care 
 
 Dearer than pleasure ; 
 
 Of simple wants and few, good-will 
 To friend and neighbor ; 
 
 And each day's cup each day must fill 
 With thought and labor ; 
 
 Furtherance and help, with ample scope 
 
 For tears and laughter ; 
 Of child-like faith, and earnest hope, 
 
 In the hereafter ; 
 
 Patience in pain ; in every ill, 
 
 Cross, and privation, 
 If not contentment, patience still, 
 
 And resignation. 
 
THREE WORLDS. 81 
 
 My brother's wrong I may not right, 
 
 But I can share it ; 
 My own I'll study less to fight, 
 
 And more to bear it. 
 
 The nettle-sting of others' deeds 
 
 I'll strive to pardon, 
 And look to find the lurking weeds 
 
 In my own garden. 
 
 I'll till my little plot of ground, 
 
 And pay my taxes, 
 And let the headlong globe go round 
 
 Upon its axis. 
 
 Aspire who may to seize the helm 
 
 And guide creation, 
 If I can rule my little realm 
 
 With moderation, — 
 
 My own small kingdom, act and thought 
 
 And chaste affection, 
 Trained powers, and passions duly brought 
 
 Into subjection, 
 
82 THREE WORLDS. 
 
 The world of home, of wife and child,- 
 
 Good-by, ambition ! 
 I'll live serenely reconciled 
 
 To my condition. 
 
 With years a richer life begins, 
 
 The spirit mellows : 
 Kipe age gives tone to violins, 
 
 Wine, and good fellows. 
 
 I'll marry action to repose, 
 
 Busily idle, 
 As through great scenes a traveler goes 
 
 With slackened bridle. 
 
 To loftier aims let me aspire, 
 
 To higher beauty ; 
 Freedom to follow my desire 
 
 Be one with duty. 
 
 About our common mother earth 
 
 Flow seas of ether ; 
 Heaven holds her in her starry girth, 
 
 The clouds enwreath her. 
 
THREE WORLDS. 83 
 
 Forever mystery, love, the soul' 
 
 Boundless ideal, 
 Like a diviner ether rolls 
 
 About the real. 
 
 And second youth can still suffuse 
 
 The bright creation 
 With its own dreams and rainbow hues 
 
 Of aspiration. 
 
THE SEEKING. 
 
 BY ways of dreaming and doing, 
 Man seeks the bourn of the blest : 
 Youth yearns for the Fortunate Islands, 
 Age pines for the haven of rest. 
 
 And we say to ourselves, " Oh ! surely, 
 
 Beneath some bluer skies, 
 Just over our bleak horizon, 
 
 The land of our longing lies." 
 
 Each seeks some favored pathway, 
 
 Secure to him alone ; 
 But every pathway thither 
 
 With broken hearts is strown. 
 
 it. 
 
 The Giver of Sleep breathed also, 
 
 Into our clay, the breath 
 And fire of unrest, to save us 
 
 From indolent life in death. 
 
 S4 
 
THE SEEKING. 85 
 
 Fair is the opening rose-bud. 
 
 And fair the full-blown rose ; 
 And sweet, after rest, is action. 
 
 And. after action, repose. 
 
 But indolence, like the cow-bird. 
 
 That's hatched in an alien nest. 
 Crowds out the native virtues. 
 
 And soon usurps the breast. 
 
 Better the endless endeavor. 
 
 The strong deed rushing on. 
 And Happiness that, ere we know her 
 
 And name her. smiles and is ox>ne ! 
 
 in. 
 
 We wait for the welling of water- 
 That never pass the brink : 
 
 We pour our lives in the fountain, 
 But cannot stay to drink. 
 
 " To-morrow." says Youthful Ardor. 
 
 Twining the vine and the rose, 
 "I will couch in these braided bowers, 
 
 As blithe as the breeze that blow-." 
 
86 THE SEEKING. 
 
 " To-morrow," says earnest Manhood, 
 
 Yet adding land to land, 
 " I will walk in the alleys of leisure, 
 
 And rest from the work of my hand." 
 
 " To-morrow," says Age, still training 
 The vine to the trembling wall, 
 
 Till the Dark sweeps down upon us, 
 And the Shadow that swallows all. 
 
 IY. 
 
 Ebb-tide chased by the flood-tide, 
 Night by the dawn pursued, 
 
 And ever contentment hounded 
 By fresh inquietude ! 
 
 Not what we have done avails us, 
 
 But what we do and are ; 
 We turn from the deed that is setting, 
 
 And steer for the rising star. 
 
 We may wreck our hearts in the voyage ; 
 
 But never shall sail or oar, 
 Nor wind of enchantment, waft us 
 
 Nearer the longed-for shore. 
 
THE SEEKING. 87 
 
 In vain each past attainment ; 
 
 No sooner the port appears 
 Than the spirit, ever aspiring, 
 
 Spreads sail for untried spheres. 
 
 Whatever region entices, 
 
 Whatever siren sings, 
 Still onward beckons the phantom 
 
 Of unaccomplished things. 
 
HYMN OF THE AIR. 
 
 NOUKISHER and encloser of all life 
 Am I. Before man was, or beast, or tree, 
 I in my winged chariot moved upon 
 The desolate, weltering waste that was the world, 
 And bade it fructify. And life appeared ; 
 Innumerable transitory forms 
 Limned and erased in each successive age, 
 Their early outlines lost, or later known 
 Traced in the rocky tablets of the globe. 
 Strange, wingless birds that tracked the baking 
 
 sands ; 
 Ophidian and amphibian, and the huge 
 Iguanoclon, and mighty beasts that tore 
 Tall forests, pasturing on their succulent boughs ; 
 These and their kind, emerging from the dim, 
 Slow-wakening, solitary, uncouth orb, 
 Stalked forth, — rude types of creatures yet to be ; — 
 Rock-^nawin2r lichens that forerun the feet 
 Of violets ; fungi watery and gross ; 
 Mosses that build and belt the corpulent bog ; 
 And tree-like ferns enormous from the moist 
 
 88 
 
HYMN OF THE AIR. 89 
 
 And steaming earth towered densely ; them I fed 
 On carbon from my over-brimming cup, 
 Storing it in their veins for future man. 
 
 Nourisher and encloser of all life : 
 
 All things that creep or fly, and they that dwell 
 
 Within the dim inhabitable deep, 
 
 And herb and shrub, and all fair waving forms 
 
 Of verdure, but for my sustaining might, 
 
 My presence and sustaining might withdrawn, 
 
 Would fail in universal void : breath, flame, 
 
 And sense, and strength of foot, and power of flight. 
 
 The condor, circling high above his crags, 
 
 Circling securely in my azure realm, 
 
 Earthward with all his plumes would drop like lead. 
 
 And sound would cease, with voice of bird and beast ; 
 
 The cataract in its plunge would make no noise ; 
 
 The tumbling billow on the foamless beach 
 
 Would lapse in silence ; even the waves would sink, 
 
 And all the bright seas to a ghastly film 
 
 Subside and shrivel, heaved by ghosts of tides. 
 
 Nor cloud would be, nor ever morning red, 
 
 Nor rains, nor rivers, nor the blessed dew. 
 
 About the seas I flow, an ampler sea, 
 Diaphanous and shoreless ; earth my floor, 
 
9o HYMN OF THE AIR. 
 
 The mountain-chains my reefs ; my surface waves, 
 Ethereal, tumbling high beneath the stars, 
 More silvery soft than aught but light itself, 
 And beautiful, could finite eyes behold, 
 But only spirits behold, whose radiant forms 
 Bathe in my almost spiritual flood. 
 Stupendous tides, to whose huge volume those 
 That ridge the broad-backed sea with sweeping 
 
 swells 
 Are but as ripples, roll beneath the moon 
 Eternally, unchafed by any strand, 
 In unimaginable loneliness, 
 And silence broken by no sound save where 
 With fiery plash the raining meteors fall. 
 
 Far down, curved duly with the curving sphere, 
 The white clouds curdle, pierced by quiet crags ; 
 With rifts that show the large plan of the world, 
 Oceans and continents and ice-capped poles, 
 Rivers and towns and crawling beasts and men. 
 Forever, high above those realms of change, 
 I take the sunshine on my crest, and bare 
 My pure, cold bosom to the moon and stars ; 
 While at my feet the pictured seasons pass 
 In beauty, or amidst battling elements, 
 
HYMN OF THE AIR. 91 
 
 When clouds charge clouds and lightnings cross 
 
 their swords, 
 And my wild skirts are fringed with flying storms. 
 
 I am the fountain of all winds that blow ; 
 Parent of zephyrs and flower-scented gales. 
 Sweet as the breath of lovers when they kiss 
 Under vine-shadows on soft summer eves. 
 
 Ministers of a vast beneficence, 
 
 Forever on fleet errands to and fro 
 
 My breezes fly ; beneath their glancing wings 
 
 Making the glad waves leap and clap their hands ; 
 
 Wafting through sun and shadow round the curve 
 
 Innumerable fleets ; fanning parched climes, 
 
 And purifying over-peopled towns ; 
 
 Bearing in airy urns to thirsty lands 
 
 The copious exhalations of the sea, 
 
 To frozen realms the heat of torrid suns. 
 
 Yet trust me not, for I am changeable : 
 Oh ! trust me not, for in my glassiest calms 
 Terror and fury couch, and tempest breeds. 
 
92 HYMN OF THE AIR. 
 
 My blue-roofed cavern is the nursing-place 
 
 Of rains and snows and hurricanes, the lair 
 
 Of young tornadoes and the whirlwind's whelps. 
 
 I am invisible, yet terrible. 
 
 All moods are mine. The fleets I waft, I smite. 
 In their mad whirling dance my dread cyclones, 
 Turbaned with thunder-clouds, in roaring robes 
 Gathering the torn-up seas and desert sands, 
 Darken and devastate the affrighted globe. 
 
 Eternal battle-field of cold and heat ; 
 Forever-swaying balance, reservoir 
 Of indestructible tumultuous force ; 
 Wafter of ships ; mother of fierce monsoons ; 
 Dispenser of the heavenly rain and dew ; 
 Purger of lands, physician of sick climes ; 
 Floating in peace the rosy evening cloud, 
 Or curled white cirrus of midsummer noons ; 
 Gentle or stern, in calm or tempest, I 
 Fulfill my manifold appointed use. 
 
 In my divine alembic I transmute 
 
 Death and the poisonous vapors of the world 
 
 Into fresh life and beauty. Tribes of men, 
 
HYMN OF THE AIR. 93 
 
 Interminable processions, insect, brute, 
 The multitudinous tranquil race of plants. 
 All things that perish, in my chemic glass 
 Distill and change, exhale and disappear ; 
 The beauteous flower, and she more beautiful 
 Who lifts it from the stalk with loving hand ; 
 Tyrants and slaves, the eagle and the gnat, 
 Leviathan and python, lion and lamb : 
 I waste and mingle, I diffuse and blow 
 About the world their wandering elements, 
 To pour them forth anew in living forms. 
 
 Enfolder and disposer of all life 
 
 Am I : and yet not I : Oh ! faithless man, 
 
 How canst thou feel my power and mystery, 
 
 And know the invisible force that clasps thee round, 
 
 And have in me thy being, and yet doubt 
 
 The Spirit whose similitude I am, 
 
 The Power that framed the world, and me, and thee ? 
 
THE POET. 
 
 A YOUTH there was, and his dwelling amid 
 1 X great wonders stood ; 
 
 There laughed the verdurous valley, there gloomed 
 
 the serious wood ; 
 And round about were the voices of winds and of 
 
 rushing streams ; 
 And his days were drugged with illusions, his nights 
 
 were drunken with dreams. 
 
 The years flew by, like the wild fowl, one by one, 
 
 over the glen, 
 Till a man he was grown, gazed after by men and 
 
 the daughters of men ; 
 A bard in the midst of a people that trafficked and 
 
 schemed and wrought, 
 They red with the sunlight of action, he pale with 
 
 the moonlight of thought. 
 
 94 
 
THE POET. 95 
 
 And many looked after and loved him, but wayward 
 
 and rapt went he ; 
 And blessed were his days, but ever he longed for 
 
 better to be ; 
 And fair and sweet were the maidens, but only the 
 
 face of the gray, 
 Thin wraith, the bodiless moonshine, beside his 
 
 pillow lay. 
 
 The strings of his lute never trembled to human 
 
 joys and woes, 
 But told of the clouds and the flowers, and the love 
 
 that no man knows : 
 He turned his song, as a Claude-glass, to image the 
 
 shapes and gleams 
 That float in the Limbus of fancy, that drift in the 
 
 Hades of dreams. 
 
 But once and again to his bedside a Vision of 
 
 visions had come, 
 When the world was mantled in darkness, and all 
 
 its voices were dumb, 
 Save only, afar in the forest, a moan and a glimmer 
 
 of locks, 
 Where the lost brook wailed as it wandered, and 
 
 beat its white breast on the rocks. 
 
96 THE POET. 
 
 Then the chill dim space of his chamber unfolded 
 
 and bloomed as a flower, 
 Filling with glory and fragrance the lonely and 
 
 desolate hour ; 
 Over his closed cold eyelids a breath moved, vital 
 
 and warm, 
 And a soul came out of the fragrance, and out of 
 
 the glory a form. 
 
 And in the still air of the heaven they made all 
 
 around and above, 
 Were eyes of ravishing brightness, a face of ineffable 
 
 love ; 
 From a forehead of snow flamed backward the 
 
 hair's soft golden fire ; 
 And a voice, or the soul of a voice, said, " I am your 
 
 heart's desire. 
 
 " Into life by the love of the sculptor a marble 
 
 maiden was warmed ; 
 And out of your wish I was fashioned, and out of 
 
 your faith I was formed. 
 The word I utter is only a pearl of your innermost 
 
 thought ; 
 My wisdom, the deep-hidden treasure that up from 
 
 your breast I have brought. 
 
THE POET. 97 
 
 I am twin-born of your being : to every mortal is 
 given 
 
 His angel, unseen, bending near him, as Earth is 
 leaned over by Heaven ; 
 
 Both one, as the stem and the flower of the water- 
 lily are one, 
 
 Below in the ooze and the shimmer, above in the 
 azure and sun. 
 
 " I dwell in the life of the spirit, yet ever am close 
 
 at your side ; 
 And I say to you, out of the stillness of light 
 
 wherein I abide, — 
 man ! in the midst of illusions, be ever alert to 
 
 hear 
 The lisp of your Psyche, the whisper that breathes 
 
 in the ear of your ear. 
 
 " poet ! with doubt and denial vex not your mind 
 overmuch : 
 
 They dull the delicate forces, the chords that 
 respond to my touch. 
 
 The bounds of your metaphysics inclose but a sterile 
 clod : 
 
 Waste not your thought upon thinking, nor dogma- 
 tize about God. 
 
9 8 THE POET. 
 
 " And dwell no longer in dreamland, the realm of 
 
 fable and fay ; 
 Await not the feast of To-morrow, but break the 
 
 bread of To-day. 
 Pine not for the nymph, Perfection, nor follow the 
 
 glance of Pride ; 
 But beckon the helpful maiden, call Comfort to your 
 
 side. 
 
 " Embody your pale ideals, and give to the dream 
 
 of youth, 
 With the form of art, which is beauty, the soul of 
 
 art, which is truth. 
 Fused in the fires of passion, in the fervor of fancy 
 
 wrought, 
 In reason's ice-brook temper the flaming sword of 
 
 your thought. 
 
 " Seize traits of the living and human, — no copy of 
 
 copy and cast ! 
 Nor swaddle the child of the Present in language 
 
 and lore of the Past. 
 Find love in hearts that are nighest, contentment in 
 
 common things, 
 And give to the creeping moment the lightness and 
 
 splendor of wings. 
 
THE POET. 99 
 
 Above the roofs of the lowly let Poesy hover and 
 
 glance, 
 And set by the humblest highway the finger-post of 
 
 Romance ; 
 Strong in the wisdom that counsels, and glad with 
 
 the faith that consoles, 
 To guide men ever upward to higher and nobler 
 
 goals ; 
 
 " To cheer with chants of the morning, or soothe 
 
 with songs in the night ; 
 So live, a beguiler of sorrows and minister of 
 
 delight ! 
 And still, in the midst of illusions, be ever alert to 
 
 hear 
 The word of your Psyche, the whisper that breathes 
 
 in the ear of your ear. 
 
 " The angels are still descending that to the 
 
 patriarch came ; 
 Just over each upturned forehead plays the celestial 
 
 flame. 
 Above your doubts and repinings, the heavens are 
 
 opened wide 
 To flood your life with the fullness of light wherein 
 
 I abide. 
 
ioo THE POET.^ 
 
 " Within the trembling dew-drop, that toward the 
 
 morning turns, 
 The world in little is mirrored, a whole creation 
 
 burns ; 
 And every heart that is lifted, and every soul that 
 
 aspires, 
 Is a spark of the Infinite Spirit, a focus of heavenly 
 
 fires." 
 
 The vision departed, and over the world's dim 
 
 boundary rolled 
 The shining billow of daybreak, the surges of 
 
 crimson and gold. 
 The wheels of traffic resounded, the blows of the 
 
 builders rang, 
 Sweet maidens smiled in the doorways, and children 
 
 shouted and sang. 
 
 The cry of the sibilant saw-mill rose vehement and 
 
 loud, 
 The white mill-waters curdled, and fell like a falling 
 
 cloud ; 
 While afar on the misty lowland went flying the 
 
 iron steed, 
 White-plumed, a phantom of beauty, swift-wheeled, 
 
 a marvel of speed.' 
 
THE POET. 101 
 
 The Poet went forth, beholding the earth created 
 
 new ; 
 He bathed his brow in its freshness? he washed his 
 
 heart in its dew ; 
 He heard the chorus of farmyards, the jubilee of 
 
 the birds, 
 The far-away tinkle, the lowing of pasture-going 
 
 herds. 
 
 He saw the lake all a-shiver with pictures of shores 
 and trees, 
 
 Soft etchings of cloud and shadow, the mezzotint of 
 the breeze ; 
 
 And thinly ascending and curling, in clefts of the 
 dark-green hills, 
 
 The smokes of embowered dwellings, like upward- 
 winding rills. 
 
 He heard blithe sounds of labor blend with the 
 
 brooks that ran, 
 The mighty rhythm of nature rhyme in the works 
 
 of man ; 
 And whether he roamed the woodland, or traversed 
 
 the busv street, 
 He moved in a world of wonders, with miracles at 
 
 his feet. 
 
ic2 THE POET. 
 
 And he vowed, " I will rend as a garment the dream 
 
 I have dreamed so long, 
 Put living men in my measures, this light and this 
 
 land in my song ; 
 For never was fabled country so fair as this I 
 
 behold : 
 I dwell in a realm of enchantment, I live in an age 
 
 of gold ! " 
 
AT MOUNT DESERT 
 
 BAR HARBOR. 
 
 In this rhyme of Mount Desert the more common pronunciation of the name is 
 adopted, with the anomalous accent on the final syllable, which appears to be a survival 
 from the French, not very desirable; while it is to be regretted that the full significance 
 of the name given by the Voyageur Champlain to this " Island of the Desolate Moun- 
 tains " — Isle des Monts Deserts — could not have been preserved. 
 
 The bird which flits through the ninth stanza is the black guillemot, a Northern water- 
 fowl, bearing sufficient resemblance to a pigeon to suggest its local name; its nearly 
 black plumage has a greenish tinge, with a conspicuous white spot on the wing. Its 
 soft, plaintive whistle faintly suggests the note of the wood pewec. It frequents in 
 great numbers some of the islands and crags of the far coast of Maine, where it breeds. 
 
 The harebell is scattered profusely almost everywhere along the shaded cliff? ; its 
 clusters are especially abundant and beautiful about Sol's Cliff, a ruggedly picturesque 
 crag not far from Bar Harbor. 
 
 PANOPLIED with crags and trees. 
 And begirt 
 By blue islands in soft seas, 
 
 Which invert 
 Idle yachts on glassy days, — 
 Who shall paint your purple bays, 
 Who can frame you in a phrase, 
 Mount Desert ? 
 103 
 
104 AT MOUNT DESERT. 
 
 Beetling ledges and sublime 
 
 Ocean swells ; 
 Caverns green with weeds and slime, 
 
 Blue with shells ; 
 Isle of rest for weary lives, 
 Woodland walks and dusty drives, 
 Seaside villas and big hives 
 
 Of hotels. 
 
 Rocks where dreamers half the day 
 
 Sit inert ; 
 Where girls gossip and crochet, 
 Play lawn-tennis, and, they say, 
 
 Sometimes flirt ; 
 Place to read, or sketch, or row ; 
 Town of hops and shops and show : 
 By these tokens tourists know 
 
 Mount Desert. 
 
 Every morning sees a mile, 
 
 Less or more, 
 Of strange vehicles defile 
 
 By your door : 
 Choose one, mount, and bowl along 
 On a buckboard light and strong, 
 Lilting, tilting on its long 
 
 Limber floor. 
 
AT MOUNT DESERT. 105 
 
 Or the dismal fog shuts clown, 
 
 Chill and gray ; 
 Over harbor, coast and town, 
 Dismal, drizzling, it sweeps down, 
 
 Day by day, 
 In interminable drifts, 
 Till some morning, lo, it lifts ! 
 And again through ragged rifts 
 
 Gleams the bay. 
 
 Sheeny vapors ride the air 
 
 And the sea, 
 Touching, trailing, here and there, 
 Till each mountain seems to wear 
 
 A toupee ; 
 Or a scimiter of lace 
 Shears a headland from its base, 
 And leaves hanging there in space 
 
 Rock and tree. 
 
 Quit the world of news and dress, 
 
 Cards and calls ! 
 To the vaulted wilderness, 
 
 Which inwalls 
 Mossy chasms and tangled nooks ! 
 
io6 AT MOUNT DESERT 
 
 Where the fleeing wood-nymph looks 
 From the veils of flashing brooks 
 And swift falls. 
 
 Loose your snowy-pinioned skiff, 
 
 Launch in space ! 
 Or explore with me this cliff, 
 
 From its face, 
 Which the wind and surges fret, 
 Past the plumed parapet, 
 Where no touch of man has yet 
 
 Left a trace. 
 
 As you scale the splintered jag 
 
 Toward the sky, — 
 As you pass the jutting jag, 
 The sea-pigeons on the crag 
 
 Downward fly ; 
 From the swells not far remote, 
 Where the pied flock sits afloat, 
 Comes their softly whistled note, 
 Like a sigh. 
 
 Slim against the fringy line 
 
 Of the firs, 
 The outleaning birches shine ; 
 
AT MOUNT DESERT 107 
 
 There the tresses of the pine ; 
 
 The wind stirs 
 The green-tufted tamarack ; 
 And the cedars, bristling black, 
 In the mountain's craggy back 
 
 Strike their spurs. 
 
 You may search the woods in vain, 
 
 Everywhere, 
 For the lonely thrush, whose strain 
 
 Fills the air. 
 Here the shy bunchberries house, 
 Where blue-tinted balsam boughs 
 Weave a covert for the grouse 
 
 And the hare. 
 
 The white-throated sparrow sings 
 
 In the trees. 
 Tint of mosses, glint of wings, 
 0, the thousand lovely things 
 
 That one sees 1 
 Loveliest, frailest, of them all 
 Are these wild flowers, blue and small, 
 Wavering on the bleak sea-wall 
 
 In the breeze. 
 
ioS AT MOUNT DESERT. 
 
 Find a foothold in the ledge, 
 
 There they spring ; 
 On its utmost dizzy edge, 
 
 There they cling ; 
 Where there's room for tuft to grow 
 In the crevices below, 
 While waves clash and tempests blow, 
 
 There they swing ! 
 
 Little Ariel s that perform 
 
 Their pure part 
 In rude scenes of strife and storm, 
 
 They upstart 
 From gray cleft and scanty mould. 
 So late flowers of love unfold, 
 Sweet relentings, in some old, 
 
 Rugged heart. 
 
 Region where the harebell blows, 
 
 Wave-begirt ! 
 Let the season's round of shows, 
 
 Which divert 
 Careless eyes in yonder town, 
 Justify your fair renown ; 
 But these flowers shall be your crown, 
 
 Mount Desert ! 
 
AT MOUNT DESERT. 109 
 
 By what magic, out of air, 
 
 Do they spin, — 
 Out of sunlight, dew and air, 
 The slight bonnets that they wear, 
 
 Blue and thin ? 
 Children of the rock and sky ! 
 Little people, you and I 
 Surely by some mystic tie 
 
 Are akin. 
 
 Huddled here in pleasant flocks 
 
 On the verge, 
 Nodding hoods and fluttering locks, 
 Half-way down the rifted rocks 
 
 That emerge 
 From the billows tumbling white, 
 Do you feel a fine delight 
 In the breezes and the bright 
 
 Bursting surge ? 
 
 Larger cousins of these meek, 
 
 Tiny elves ! 
 Belles of Mount Desert, who seek 
 Your sweet namesakes on the bleak 
 
 Crannied shelves ; 
 Following far the lovely lures, — 
 
no AT MOUNT DESERT. 
 
 Dainty relatives of yours, 
 Little charming miniatures 
 Of yourselves ! — 
 
 Cull them here betwixt the brink 
 
 And the foam ! 
 Choose a cluster by the brink, 
 Lift them gently from their chink, 
 
 Bear them home, — 
 Every flower a fairy vase 
 Brimmed with light of breezy bays, 
 In each bell the summer day's 
 
 Azure dome ! 
 
 To the city's footworn flags 
 
 They will bring 
 Winds and voices of these crags, 
 
 Where they cling, 
 Leaping surf and leaning trees, 
 Cool, bright hours of joyous ease, 
 And green islands in the sea's 
 
 Shining ring. 
 
THE BELL-BUOY AT MOUNT DESERT, 
 
 SOUTHWEST HAKBOK. 
 
 AT the gateway of the bay, 
 On the currents that come and go, 
 The bell-buoy heaves and swings. 
 Forever seeming to say : 
 " Woe ! woe ! " to the mariner, " woe ! 
 Beware of the reefs below ! " 
 To and fro, to and fro, 
 
 The bell-buoy rocks and rings. 
 
 In calm or storm, through all 
 The changes of night and day, 
 Blithe sun or blinding spray, 
 
 With the wail of the winds that blow, 
 With the moan of the ebb and flow, 
 While the billows swell and fall, 
 Goes forth that warning call — 
 Night and day, night and day, 
 
i2 THE BELL-BUOY AT MOUNT DESERT. 
 
 Peals forth the mournful knell 
 Of that iron sentinel, 
 Of the wave-swung, warning bell, 
 At the gateway of the bay. 
 
 Where the granite-snouted ledges 
 Lurk in their pimpled hides, 
 
 Scraggy with whelks and bosses, 
 And shaggy with black sea-mosses, 
 Just showing the tawny edges 
 
 Of their backs in the burying tides, 
 Shouldering off: the foam ; 
 
 Where they lie in wait to gore 
 With their terrible tusks the sides 
 Of the fair ship flying home ; 
 
 There the bowing bell-buoy rides, 
 With a dull reverberant roar 
 Evermore, evermore 
 Crying : " Woe ! " to the mariner, " woe ! 
 Beware of the rocks below ! 
 
 Beware of the treacherous shore ! " 
 
 At evening, from your boat, 
 You may see the sombre bell 
 In its black and massy frame, 
 Peered through by the sunset flame ; 
 
 A solemn silhouette, 
 
THE BELL-BUOY AT MOUNT DESERT. 113 
 
 In a skeleton turret, set 
 On the balanced and anchored float, 
 A-swing with the crimson swell. 
 
 When the soft, slumberous haze 
 Of drowsy midsummer days 
 Pours around inlets and bays 
 
 A glassy ethereal gleam ; 
 And over far isles and sails 
 Drop violet veils beyond veils, 
 
 Till headland and cliff but seem 
 
 The unreal shapes of a dream ; 
 When hardly the loon and gull, 
 In the lap of the languid lull, 
 
 Appear to waver a,nd dip : 
 Then the buoy sways, heavy and slow, 
 And the bell tolls, sad and low, 
 
 Like the bell of a sunken ship, 
 That heaves with the heaving hull, 
 Wave-rocked on the reefs below. 
 
 At times to the dreamy eye, 
 
 In the glamour of glistening weather 
 
 That girdles the sea and sky, 
 
 While ocean and island lie 
 
 Like a lion and lamb together ; 
 
 When the billow that bursts its sheaf 
 
14 THE BELL-BUOY AT MOUNT DESERT 
 
 Of silver over the reef 
 
 Falls light and white as a feather, 
 Curled all the length of the reef ; 
 Then the bell, like a darker plume, 
 Nods over the downy spume 
 
 In the veiled voluptuous weather. 
 
 At times so gently stirred, 
 It seems like a waving bough 
 
 To invite the wandering bird. 
 
 At intervals still is heard 
 
 That sullen note — as now ! — 
 
 Clanging its mournful and lone 
 
 Perpetual monotone. 
 
 A dismal, dolorous sound, 
 
 You would say, heard anywhere, 
 
 Be the weather foul or fair ! 
 Not so to the homeward-bound 
 Late crew from the fishing-ground, 
 
 Some muffled and murky night ; 
 Or the steamer heaving her lead 
 And groping in doubt and dread, 
 
 Through drizzle and fog, by the light 
 Of her lantern eyes, which shed 
 A misty glare at her head ; 
 
 Reaching out quivering rays, 
 
I ~ 
 
 "A DISMAL, DOLOROU 
 
THE BELL-BUOY AT MOUNT DESERT. 117 
 
 Antennae-like, in the haze, 
 To find her dubious way. 
 To the pilot's practiced ear 
 
 In such dark and anxious times, 
 That peal, as I have heard say, 
 Signaling, sudden and clear, 
 The course which he shall steer, 
 Is a cheerier sound to hear 
 Than sweetest belfry chimes. 
 
 But when, on this border-realm 
 
 Of created things, once more 
 
 The powers of chaos outpour 
 Their legions, and overwhelm 
 
 With darkness and dire uproar, 
 
 In their mad foray, this fair 
 
 Frontier of created things ; 
 When they scatter the fishing-fleet 
 And stun the shore with the beat 
 
 And buffet of billowy wings, 
 And trample of thunderous feet — 
 What life, out there in the surges, 
 
 Flings frantic arms in air 
 As it tosses and sinks and emerges — 
 
 Beckons with wild despair, 
 
 And tongues that doleful peal ? 
 
n8 THE BELL-BUOY AT MOUNT DESERT 
 
 Now loud in the leaping surges, 
 
 Now stifled with wind and wave. 
 No simple device of good 
 Stout metal and bolted wood, 
 
 But surely a thing that can feel, 
 And strong in its struggle to save 
 
 The shoreward driving keel ! 
 Boom ! boom ! boom ! 
 Out of the horror of gloom 
 A sound of dolor and doom 
 
 To the helmsman at the wheel. 
 
 The seasons come and go, 
 And still in storm or calm, 
 On the ocean's palpitant palm, 
 The bell-buoy rocks and rolls. 
 The summers come and go, 
 And, mantled in whirling snow, 
 Ice-capped, amid foam and floe, 
 
 The bell-buoy tumbles and tolls. 
 To and fro, loud or low, 
 Ever that sound of fear ! 
 You listen and seem to hear 
 A voice, as of some wild seer, 
 A cry and a warning to souls 
 Over life's treacherous shoals. 
 
THE CABIN. 
 
 Head at the Claflin Garden Party given to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, in Celebration of her 
 Seventieth Birthday, June 14, 1882. 
 
 GENIUS, 'tis said, knows not itself, 
 But works unconscious wholly. 
 Even so she wrought, who built in thought 
 The Cabin of the Lowly. 
 
 A wife with common wifely cares, 
 What mighty dreams enwrapt her ! 
 
 What fancies burned, until she turned 
 To write some flaming chapter ! 
 
 Her life was like some quiet bridge, 
 
 Impetuous tides sweep under. 
 So week by week the story grew, 
 
 From wonder on to wonder. 
 
 Wisdom could not conceive the plot, 
 
 Nor wit and fancy spin it ; 
 The woman's part, the wife's deep heart, 
 
 All mother's love, were in it. 
 
 IK) 
 
i2o THE CABIN. 
 
 Hatred of tyranny and wrong, 
 
 Compassion sweet and holy, 
 Sorrow and Guilt and Terror built 
 
 That Cabin of the Lowly. 
 
 And in the morning light, behold, 
 
 By some divine mutation, 
 Its roof became a sky of flame, 
 
 A portent to the nation ! 
 
 The Slave went forth through all the earth, 
 He preached to priest and rabbin ; 
 
 He spoke all tongues ; in every land 
 Opened that lowly Cabin. 
 
 Anon a school for kinder rule, 
 For freer thoughts and manners ; 
 
 Then from its door what armies pour 
 With bayonets and banners ! 
 
 More potent still than fires that kill, 
 
 Or logic that convinces, 
 The tale she told to high and low, 
 
 To peasants and to princes. 
 
THE CABIN. 121 
 
 That tale belongs with Freedom's songs, 
 
 The hero's high endeavor, 
 And all brave deeds that serve the needs 
 
 Of Liberty forever ! 
 
 I greet her now, when South and North 
 
 Have ceased their deadly quarrels ; 
 And say, or sing, while here I fling 
 
 This leaf upon her laurels : — 
 
 She loosed the rivets of the slave ; 
 
 She likewise lifted woman, 
 And proved her right to share with man 
 
 All labors pure and human. 
 
 Women, they say, must yield, obey, 
 
 Rear children, dance cotillons : 
 While this one wrote, she cast the vote 
 
 Of unenfranchised millions ! 
 
ODE. 
 
 Read at the Dedication of the Soldiers' Monument at Arlington, Mass., June 17, 1887. 
 
 LIKE Peace itself, as calm and fair, — 
 White flower from battle-furrows grown, 
 Its beauty blossomed into stone, — 
 Stands this still shaft in this June air ! 
 
 Long may the heavens upon it shed 
 The dews of eve, the beams of morn, 
 And light, for ages yet unborn, 
 
 The deeds of our heroic dead ! 
 
 They kept their country's faith, and fought 
 The New World's promise to fulfill, — 
 To hold, and leave unbroken still, 
 
 The ring of States the fathers wrought. 
 
 As cheerfully each artisan, 
 
 In some great work, performs his part, 
 Though knowing not the Master's art 
 
 And purpose, in the perfect plan ; — 
 
ODE. 123 
 
 So they, alike the sires and sons, 
 Toiled at one pattern, one divine, 
 Inscrutable and vast design, 
 
 Which through a nation's fabric runs. 
 
 They strove, at duty's high behest, 
 
 For liberty and equal laws ; 
 
 And in so striving served a cause 
 Whose grander scope they dimly guessed. 
 
 We ask not of their birth, nor need 
 The story of their years be sung ; 
 Who die for truth are always young, 
 
 And dear in their immortal deed. 
 
 Life at the best is brief, and wrong 
 Is evermore to face and quell ; 
 They who have clone their duty well, 
 
 They only, have lived well and long. 
 
 Oh ! blessed are they whose troubled days 
 Are nobly rounded, to our eyes, 
 By some large act of sacrifice, 
 
 Beyond all earthly blame or praise. 
 
24 ODE. 
 
 No more shall cold detraction come 
 To search their lives, nor fortune fret ; 
 The book is closed, and on it set 
 
 The sacred seal of martyrdom. 
 
 Friends, living comrades, gather round ! 
 And wave, ye winds, oh ! gently wave 
 The flag they loved and died to save, 
 
 Above our consecrated ground. 
 
 To them this fair memorial stone 
 We raise, to be henceforth a sign 
 Of patriot's zeal, and Freedom's shrine ; 
 
 And Fame adopts them for her own. 
 
AFTER THE CONCERT. 
 
 JOSEF HOFMANN, PIANIST AND COMPOSEK, AGED 10. 
 
 THE tempest of applause he met 
 As meekly as a bending bud ! 
 A boy of humble birth, and yet 
 
 A prince of more than royal blood. 
 
 For him no bauble handed down, 
 
 No sceptre despot ever bore, 
 But Music's heavenly realm, the crown 
 
 Which youthful Haendel won and wore ! 
 
 How laughed the Allegro's gay disdain, — 
 
 What rippling pearly melodies 
 Showered on us their enchanted rain, — 
 
 When his small fingers swept the keys ! 
 
 They leaped, they flew, they flashed through all 
 The jubilant chords ; or dropped, in play, 
 
 As carelessly as petals fall 
 
 From cherry-boughs in breezy May. 
 
 i-5 
 
i26 AFTER THE CONCERT 
 
 He tossed us Schumann's sparkling airs ; 
 
 Struck Rubinstein's sweet storms of tone : 
 We followed, up the starry stairs, 
 
 The shining feet of Mendelssohn. 
 
 He wove, around an untried theme, 
 
 So varied and so blithe a strain, 
 It wrapped us in a radiant dream 
 
 Of little Wolfgang come again. 
 
 The very roof with plaudits shook ; 
 
 And still, above their bursting flood, 
 The thunder and the gusts he took 
 
 As simply as a swaying bud. 
 
 Ah, could he know, the wondrous boy ! 
 
 When he had vanished from our gaze, 
 What tearful yearnings veiled our joy, 
 
 What prayers were mingled with our praise ! 
 
 We longed to shield him from the gales 
 Of coming time ; to lay his head 
 
 In lulling arms, and tell him tales, 
 And fold him in his quiet bed. 
 
AFTER THE CONCERT. 127 
 
 Waste not too soon, burning star ! 
 
 Your bright young life ; but nurse its beam, 
 That it may rise and light afar 
 
 The world's unresting, troubled stream. 
 
 Heaven fend, from that too ardent heart, 
 The griefs of great and gifted men, 
 
 The sordid miseries of Mozart, 
 The woes of mighty Beethoven. 
 
 Heir to a throne unstained by wrong, 
 Possess your sphere, unvexed by strife ; 
 
 Conquer new realms, rule well and long, 
 Nor lose the deeper things of life. 
 
 The unsullied ray that guides the soul 
 Is more than glory's blinding flame : 
 And helpful manhood, sound and whole, 
 Than all the works of art and fame. 
 January •, 1888. 
 
QUATRAINS AND EPIGRAMS. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 Heroic soul, in homely garb half hid, 
 Sincere, sagacious, melancholy, quaint, 
 
 What he endured, no less than what he did, 
 
 Has reared his monument and crowned him saint. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 How sweet, till past, then hideous evermore ! 
 
 Like that false fay the legend tells us of, 
 That seemed a lovely woman, viewed before, 
 
 But, from behind, all hollow, like a trough. 
 
 PHAETON. 
 
 Hot youth, in haste your high career to run, 
 
 Heed the wise counsel Phoebus gave his son, 
 
 And spare the whip ! brace the firm reins with nerve, 
 
 Nor ever from the middle pathway swerve. 
 
 128 
 
QUATRAINS AND EPIGRAMS. 129 
 
 MATERIALIST. 
 
 He took a tawny handful from the strand : 
 " What we can grasp," he said, " we understand, 
 And nothing more : " when, lo ! the laughing sand 
 Slid swiftly from his vainly clutching hand. 
 
 IDEALIST. 
 
 The World is but a frozen kind of gas, 
 A transient ice we sport on, where, alas ! 
 Diverted by the pictures in the glass, 
 We heed not the Realities that pass. 
 
 SENSUALIST. 
 
 " Live while we live ! " he cried ; but did not guess, 
 Fooled by the phantom, Pleasure, how much less 
 Enjoyment runs in rivers of excess 
 Than overbrims divine abstemiousness. 
 
 YEARS AND ART. 
 
 Youth strikes a skill-less blow, but the metal is all 
 
 aglow ; 
 Age has the experienced hand, but the fire in the 
 
 forge is low. 
 
i 3 o QUATRAINS AND EPIGRAMS. 
 
 HOW CAN I WELCOME AGE ? 
 
 How can I welcome age, or behold without dismay 
 The beautiful days go by and the great years glide 
 
 away ? 
 Lightly I hold the world, but I look upon children 
 
 and wife, 
 And though I dread not death, they make me in 
 
 love with life. 
 
 A POET-CEITIC. 
 
 He writes anonymous reviews ; 
 
 The reason is well known : 
 To see in print some sure abuse 
 Of every rival poet's muse, 
 
 And praises of his own. 
 
 AX ODIOUS COMPARISON. 
 
 When to my haughty spirit I rehearse 
 
 My verse, 
 Faulty enough it seems ; yet sometimes when 
 I measure it bv that of other men, 
 
 Why, then — 
 T see how easily it might be worse. 
 
QUATRAINS AND EPIGRAMS. 131 
 
 DIDACTIC POET. 
 
 Poet ! you do your genius wrong 
 
 By always reaching 
 For some deep lesson, spoil your song 
 
 By too much teaching. 
 
 Let brighter beauty, rising love, 
 
 Just hint your moral, 
 As whitening: surges break above 
 
 The reef of coral. 
 
 THE REASON WHY. 
 
 Your thronged bright parlors are a paradise 
 I too would enter ; but before my eyes 
 The doubting angel waves his two-edged sword — 
 The dread of boring and of being bored. 
 
 AN INDISCREET FRIEND. 
 
 Lucius defends me from my foes, 
 But wins no thanks from me : 
 
 Better a whole brigade of those 
 Than one such friend as he ! 
 
i 3 2 QUATRAINS AND EPIGRAMS 
 
 XAVIER DE MAISTRE's EPITAPH ON HIMSELF. 
 
 {From the French.) 
 
 Here lies, beneath this cold gray stone, 
 
 Xavier, whom all things filled with wonder ; 
 
 Who sought to know whence the winds blow, 
 And how and why Jove rolls the thunder. 
 
 He many a book of magic prized, 
 
 And read from morn till evening's fall, 
 
 And drank death's wave at last, surprised 
 That he knew nothing after all ! 
 
 ALCOTT. 
 
 {Inviting a Friend to one of the early " Conversations." j 
 
 Do you care to meet Alcott ? His mind is a mirror, 
 Reflecting the unspoken thought of his hearer : 
 To the great he is great, to the fool he's a fool : 
 In the world's dreary desert a crystalline pool. 
 Where a lion looks in and a lion appears ; 
 But an ass will see only his own ass's ears. 
 
QUATRAINS AND EPIGRAMS. 133 
 
 BOX voyage! 
 
 (For the Farewell Banquet to F. II. CK, before his departure 
 for Glasgow.) 
 
 Whex to the land of Scott and Burns, 
 Bannocks and haggis, classic dishes ! 
 
 Our friend departs, he takes our hearts 
 Along with him, in all good wishes. 
 
 May these attend, a viewless throng, 
 To, guard the ship that bears him over ! 
 
 No fog delay, nor storm, but may 
 Kind fortune be his constant lover. 
 
 If tempests smite the wild seas white, 
 And Titan billows reel and totter, 
 
 Let never plank go down with Frank, 
 Nor Underwood be under water ! 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 HIS window is over the factory flume ; 
 And Elkanah there, in his counting-room, 
 Sits hugging a littered table. 
 His beard is white as the foam, and his cheek 
 Is weather-beaten and withered and bleak 
 As the old brown factory gable. 
 
 Christmas is near ; and. he, it is clear, 
 
 Is squaring accounts with the parting year ; 
 
 Setting forth, in column and row, 
 
 Whatever a penny of gain can show — 
 
 Mortgages, dividends, and rents. 
 
 City bonds and gover'ments ; 
 
 A factory here and a tannery there. 
 
 Good bank stock and railroad share ; — 
 
 As fast as his busy brain can count. 
 
 Or his busy pen indite 'em, 
 Figuring profit and gross amount. 
 
 And adding item to item. 
 134 
 
SETTING FORTH IN COLUMN AND ROW. 
 WHATEVER A PENNY OF GAIN CAN SHOW 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 137 
 
 Thinks he : " It's a good round sum I make ; 
 
 Don't seem much like I was goin' to break ! " 
 
 And he looked again as he poised his pen 
 
 To fillip the drop of ink off. 
 But just as he gave the pen a shake, 
 He said "Ho ! ho ! " at a strange mistake 
 
 He found himself on the brink of : 
 He said "Ha ! ha ! " and his lips drew in 
 With a hard, dry, leathery kind of grin, 
 As much like the smile of a crocodile 
 
 As anything you can think of. 
 
 U I declare ! there's Widder Brown 
 In the cottage over in Tannery Town ! 
 The family had the house rent free 
 As long as her husband worked for me. 
 A good, smart, faithful chap was Jim — 
 Wish I had forty as good as him ! 
 But he died one day, and left her there ; 
 And I put the place in the parson's care — 
 For the only man in the town I dare 
 
 To trust is Parson Emery, 
 To see that the house don't run away, 
 And collect the rent she agreed to pay. 
 I'll write a letter this very day, 
 
 To jog the good man's memory." 
 
138 JVIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 The letter was straightway penned and sent ; 
 And it preached hard times to a dreary extent : 
 " For money is tight at ten per cent ; 
 Often no sooner got than spent ; 
 The poor man finds it a heavy stent 
 
 To earn his mess of pottage ; 
 And so," concluded the argument, 
 " You may, if you please, remit the rent 
 
 Jim's widcler owes for the cottage." 
 
 In two days' time the answer came. 
 
 " The parson is prompt. But — what in the name ! 
 
 He cried, as he opened and read the same : 
 
 How extremely odd it sounded ! 
 " Dear, noble, generous, honored friend " — 
 Were terms he couldn't well comprehend ; 
 And when he had struggled on to the end, 
 
 He was utterly astounded. 
 
 He gasped and gurgled, and then burst out : 
 " What'n thunder's the ol' fool ravin' about ? 
 He's crazy, without a shadder o' doubt ! 
 A- writ in' to me as if I was a saint ! 
 Wa'al, mabby I be, and then mabby I ain't. 
 An' what's his argyment ? why, to be sure, 
 That I'm a marciful man to the poor, 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 139 
 
 An' feel for the sufferin' brother, 
 An' stay the widder whose staff is gone ; 
 An' so he continners a-layin' it on, 
 
 An' he ain't sarcastical, nuther ! 
 
 " Blamed ol' blunderhead ! couldn't he see 
 'T the poor I was marciful tu meant me ? 
 But here he goes on, in a gushin' mood, 
 To tell o' the woman's gratitude, 
 Because I've been so exceedingly good 
 
 As to pity her sad condition, 
 An' give him the blessed authority tu 
 Remit — remit — the rent that is due. 
 Why don't he remit, then ? wish I knew ! 
 'Stid 0' that, here's more of his hullabalew, 
 
 To thank me for the remission ! 
 
 " Remission — remit. Oh, drat the dunce ! " 
 And he rushed for a dictionary ; 
 
 It having occurred to him all at once 
 
 That the meanings sometimes vary 
 
 Of even the simplest word we write ; 
 
 And that a prosy old parson might 
 
 Use one, and a man of business quite 
 Another, vocabulary. 
 
i 4 o WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Finger and eye ran down the page : 
 
 " R, a — R, e " — lie was flushed with rage : 
 
 " Remember — Remind — Remit ! " — at last 
 
 The terrible talon had it fast, 
 
 With the definition against it set : 
 
 " Send back," he read ; but, lower yet, 
 
 " To release, to forgive, as a sin or a debt ! " 
 
 Ah, through that mesh in the treacherous net 
 
 Had slipped the widow's pittance ! 
 'Twas so ! 'twas strange ! 'twas very absurd, 
 That thus from a phrase, or a single word, 
 With equal reason could be inferred 
 
 Collection of debt, or quittance ! 
 Words have their forks, like highways, whence 
 To left and right run the roads of sense ; 
 And, taking the wrong derivative, 
 The heedless old parson had come to give 
 
 Remission instead of remittance. 
 
 Elkanah glared for a moment, and then, 
 With a snort at the book, and a scoff at the men 
 Who invented the language, seized his pen, 
 Tore one letter, and wrote again, 
 
 Protruding his chin, while the hard dry grin 
 Grew terribly savage and sinister ; 
 Till, too impatient to brook delay, 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 141 
 
 He quite forgot it was Christmas-day, 
 Swung on his ulster, and swooped away 
 
 Toward Tannery Town and the Widow Brown 
 And the good old blundering minister. 
 
 As out by the forenoon train he went, 
 
 He had ample time to consider : 
 " To be soft-soaped to sich an extent — 
 Cracked up like a spavined hoss that's meant 
 
 To be sold to the highest bidder — 
 It's pooty dumbed rough on a plain old gent 
 That never was known to give a cent, 
 Say nothin' o' seventy dollars' rent, 
 
 To anybody's widder! 
 An' I ain't one o' the kind that cares 
 To be boosted up in a woman's prayers 
 
 Fer a favor I never did her. 
 
 " Yet she might pray fer me all her days, 
 An' I wouldn't object to the parson's praise, 
 
 Which he spreads so thick in his letter ; 
 But though he believes it himself, and though 
 Other folks may think it's all jes' so, 
 
 The plague is, I know better ! 
 He'll wonder what sort of a beast I be, 
 
142 WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 When I tell him square out how it seemed to me, 
 What a blamed, ridickelous fool's idee, 
 That I should forgive a debtor ! " 
 
 Quick moist flushes, strange hot streaks, 
 
 Shot clown to his shins and up to his cheeks. 
 
 He loosened his collar, and wondered what 
 
 In time made 'em keep the cars so hot. 
 
 Still, as he thought of the interview 
 
 He was going to seek, the warmer he grew. 
 
 And he said to himself, with a leer, " Must be 
 
 I'm fond of parsons' s'ciety ! 
 
 Fer what else under the canopy 
 
 I'm makin' the trip fer, I can't see ; 
 
 Sence a letter or tu would as soon undu 
 
 The snarl he's got me inter. 
 Save railroad fare, an' the wear an' tear 
 
 Of a journey in midwinter. 
 
 " It's an awk'ard mess, I du declare ! 
 The widder she'll cry, an' the parson he'll stare, 
 An' like enough somebody else will swear — 
 Wish I was back in my office chair ! 
 Fer why should I go twelve mile or so 
 An' lose my time an' my dinner, 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 143 
 
 To prove to their face, beyend a doubt, 
 'T I ain't no saint, as they make out, 
 
 But a hardened sort of a sinner ?" 
 
 Some such thoughts perplexed his brain, 
 As up to the station rolled the train, 
 With slackening speed and brakes screwed down, 
 And the brakeman bawled out, " Tannery Town ! 
 "Wa'al, here I be ! " With a gathering frown 
 And firm-set teeth, old Elkanah straight 
 Took his way to the parson's gate ; 
 No longer inclined to turn about, 
 
 In a flurry of confusion, 
 And like a coward retrace his route, 
 But grimly resolved to carry out 
 
 His original resolution. 
 Though, after all, he approached the spot, 
 Outwardly cold and inwardly hot, 
 As a brave man goes to be hanged or shot, 
 Or whatever else he thinks is not 
 
 The thing for his constitution. 
 And when this answer he received, 
 " Parson ain't to hum " — will it be believed ? 
 He felt like the very same man reprieved 
 
 At the moment of execution. 
 
i 4 4 WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Wa'al, no, he wouldn't go in and wait ; 
 
 He stood in the snow at the parsonage gate : 
 
 No train back till half-past one, 
 
 And the village bells had just begun 
 
 To ring for noon : for a minute or two 
 
 He stood, uncertain what to do, 
 
 Looking doubtfully up and down 
 
 The dreary streets of Tannery Town, 
 
 And thought of his money and Mrs. Brown : 
 
 Then this is what he did do — 
 He turned his feet up the snowy street, 
 
 And went to call on the widow. 
 
 'Twas Christmas-time, as I said before ; 
 And when, arrived at the cottage door, 
 
 He reached for the old bell handle, 
 He paused a moment, amazed and grim, 
 For he heard such a racket as seemed to him, 
 In the home of the late lamented Jim, 
 
 Sufficient cause for scandal. 
 
 A short, sharp ring : then a hurried noise 
 Of whispering, scampering girls and boys ; 
 And the door was opened a little space, 
 Through which peered out, with a bashful grace, 
 A surprisingly pretty-looking, 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 145 
 
 Timidly smiling, bright young blonde ; 
 And Elkanah caught, from the room beyond, 
 A savory sniff, a wonderful whiff, 
 Of most delicious cooking. 
 
 He sees a table, with neat cloth spread, 
 Steaming dishes, and cream-white bread ; 
 Cranberry sauce, and thick squash pies ; 
 And the curly brown pates and wondering eyes 
 
 Of the imps that had made the clatter ; 
 Then the mother just bringing in, to crown 
 Her banquet, a beautiful, golden-brown, 
 
 Great roasted goose on a platter. 
 
 A crabbed old man, to whom the sight 
 Of happy children gave small delight ; 
 A hungry man, who had come so far 
 To a feast his presence could only mar ; 
 
 An iron-fisted miser, 
 Who would seldom afford himself a fat, 
 Delectable Christmas goose like that, 
 Or indulge in anything half so good — 
 Confronting the widow, there he stood, 
 
 Just showing one grim incisor ; 
 And it certainly seemed that his presence would — 
 
 To say the least — surprise her. 
 
i 4 6 WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 For he said to himself, ".Her means are spent, 
 An' she hasn't a penny to pay her rent ! 
 
 While this is the way she gorges 
 Her ravenous tribe on the fat of the land. 
 I'll let her know that I understand 
 
 Whose money pays fer the orgies ! " 
 
 But, seeing the old man standing there, 
 The widow, seemingly unaware 
 
 Of his brow's severe contraction ; 
 Perceiving only his thin white hair, 
 And his almost venerable air, 
 Wiped her fingers, and placed a chair, 
 
 With a charmingly natural action ; 
 Welcoming him with never a trace 
 Of guile in her smiling and grateful face ; 
 Accounting this visit the crowning grace 
 
 Of his noble benefaction. 
 
 " 0, sir ! " she began, " I am glad you are here " — 
 With a cprivering lip and a starting tear — 
 " To see what happiness " (this was gall 
 To the stingy old wretch) " you have given us all ! 
 Since you were so good " — " Not I," he cried ; 
 " I never was good ! " But she replied, 
 With gentle, sweet insistence: 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 147 
 
 " It seems but a trifle to you, no doubt ; 
 Such kindness as yours " — Here he burst out, 
 " I tell ye, woman, ye're talkin' about 
 A thing that has no existence." 
 
 " Ah, you may say that, since you have shown 
 A goodness which you are too good to own 1 
 But I could never, with what I know. 
 Permit another to wrong you so." 
 Then up spoke one of the younger crew : 
 " Ye may bet yer dollars on that ! it's true ; 
 For only yesterday, I tell you, 
 
 Wasn't she in high dudgeon, 
 Just hearing you called by Deacon Shaw 
 The keenest old skinflint ever he saw! 
 He said he would sooner have hoped to draw 
 Sap from a hatchet or blood from a straw, 
 Than money that wasn't allowed by law, 
 
 From such an old curmudgeon. 
 
 "Well, what have I said ?" "Hush, Jamie, hush ! " 
 Cries the mother, in consternation ; 
 
 While Elkanah starts, with an angry flush 
 And a vigorous exclamation. 
 
 " Did he say that ? — say that of me ? 
 
 He\s tighter himself than the bark of a tree." 
 
i 4 S WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 tfc He has more heart than he lets folks see : 
 A little like you in that," says she. 
 " Ho! ho ! wa'al, wa'al ! that's a queer idee ! 
 That's a curi's ca'calation ! " 
 
 " But he, when at last he understood 
 
 What a friend you had been, how exceedingly good. 
 
 To my poor orphans," she went on, 
 
 " And me — for the sake of him that is gone — 
 
 He was humbled ; he took it quite to heart ; 
 
 Declared you had acted a noble part, 
 
 And expressed sincere repentance 
 For having misjudged you so till now. 
 But your example " — " Example ! I vow, 
 Mis' Brown," snarls Elkanah ; but somehow 
 
 He couldn't complete the sentence. 
 
 " Your Christian example ! " the widow cries, 
 " Who wants proof of it, there it lies " — 
 With a glance of pride at the great squash pies, 
 
 And the goose superbly basted. 
 " The deacon was here at half-past one ; 
 And at half-past two the proof had begun : 
 The goose was brought by the deacon's son, 
 And then it seemed as if every one 
 Must do as the deacon and you had done." 
 
H (5 
 
 W O 
 
 H 
 
 ► 2. 
 
 o 
 c 
 
 2 H 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 151 
 
 " Yes, sir," says Jamie ; " and wasn't it fun! 
 It was ring, ring, ring ! it was run, run, run ! 
 Squashes that weighed pretty nigh a ton ! 
 
 Such apples you never tasted ! " 
 " It came to us in our sorest need," 
 The widow resumed ; " and all are agreed 
 'Twas a harvest of which you sowed the seed. 
 You see your charity was, indeed, 
 
 An example that wasn't wasted." 
 
 " My charity ! " Elkanah groaned. " Well, well ! " 
 
 " 'Twas more of a blessing than I can tell ; " — 
 
 She choked a little and wiped a tear — 
 
 " For we have been dreadfully poor this year. 
 
 'Tis a hard, hard struggle to provide 
 
 For my five little ones since he died. 
 
 Faithfully, every day, I meant 
 
 To save a little to pay my rent ; 
 
 I stinted and planned, but still I found, 
 
 As often as Saturday night came round, 
 
 I had spared, when they were patched and fed, 
 
 Hardly enough for Sunday' s bread. 
 
 Such constant weariness, want and care 
 
 Seemed often more than a life could bear. 
 
 Then came, oh ! sir, your gracious gift, 
 
 Which all of a sudden seemed to lift 
 
152 WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 The burden which weighed me to the ground ; 
 
 And all these other good friends came round ; 
 
 And so, in our joy and thankfulness, 
 
 It seemed to me I could do no less 
 
 Than make a feast," she said with a smile. 
 
 " Be patient ! be quiet ! " For all the while 
 
 The hungry children clamored, 
 And climbed the chairs, and peeped at the pies, 
 And ogled the goose with wistful eyes. 
 " 'Tis a favor," said she, " I should greatly prize, 
 If you would sit by, and not despise 
 The bounty which Heaven through you supplies.' 
 " Hem ! wa'al ! ye take me by surprise. 
 
 Don't know," the old man stammered. 
 
 She smilingly reached for his coat and hat, 
 And the goose was fragrant, the goose was fat. 
 " I think you will stay." " Wa'al, as to that, 
 
 I don't dine out very often ; 
 I called to explain — but never mind. 
 Fact is, Mis' Brown, I haven't dined ; 
 And if you insist — sence you air so kind " — 
 He was rather surprised himself to find 
 
 His heart beginning to soften. 
 
 " Don't care 'f I du." And down he sat. 
 The goose was fragrant, the goose was fat. 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 153 
 
 The old man did the carving ; 
 The sance was dished, the gravy poured, 
 And the plates all round that little board 
 Were filled in a manner that didn't afford 
 
 The slightest hint of starving. 
 
 Not in all that dreary year 
 
 Had her cottage known such cheer. 
 
 With hope, and her happy children near, 
 
 The widow smiled contented. 
 Even old Elkanah ceased to be 
 Greatly scandalized to see 
 Cheerful faces and childish glee 
 
 In the home of the late lamented. 
 
 Nature's waj^s are wise and kind : 
 
 Clouds pass, dawn breaks, and ever behind 
 
 Each dark sea hollow swells a wave ; 
 
 And fresh grass grows on the new-made grave ; 
 
 And softly over the broken heart, 
 
 And its sorrowful recollections, 
 The leaves of another hope will start, 
 
 And tender new affections. 
 
 The widow talked and told her plans : 
 What a dutiful child was Nance ! 
 The parson had got her boys a chance 
 
154 WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 To blow the organ the coming year : 
 
 •• So there will be twenty dollars clear ! 
 
 The girls will help me more and more ; 
 
 I'll sew ; and often, as heretofore, 
 
 Earn bread for the morrow while they sleep; 
 
 And so I have hopes that I yet may keep 
 
 My little flock together — 
 With Heaven so kind and friends so good — 
 Send them to school, and provide them food 
 
 And shelter them from the weather. 
 
 " But oh ! what a change for them and me ; 
 How different now it all would be, 
 If my dear husband " — Mrs. Brown 
 Here, for some reason, quite broke down ; 
 And even old Elkanah's sight grew weak ; 
 You might have observed in his withered cheek 
 
 Some unaccustomed twitches, 
 And in his voice, when he tried to speak, 
 
 Some very unusual hitches ; 
 For, seeing how long she yet must strain 
 Her utmost energies, just to gain 
 Bread for her babes — perhaps in vain — 
 He had some twinges of shame and pain, 
 And a curious feeling I can't explain, 
 
 At the thought of his hoarded riches. 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 155 
 
 " Hem ! wa'al, Mis' Brown ! it's a pooty tough case ' " 
 
 He made a motion as if to place 
 
 His hand in his pocket, but drew it back. 
 
 " Though I must say, you've got a knack ! 
 
 You're gittin' along, an' I'm dreffle glad! 
 
 No more, no, thank'ee, ma'am ! I hain't had 
 
 Sich a dinner as this, I don't know when ! " 
 
 Down went the uncertain hand again. 
 
 " Your children are well, an' growin' ; 
 Few years, your boys '11 be rich men — 
 
 Mabby they will, no knowin'." 
 He merely pushed back his empty plate, 
 Then tusked at his watch. u Ha ! is it so late ? 
 I'd no i'dee on't ! train won't wait; 
 
 Guess I'll haf ter be goin' ! 
 
 1 •>■> 
 
 '• Must you, indeed ! How the time has flown ! " 
 The lonely old man had never known 
 So grateful a soul, a look and tone 
 
 So gentle and so caressing ; 
 And while she handed his hat and coat, 
 Arranged the collar about his throat, 
 Smoothed the creases, and brushed his arm, 
 He felt a strange, bewildering charm, 
 The very touch of her hand shed such 
 
 Unconscious love and blessing ! 
 
i:6 WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " I thought there was something he came to say, 
 To explain ! " cries Jamie. " Ah, yes ! by the way ! " 
 
 Says Elkanah, slightly flurried ; 
 " A leetle mistake — but that's all right ! 
 The parson, he didn't take in, not quite, 
 My full intent regardin' the rent : 
 
 Don't be the least mite worried 
 'Bout that f er sartin another year. — 
 Bless me ! I b'lieve it's the train I hear ! 
 
 G-ood-day ! " And off he hurried. 
 
 He seemed surrounded and pursued 
 
 By spirits of joy and gratitude ! 
 
 And he said to himself, " I must conclude. 
 
 Although the ol' parson wa'n't very shrewd, 
 
 'Twas a lucky mistake o' his'n ! " 
 And he felt some most surprising things, 
 Strange perturbations and flutterings, 
 As of something within him spreading wings — - 
 
 The angel within, new-risen ! 
 
 "I'm beat if there ain't the parson now! " 
 With eager stride and radiant brow 
 The minister crossed a steep by-street, 
 Through ridges of snow leg-deep, to greet 
 The friend of the widow and fatherless, 
 
WIDOW BROWN'S CHRISTMAS. 157 
 
 Who growled to himself, " Good thing, I guess, 
 Fer some of the fatherless folks we know, 
 Me and him didn't meet an hour ago — 
 
 Good thing all round, shouldn't wonder ! " 
 The parson came panting up the hill, 
 Hands out, with a greeting of warm good-will ; 
 All smiles ; serenely unconscious still 
 
 Of his most amazing blunder. 
 
 A soul as simple as rills that run 
 Joyous and clear in the summer sun ! 
 Not one who had chosen his work, but one 
 
 The Lord Himself had chosen ; 
 A child of faith, and a shepherd indeed ; 
 Not one of those whose formal creed 
 Has the tinkling sound and the hollow look 
 Of ice left over a shrunken brook — 
 Shrunken away from the living day, 
 
 Leaving its surface frozen. 
 
 Under the leafless village elms 
 
 The parson waylays and overwhelms 
 
 With more felicitation 
 Of the late epistolary sort 
 The impatient old man, who cuts him short 
 
 With a quaint gesticulation. 
 
158 WIDOW BROJVA T, S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " No more o' that, please understand ! 
 
 I've seen Jim's widder." This time the hand 
 
 Dives into the pocket, and brings out 
 
 A bright bank-note : " Guess the' ain't no doubt 
 
 But what we'd oughter give her a lift ; 
 
 An' here's a trifle, a Christmas gift, 
 
 I was pooty nigh fergittin'. 
 Eemit her rent the comin' year ; 
 And I'd like to remit to her now this 'ere. 
 By the way ! " drawls he, with a sidelong leer, 
 " Did j'ever notice — it's kind o' queer — 
 
 There's tew ways o' remittin' ? " 
 
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