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 Rhymes Atween-Times. 
 
THE POETS VENTURE. 
 
 I sat me down to build a boat 
 And launch it on the sea afloat : 
 I wrought it with a loving will, 
 Tutting to task my titmost skill : 
 I gave its form the highest grace 
 My hand and eye knezu how to trace. 
 And beautifed its every part 
 According to my native art. 
 I set the mast, and spread the sail 
 To catch the softliest-breathing gale, 
 And then I sent it forth to go 
 Whichever way the wind might blow. 
 Who knows ? It may be lost at sea, 
 Or come with treasure back to me. 
 
Rhymes 
 
 Ativeen- Times. 
 
 By Thomas MacKellar. 
 
 S 3 
 
 Philadelphia .• 
 
 Porter & Coates. 
 
 iSgo. 
 
75 a *^- 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year i8qo, by 
 
 Thomas MacKellar, 
 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
(preface io t$t JJeconb <Boit ton- 
 
 H^HIS edition of Rhymes Atween-Times 
 is sent forth by the author—firstly, to 
 please himself; and, secondly, to win the 
 approval of readers of pure and gentle in- 
 stincts. 
 
 Some pieces in the first edition have been 
 transferred to the author's book of Hymns 
 and Metrical Psalms, and new poems have 
 been inserted in their stead. 
 
 T. McK. 
 
 WOODNEST, 
 
 GERMANTOWN, PA. 
 
 December, iSgo. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Rhymes of Common I^ife. 
 
 Memorial Ode Page 17 
 
 A Ballad by the Sea 25 
 
 The Old Man of Minnequa 28 
 
 The Brook of Watkins Glen 33 
 
 Rain in the Mountains , 36 
 
 I<ake Mohonk 38 
 
 A Fifty- Years' Voyage 40 
 
 The Poet Anathematizeth the Mosquito .... 42 
 
 A Quest for the Sea- Wind 43 
 
 A Battle-Hymn 45 
 
 The Old Man of Sky-Top 46 
 
 Watkins Glen 48 
 
 The Iyover to His Wife 50 
 
 Sick, and Ye Visited Me 51 
 
 The Belles at Hathaway's 53 
 
 livery-Day Indications 54 
 
 A Seaside Notion 56 
 
 I^una and iE^olus 57 
 
 The House Beautiful .59 
 
 Send-Off Rhymes 60 
 
 Garfield 61 
 
 Stealing for I^ife 62 
 
 A Year of Wedded I^ife 63 
 
 I^ost, a Heart 65 
 
 9 
 
io CONTENTS. 
 
 Rhymes of Common Ljfe. 
 
 The First Called Page 66 
 
 To Somebody 67 
 
 Wanted, a Courier 68 
 
 The Sinking of the Cumberland 69 
 
 The Eclipse and the Rainbow 71 
 
 Crawford's Notch 72 
 
 The Little One 72 
 
 The River of Rhyme 75 
 
 The Thistle-Sifter 74 
 
 Early Day 74 
 
 The Tempest Stilled 76 
 
 My Mother Knelt in Prayer 77 
 
 Autumnal Quiet 78 
 
 Dost, Somebody's Child 79 
 
 Springtime 84 
 
 My Daughter 87 
 
 Crazy Norah 89 
 
 Brother ! Take My Arm 91 
 
 John Maynard, the Pilot of Dake Erie .... 92 
 
 A Peep Into the Parlour 96 
 
 Our Son 98 
 
 The Newly Come 100 
 
 The Sleeping Wife 101 
 
 Our Boy Forevermore 102 
 
 'Tis Five-and-Twenty Years 104 
 
 The Dead Wife 106 
 
 Anna Maria Ross 109 
 
 The Soldier to His Mother no 
 
 An Evening Storm at the Seaside in 
 
 Det Me Kiss Him for His Mother 113 
 
 A Morning Storm in the Adirondacks . ... 114 
 
 The Taking of the Child 1 15 
 
 Elisha Kent Kane 116 
 
 Old Pine Street Church, Philadelphia 118 
 
CONTENTS. II 
 
 Rhymes of Common Ljfe. 
 
 Matrimony Page 120 
 
 From My Pillow to the Editor 121 
 
 After Tea 123 
 
 A Day with the Influenza . ...... 124 
 
 Lilly 126 
 
 The Hymns My Mother Sung 128 
 
 The Reaper's Return 129 
 
 A Revery in an Ancient Potter's Field .... 135 
 
 The Desecrated Churchyard 140 
 
 Our Autumn Weather 143 
 
 Where is the Apple-Man ? 144 
 
 The Deaf 145 
 
 The Dinner Hour 146 
 
 Henry Reed 147 
 
 To the Comet ... 148 
 
 To a Troublesome Fly 149 
 
 A Colloquy with My Pen 150 
 
 Lmes to My Specs 152 
 
 The Ox and the Gnat 153 
 
 Visiters' Welcome 154 
 
 Winter's Phases 154 
 
 Ellen 158 
 
 My Father Blessed Me 165 
 
 Whistling 166 
 
 September Rain 167 
 
 Lost and Saved 168 
 
 The Two Processions 170 
 
 The Bell in the Steeple 171 
 
 Indian Summer 174 
 
 The Girl and the Woman 176 
 
 I've Not the Heart to Cut Them Down 177 
 
 Gentle Humanities 178 
 
 To My Boot 179 
 
 The Presence in the Dwelling 180 
 
12 CONTENTS. 
 
 Rhymes of Common Life. 
 
 To Bob Page 181 
 
 The Sting of the Tongue 182 
 
 Pity, Good Gentlefolks 183 
 
 The Dear One at Home 185 
 
 Why Delay the Violets? 186 
 
 The City Bound 186 
 
 The Angel in a Maiden's Eyes 188 
 
 " He will not again forget us" 189 
 
 Obese Humanity 191 
 
 Autumn Rhymes 193 
 
 The Decaying Homestead 194 
 
 The Beautiful Days of Spring ........ 196 
 
 The Home of the Hapless 197 
 
 A Country Sabbath— Morning Scene 198 
 
 Evening Scene 199 
 
 Ascent of St. Anthony's Nose 200 
 
 New Year's Eve in a Fog on the Hudson . . . 202 
 
 Celestial Frolics 205 
 
 The House Love-haunted 206 
 
 The People's Prayer 208 
 
 Fancies by the Sea 209 
 
 David Myerle 210 
 
 God's Adopted 211 
 
 Hungary 212 
 
 The Falling House 214 
 
 Lincoln 215 
 
 Remember the Poor 216 
 
 The Editor Sat in His Sanctum 217 
 
 life Eras 220 
 
 The War-Fiend 223 
 
 To a Friend 224 
 
 The Latest Born 226 
 
 Let's Sit Down and Talk Together 227 
 
 The Howling Storm and the Wondrous Calm . 229 
 
CONTENTS. 13 
 
 Sonnet Rhymes. 
 
 Rainy April Page 231 
 
 Noon in the Country . . 232 
 
 Happy Childhood 232 
 
 The Coming of Spring 233 
 
 Earth's Noblest Men 233 
 
 "Thirty" 234 
 
 " May I Come Up ?" 234 
 
 The Babe Asleep 235 
 
 The Early Ice 235 
 
 To Joseph R. Chandler, Esq 236 
 
 The Public Park .236 
 
 Horticultural Exhibition 237 
 
 Father is Coming 237 
 
 The Brotherhood of Man . . 238 
 
 The Poet's Mission 238 
 
 Another Gone 239 
 
 The Sick Babe 239 
 
 The Printer 240 
 
 The Thoughts Dwell where the Heart is . . . 240 
 
 Fanny Forester 241 
 
 Juvenile Reminiscence 241 
 
 September 242 
 
 Drawyers Church, Delaware 242 
 
 Snow-Storm Sonnet 243 
 
 The Wane of Life 243 
 
 Our Babe 244 
 
 Heart Longings 244 
 
 The Comet .... . . 245 
 
 Love for Little Things 245 
 
 The Sick Man's Sonnet 246 
 
 The Old Blind Voter of Pine Ward 246 
 
 ■ The Buttonwood Stump 247 
 
 The Path of Life 247 
 
 Loneliness . 248 
 
 2 
 
14 CONTENTS. 
 
 Sonnet Rhymes. 
 
 The Great Day Page 248 
 
 The Mother 249 
 
 Penitential Prayer 249 
 
 A Spring Sonnet 250 
 
 Human Porcupines , 250 
 
 To a Friend .251 
 
 A Child at a Window 251 
 
 The Tea-Table 252 
 
 Joseph C. Neal 252 
 
 A Poet and His Song 253 
 
 On Seeing the Picture of a Child 253 
 
 The Spirit's Ailment ' 254 
 
 The Spirit's Remedy 254 
 
 Posthumous Fame 255 
 
 The Poor Boy 255 
 
 Man's Stewardship 256 
 
 My Sabbath Scholar 256 
 
 October's Coming 257 
 
 To a Rat in the Printing Office 257 
 
 The Poet's Visiter 258 
 
 Unceasing Prayer 258 
 
 On Hearing a Sermon 259 
 
 Oh ! Hide thy Face 259 
 
 Tam's Fortnight Ramble. 
 
 Canto 1 263 
 
 Canto II 275 
 
 Canto III 282 
 
 Canto IV 296 
 
 Canto V 304 
 
 Canto VI 315 
 
 Notes and Addenda 
 
 325 
 
an 
 
 Rhymes of Common Life. 
 
RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 MEMORIAL ODE. 
 
 Recited at the Unveiling of the Battle Monument at Germantown. 
 
 I 
 
 I. 
 
 N the far, slow-coming days, 
 When war shall nevermore be known, 
 And men shall sing the heavenly lays 
 
 Of love and peace alone, — 
 And tatter'd flag and sword and gun 
 
 Adorn antique historic halls, 
 Or hang as curious relics on 
 The antiquary's walls, — 
 As generations, with untiring tread, 
 Along the aisle 
 Of centuries shall file, 
 The children shall approach with reverent head, 
 And ask in wonderment : What means this pile ? 
 Its eloquent lips will tell to eager ears 
 The deeds heroic, wrought in olden years, 
 
 2* 17 
 
1 8 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Of valiant men, who, at their country's 'hest 
 When by tyrannic hands distrest, 
 
 Left hearth and wife and child, 
 And toil'd by day in hunger, heat, and cold, 
 And lay at night wrapp'd in the chilly fold 
 Of stormy skies and tempests wild, 
 Without a whisper d cheer 
 Of faithful wife, or mother's fond embrace, 
 So comforting and dear 
 To men of noble race, — 
 The men who lifted up their good right arm 
 To shield their land from harm, 
 And, uncomplaining, bled 
 And fell, the conquerors though dead. 
 Not they who shout are conquerors alone, 
 For they who fall before the day is won 
 Are also victors, and the laurell'd crown 
 Fitly adorns the warrior smitten down. 
 No martyr dies 
 A fruitless sacrifice ; 
 
 Heroic deeds 
 Are the immortal seeds, 
 Nourish'd by blood and tears, 
 That yield the fruit of liberty 
 And conscience free 
 Through time's unresting years. 
 
 The fragrance of thine old renown, 
 O Germantown ! 
 Like precious scents that never pass away, 
 Fills all the land e'en at this day: 
 For o'er thine undulating hills 
 The long street ran 
 
MEMORIAL ODE. 
 
 19 
 
 Where wise Pastorius and the peaceful clan 
 Proclaim'd the brotherhood of man, 
 
 And freedom for all from slavery's bonds and ills. 
 A century had scarcely mark'd its score, 
 When through that peaceful thoroughfare 
 Ran rivulets of gore, — 
 The heart's blood, rich and rare, 
 Of men who dared to take 
 The gage of battle for sweet Freedom's sake. 
 
 in. 
 
 The crimson sun 
 Rose luridly upon 
 The hills and vales of Germantown, 
 Prefiguring the fray 
 That happen'd on the day 
 When Washington swept down 
 Upon the foreign hordes 
 That lent their swords 
 To slay the new-born babe of Liberty. 
 No drum was heard, 
 No shrill fife stirr'd 
 The quiet of the chill October morn ; 
 No rustling of the dry leaves of the corn 
 That stood in serried ranks upon the yellow lea. 
 The town lay all asleep, 
 While Freedom's little band 
 Was moving silently, with purpose stern and deep, 
 Upon the haughty enemy 
 Reposing nigh at hand. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hark the rattle of the shot ! 
 
 The booming of the gun ! 
 
20 RH 1 1 fES A T WEEN- TIM US. 
 
 The cry of quick surprise ! 
 The battle is begun ! 
 King George's soldiers run, 
 And shouts of victory arise ! 
 While the pursuit is hurrying and hot, 
 The startled burghers on the long, long street, 
 Flee fast away with terror-quicken' d feet 
 O'er the wide fields, while down the travell'd way 
 Grape-shot and canister spread havoc and dismay. 
 
 But, lo ! a fog comes murkily down 
 And midnight gloom o'ershadows Germantown, 
 And friend and foe, unseeing and unseen, 
 Strike random blows 
 Wild and unrestrain'd; 
 
 And friends mistake for foes 
 Their patriot brothers, till the browning green 
 With kindred blood is stain'd. 
 The foes, befriended by the darksome dew, 
 Fly to the fateful house of Chew, — 
 The fort-like mansion built of massy stone 
 That stands upon the verdant lawn alone. 
 Ensconced behind the rocky shield, 
 Their bullets sweep the open field, 
 And patriot heroes on the greensward fall, 
 Slain from windows of the stony hall. 
 
 O precious moments lost ! 
 The chieftains of the foreign bands 
 
 Bring up their overpowering host 
 That lay upon the lower lands, 
 And the outnumber' d patriots 
 Reluctant beat 
 A slow retreat, 
 While firing at the foe the final Parthian shots. 
 
MEMORIAL ODE. 2 1 
 
 V. 
 
 Defeat was victory ! 
 The news ran o'er the land 
 How bravely fought that little band 
 Against the veteran hosts that came from o'er the sea; 
 
 And freemen grasp'd with firmer grip the brand, 
 And, trusting in the Lord, determined to be free. 
 
 The long, long night of war lay on the land ; 
 But in the seventh year 
 The Sabbath-day of freedom broke 
 
 The darkness drear, 
 And, freed from tyrant's yoke, 
 Sweet, gentle Peace dropp'd gifts with plenteous hand. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The enfranchised country grew apace in strength, 
 Despite old Europe's supercilious ban, 
 
 Until at length 
 The youngest-born of nations led the van. 
 And yet a stain upon her forehead lay ! 
 She, who had wrench'd the manacles away 
 
 From her own hands, 
 Still held in captive sway 
 The stolen sons of Afric's sunny lands. 
 The wrong begat a curse that grew amain, 
 
 Perverting heart and brain, 
 Till hatred's gall tinged artery and vein, 
 And friend and fellow scowl'd upon each other. 
 
 As once the infant land unkindly 
 Was smitten by the angry mother, 
 
 So now the infuriate Southron blindly 
 Turn'd in wild wrath upon his Northern brother. 
 
22 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 The gates of Hades open'd wide again: 
 The guns that boom'd on Sumter struck the knell 
 Of half a million men, 
 Stark dead, or sorely wounded. 
 A doom more dire than Cain's upon the nation fell : 
 The trump of war o'er all the land was sounded : 
 From Pennsylvania's mountains 
 
 To farthest Southern shore 
 A thousand crimson fountains 
 With kindred blood ran o'er; 
 And many a homestead wept a hero dead, 
 And Rachels that would not be comforted 
 Sat by the desolated hearth. 
 Ah ! wrathful day 
 Well pass'd away 
 Forever and forever from the earth ! 
 Ah me ! the sin, the unrepented sin, 
 That brought the avenging time of retribution in ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 No son of thine or denizen is he, 
 Wherever he may roam, 
 Over the wide, wide world, or up or down, 
 Who says not, when he dwells again at home, 
 There is no town in lands beyond the sea 
 
 More beautiful than thou, O Germantown ! 
 Yet pleasant homes nor loving ones could stay 
 The valiant men who, hastening away 
 
 With hurried step, rush'd to the battle-field, 
 
 And, looking not behind, 
 Made their own breasts the shield 
 To ward the blows 
 Of weapons held by brave, misguided foes, 
 Encarnadined 
 
MEMORIAL ODE. 23 
 
 With blood from kindred veins. 
 
 Let the page historic tell 
 The crimson'd battle-plains 
 
 Where many a strong man fell : — 
 Enough to bid the grateful verse 
 On this auspicious day rehearse 
 How victory swept the cloud of war away, 
 And rainbow'd peace athwart the heavens lay. 
 
 Beneath the peaceful skies, 
 And with the Father's smile, 
 We dedicate this pile 
 To sacred memories 
 Of men of elder as of modern day, 
 
 Whose place of burial, to man unknown, 
 Is all unmark'd by monumental stone: — 
 To nameless heroes slumbering in the sea, 
 The sighing winds their ceaseless lullaby, 
 Who seem, as 'twere, to need more care of God 
 Than they who sleep beneath the churchyard sod :- 
 We dedicate this pile to the dead brave who share 
 The grassy resting-places of the town, 
 Enwreathed by loving hands in flowery May 
 With garlands fragrant, and as Eden fair, 
 And grander in the Father's eye than monarch's 
 Jewell' d crown. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The land of all the lands by Heaven most blest ! 
 Who strikes at her doth strike at Freedom's breast. 
 If she must bleed, let not the blow 
 
 Be dealt by children's hands again, 
 
24 RHYMES AT WE EN TIMES. 
 
 But by a common foe, 
 The foe of God and freedom-loving men. 
 
 O North ! O South ! O East ! O West ! 
 Away with jealousy, suspicion, hate ! 
 Joint heritors are ye of one estate, 
 Forevermore to hold ; 
 Ample and broad, so fill'd with bread and meat, 
 
 The recompense of honest toil, 
 That ye might welcome all the world to eat: — 
 A land whose hills are iron, coal, and gold, 
 Whose valleys run with oil : — 
 A land of God and gracious charities 
 
 That heal the mind and give the sufferer ease, — 
 Yea, every ill assuage, 
 From orphan'd infancy to helpless age: — 
 A land of freedom for right deed and thought, 
 
 The just and equal law its only king, 
 Which none may set at naught. 
 What would ye more ? 
 What lacks your earthly store ? 
 O happy land ! to God thank-offerings bring ! 
 Let the dead past, and all its curse and scorn, 
 Be buried, with no resurrection morn ! 
 Stand forth, O land, in unity and might, 
 Loving the good and true, and valorous for the right ! 
 Down to the unreturning depths be hurl'd 
 
 All things by God abhorr'd, 
 And stand thou ever forth a blessing to the world — 
 To the glory of the Lord ! 
 
A BALLAD BY THE SEA. 2 $ 
 
 A BALLAD BY THE SEA. 
 
 AT mid of night beside the sea, 
 ■**•- The moon far in the west, 
 I sigh'd for one long gone from me 
 Who day by day still seems to be 
 A dweller in my breast. 
 
 And suddenly a stranger came 
 
 As if from out the tide, 
 A man of bow'd yet stalwart frame, 
 Whose face I knew not, nor his name, 
 
 And sat him by my side. 
 
 He laid his brawny arm on mine, 
 
 That old man by the sea; 
 His locks were hoar with age and brine; 
 His eyes with tender gleams did shine; 
 
 A winsome man was he. 
 
 "Comrade!" so spake the ancient man, 
 
 "A good God loves us all. 
 This world is order'd by a plan 
 Too broad for thee or me to scan, 
 
 That covers great and small. 
 
 Why hug a sorrow to thy heart 
 
 And nurse it till it bite ? 
 Why chafe the wound until it smart ? 
 Why turn against thyself the dart, 
 
 And thine own bosom smite ? 
 
26 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 In other years — how long ago, 
 
 Comrade, I cannot tell — 
 In sun and shine, in rain and snow, 
 When all was calm, when storms did blow, 
 
 I served a skipper well. 
 
 I saved his life and risk'd mine own; 
 
 A daughter fair had he ; 
 Before another year had run 
 The skipper own'd me as a son, 
 
 'My husband!' whisper'd she. 
 
 I built a cottage near the shore : 
 
 Next-door to heaven it seem'd; 
 For love came in the open door, 
 And from the rafters to the floor 
 Its blessed presence beam'd. 
 
 The God in whom we trusted sent 
 
 A babe of beauty there, 
 And as the seasons came and went, 
 They added, to our glad content, 
 
 Two more as sweet and fair. 
 
 I went a voyage o'er the sea, 
 
 My heart still staying home ; 
 O'er many a sea and far country 
 For wife-sake and our children three 
 
 I was content to roam. 
 
 My wandering journey o'er, I sought 
 
 My cot beside the sea, 
 For love and treasure I had brought, 
 Beyond my boyhood's wildest thought, 
 
 For wife and children three. 
 
A BALLAD BY THE SEA, 
 
 My home of love I stood before ; 
 
 The windows gave no light : 
 Trembling, I knock'd upon the door, 
 A neighbour only said, ' No more !' 
 
 My heart fell dead that night. 
 
 The years pass on, no longer told ; 
 
 I leave it in God's hand 
 To share among His poor the gold 
 I strove so long to gain and hold ; 
 
 And now I walk the strand, 
 
 And when the wrecking winds do sweep 
 
 A vessel on the shore, 
 In my good life-boat forth I leap 
 To aid the strugglers in the deep, 
 
 As Christ hath done before. 
 
 Now, comrade, ere with thee I part 
 
 This only will I say : 
 Go heal the sorrows of thy heart 
 (No matter whosoe'er thou art) 
 
 By doing good alway." 
 
 A far-off look was in his eyes, 
 
 As if he saw away 
 Beyond the sea the blessed skies, 
 Where no one weeps and no one sighs, 
 
 Where God's beloved stay. 
 
 The ancient man arose and sped 
 
 His way along the sea ; 
 I ponder'd on the words he said, 
 And pray'd, before I sought my bed, 
 
 To be as wise as he. 
 
 27 
 
28 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE OLD MAN OF MINNEQUA. 
 
 A DAPPER old man came over the hills, 
 Came over to Minnequa : 
 In bearing erect and as prim as a prig ; 
 His whiskers and beard and his long-flowing wig 
 The whitest that ever you saw ; 
 
 A spry little wight, with a queer chapeau 
 
 Of the mythical days of yore; 
 With hosen of silk and gold-buckle shoon, 
 And trousers and vest of the skin of the coon, 
 
 As folk of antiquity wore. 
 
 To the place of the waters of healing he came 
 
 As the sun sank wearily down ; 
 Seeking to charm away sickness and care, 
 The old and the young were gathering there 
 
 From cities of olden renown. 
 
 From the ends of the earth, good people, I come, 
 
 From wanderings hither and yon, 
 To drink again of the health-giving fount, 
 Where I play'd in my youth at the base of this mount 
 
 Ten thousand summers agone. 
 
 I've drank in the East, I've drank in the West, 
 And the farthermost North and the South, 
 
 And my feet have traversed the earth around, 
 
 But not a drop of water I've found 
 So sweet as this to my mouth." 
 
THE OLD MAN OF MINNEQUA. 29 
 
 The people made way for the dapper old man ; 
 
 To the brink of the fountain he rush'd ; 
 While six dozen men with buckets did dip, 
 He emptied each vessel with ease at a sip, 
 
 As fast as the waters up-gush'd. 
 
 He drank and he drank till the sun went down, 
 And he drank through all the night; 
 
 And day after day he was drinking still ; 
 
 And it verily seem'd he never would fill, 
 So thirsty the gray old wight. 
 
 He drank till he grew much bigger than two 
 
 Of his former self, and soon 
 The buckles of both of his shoes were rent, 
 And zigzagging into the air they went, 
 
 Like aerolites shot from the moon. 
 
 He drank and he drank till his coat was split, 
 
 So great was the mighty strain ; 
 And the buttons flew off to the regions atop, 
 Like corks from bottles of new ginger-pop, 
 
 Or Widow Clicquot's champagne : 
 
 And they were all turn'd to ethereal dust, 
 
 Thin nebulas just begun ; 
 And scientists now of our much-learned age, 
 Who scan every dot in philosophy's page, 
 
 Find metals in rays from the sun. 
 
 The dippers a-weary then ceasing to dip, 
 
 The drinker dropp'd off in a nap, 
 And snored so loudly he cracked the air 
 And burst the bands of the Delaware 
 
 And open'd the Water-Gap. 
 
 3* 
 
30 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 That noise of noises resounded through 
 
 The atmospherical halls: 
 It scoop'd Niagara's bottom, and threw 
 The rocks high up in the ether blue, — 
 
 So came the wonderful Falls. 
 
 And into the famed St. Lawrence stream, — 
 
 A distance of many miles, — 
 Swiftly descended the cloud of rocks, 
 As from a gigantic pepper-box, 
 
 And founded the Thousand Isles. 
 
 Along the banks of Seneca Lake 
 
 It deafen'd the ears of men ; 
 It split with its invisible wedge, 
 Driven by some Herculean sledge, 
 
 Wide open the Watkins Glen. 
 
 In stellar realms such a racket was made 
 
 Polaris was twisted askew, 
 And one of the Pleiades fell into fits, 
 And splinter'd to infinitesimal bits, 
 
 And faded forever from view. 
 
 The monkey-tribes in the cocoanut climes, 
 
 Where the summer-time never fails, 
 Were smitten with such a tremulent fright 
 That some became hairless and others turn'd white, 
 And some were stripp'd of their tails. 
 
 The Darwinite lights of this ignorant world, 
 
 Engender'd when time was old, 
 Aver in our day that the untailed elves 
 Were fathers of sages, — perchance of themselves, 
 
 If the fact must squarely be told. 
 
THE OLD MAN OF MINNEQUA. 31 
 
 The vast concussion squeezed all the hills 
 
 That held bituminous coals ; 
 The deep-hidden stores of oil oozed out, 
 And fill'd the cavernous depths thereabout 
 
 And subterranean holes. 
 
 From far Alaska to Florida sands 
 
 And the tropical Indian isles 
 The world was stunn'd by the thundering sound, 
 And men fell down in a sudden swound 
 
 Through seventy thousand miles. 
 
 The nations all stopp'd their ears, and they held 
 Their temples between their hands, 
 
 Till the snoring suddenly ceased one day, 
 
 And a most stupendous silence lay 
 On all the seas and lands, 
 
 Until he sneezed a horrible sneeze, 
 
 A sort of volcanic puff. 
 Alas ! the sneezer was instantly kill'd, 
 For it seem'd as if his nose had been fill'd 
 
 With a thousand pounds of snuff. 
 
 The Indians were holding a grand pow-wow 
 
 In a grove beyond the spring ; 
 The squaws and warriors leap'd at the sound, 
 And dived six fathoms beneath the ground, 
 
 A very unusual thing. 
 
 At the same moment his eyes, shooting out, 
 
 Sped up to the region of stars : 
 In after ages the Washington man, 
 Whose curious eyes the firmament scan, 
 
 Announced two moons of Mars. 
 
3 2 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 The skies grew dark and a hurricane blew, 
 
 Bending the trees like a fan ; 
 And some toppled over, and others were bent, 
 And others upon their brotherhood leant, 
 
 As man often leans upon man. 
 
 The body was borne by the cyclonic wave 
 
 Like a boat on a billowy swell ; 
 The arms of the wind let him suddenly drop 
 Upon a broad hillock's velvety top 
 
 That rises before the hotel, 
 
 Where his bones were turn'd into trappean rock, 
 
 His muscles to arable clay, 
 And the lapse of the ages rounded his form, 
 As all unheeding the sunshine or storm 
 
 The wonder of Minnequa lay. 
 
 Now from the porch of the Minnequa House, 
 
 On any clear day, may be seen 
 His form roughly traced on the hillock)'' crest, 
 Like a half-a-mile giant taking his rest, — 
 
 Majestic, reposeful, serene. 
 
 The folk who stick to the straight line of truth, 
 
 And go just as far as it goes, 
 May deem this tale an incredible myth, 
 Like Helen of Troy, or Captain John Smith, 
 
 But all I can say is : Who knows ? 
 
THE BROOK OF W ATKINS GLEN. 33 
 
 THE BROOK OF WATKINS GLEN. 
 
 A WAYWARD rill 
 On the top of the mount 
 Stole softly away 
 
 From its mother-fount, 
 And. sliding adown the mountain-breast 
 That gently sloped away from the west, 
 It tripp'd along, 
 
 Happy and gay, 
 Singing a song 
 Upon the way. 
 
 Stronger it wax'd, and broader it grew, 
 And it gleam'd in the sunlight, 
 And glitter'd in moonbright, 
 
 And danced in the shadows the great trees threw. 
 
 When its glee was high, 
 
 It struck the ravine 
 And fell with a cry 
 
 'Twixt rocks mossy-green, — 
 
 Rocks all ragged, 
 
 Cragged, jagged, 
 In wild confusion piled, — 
 
 All fissure-rent, 
 
 Twisted and bent, 
 Like chaos itself run wild. 
 
34 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Dashing and plashing, 
 
 It rumbled and tumbled, 
 
 And danced and pranced 
 In maddest riot, 
 
 Taking a leap 
 
 Down many a steep, 
 
 Then slowly creeping 
 
 And almost sleeping 
 In pools of heavenly quiet ; 
 And, after its holiday rest, 
 
 Plunging again 
 
 Adown the glen, 
 As though in quest 
 
 Of something newer, 
 
 Better, truer, 
 
 Hidden away 
 
 In a coming day. 
 
 Slow moving through cathedral halls, 
 
 Where solemn reverence holds her seat, 
 Next plunging down 'twixt narrow walls 
 
 Beyond access of mortal feet ; 
 Now twisting like a snake a-fright, 
 
 Now quivering like a bridal veil ; 
 Now emerald-hued, now dark as night, 
 
 Now brilliant as a peacock's tail ; 
 Now slaking thirst of bird and brute, 
 
 Now sheltering fish at every turn ; 
 Now giving nourishment to root 
 
 Of clinging moss and elfin fern ; 
 Now on the cliff the passer-by 
 
 Charming by its unceasing hum, 
 Till gentle thoughts that light his eye 
 
 Within his lonely bosom come. 
 
THE BROOK OF W ATKINS GLEN. 35 
 
 So the brook on sped 
 
 Its varying way, 
 While the day grew night 
 And the night grew day, 
 And ever, like a restless soul, 
 It hasten'd to its final goal. 
 But cliffs still tower' d, 
 And shadows lower'd, 
 And rocks stood out 
 To hedge about 
 The path of the struggling rill, 
 And it struggled in vain 
 Till the clouds gave rain, 
 And the torrents fell, 
 And the brook began to grow and fill, 
 And its veins began to swell : 
 With the heavenly aid, 
 Again it sped 
 On its widening bed, 
 Its progress all unstay'd, 
 Until it found its home and rest 
 In Seneca's enfolding breast. 
 
 So, men and brethren ! is our life : 
 The toil, the rest, the peace, the strife, 
 But school us for the heavenly place 
 In God's good way and God's good grace. 
 
36 RHYMES AT WE EN- TIMES. 
 
 RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 AQUARIUS took a walk one day 
 L And Bacchus met him on the way ; 
 They idly chatted as they went 
 Until they came to Bacchus' tent. 
 Aquarius set his water-pot 
 Beside him in a handy spot ; 
 And Bac, as he was wont to do, 
 Of wine brought out a jug or two. 
 The water-god, — too many such, — 
 Imbibed till he had far too much; . 
 And when to sit upright unable, 
 He fell asleep beneath the table. 
 " Now," cries sly Bac, " I'll play a joke 
 On Minnewaska's temperate folk : 
 I'll give them water quite enough 
 To make them cry out Quantum suff."" 
 Aq's water-pot he then upset, 
 And mount and plain o'erflow'd with wet. 
 The fogs hid all the world away 
 From mountain-folk day after day, 
 Till the hotel all lonely sat 
 Like Noah's ark on Ararat. 
 
 But rain nor clouds nor darkness quell'd 
 The joyous life above the Lake ; 
 
 For still the cheerful chatting swell'd, 
 And still the song of gladness brake, — 
 
 Until the echoes woke old Aq ; 
 And, springing up in sore dismay, 
 
RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 He spilt the wine of cunning Bac, 
 
 And took his pot and went his way 
 To Juno straight, and begg'd her soon 
 To give the earth a dry new-moon. 
 
 In queenly style she made reply, 
 
 (A queen could not such suit deny :) 
 
 "At ten o' the clock this very night 
 
 The moon, in infant robes bedight, 
 
 High in the heavens shall hang her horn, 
 
 Precursor of a clearing morn ; 
 
 And nightly shall she glow more bright 
 
 To whispering lovers' fond delight ; 
 
 A crystal clearness in the air 
 
 Shall make the landscape doubly fair ; 
 
 No rain upon the mount shall pour 
 
 Save in the morn from one to four." 
 
 Then old Aquarius left the queen : 
 The weeping skies became serene, 
 And glorious splendors fill'd the earth 
 Soon as the sweet young moon had birth ; 
 And vale and mountain, beauty-clad, 
 Shouted for joy, and man was glad. 
 
 37 
 
38 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 LAKE MOHONK. 
 
 /^IRDLED by the Shongum Mountains, 
 ^J Sentinel'd by Eagle's Nest, 
 Mohonk, daughter of the fountains, 
 Seems a gem on beauty's breast. 
 
 Like a child that, loved of Heaven, 
 Bears the peace-marks of His grace, 
 
 By His unseen finger graven 
 On the trustful, earnest face, 
 
 Thus the rippling Mohonk's seeming 
 
 To my restful eye to-day, 
 As I sit and gaze, half-dreaming, 
 
 At the waters' gentle play. 
 
 Strange that scene so softly quiet 
 Follow'd aeons of crash and rage, 
 
 When the Lord's almighty fiat 
 Form'd creation's title-page ! 
 
 Chaos, darkness, overtumbling ; 
 
 Gas mephitic, vapours dire ; 
 Lightning, earthquakes, thunders rumbling 
 
 All the world in molten fire : — 
 
 Twisting, shrivelling, torn asunder, 
 Mountains lifting up their crests, 
 
 Splitting with the crash of thunder 
 
 Down, far down their rocky breasts : — 
 
LAKE MOHONK. 
 
 Coldness of the Arctic Ocean 
 
 Numbing lands and seas and streams, 
 Silence follows wild commotion, 
 
 As a sleep succeeding dreams. 
 
 Nature travails till He pleaseth, 
 And the child of pain is born : 
 
 At His word the tumult ceaseth, 
 And His light awakes the morn. 
 
 Thus the pageant sweeps before me, — ■ 
 
 Chaos, in God's fitting time, 
 Ushering in the day of glory 
 
 Pictured in Miltonic rhyme. 
 
 With no sin of man assoiling, 
 Earth a paradise were found ; 
 
 Yet, with all of sin's despoiling, 
 Beauty lingers still around. 
 
 Glory crowns the lake and mountain ; 
 
 Beauty smiles on hill and vale ; 
 Music of the bird and fountain 
 
 Echoes downward to the dale ; 
 
 Winds of balm around me stealing, 
 Scented with the fragrant pine, 
 
 Giving comfort, strength, and healing, 
 More than dwell in oil and wine. 
 
 And the worn and weary gather, 
 And the glad and hopeful come, 
 
 Where the children of the Father 
 Catch some glimpses of their home. 
 
 39 
 
40 RHYMES ATM 'EEN- TIMES. 
 
 Rest, O soul ! nor nurse thy sorrow ; 
 
 Garner strength upon thy way ; 
 Take not worries of the morrow ; 
 
 Christ will help thee day by day. 
 
 Rest is faithful labour's guerdon ; 
 
 Soon, with spirit brave and strong, 
 Thou canst bear again life's burden, 
 
 Singing hope's uplifting song. 
 
 A FIFTY-YEARS' VOYAGE. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. William B. Bement's Golden Wedding, Jan. 2b, i8qo. 
 
 A YOUTH and a maiden, 
 Love-welded together 
 Embark'd in a vessel 
 
 In sunshiny weather, 
 To go on a voyage 
 
 Without knowing whither ; 
 And Hope hung her pennant 
 
 High up on the mast, 
 As softly they scudded 
 
 Or sped along fast. 
 
 A crew came aboard 
 
 As they sail'd on their way, 
 And chubby-faced sailors, 
 
 And hearty, were they. 
 They came aboard singly, 
 
 Dropp'd down from above, 
 And got for their living 
 
 Full rations of love : 
 
A FIFTY-YEARS' VOYAGE. 41 
 
 A crew well assorted 
 
 Of girls and of boys, 
 Some paying in beauty, 
 
 The others in noise. 
 
 They sail'd in the sunshine ; 
 
 They sail'd in the storm ; 
 They sail'd in north countries; 
 
 They sail'd in the warm. 
 Blow hot and blow cold, 
 
 The vessel went on : 
 They tugg'd at the oars 
 
 When fair winds were gone. 
 They touch 'd at the islands 
 
 Where gold did abound, 
 They gather' d the treasures 
 
 That lay all around. 
 The vessel full laden, 
 
 A storehouse of good, 
 They lifted the anchor 
 
 And homeward she stood. 
 
 Their heads were grown wintry ; 
 
 For full fifty years 
 The good ship had taken 
 
 To compass the spheres. 
 Now peacefully riding, 
 
 The vessel no more 
 Shall go out to sea 
 
 Far away from the shore. 
 And may the Great Master, 
 
 The Lord of the seas, 
 At last bring her safe 
 
 To the haven of peace. 
 
42 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 THE POET ANATHEMATIZETH THE 
 MOSQUITO. 
 
 "V/'E agile, fragile, marsh-begotten sprites ! 
 -*• Ye airy, fairy dwellers by the sea ! 
 Tiny in frame, but mighty in your bites ; — 
 
 Big as a goose, what devils ye would be ! 
 Ye stripe-legg'd, gossamer-winged imps of spite, 
 Secret and sly, like thieving sneaks ye light 
 
 With footfall soft on man's unguarded skin, — 
 His neck, his ear, his finger, or his nose, 
 Or any part unarmour'd by his clothes, — 
 
 And deftly stick your poison'd lancets in, 
 And suck his blood until ye wellnigh burst. 
 
 Ye slim, attenuated wretches ! ye 
 
 Wing-gifted congeners of the jumping flea! 
 By all are ye unanimously curst ! 
 
 No pity do ye show to man or beast, 
 To tender infant or to maiden fair, 
 Nor reverence pay to winter-frosted hair, — 
 
 All are your prey, the greatest and the least. 
 Ye Ishmaelitish Arabs ! I would know 
 
 Your right to run a muck by night and day 
 
 And stealthily take the blood of man away, 
 
 From head unwigg'd to unprotected toe. 
 
 I'll smite ye, villains ! and will give no quarter: 
 
 I'll smoke ye, burn ye, smash ye, break your head; 
 Asphyxiate and choke ye with the rage 
 Of sulphur, pennyroyal, camphor-water, 
 
 Till the last culex lies before me dead, 
 Known nevermore save in sciential page. 
 
A QUEST FOR THE SEA-WIND. 43 
 
 A QUEST FOR THE SEA-WIND. 
 
 10ST, a wind, — a wind from the sea ! 
 -* It wander'd away, 
 
 The weathercocks say, 
 'Twixt the rise of the moon 
 
 And the dawn of the day. 
 It may have gone, of its own wild will, 
 
 Away to the far nor'west, 
 To ramble over some piney hill 
 
 With a mantle of ice on its crest. 
 It may have fallen unaware 
 
 Into a quiet sleep 
 In some far palace of the air, 
 
 Or in the crystal deep. 
 If I but knew its hiding-place, 
 
 I'd rap upon the door, 
 And make it frisk about apace 
 
 Till it were fain to roar 
 And wreak its wrath on land and sea, 
 
 And blow the sand amain, 
 And bend the head of every tree 
 
 Upon the seaside plain, 
 Until its rage were fully spent 
 
 And it should softly sing 
 Sweet airs unto our heart's content, 
 
 And health and healing bring. 
 
 Where is the wind, the good sea-wind, 
 
 That fann'd us yesterday ? 
 A gift for him whose wit can find 
 
 The truant gone astray. 
 
44 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 O man who sitteth in the steeple 
 
 Built beside the sea, 
 Who in the morning tells the people 
 
 The weather that's to be, 
 Where is the wind that yesternight 
 Blew o'er the ocean fresh and light ? 
 Why kept ye not a stricter watch 
 
 While we were all a-dream ? 
 Why did ye not the urchin catch, 
 
 Bind him to morning's beam, 
 And hand him over to the East, 
 
 Or to the East-by-South, 
 A prisoner, not to be released 
 
 By any word of mouth 
 Till sweet September in her grace 
 
 Begins her queenly reign, 
 And comfort gives to every place 
 
 From Florida to Maine ? 
 
 But idle is my quest, O man 
 That sitteth in the tower ! 
 Though skillful ye the clouds to scan, 
 
 Too hard I task your power. 
 Yet still I cry, this quiet day, 
 
 Where has the sea-wind fled ? 
 And still I sigh for its soothing play 
 About my fever'd head. 
 But lo ! a faint puff 
 Comes shyly along 
 
 O'er the low Jersey shore, 
 Merely enough, 
 Like a far-distant song, 
 To stir up the senses with longings for more. 
 O wind from the sea! come back to your home, 
 And lift up the waves until they roll proudly,- 
 
A BATTLE-HYMN. 
 
 Till they break into foam, 
 
 And the surf shall sing loudly : 
 
 To the worn and the weary, 
 Escaped from the city, 
 Show the grace of sweet pity, 
 
 And make their souls cheery! 
 
 A BATTLE-HYMN. 
 
 GOD defend thee, land of nations ! 
 Mother of the brave and free, 
 E'en amid thy desolations 
 
 Stronger grows our love for thee. 
 
 Comrades ! be our motto ever, 
 Faithful to our country's trust ! 
 
 Though we give our lives, yet never 
 Shall our mother kneel in dust. 
 
 By the love we bear that mother, 
 
 By the duty children owe, 
 Faithfully by one another 
 
 Stand we till we crush her foe. 
 
 Let the hail of bullets rattle, — 
 Hostile weapons line the field, — 
 
 In the day of freedom's battle 
 God Almighty is our shield. 
 
 When the cloud of war is riven, 
 Peace shall like a rainbow shine ; 
 
 They who for the right have striven 
 Coming ages shall enshrine. 
 
 45 
 
46 RHYMES AT WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE OLD MAN OF SKY-TOP. 
 
 THE clouds came a-peering 
 O'er Sky-Top one day, 
 And look'd at the lake 
 While tripping away. 
 
 " Old Man of the Mountain," 
 
 They halted to say, 
 " Do you want any water ? 
 
 If so, we will stay." 
 
 " No ! no !" grumbled he, 
 " I have more than enough ; 
 
 Go away ! go away !" 
 
 And his accent was gruff. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter, 
 
 You crusty old chap ? 
 We'll stir up your bones 
 
 With a smart thunder-clap." 
 
 So they fired a volley 
 
 Terrific and dread, 
 Which startled him so 
 
 That he popp'd out his head 
 
 At the point of the cliff; 
 
 And his fear was so vast 
 That he turn'd into stone, 
 
 And stuck hard and fast. 
 
THE OLD MAN OF SKY -TOP. 47 
 
 They threw a fleece veil 
 
 All over his head ; 
 But when it was lifted 
 
 They saw he was dead. 
 
 Then off they went packing, 
 
 The nimbus below 
 And the cumulus high 
 
 And whiter than snow. 
 
 They wildly flew over 
 
 The Shandaken hills, 
 Nor stopp'd till they jostled 
 
 The tall Kauterkills, 
 
 And all the wild reaches 
 
 That lie to the Nor'ard, 
 And Overlook winks at 
 
 From the eye in his forehead ; 
 
 And there overtaken 
 
 By Night's chilly breath, 
 With over-much weeping 
 
 They pined unto death. 
 
 But the stony Old Man 
 
 Of the Mount shall remain 
 While the Shawngunks shall stand, 
 
 In sunshine and rain. 
 
 In a tempest, 'tis said, 
 
 The old fellow cries, 
 And tears in a torrent 
 
 Run down from his eyes. 
 
48 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 In the silence of eve 
 A double-bass word, 
 
 That sounds like " Ter-choonk !' 
 May also be heard. 
 
 And any who listen 
 On a high windy night 
 
 May still hear him whistle 
 With ear-piercing might. 
 
 Don't say I'm a rhymer, 
 Much given to quiz; 
 
 You can see for yourself 
 His petrified phiz. 
 
 WATKINS GLEN. 
 
 O MIGHTY rift ! Cleft in the far-off time 
 Ere God created man, when darkness lay 
 
 Upon the deep ; ere yet in swampy slime 
 Vast creatures gambol 'd in their awkward play, 
 
 Or birds flew in the air, or fishes fann'd 
 Their fins in the cool waters ; when the sun 
 
 And moon and stars shone on a silent land, 
 Void of inhabitant, life unbegun : 
 
 Silent from noisy life alone ; for, lo ! 
 The lightning flash, the peal, the earthquake 
 
 shock, 
 The rush of waters and the crash of rock 
 
 Rack'd the rent world as with an utter woe, 
 Till God call'd peace and order on the earth, 
 And man's first home was fitted for man's birth. 
 
W ATKINS GLEN. 
 
 49 
 
 O mighty rift ! Mysterious whispers fill 
 
 All its profoundest depths, solemn and dread, 
 As if intoning requiems for the dead. 
 
 Anon I hear the rushing of the rill, 
 
 Quick tripping from the canyon's upper crown, 
 
 Merry and musical, leaping adown 
 The sudden steeps, and falling fast asleep — ■ 
 
 Like children after play — in crystal pools 
 
 So quiet as to tempt life-weary fools 
 
 To spurn the gift the good God bids them keep. 
 
 Far overhead the craggy walls let through 
 Glimpses of heaven serenely fair and bright, 
 Promises of rest in upper realms of light 
 
 For the brave soul that dares to bear and do. 
 
 O mighty rift ! Ages have come and gone ; 
 
 Strange forms have lived and died, and pass'd 
 away, 
 
 Whose stony bones are with us to this day ; 
 And generations long have hasten'd on ; 
 
 Nations have risen and set in final night : 
 But thou, O rifted cleft, remainest still 
 
 In all thy wondrous grandeur, beauty, might, — 
 A temple built at His imperial will 
 
 To show His wonders who made all things well ; 
 That man, His child, may marvel and adore, 
 
 And say, while filial thanks his bosom swell, 
 
 To God be glory, glory evermore, 
 Who, throned in His high and holy place, 
 Still shows on earth His glory and His grace. 
 
50 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE LOVER TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 THE sunniest room in all my heart 
 I keep, my love, for thee, 
 And set thee there from all apart, 
 A shrine for none but me. 
 
 A being thou of mortal mould, 
 And yet of heavenly birth, 
 
 A world all made of gems and gold 
 Could not outweigh thy worth. 
 
 The song of birds, the hum of bees, 
 
 A richer fulness takes, 
 As in spontaneous symphonies 
 
 Thy voice of music wakes. 
 
 When morning puts the veil away 
 
 That hid its beaming face, 
 Thine eyes unto the light of day 
 
 Gives e'en a brighter grace. 
 
 My day of toil is light to bear, 
 
 With all its dizzying din, 
 Because I feel that thou wilt share 
 
 The boon that I may win. 
 
 When night in ebon caves ensnares 
 The sun with cunning wiles, 
 
 My brow a sweet contentment wears 
 Beneath thy cheery smiles. 
 
"SICK, AND YE VISITED ME." 51 
 
 If clouds should dim thy happy day 
 
 And sorrow touch thy heart, 
 Be mine the hand to wipe away 
 
 The teardrops as they start. 
 
 Along the way of life we'll go 
 
 Together heart and hand ; 
 And when our locks grow white as snow, 
 
 Pass to the peaceful land. 
 
 "SICK, AND YE VISITED ME.' 
 
 BEYOND the far Missouri 
 The hunted lay in camp, 
 Crouching from winter's fury 
 
 In wigwams chill and damp ; 
 Men and women and children, 
 All of a copper stamp. 
 
 The old and young were lying 
 In companies and alone, 
 
 Fever'd, and sore, and dying, 
 Without an audible moan ; 
 
 Men and women and children 
 Stoical as a stone. 
 
 Dreading not a betrayer, 
 
 The hapless hidden lay, 
 But the foot of the armed slayer 
 
 Had track'd the snowy way, 
 And men and women and children 
 
 Were scented out as prey. 
 
5 2 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 List to the rifle's riot ! 
 
 Hark to the musket's din ! 
 Amid the desolate quiet 
 
 Hell's ravages begin: 
 Men and women and children 
 
 All safely trapp'd within. 
 
 The astounded wretches wonder, 
 Gazing with startled eye, 
 
 The leaden rain and thunder 
 Passing not harmless by : 
 
 Men and women and children 
 By white men's bullets die. 
 
 Say ! shall we lift the paean, 
 And sound it o'er the land ! 
 
 A band of sickly heathen 
 Falling beneath the brand, 
 
 Men and women and children, 
 At a soldier's grim command ! 
 
 Though squaw nor babe were pretty, 
 Nor warrior bold and brave, 
 
 It seems a horrible pity 
 To sweep into the grave 
 
 Men and women and children 
 Without a prayerful stave. 
 
 O people of the nation, 
 Who cuddle the ebon race, 
 
 Why look with detestation 
 On folk of coppery face ? — 
 
 Men and women and children — 
 For these has God no grace ? 
 
THE BELLES AT HATHAWAY' S. 53 
 
 THE BELLES AT HATHAWAY'S. 
 
 THE billows haste along the strand 
 To kiss the footprints in the way- 
 Made by the maidens on the sand 
 When sporting in the briny spray. 
 O greedy billows ! ye should be 
 Most sharply chidden. Why so free 
 With the belles at Hathaway' s — 
 The witty belles, 
 The pretty belles, 
 The graceful belles at Hathaway's ! 
 
 The breezes from the spicy pines, 
 
 The fragrant ferns, and clover dells, 
 Steal underneath the bonnet lines, 
 And kiss the lips of all the belles. 
 O breezes ! bold and wanton ye 
 To take such wilful liberty 
 With the belles at Hathaway's — 
 The witty belles, 
 The pretty belles, 
 The charming belles at Hathaway's. 
 
 Amid the mazes of the dance 
 
 The music whispers witching spells, 
 Enwrapping in delicious trance 
 The senses of the wilder' d belles. 
 O music ! how I envy thee 
 Such fond familiarity 
 With the belles at Hathaway's — 
 The witty belles, 
 The pretty belles, 
 • The gentle belles at Hathaway's. 
 
54 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 EVERY-DAY INDICATIONS. 
 
 r I ''HE weather will be rainy, clear, 
 -*- Or just a little mix'd, 
 Unless the brakes get out of gear 
 By which the thing is fix'd. 
 
 Should there be rain, 'twill fall in drops 
 
 That come down pit-a-pat, 
 And sprinkle o'er the shingle tops 
 
 Of houses, and all that. 
 
 The mercury will not go up 
 
 Unless the day grow hot ; 
 The clouds be but an empty cup 
 
 Save in some local spot. 
 
 No barometric fall we'll see 
 
 Unless a fierce cyclone 
 Whirl in potential energy 
 
 Up from the Torrid Zone. 
 
 The sky will don its robe of blue 
 
 Envail'd in cloudlets rare ; 
 And birds will sail the ether through 
 
 Like winged ships of air. 
 
 The lake like liquid gems to-day 
 Will dazzle with its shimmer, 
 
 Until the sun shall hide away 
 And all the world grow dimmer. 
 
EVERY-DAY INDICATIONS. 55 
 
 And man another step will take 
 
 Along the way of life : 
 Some hearts with sudden grief will break, 
 
 Some nobly bear the strife. 
 
 The helplessness of babyhood 
 
 Will be its strong defence ; 
 For mother-hearts hath God endued 
 
 With love's omnipotence. 
 
 The maiden fair will list to speech 
 
 Wherein love's witcheries run ; 
 Affection's depths the words will reach, 
 
 And two hearts fuse in one. 
 
 From whom the grave has taken most 
 
 That he had loved the best, 
 That man will walk amid a host 
 
 In loneliest unrest. 
 
 Oft will he speak in lightsome tones 
 
 The while his thoughts arise 
 And reach out for the absent ones 
 
 That live beyond the skies. 
 
 For 'neath a quiet smile may lie 
 
 A sorrow of the soul 
 That needs a daily victory 
 
 To hold it in control. 
 
 A few may run an easy pace 
 
 With self-reliant boast : 
 But God e'er gives to those his grace 
 
 Who seek and need it most. 
 
56 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 And they who bear the battle's brunt, 
 And temper'd weapons wield, 
 
 Will stand up grandly in the front 
 And hold the conquer'd field. 
 
 God's rank and file, in battle line 
 And truth's divine array, 
 
 Will set their camp at day's decline 
 Along the King's highway 
 
 To that good land, by sense unknown, 
 That land whose name is Heaven, 
 
 Where Christ doth gather all his own, 
 And crowns of life are given. 
 
 A SEASIDE NOTION. 
 
 PEQUOT ! Pequot ! 
 The Paradise spot 
 Where ocean embraces the river; 
 Right royal is she 
 With her foot on the sea, 
 As she sits like a queen 
 Of exquisite mien : 
 What prettier name shall we give her ? 
 
 While poets have sung 
 In the old English tongue 
 
 In verses pellucid as water, 
 
 No word could be found, 
 In all the world round 
 To its furthermost bound, 
 Sweet enough in its sound 
 
 To give to its loveliest daughter. 
 
LUNA AND MOLUS. 57 
 
 King Philip came down 
 
 One night to the town 
 To write a pet name he had got her ; 
 
 And he traced on the sand 
 
 Of the westerly strand 
 
 The name of the race 
 
 Once lords of the place ; 
 And this was the legend — Pequotta. 
 
 Oh ! sad to be said, 
 
 Before it was read, 
 The surf coming up, like a blotter, 
 
 Expunged the t a 
 
 So completely away 
 
 That the title was shorn 
 
 Ere the coming of morn, 
 And Pequot took the place of Pequotta. 
 
 LUNA AND ^OLUS. 
 
 HPHE beautiful moon 
 -*- Had a tear in her eye, 
 For she wept as the motherly 
 
 Summer pass'd by, 
 To lay down her head 
 
 In Eternity's lap 
 And sleep with her sisters 
 
 An unwaking nap. 
 
 The Wind-Tyrant whistled, 
 A-mocking her woe, 
 
 Till she flew like a skylark 
 From regions below. 
 
5 8 -RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 And the giant went hunting 
 In earth and in air 
 
 To find the young moon 
 In her far-away lair. 
 
 He ranged in the darkness, 
 
 He ranged in the day, 
 And fierce-dashing torrents 
 
 He brought into play ! 
 But Luna, protected 
 
 By heavenly bars, 
 Far in the up-regions 
 
 Held court with the stars. 
 
 Around the high peaks, 
 
 Like a beast out of cage, 
 He howl'd, but the mountain 
 
 Derided his rage. 
 He dash'd at the lake, 
 
 Yet his fury was vain, 
 For its waters took captive 
 
 The torrents of rain. 
 
 The strength of the Wind-King 
 
 All futilely spent, 
 To his cavern, outwitted, 
 
 He sullenly went, 
 When the moon in her beauty 
 
 Rose sweetly serene, 
 And new-born September 
 
 Saluted her queen ! 
 
THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL. 59 
 
 THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 A HOME for the sisters of Christ, 
 For the mothers in Israel, 
 Who have borne the worries of life 
 
 So lovingly, long, and well : — 
 Who have given their beautiful youth 
 
 And the wisdom of matronly days 
 To the sweet little duties of home, 
 
 In womanhood's winsomest ways: — 
 In the gentle neighbourly deeds 
 
 And the helpful accents of cheer, 
 In the charities born of His love 
 
 To the soul of the suffering dear. 
 But few, in the face of the world, 
 
 Are called to do notable things, — 
 Yet all have a labour to do, 
 
 The people as well as the kings. 
 As in the sight of the Lord, 
 
 The mite of the widow is more 
 Than manifold gifts of the great, 
 
 Grudgingly out of their store, — 
 So the small daily duties well done, 
 
 And all for the love of the Lord, 
 More precious than deeds of renown, 
 
 Shall meet with His gracious reward. 
 And right and fitting it is, 
 
 When age has weaken'd the limb, 
 To shelter the sisters of Christ, 
 
 As service render'd to Him. 
 Ye wards of the church of the Lord, 
 
 His arms around you are thrown ! 
 
60 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 O rest in this beautiful home 
 
 Till Christ shall beckon His own 
 
 To that far-away home in the skies 
 That He has gone to prepare, — 
 
 The heavenly mansion of rest 
 
 Which all His children shall share. 
 
 SEND-OFF RHYMES 
 
 On Mr. and Mrs. Richard Smith' s departure for Carlsbad, 
 June 20, 1885. 
 
 SOFTLY-SPEEDED be the gale, 
 And quieted the water, 
 As o'er the summer seas ye sail, 
 Till old Germania's coast ye hail, 
 O Philadelphia's earnest son ! 
 O Philadelphia's gentle daughter ! 
 
 Health and comfort be the boon 
 
 Of healing Carlsbad's water, 
 
 And may God's heavenly blessing soon 
 
 Set heart and nerve in perfect tune, 
 
 O Philadelphia's manly son ! 
 
 O Philadelphia's lovely daughter ! 
 
 Hidden in Bohemia's vale, 
 The vale of healing water, 
 Your tenderest thoughts will never fail 
 To run along the homeward trail 
 To all whose hearts forget you not 
 While biding in their native spot, 
 O Philadelphia's friendly son ! 
 O Philadelphia's kindly daughter ! 
 
GARFIELD, 6 1 
 
 GARFIELD. 
 
 THERE'S darkness over every land ; 
 The hearts of men are failing ; 
 Man takes his fellow by the hand, 
 In nearer brotherhood they stand ; — 
 For all the earth is wailing. 
 
 There's sorrow in the hut and hall ; 
 
 The bells of death are tolling ; 
 The sun is hidden by a pall ; 
 In whelming billows, over all 
 
 The tide of grief is rolling. 
 
 Loved Britain's queen of grace and worth, 
 
 The proudest thrones of power, 
 The millions high or low in birth, — 
 Yea, all the peoples of the earth 
 Are one in sorrow's hour. 
 
 'Tis not that bloody-handed war 
 A nation's strength has broken ; 
 
 No pestilence has swept the shore, 
 
 Nor famine left in any door 
 Its grim and deathly token. 
 
 A cruel, vile, accursed blow 
 
 The world's great soul has smitten ; 
 It laid a man heroic low, 
 And lines of deep and bitter woe 
 On countless hearts are written. 
 
62 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Up to the Majesty on high 
 
 Unceasing prayer ascended ; 
 And kneeling millions wonder why 
 A righteous God should let him die 
 For whom their prayers contended. 
 
 'Tis true, a serpent strikes the heel, 
 And man sinks down to perish ; 
 And swift diseases from us steal 
 The loved and loving, till we feel 
 This life has naught to cherish. 
 
 Yet, world of weeping ! question not 
 
 Whatever God ordaineth ; 
 He cannot err, no matter what 
 The seeming strangeness of the lot, — 
 The Lord Jehovah reigneth ! 
 
 STEALING FOR LIFE. 
 
 HO ! send the woman to jail, 
 She's only a hungry thief, 
 With furtive eye and cheek so pale, 
 
 And nothing plenty but grief. 
 Has she stolen ten dollars' worth ? 
 
 What be it if only one ? 
 A wretch so vile shan't walk the earth, 
 
 So hide her away from the sun. 
 Constable ! open the door 
 
 And hustle her into a cell ; 
 Drive home the bolts and fasten her sure, 
 
 Though it seems to her like hell. 
 
A YEAR OF WEDDED LIFE. 63 
 
 Away in a desolate room 
 
 Her children — she has but four — 
 Are huddled, awaiting mother to come 
 
 With food she can steal no more. 
 One is a child of seven, — 
 
 The youngest a babe at breast, — 
 Hungry beneath the frozen heaven, — 
 
 Birds in a storm-beat nest. 
 There's not a coal on the hearth, 
 
 There's not a crumb on the board, 
 And this in the time of Christmas mirth, — 
 
 The advent-time of our Lord ! 
 
 O mothers in this great city, 
 
 With babes in a downy bed, — 
 O fathers, have ye no pity 
 
 For a mother stealing for bread ? 
 Remember, she is a woman, 
 
 And her babes were starving and cold : 
 She stole because she was human, 
 
 And not from hunger of gold. 
 'Twas more in the doing than willing, 
 
 For in want the conscience is dumb. — 
 A prison for stealing a shilling, 
 
 A palace for filching a plum ! 
 
 A YEAR OF WEDDED LIFE. 
 
 TVT OW Leaf the First of wedded life 
 ■*■ ^ Has just been written and turn'd over, 
 And not a blot or stain of strife 
 The keenest vision can discover. 
 
64 RHYMES ATWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Adown the page are lasting lines, 
 Invisible save to the writers; 
 
 And these shall be as token-signs 
 
 Of God's good grace to the inditers : — 
 
 Records alike of joys and cares 
 
 That link true souls more close together, 
 
 (For life has hours of damp, cold airs 
 As well as days of sunny weather) : — 
 
 Records of friendships that abide 
 Like fragrance in Damascus roses, 
 
 Whose perfume, breathed on every side, 
 An ever-during charm discloses : — 
 
 Records of many a deed and aim 
 
 Born of true love and gentle kindness, — 
 
 As quick to praise as slow to blame, 
 
 And showing oft a prudent blindness: — 
 
 Of works of ruth for Jesus' sake, 
 And helpful words in pity spoken, 
 
 To soothe the sorrow and the ache 
 Felt by the silent spirit-broken : — 
 
 Ay ! many a line too sweet and pure 
 For the rash inquest of the poet 
 
 Is written there : — may each endure 
 To cheer their hearts who only know it. 
 
 May the New Leaf, more rich and rare 
 Than any found in fiction's story, 
 
 Be fill'd with records bright and fair 
 To the dear Master's praise and glory ! 
 
LOST, A HEART. 65 
 
 LOST, A HEART. 
 
 HAS anybody seen a heart 
 That somehow got astray 
 About the springs of Minnequa ? 
 A maiden saw, or thought she saw, 
 The wanderer yesterday. 
 
 The maiden in the evening glow 
 
 Was drinking at the spring, 
 And when my pathway she had crost 
 I found that I had somehow lost 
 My bosom's dearest thing. 
 
 This heart is not a carnal heart, 
 
 But an ethereal sprite, 
 That none but love-anointed eyes, 
 By natural instinct shrewdly wise, 
 
 Can captivate on sight : — 
 
 An honest heart, as full of love 
 
 As roses full of scent ; — 
 If it has joined itself unto 
 Another heart as sound and true, 
 
 Then were I well content. 
 
 But till I find if this be true, 
 
 I ask, where did it go ? 
 If one should learn its whereabout, 
 Beyond an if, a but, or doubt, 
 
 Please let the loser know. 
 
66 RHYMES AT WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE FIRST CALLED. 
 
 T TATH come on him a great and bitter sorrow, — 
 ■*■ *- His sun of joy eclipsed by sudden night; 
 And when came in the tardy-moving morrow, 
 'Twas dark and cheerless to his heavy sight. 
 
 The eldest-born, — the idol of his bosom, — 
 In all the bloom of early womanhood, — 
 
 Untimely nipp'd like a maturing blossom, 
 Droop' d at his feet as in amaze he stood ! 
 
 Though heavenly-moulded in her outward seeming, 
 Though heavenly-temper'd in her inner mind, 
 
 It enter'd never in his vaguest dreaming 
 
 That she must die. God help him ! he was blind. 
 
 Dear pitying friends, his speechless grief partaking, 
 Cross'd her fair arms and closed her loving eyes; 
 
 Robed in pure white, the while his heart was 
 breaking, 
 They laid in earth the daughter of the skies. 
 
 And now he goes among his fellow mortals, — 
 And while he mingles in their busy din 
 
 His thoughts are knocking at the heavenly portals 
 To seek an audience with the blest within. 
 
 Far in the night, when cheerful men are lying 
 Cradled in slumber silent and profound, 
 
 Sad on the couch, his wakeful spirit, sighing, 
 
 For God's sweet comfort reaches round and round. 
 
TO SOMEBODY. 67 
 
 Then, in his grief, he names the name of Jesus, 
 And on His arm he lays his heavy woes : — ■ 
 
 " Not as I will, but as my dear Lord pleases !" 
 And in His grace the spirit finds repose. 
 
 TO SOMEBODY. 
 
 F SOUGHT a diamond on the shore, 
 *- The rarest of the rare : 
 A gem mine own, forevermore 
 Next to my heart to wear. 
 
 I sought it far, I sought it near, 
 
 Until my hope grew weak, 
 And well-nigh turn'd to utter fear 
 
 Lest I should vainly seek. 
 
 I stood upon the farther land 
 
 That juts out in the sea ; 
 A fairy wave stole up the strand 
 . As if to speak to me. 
 
 I bent mine ear to catch the word 
 
 So big with fate of mine ; 
 My soul with ecstasy was stirr'd 
 
 To hear the name — 'twas thine ! 
 
68 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 WANTED, A COURIER. 
 
 "\T WANTED, a courier to go in haste 
 
 » » To the regions far away, 
 Where wet Aquarius has his seat, 
 
 As the olden poets say. 
 Something is wrong in the water-realm, 
 
 Some rascal has broken the jars, 
 Or open'd the spiggots to overwhelm 
 
 The planets and lower stars. 
 Earth is sitting in robes of gloom 
 
 Beneath a dripping veil 
 Of clouds that crack with a thunderous boom 
 
 Over the hill and dale. 
 The rills infantile swell into streams 
 
 And the streams to rivers grow, 
 And they rush and they gush 
 
 Till it verily seems 
 They threaten all summer to flow. 
 
 Now, who will the hasty courier be ? 
 Some maiden fair and fancy free, 
 
 And light and airy 
 
 As feather or fairy ? 
 Or of mien majestic and port serene, 
 As the goddess Juno of Homer seen ? 
 Or a youth as fleet as Mercury's heel, 
 With heart of fire and nerve of steel ? 
 Or a grave old man of mind sedate 
 With wig and wisdom adorning his pate ? 
 Perhaps a dozen will go together, 
 E'en though they be not birds of a feather. 
 
THE SINKING OF THE CUMBERLAND. 69 
 
 How many they be, a dozen or one. 
 
 Let them be off by early sun, 
 
 And telephone soon the reason why 
 
 Things are askew in the upper sky, 
 
 That means be taken to catch and tether 
 
 The tricksy imps by the clerk of the weather. 
 
 THE SINKING OF THE CUMBERLAND. 
 
 AT Hampton Roads, the month was March 
 *■+■ In eighteen sixty-two, 
 A man-of-war at anchor lay, 
 Ready to dare and do. 
 
 Her wooden walls were good and staunch, 
 
 Her name the Cumberland: 
 Her crew and officers were brave, 
 
 And Morris had command. 
 
 Adown the roadstead slowly came 
 
 The Merrimack, a craft 
 In armour clad to water-line, 
 
 O'er-deck, and fore to aft. 
 
 The mailed Merrimack bore down, 
 
 As hawk upon a lark, 
 And open'd all her batteries 
 
 Upon the wooden bark. 
 
 The Cumberland, undaunted, join'd 
 
 In battle with the foe ; 
 Her balls, like hail against a wall, 
 
 Went glancing to and fro. 
 
JO RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 "Surrender!" from the Merrimack 
 Arose the stern command : 
 
 " No, never !" the commander cried 
 On board the Cumberland. 
 
 The Cumberland fought to the death, 
 
 Her colours at her mast, 
 And every man beside his gun 
 
 Stood bravely to the last. 
 
 The Merrimack with iron prow 
 Stove in the frigate's side; 
 
 And as the Cumberland went down 
 Her last shot swept the tide. 
 
 Her living and her dead alike 
 Sank with her 'neath the wave: 
 
 Encoffin'd in the Cumberland, 
 No king hath such a grave. 
 
 For they shall live forevermore 
 
 In story and in song, 
 While liberty on earth abides 
 
 And man abhorreth wrong. 
 
 In water many fathoms deep 
 The Cumberland went down : 
 
 In water but a fathom deep 
 There's room enough to drown : 
 
 But he who skulks when duty calls 
 May find no drop so slight, 
 
 In all the world, which would not drown 
 His little soul outright. 
 
THE ECLIPSE AND THE RAINBOW. 71 
 
 THE ECLIPSE AND THE RAINBOW. 
 
 JT^WAS yesterday, in the afternoon, 
 
 J- A scene came off 'twixt the Sun and the Moon. 
 Demure as she seems, and modestly shy, 
 The Moon conceived a feminine prank 
 While sporting behind a cumulus-bank. 
 On tiptoe stealing, in quick surprise, 
 
 When he came by 
 She tipp'd the Sun a mischievous rap 
 
 Right in the eye, 
 That blacken'd the cheek of the fiery chap. 
 The Sun in anger gave her a cuff, — 
 
 A cuff on the ears, — 
 Not very severe, but quite enough 
 
 To furrow her cheeks with tears, 
 Which, drenching the peopled world below, 
 Made all the rivulets overflow, 
 Till Earth cried out, in sudden dismay, 
 That the walls of creation had given away. 
 
 Then the Sun peep'd out from the rim of his hat, 
 And the people all wonder'd what he was at, 
 As the light-bearing shafts, speeding through air, 
 
 Transmuted the tears of his petulant queen 
 To rubies and diamonds and amethysts rare. 
 When the circlet of beauty enveloped her form, 
 Forgiven, forgotten the quarrelsome storm, 
 
 Her sovereign she kiss'd, and all was serene ; 
 And now, in good temper, they jog on their way, 
 She queen of the night, he king of the day. 
 
72 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 CRAWFORD'S NOTCH. 
 
 HPHE Storm-King stood in the car of his wrath, 
 J- And drave over mountain and vale. 
 As chaff he swept the rocks from his path, 
 And they rattled along like the hail. 
 
 The King of the Mount, awaking from sleep, 
 
 Gave the burly invader a blow 
 That hurtled him down the precipitous steep, 
 
 Far down in the valley below. 
 
 The chariot stuck in a granitic crotch, 
 The horses threw backward their heels, 
 
 And kick'd out the gorge ycleped the Notch, 
 And splinter'd the chariot wheels. 
 
 The beautiful lake the mountains had kept 
 
 Imprison'd high up in the air 
 Through the doorway of freedom hastily swept 
 
 And chased the Storm-King to his lair. 
 
 THE LITTLE ONE. 
 
 SHE flew away from earth below 
 Unto the country of the stars, 
 And angel-hands let down the bars, 
 And led her in before the face 
 Of One who, in his loving grace, 
 Bless'd little children long ago. 
 
THE RIVER OF RHYME. 73 
 
 THE RIVER OF RHYME. 
 
 OH for a spell of the former time, 
 When I dwelt beside the river of rhyme, 
 And the frequent thought would over me steal, 
 " Shall I dip a bowl of its waters for Neal ?" 
 
 To the margin I skipp'd, 
 (I was younger then,) 
 By a sleight of the pen 
 
 The vessel was dipp'd; 
 And I drank myself, and I found the bowl 
 Was a pleasant draught for a thirsty soul ; 
 And when I held it to Joseph to drink, 
 He look'd at me with a friendly wink, 
 And said it was good, and wish'd for more 
 Of the waters that flow'd a-past my door. 
 So many a time I sent him a can : 
 " He loved it," he said — and I loved the man, 
 And I was glad to give him a pleasure 
 As big as the span of my mind could measure ; 
 
 Until the day 
 When he was call'd from the world away, 
 
 And round his clay 
 The friends who loved him silently wept. 
 A chord in my bosom suddenly snapt, 
 
 And I, in indolence wrapt, 
 Left my mansion untended, unkept, 
 
 Till it were nigh to decay. 
 Though it be now refurnish'd and swept, 
 
 Yet there too seldom I stay : 
 But still I love to think of the time 
 When I dwelt beside the river of rhyme, 
 Where a tide of music flow'd ever along, 
 And every breeze was the breath of a song. 
 
74 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE THISTLE-SIFTER. 
 
 'T^HE sifter sitteth sifting thistles, 
 J- Witty as the wisest sybil, 
 Yet as silent as the Sphinx : 
 Ye players on tongue's silver whistles, 
 Pitch up to your highest treble 
 And tell us what she thinks. 
 
 The sifter plies her flitting fingers, 
 Flinging many a fluttering feather, 
 Filament and stamen, too : 
 Now in the time that never lingers 
 Gather all your wits together, 
 And guess what she will do. 
 
 The thistle-sifter still is plying 
 
 Fingers light, and swift, and nimble, - 
 Scattering the airy stuff 
 That like the feathery down is flying: 
 Lacking scissors, thread, and thimble, 
 She makes a powder-puff. 
 
 EARLY DAY. 
 
 HOW slowly and majestically comes the morning 
 sun! 
 His piercing rays begin to break through all the 
 
 vapours dun ; 
 The morning-star grows paler, and the feebler stars 
 
 all hide, 
 The splendour of the early day extinguishing their 
 pride. 
 
EARL Y DA Y. 7$ 
 
 See nature rise with crimson blushes from the bed of 
 
 night ! 
 How silently and gracefully she clothes herself in 
 
 light! 
 She sits in beauty like a bride adorn'd with jewels 
 
 rare, 
 And when she speaks, all harmonies are blended in 
 
 the air. 
 
 For cheerily, most cheerily the singing-birds awake, 
 And joyously in multitude their songs of praises 
 
 break : 
 Soul ! canst thou hear them piping thus at daybreak's 
 
 holy hour, 
 And not be lifted up to God by love's attracting 
 
 power ? 
 
 An indistinct and humming noise now steals along 
 
 the air: 
 Mankind arise from dreaming beds, and for their 
 
 toil prepare : 
 Some kneel and humbly pray to God, while others 
 
 go their way, 
 Without a blessing in their hearts, to pass a thankless 
 
 day. 
 
 Blest be the Lord Almighty for the cheering morning 
 
 light! 
 If beautiful the sun of earth when rising in his might, 
 Ineffable must be the Sun that rules the realms 
 
 above, 
 Through an eternal day of light, of glory, and of 
 
 love! 
 
76 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 THE TEMPEST STILLED. 
 
 THE tempest from its airy throne descended in its 
 might, 
 And hasten' d to the earth amid the dark and solemn 
 
 night ; 
 It rush'd in its mad fury o'er the face of Galilee, 
 When Jesus and his bosom friends were sailing on 
 the sea. 
 
 Night spread her mantle o'er the skies, and hid the 
 
 gentle light 
 That teaches mariners to steer their trembling ships at 
 
 night : 
 The raging anger of the gale had quench' d the 
 
 glimmering spark 
 Of courage in the breast of all His followers in the 
 
 bark. 
 
 Yet Jesus slept in quietude upon the tossing sea, 
 (For every holy one is safe wherever he may be;) 
 And to him his disciples came, all wan with anxious 
 
 fear, 
 And said, "O Lord, hast thou no care that we should 
 
 perish here ?" 
 
 The Lord arose in majesty amid that scene of dread, 
 And spake unto the tempest-gale that hurtled round 
 
 his head : 
 He bade the driving winds be still, the waters rage no 
 
 more, — 
 And then the heavens became serene, the waves slept 
 
 on the shore. 
 
MY MOTHER KNEL T IN PR A YER. 77 
 
 O fully may the Christian trust the Arm that can 
 
 restrain 
 The howling of the tempest-blast, the fury of the 
 
 main ; 
 For when the hour of judgment-wrath the day of 
 
 grace shall end, 
 Christ's mighty arm will succour all who on His 
 
 strength depend. 
 
 MY MOTHER KNELT IN PRAYER. 
 
 ONCE, in my boyhood's gladsome day, 
 My spirits light as air, 
 I wander'd to a lonely room, 
 Where mother knelt in prayer. 
 
 Her hands were clasp' d in fervency, 
 
 Her lips gave forth no sound ; 
 Yet, awe-struck, solemnly I felt 
 
 I stood on holy ground. 
 
 My mother, all entranced in prayer, 
 
 My presence heeded not ; 
 And reverently I turn'd away 
 
 In silence from the spot. 
 
 An orphan' d wanderer, far from home 
 
 In after time I stray'd; 
 But God has kept me, and I feel 
 
 He heard her when she pray'd. 
 
7 8 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 AUTUMNAL QUIET. 
 
 THE beautiful repose of age 
 Pervades the land to-day : 
 The Autumn, like a reverend sage 
 
 With years and labour gray, 
 And pausing in his pilgrimage, 
 Is resting by the way. 
 
 Or like a mother, meek of eye — 
 
 Life's active duties o'er — 
 Who, when the eventide is nigh, 
 
 Sits calmly in the door, 
 And ponders on the things gone by 
 
 And days she knew of yore. 
 
 'Tis Nature's time of quietude 
 
 Before the day of dread, 
 When Winter in a wrathful mood 
 
 O'er all the land shall tread, 
 The leaves and flowers thickly strew'd 
 
 Along his pathway, dead. 
 
 What though no cheerful song of bird 
 
 Nor insect's merry trill 
 Among the barren boughs is heard, 
 
 There's music round me still, 
 What time these old brown leaves are stirr'd 
 
 That wither on the hill. 
 
 The rivulets are musical, 
 As hiddenly they flow 
 
LOST, SOMEBODY'S CHILD. 
 
 Along their gravelly beds, or fall 
 On mossy rocks below ; 
 
 And sweeter notes in cot or hall 
 Are seldom heard, I trow. 
 
 I love the woods in Autumn time, 
 
 So quiet and so dim, 
 When sighing winds evoke a chime 
 
 From many a slender limb, 
 Until it seems the note sublime 
 
 Of some angelic hymn. 
 
 LOST, SOMEBODY'S CHILD. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S child is lost to-night! 
 I hear the bellman ring ; 
 And the earth is frozen hard and white, 
 
 And the wind has a nipping sting. 
 I know my babes are long abed, 
 
 A tender, motherly hand 
 Laying a blessing on every head 
 After their evening prayers were said — 
 
 God keep the slumbering band ! 
 Yet somebody's child is lost, I say, 
 
 This night so bitterly cold, 
 Some innocent lamb has gone astray 
 
 Unwittingly from its fold. 
 Bellman! ho, bellman, whose child is lost?" 
 
 And I grasp my staff and cloak ; 
 But the ringer over the wold had cross' d 
 
 Before I tardily spoke. 
 The neighbours soon gather, and far and near 
 
 We pry into ditch and fen, 
 
 79 
 
8o RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Till, hark! an answering shout I hear — 
 
 The rover is found again. 
 Ah ! mother, fond mother, your heart is light 
 
 With Joe to your bosom bound ; 
 But many a child is lost to-night 
 
 Who'll never, no, never be found. 
 
 Ay ! somebody's child is lost to-night, 
 
 While the wind is high and hoarse, 
 And the scudding ship, like a bird a-fright 
 
 Flies shivering on its course. 
 She suddenly drops in the yawning deep 
 
 As never to return ; 
 She leaps atop the watery steep, 
 
 A-creaking from stem to stern. 
 Hold well, good bark ! for a score of lives 
 
 Comprise thy costliest freight ; 
 Else loving mothers, and maids, and wives 
 
 Will ever be desolate. 
 And well she holds, with a single sail 
 
 Outspread to guide her way, 
 While all the furies of the gale 
 
 Around her bulwarks play. 
 The sailor-boy, with a fearful heart, 
 
 Sighs for his distant home, 
 And the hasty tears from his eyelids start, 
 
 And drop in the briny foam. 
 In the months agone a father sigh'd, 
 
 And a mother trembled with fears ; 
 But that father's law had he defied, 
 
 And he scorn'd that mother's tears. 
 The pitiless blast now mocks his grief, 
 
 And a huge and hungry wave 
 Bears him away beyond relief 
 
 To the depths of an ocean grave. 
 
LOST, SOMEBODY'S CHILD. 8 1 
 
 The brand is blazing upon the hearth, 
 
 The work of the day is done, 
 And the father's heart runs over the earth 
 
 In search of the wandering son. 
 Oh ! where is our poor boy to-night — 
 
 This night so bleak and wild?" 
 The mother shuts her eyes to the light, 
 
 And inly prays for her child. 
 The busy needles all cease their flight, 
 
 While their hearts say, "Where is he?" 
 They dream not he has sunken from sight, 
 
 Down, down, down in the sea. 
 The mother may pray, and she may weep 
 
 Till she weep her life away, 
 But never more will she find the sheep 
 
 That wilfully went astray. 
 
 Somebody's child is lost to-night! 
 
 Oh ! sorrow is on the day 
 When a virgin's fame is marr'd with blight 
 
 That cannot be cleansed away. 
 An humbled family sit in the gloom, 
 
 Bemoaning their hopeless shame : 
 Would that she were safe in the tomb 
 
 With honour upon her name ! 
 While deck'd in garments of satin and sin, 
 
 The fallen daughter, I ween, 
 Is scorch'd with a fever of heart within, 
 
 Though reigning as wanton-queen. 
 O merciful Father ! is this the child 
 
 Thy hand created so fair, 
 With eyes where simple innocence smiled, 
 
 And coy and maidenly air ? 
 Is this the promising morning-flower, 
 
 The brightest its rivals among ? 
 
82 KH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Is this the bird that sang in the bower 
 
 With sweetest and merriest tongue ? 
 Ah me ! this child is more than lost; 
 
 For her low-fallen form, 
 On sin's voluptuous surges tost, 
 
 Will perish in passion's storm. 
 And the mother may sigh, and she may weep 
 
 Till she weep her life away, 
 But never more will she find the sheep 
 
 That wickedly went astray. 
 
 Somebody's child is lost to-night — 
 
 A widow's only son, 
 With brow as light and eye as bright 
 
 As you ever look'd upon. 
 "And he will be my staff and stay" — 
 
 Her words were inly spoken — 
 "When I am old, and my hair is gray, 
 
 And my natural strength is broken." 
 Her motherly soul with pride o'erran 
 As the lad grew up to the estate of man, 
 And she said, in her joy, 
 That nobody's boy 
 Could match her paragon by a span. 
 Time stole along, and her locks were gray, 
 
 But her heart had lost its pride ; 
 For the man had wander' d so far astray, 
 
 'Twere better the boy had died. 
 A loathsome, vile, and gibbering thing, 
 Stung by the poisonous still-worm's sting, 
 Despised of man, contemning God, 
 And gnashing at the avenging rod 
 Wherewith his passions scourged him sore, 
 Till, fainting, he could feel no more, — 
 Ah ! somebody's child was lost in him 
 
LOST, SOMEBODY'S CHILD. 83 
 
 When he took up 
 The wassail cup, 
 And sipp'd perdition from its brim. 
 Then his manhood died, 
 And the beautiful boy 
 Of his mother's pride 
 Spill'd in the sand the cup of her joy. 
 Instead, she quaff'd 
 A wormwood draught, 
 A sorely-smitten woman ; 
 Yet loved she still, 
 Through every ill, 
 The child so scarcely human. 
 In weariness and watchings often, 
 
 Unmurmuringly her grief she bore, 
 Until, unwrapt in shroud or coffin, 
 
 Her son lay dead before her door. 
 Her sorrows had come so thick and fast 
 They cluster'd round her everywhere, 
 Till, reason utterly overcast, 
 
 The darkness hid away her care. 
 Yet ofttimes would she ask for one 
 Long gone from home, her beautiful son ; 
 And while she chided his long delay, 
 She would sigh, and whimper, and pray. 
 That mother will sigh, and she will weep 
 
 Till she weep her life away ; 
 But never more will she find the sheep 
 That wickedly went astray. 
 
 So many children are lost to-night 
 
 That I, even I, could weep 
 As I hear the breathings, soft and light, 
 
 From the crib where Tommy's asleep. 
 
84 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 And I strain my vision to pierce the clouds 
 
 That hang over years to come ; 
 But utter darkness the future shrouds, 
 
 And the tongue of the seer is dumb. 
 So I lay them down in the bosom of grace, 
 
 The children whom God has given, 
 Trusting he'll bring them to see his face, 
 
 The face of our Lord in heaven. 
 
 SPRINGTIME. 
 
 THE sovereign Sun unbars the icy gates 
 To let the Spring with all her train come in 
 But timidly the bashful maiden waits, 
 
 Or flees affrighted from the stormy din 
 And elemental strife. While she doth stand 
 In hesitance, the soft, warm southern breeze 
 Steals from the isles of lime and orange trees, 
 And blithely Spring trips o'er the smiling land. 
 Hurrah! the buds grow big; 
 They burst their swaddling-bands ; 
 The spiral sprout 
 Is shooting out, 
 And grass is creeping o'er the meadow-lands. 
 Hurrah ! ten thousand rills 
 Are hurrying down the hills ; 
 And, sparkling as they run, 
 They symbolize the boy 
 So over-full of joy 
 His very eyes are scintillating fun. 
 
 Hurrah ! a fly, a real fly ! 
 With legs so slim and will so strong. 
 
 So impudent and sly, 
 So busily idle all day long; 
 
SPRINGTIME. 85 
 
 Where didst thou hide the freezing winter through ? 
 Hadst thou a cosey cell 
 Where thou didst dwell 
 When the snows fell 
 And the north winds blew ? 
 
 Ah ! have a care, gay chap ! 
 For many a snare, 
 In earth and air, 
 Is hidden in a silken trap. 
 
 How genial is the ray 
 Of this luxurious day, 
 That vivifies the bosom like a thought 
 Of other days with happy memories fraught ; 
 The young-life days that seem 
 But a delicious dream 
 That flitted o'er a brain whose vision 
 Glimpsed upon a scene elysian, 
 Too unreal for a world 
 By manhood into chaos hurl'd. 
 A tear ! why, sure, there's still 
 A living rill 
 Beneath the rubbish piled upon the heart, 
 That bubbles up 
 And yields a cup 
 Of healing for a bosom-smart. 
 
 Let's forth, my friend, and wander slow 
 Over the fields of tender green, 
 
 Where, as we go, 
 The earlier flowers are seen, 
 With bluish eyes, 
 Up-peering to the skies, 
 Like childhood looking up to God 
 From bended knees. 
 
S6 XHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 How fragrant is the sod, 
 
 Where no o'ershading trees 
 Prevent the blessing of the sun 
 From coming down, 
 With odorous plants to crown 
 The lea that erst was desolate and dun ! 
 Companion mine ! 
 Thou of the musing race ! 
 Seest thou the beams that round us shine 
 Of Heaven's premeditated grace ? 
 Oh! speak; for thou'rt a master in the speech 
 That to the soul's remotest depths can reach : 
 
 A place there is within thy poet heart 
 Where heavenly thoughts like holy angels bide ; 
 Thou drawest at times the hiding veil aside, 
 And from its home thou causest to depart 
 A living verse to go abroad, and be 
 A missioner of good to our humanity: 
 So speak thou now in this love-moving hour, 
 When newborn Nature wakes in mystic power. 
 Ah ! silent still ! I see ! I see ! 
 I find a key 
 That opes to me 
 The mystery 
 Of thy deep silence now : I see 
 
 The cloud that hangs above thy joy; 
 Thy memory rests on thine angelic boy 
 Who held thy hand when on thy evening walk, 
 And by his little talk 
 Beguiled thee so 
 That life without him seem'd an utter wo. 
 Thy lamb is safely gather'd in the fold, 
 The fold eternal, in the better land; 
 His hand is in the gentle Shepherd's hand, 
 And by His side he walks, as once of old 
 
MY DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 He walk'd with thee along this beauteous earth. 
 His eye, that glisten'd with a sinless mirth, 
 
 Is brighter now : his voice, 
 Excelling in its sweetness any bell, 
 Is sweeter now in its harmonious swell, 
 
 In that grand hymn wherewith the blest rejoice. 
 He cannot come to thee; but thou, 
 When God shalt change thy brow 
 And make thy vision dim, 
 Shalt go to him. 
 What though we turn to clay— 
 A springtime resurrection-day, 
 Remember, shall be his and thine 
 And mine 
 And every soul's that loves our Lord 
 In this brief time : 
 Immortal prime 
 Is theirs who trust the Master's word. 
 
 Let's homeward now: thy face again is bright; 
 The springtime shadows soon resolve in light. 
 
 MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 T)ALE and silent Harriet lies : 
 
 J- Folded hands and veiled eyes — 
 
 Pass'd from me up to the skies, 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter! 
 
 If an angel hither came, 
 Dwelling in a mortal frame, 
 Thine the blessed spirit's name, 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter ! 
 
88 RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES. 
 
 Scarce a score of years had run. 
 In its number lacking one; 
 Time with her so early done ! 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter! 
 
 Firstling of our household band 
 To appear in glory's land, 
 Still I clasp her wonted hand, 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter! 
 
 Mid the many cares of day, 
 Pressing through them as I may, 
 She goes with me all the way, 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter! 
 
 Smiling from the glory cloud, 
 Clad in light instead of shroud, 
 I behold her in the crowd, 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter! 
 
 Wakeful in my bed at night, 
 She is present to my sight 
 In her look of love and light, 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter! 
 
 If 'twere fitting she should go, 
 Should I weakly answer No ! 
 Though it were a bitter wo ? 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter ! 
 
 Let Thy will be done ! I say 
 In my sorrowful dismay : 
 This the daily prayer I pray: 
 
 My daughter — O my daughter ! 
 
CRAZY NOR AH. 89 
 
 CRAZY NORAH. 
 
 WILD, fantastic, wayward creature, 
 Lean and sharp in every feature 
 Slyly shrewd and simply cunning, 
 Whether chiding, praying, dunning ; 
 Earning many an honest penny, 
 Loving none nor fearing any ; 
 With her box or satchel laden, 
 Jeer'd by boy and fear'd by maiden, 
 Up and down the streets a-going, 
 Through the alleys of the city, 
 Better known to all than knowing, 
 Moving gentle women's pity. 
 Did the fiends her path environ ? 
 Arm'd for battle, with gridiron, 
 Frying-pan, or tongs, or other 
 Weapon, fell assaults to parry, 
 And the haunting imps to harry, 
 Calling saints and grandam-mother ; 
 Prayer and benediction uttering, 
 Wrath and imprecation muttering : 
 Fain her rooted faith to foster, 
 Teaching urchins Pater Noster 
 And the Creed of ancient ages 
 Found in early Fathers' pages. 
 
 Why in pathways dark and mazy 
 Trod the feet of Norah crazy ? 
 Had her heart been vilely broken 
 By a vow in falseness spoken ? 
 Had the love her first love grew to, 
 Twining rootlets all around it, 
 
 8* 
 
90 RHYMES A 7' WE EN- TIMES. 
 
 Dried to dust, and proved untrue to 
 Her whose soul had closely bound it, 
 Till with love died also reason, 
 Root, and stem, and bud, and flower, 
 Dying in the noontide hour 
 Of the summer's scorching season ? 
 Was it that unholy rancour 
 Gnaw'd her spirit like a canker, 
 Till the cable from the anchor 
 Parted, and away she drifted, 
 Evermore from haven rifted ? 
 
 In the times yet unforgotten, 
 Symbolized by learned Cotton, — 
 When the Quaker, neck-suspended, 
 Had his dream of life rough ended, — 
 When the witch, perchance demented, 
 Old and poor, yet still contented 
 With the lot of Heaven's frowning, 
 Was consign'd to murderous drowning, - 
 Shrift but short had been allotted 
 To a wretch with wit out-blotted. 
 
 In these better days prevailing 
 In the city of the Quaker, 
 Norah, 'mid her sore assailing, 
 Found no hand so rough to take her — 
 None so vile to hale to prison 
 One whose sun, in brightness risen, 
 Was eclipsed till day immortal 
 Burst through death's mysterious portal. 
 Plodding in a pathway lonely 
 Till her temple-locks were whiten' d, 
 Kindness waited on her only, 
 Kindness by her whimseys heighten'd, 
 
BROTHER! TAKE MY ARM. 9 1 
 
 Till her eyes were re-anointed 
 In the time of God appointed : 
 Then the people, if unmournful, 
 Said, " Poor Norah's dead!" unscornful. 
 
 BROTHER! TAKE MY ARM. 
 
 WHEN grief falls heavy on thee, 
 Or boding ills alarm, 
 Fear not to lean upon me, — 
 
 Then, brother ! take my arm. 
 There's many a carking trouble 
 
 That taketh two to bear, 
 And one would bend quite double 
 Beneath so sore a care. 
 
 If malice, in its rancour, 
 
 Has sought thy mortal harm, 
 My shoulder be thine anchor, 
 
 Here, brother ! take my arm. 
 Though all, in time of trial, 
 
 May turn their look away, — ■ 
 Nay, brother! no denial, — 
 
 My arm shall be thy stay. 
 
 If grief were mine to-morrow, 
 
 A grief but love could charm, 
 I'd cry, amid the sorrow, 
 
 Good brother! give thine arm. 
 'Tis Christlike when another 
 
 That sinking cry shall heed ; 
 For man to man's a brother 
 
 More truly when in need. 
 
EH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 JOHN MAYNARD, 
 
 THE PILOT OF LAKE ERIE. 
 
 THE morn was fair as e'er a morn 
 Of summer in her beauty born : 
 The rarest tint of ancient dye 
 Were pale beside its wondrous sky ; 
 No fleece by fuller wrought upon 
 Were whiter than the clouds that hung 
 As if on snowy pinions swung 
 About the pathway of the sun. 
 The breeze came tripping o'er the lake 
 With ripples chasing in its wake, 
 And frolicking in open day 
 Like dimpled urchins at their play ; 
 While sea to sky and sky to sea 
 Flash' d messages responsively, 
 As glimpsing glances fond and shy 
 Are met by passion's answering eye. 
 
 A steamer grandly rose and fell 
 Upon the bosom of the swell 
 Created by her wheels, as if, 
 Impatient at the hawser's check, 
 She'd snap the rein that, taut and stiff, 
 Lay on her proud imperial neck. 
 The bell had clang'd; the captain roar'd 
 In trumpet accent, "All aboard!" 
 The cable loosen'd, forth she sprang 
 Like restive racer on her course, 
 While landsmen's shouts, prolong'd and hoarse, 
 With many a GoD-speed bravely rang. 
 The pennant stream'd out at the fore, 
 The flag was gayly flapping aft, 
 
JOHN MA YNARD. 93 
 
 While the pent steam with hissing roar 
 Whirl'd round and round the ponderous shaft, 
 That drove the ship impetuous o'er 
 The deep green waters far from shore. 
 
 Her decks are laden with a freight 
 Richer than gems of far Brazil 
 Or gold from every treasure hill 
 Of modern or of ancient date — 
 Of living souls, the grave, the gay, 
 The child, and sire with temples gray. 
 Without a thought of lurking ill 
 The sense of present joy to kill, 
 A hum of voices steals along 
 Like murmurs of a far-off song : 
 The while the pilot at the wheel, 
 With wary eye and nerve of steel, 
 In watchful silence holds his post 
 Serene above the chatting host. 
 
 But, lo ! a cry ! All lips grow dumb ; 
 Thin wreaths of smoke from hatchways come. 
 Strange noises now are heard below, 
 A hasty rushing to and fro. 
 " Pass on the buckets /" Every ear 
 Is startled with a sudden fear : 
 Yet calm and stern the captain stands, 
 His voice sonorous as a bell : 
 " Be lively, men ! Come, bear a hand! 
 Work with a will, and all is well." 
 
 They struggle hard, they labour long; 
 The enemy is fierce and strong, 
 And when the flame bursts from the hold, 
 The blood in many a heart runs cold. 
 
94 RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES. 
 
 "John! head the vessel for the shore!" 
 The captain to the steersman cries; 
 "We're safe in thirty minutes more!" — 
 "Ay, ay, sir!" cheerly John replies. 
 
 With many a prayer to Him who saves, 
 The trembling crowd press to the bow, 
 For aft the flame is rushing now : 
 And as the fire-ship cleaves the waves, 
 Its fury to the wheelhouse sweeps ; 
 Down to the deck the pilot leaps, 
 And at the stern he takes his stand 
 Holding the helm with steady hand. 
 
 The boat speeds on her headlong way, 
 Dashing before her clouds of spray, 
 The while her sturdy ribs of oak 
 Quiver beneath the engine's stroke. 
 A mile away — it may be more — 
 Serenely smiles the verdant shore. 
 O grant, good Lord ! that she may reach 
 That quiet, grass-emborder'd beach! 
 "John! hold on but five minutes more!" 
 The captain to the helmsman cries. 
 Ringing above the furnace roar, 
 "I'll try, sir!" simply John replies. 
 Around him fall the glowing brands, 
 The red heat blistering face and hands. 
 Lifting a prayer to God on high, 
 As one who prays when doom'd to die, 
 He bends him down, and firmly grasps 
 The tiller as with iron hasps. 
 
 Thrice-bless'd be God ! the shore is reach'd, 
 Far on the sand the ship is beach'd; 
 
JOHN MA YNARD. g$ 
 
 All leap ashore, and wild delight 
 Chases away their wilder fright. 
 But where is he who held his post 
 Serene above the trembling host ? 
 Where is the pilot ? 'Neath the deep 
 John Maynard sleeps the martyr's sleep. 
 
 Some die in quiet on their bed, 
 With gentle arms beneath the head, 
 While prayer and promise in the ear 
 Disperse the final doubt and fear. 
 Some nobly fall in battle's strife, 
 For home and freedom giving life : 
 In the heroic front they die 
 Mid ringing shouts of victory ! 
 To few 'tis given to stand alone 
 And die as our dear Lord hath done, 
 Content to perish so they save 
 Their brothers from a fiery grave. 
 The victim of that day of dread, 
 The pilot died as martyrs die, — 
 The crown of flame around his head 
 His crown of glory in the sky. 
 As long as stars their radiance give 
 His memory on earth shall live ; 
 And tender eyes shall dim with tears 
 For him who perish'd in the flame, 
 And heroes born in coming years 
 Shall emulate John Maynard's fame. 
 
 ??«&: 
 
96 RHYMES ATWE EN -TIMES. 
 
 A PEEP INTO THE PARLOUR. 
 
 LOVE, where's the poker? I would stir the fire; 
 ' 'Tis getting low : the wind is "getting high." 
 
 Come, draw your sewing chair and footstool nigh ; 
 The glowing coals will cheerfulness inspire, 
 
 And while you ply the needle, I will write 
 
 The gentle words the muse may speak to-night. 
 Ah! what is that? "You wish I'd talk," you say. 
 
 Just as you like ; but let me end my strain, 
 
 Or I shall tangle all my fancy's skein, 
 And lose the thread-end of my pretty lay. 
 
 "You wish I'd crack some nuts and eat a pippin!' 
 You know my hobby, dear ! You bring me low, 
 And conquer with a single loving blow ; 
 
 The nuts and apples cheerfully I'll dip in. 
 
 You want to know "What nonsense I am writing!" 
 Ah, now, methinks you're somewhat too severe : 
 The Muse, you know, is but my second dear, 
 
 And she, like you, impels me to inditing 
 
 The rhymes you say are sometimes so inviting. 
 But we'll not quarrel for such little things ; 
 Peace in our dwelling folds her downy wings, 
 
 And generals and roughs may do the fighting. — 
 Hist! how the wind is howling round the roof! 
 
 The tempest-king is riding on the air, 
 
 And we've a turkey on a nail up there, 
 
 Of Christmas nigh at hand a pleasant proof. 
 
 Then listen, love! — (be off, you frisky kitten, 
 
 And let my foot alone !) — I'll read you what I've writ- 
 ten: — 
 
A PEEP INTO THE PARLOUR. g7 
 
 The wind is out in his strength to-night, 
 
 And the frost is under his wings ; 
 Downward to earth he bendeth his flight, 
 
 And wild is the song he sings ; 
 Wo, wo to the wretch whose hapless head 
 Hath shelter none, nor fire, nor bed! 
 
 The wind is putting the trees to rout ; 
 
 He rends them in his wrath : 
 At his will he scatters the leaves about, 
 
 And litters the forest path ; 
 He splinters the den of the sleeping bear, 
 And the torpid brute is cast from his lair. 
 
 The wolves are howling the forest through, 
 
 And the savage panthers growl ; 
 The echoing woods the noises renew, 
 
 Like the screechings of the owl. 
 The men are in peril, who, far from home, 
 On such a night in the wild woods roam. 
 
 The wind on the sea is blowing a gale ; 
 
 He rolls the waves on high ; 
 And the quivering ships, without a sail, 
 
 O'er the face of the ocean fly. 
 A tear and a prayer for the sailor be given 
 Whose vessel is on a lee-shore driven ! 
 
 He pierces the hut of the shivering poor ; 
 
 No sigh of pity has he ! 
 What mortal can tell the pangs they endure 
 
 Whose portion is poverty ? 
 Rich stewards of Heaven, to want unknown, 
 God's creatures starve for lack of a bone! 
 
98 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 "Enough," you say; and so say I. It pains 
 My inmost soul while I depict the woes 
 
 That many a poor, unmurmuring man sustains 
 As mournfully along life's way he goes. 
 
 The poor are with us alway. Let us give 
 To them a share of what to us good Heaven 
 In brimming cups of happiness has given ; 
 
 And they may learn how good it is to live. 
 
 Good-night! The Sabbath hour is drawing nigh; 
 
 We'll lay aside our labours, love ! and rest : 
 
 Our Father sends His blessing to our breast 
 While humbly we for His sweet favour cry. 
 
 We fear no evil when we sink to sleep ; 
 
 For He who loveth all His loving ones will keep. 
 
 OUR SON. 
 
 A LITTLE son — an only son — have we ; 
 (God bless the lad, and keep him night and day, 
 
 And lead him softly o'er this stony way !) 
 He is blue-eyed, and flaxen hair has he, 
 
 (Such, long ago, mine own was wont to be ; 
 
 And people say he much resembles me.) 
 I've never heard a bird or runlet sing 
 
 So sweetly as he talks. His words are small 
 
 Sweet words — oh ! how deliciously they fall ! 
 Much like the sound of silver bells they ring, 
 
 And fill the house with music. Beauty lies 
 As naturally upon his cheek as bloom 
 
 Upon a peach. Like morning vapour, flies 
 Before his smile my mind's infrequent gloom. 
 
OUR SON. 99 
 
 A jocund child is he, and full of fun : 
 
 He laughs with happy heartiness, and he 
 His half-closed eyelids twinkles roguishly, 
 
 Till from their lashes tears start up and run. 
 
 The drops are bright as diamonds. When they roll 
 
 Adown his cheek, they seem to be the o'erflowing 
 Of the deep well of love within his soul, 
 
 The human tendernesses of his nature showing. 
 Tis pleasant to look on him while he sleeps : 
 
 His plump and chubby arms, and delicate fingers, 
 The half-form'd smile that round his red lips creeps ; 
 
 The intellectual glow that faintly lingers 
 Upon his countenance, as if he talks 
 With some bright angel on his nightly walks. 
 
 We tremble when we think that many a storm 
 
 May beat upon him in the time to come, — 
 That his now beautiful and fragile form 
 
 May bear a burden sore and wearisome. 
 Yet, so the stain of guiltiness and shame 
 Be never placed upon his soul and name, 
 
 So he preserve his virtue though he die, 
 And to his God, his race, his country prove 
 
 A faithful man, whom praise nor gold can buy, 
 Nor threats of vile, designing men can move, — 
 
 We ask no more. We trust that He who leads 
 The footsteps of the feeble lamb, will hold 
 This lamb of ours in mercy's pasture-fold, 
 
 Where every inmate near the loving Shepherd feeds. 
 
I OO RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE NEWLY-COME. 
 
 THE morning of the day that bears the name 
 Of Erin's famous spiritual daddy, 
 
 (Call'd variously St. Patrick, Pat, or Paddy,) 
 A tiny stranger to our dwelling came. 
 
 Unknown, unnamed, without a mark or label, 
 Save those which Adam's offspring ever wore, 
 She came to us as five had come before, 
 
 To make another sitter at our table. 
 She waited not the word of invitation, 
 
 But crept into our hearts at once, and took 
 
 A life-possession of a little nook 
 Erst fitted up for her inhabitation ; 
 
 And there will she forevermore abide, 
 
 Let joy or sorrow, life or death betide. 
 
 'Twas on this wise. From certain premonitions, 
 There seem'd to me that, hid some otherwhere, 
 There was a cherub, tiny, young, and fair : 
 
 And every day gave strength to my suspicions. 
 And therefore kept I watch till past night's mid, 
 
 When suddenly I fell into a doze. 
 
 My heavy eyelids scarce had time to close, 
 Before I heard a voice — I surely did! 
 
 And lo! behold, in the adjoining room — 
 
 In life and tears — a bud just come in bloom! 
 Love's gentle dews long, long on her descend, 
 
 The youngest, tenderest prattler of our hearth ; 
 In every hour, the Highest be her friend, 
 
 And life immortal spring from mortal birth. 
 
THE SLEEPING WIFE. IOI 
 
 THE SLEEPING WIFE. 
 
 MY wife ! how calmly sleepest thou ! 
 A perfect peace is on thy brow : 
 Thine eyes beneath their fringed lid, 
 Like stars behind a cloud, are hid; 
 Thy voice is mute, and not a sound 
 Disturbs the tranquil air around : 
 I'll watch, and mark each line of grace 
 That God has drawn upon thy face. 
 
 My wife ! thy breath is low and soft ; 
 To catch its sound I listen oft; 
 The lightest leaf of Persian rose 
 Upon thy lips might find repose. 
 So deep thy slumber, that I press'd 
 My trembling hand upon thy breast, 
 In sudden fear that envious death 
 Had robb'd thee, sleeping, of thy breath. 
 
 My wife ! my wife ! thy face now seems 
 To show the tenor of thy dreams : 
 Methinks thy gentle spirit plays 
 Amid the scenes of earlier days ; 
 Thy thoughts, perchance, now dwell on him 
 Whom most thou lov'st; or in the dim 
 And shadowy future strive to pry, 
 With woman's curious, earnest eye. 
 
 Sleep on ! sleep on ! my dreaming wife ! 
 Thou livest now another life, 
 With beings fill'd, of fancy's birth; 
 I will not call thee back to earth : 
 
102 RHYMES AT WE EN '-TIMES. 
 
 Sleep on until the car of morn 
 Above the eastern hills is borne ; 
 Then thou wilt wake again, and bless 
 My sight with living loveliness. 
 
 OUR BOY FOR EVERMORE. 
 
 NOW lay your head close to my breast, 
 My wife Elizabeth ! 
 Our Tommy is no more distrest : — 
 The neighbours say, 'Tis death : 
 We know the child has gone to rest, — 
 A word that comforteth. 
 
 How often, wife, we deem'd the boy 
 
 Too early wise for earth ! 
 We felt he was no idle toy, 
 
 To wake a transient mirth : 
 Our Lord had lent him as a joy 
 
 To sanctify our hearth. 
 
 He never pain'd our hearts, you know, 
 
 Save in this bitter grief: 
 'Tis well the tears a while should flow 
 
 To give the breast relief ; 
 But, lest we sin in doing so, 
 
 Let sorrow's time be brief. 
 
 Why question aught the Lord's decree ? 
 
 'Twere wiser to adore 
 The grace hid in grief's mystery 
 
 We knew not of before, 
 That Tommy in our minds shall be 
 
 Our boy for evermore. 
 
OUR BOY FOR E VERMORE. 103 
 
 Let not our faith grow faint nor cold ; 
 
 God's goodness claims our praise, 
 That makes the cup of sorrow hold 
 
 The joy of many days, — 
 For Tommy, never growing old, 
 
 The same shall be always. 
 
 The child of scarce five summers, we 
 
 Shall see him every day : 
 Now skipping in his sinless glee 
 
 Out on the lawn at play ; 
 Now meekly bending at your knee, 
 
 His evening prayer to pray. 
 
 He stands on tiptoe at the gate 
 
 Before the sun goes down, 
 In glad expectance wont to wait 
 
 Our coming from the town ; 
 He runs with eager haste elate 
 
 To catch you by the gown. 
 
 At table, on his 'customed chair, 
 
 The while the grace is said, 
 He shuts his eyes with reverent air, 
 
 And gently bows his head : 
 His knife, his fork, his napkin there, — 
 
 Our Tommy is not dead ! 
 
 We see the cherub in the skies 
 
 Among the children stand 
 Near to the Lord whose gracious eyes 
 
 Smile on the loving band : 
 His sisters dear, with glad surprise, 
 
 Clasping his tiny hand. 
 
104 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Ere yet nineteen, our firstling died 
 In bloom of maiden grace : 
 
 Her brother now is by her side, 
 Who never saw her face 
 
 Till she became his gentle guide 
 Around the heavenly place. 
 
 When on their children honours fall, 
 Men give it proud report : 
 
 What glory that the King should call 
 Our children to his court, 
 
 To stand before him in his hall, 
 Where heavenly ones resort ! 
 
 How gently with us God has dealt ! 
 
 So deals He with us still ; 
 The double sorrow we have felt 
 
 He never meant for ill : 
 The Finer lights the fire to melt 
 
 The metal to his will. 
 
 'TIS FIVE-AND-TWENTY YEARS. 
 
 SITTING upon our cottage stoop, 
 By autumn maples shaded, 
 I call the gentle visions up 
 
 That time had nearly faded. 
 The evening light comes from the west, 
 
 In streams of golden glory ; 
 So fold your head, love, on my breast, 
 And hear my olden story. 
 
'TIS FIVE-AND-TWENTY YEARS. 105 
 
 Tis five-and-twenty years, my dear, 
 
 Since, hearts and hands together, 
 We launch'd our bark, the ocean clear 
 
 And all serene the weather. 
 With simple trust in Providence, 
 
 We set the sails upon her ; 
 My fortune, hope and common sense, 
 
 Your dowry, love and honour. 
 
 For five-and-twenty years, my dear, 
 
 The billows lightly skimming, 
 One day the skies grew murk and drear, 
 
 Our eyes and spirits dimming. 
 How dark that night frown'd overhead, 
 
 When hope foresaw no morrow, 
 And we beside our firstling dead 
 
 Drank our first cup of sorrow. 
 
 *Tis five-and-twenty years, my dear, 
 
 Yet music's in our dwelling, 
 The children's prattle that we hear 
 
 About our hearthstone swelling. 
 God bless them all, the loving band 
 
 So glad to call you mother ; 
 With heart to heart and hand to hand 
 
 Clinging to one another. 
 
 Through five-and-twenty years, my dear, 
 
 Whene'er my arm was weary, 
 And scarce I knew the way to steer, 
 
 Your words were ever cheery. 
 When mid the tempest and the night, 
 
 With courage sorely shrinking, 
 Then on our way God gave us light 
 
 That kept our faith from sinking. 
 
1 06 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 'Tis five-and-twenty years, my dear, 
 
 Slight change in you revealing ; 
 But o'er my brow — you see them here — 
 
 The silver hairs are stealing. 
 Yet let them come, while still thy breast 
 
 Retains the fond emotion 
 That nerved my arm when first we prest 
 
 Our way out on life's ocean. 
 
 THE DEAD WIFE. 
 
 THERE is no room for sorrow here : 
 I tell my heart so every day : 
 Mine eyes betray no open tear, 
 And yet the lesson will not stay. 
 
 My heart still goes its daily round, 
 Seeking for one it misses sore ; 
 
 It gives new sharpness to the wound, 
 That she will come to me no more. 
 
 The 'custom'd social table-chat 
 
 Palls on my apathetic ear: 
 1 see the chair whereon she sat, 
 
 But her sweet voice I cannot hear. 
 
 The wonted pillow where she lay 
 
 Is now unpress'd throughout the night; 
 
 In wakeful longings for the day 
 
 I watch and wait the morning light. 
 
THE DEAD WIFE. I07 
 
 The motherless stand by my side, 
 With many a kiss and fond caress ; 
 
 And more I reach for her who died 
 And left my children motherless. 
 
 Like children on their schoolward way, 
 Close side by side we went along, — 
 
 I helping in her trying day, 
 She helping me when she was strong. 
 
 No weakling creature of romance, 
 
 Sighing and fainting all the day, 
 Wasting in sentimental trance 
 
 The sacred trust of time away : 
 
 Her life was work in love and grace, 
 Doing her Master's will in deeds, — 
 
 Good deeds of service to her race, 
 
 Kind thoughts for others in their needs. 
 
 I hear the sobbing of the poor, 
 
 The sisterhood of toil and care, 
 Who never left her honest door 
 
 With poverty's mere stinted share : 
 
 I hear the sighs that from afar 
 
 Come from the wanderers whom she sought: 
 How vain their sighs and sobbings are 
 
 To move again her careful thought! 
 
 For her dear sake I planted flowers, 
 And April brought the early bloom ; 
 
 But the wise God had mark'd her hours, 
 And weeping flowers besprent her tomb. 
 
1 08 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIME S. 
 
 I pluck'd the choicest buds that grew, 
 And held them to her fading eyes : 
 
 She saw them not ; her soul, I knew, 
 Was looking into Paradise. 
 
 I sat beside her weary bed, 
 
 And hymns of heaven with her I sung, 
 Sweet words of Holy Writ I read. 
 
 And stammering prayer dropt from my tongue. 
 
 I tried to say, Thy will be done ! 
 
 'Twas only words ; the heart cried Nay! — 
 Father! forgive the erring son, 
 
 So blinded that he could not pray. 
 
 She drew my face to her dear face, 
 
 And folded me to her dear breast 
 In one last, loving, long embrace, — 
 
 My lips are dumb to tell the rest ! 
 
 The martyr stoned to bitter death 
 Saw Christ in glory on His throne ; 
 
 And so, before her parting breath, 
 His glory in her bosom shone. 
 
 I know that all is well with her, 
 That she is near the Master's side ; 
 
 That neither care nor pain can stir 
 The loved for whom the Loving died. 
 
 So, though my heart cries out anon 
 
 A yearning, lonely, human cry, 
 I bid my selfishness begone, 
 
 And meet the world with tearless eye. 
 
ANNA MARIA ROSS. I09 
 
 ANNA MARIA ROSS. 
 
 WHAT is death to one that liveth 
 In the love of our dear Lord, 
 When its summons only giveth 
 
 Rest, and peace, and large reward ? 
 
 Toiling, watching, waiting, serving, 
 Blessing sad and suffering ones, — 
 
 Loving, and with faith unswerving, 
 Seeking, soothing misery's sons : 
 
 Beautiful in woman's graces, 
 Cheerful as the springtime birds, 
 
 Joy lit up their pallid faces 
 At the music of her words. 
 
 Wheresoe'er her footsteps tended, 
 Earth put on a heav'nly look : — 
 
 Weep, that here her course is ended, 
 Ye that of her care partook. 
 
 Weep, ye wounded of the nation, 
 Ye who bled at duty's post, — 
 
 She has fallen at her station, 
 She who led sweet mercy's host. 
 
 When God taketh whom He loveth 
 From the striving to the crown, 
 
 Love His action wisely moveth, — 
 Why then let our courage down ? 
 
I IO RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Death is naught to one that dieth 
 When her work and watch are o'er ; 
 
 In her Lord's dear arms she lieth, 
 Who His cross so bravely bore. 
 
 Glory to the Lord of glory 
 
 For the bright example shown ! 
 
 While we tell it o'er in story, 
 
 Help us make it, Christ ! our own. 
 
 THE SOLDIER TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 ON the field of battle, mother, 
 All the night alone I lay, 
 Angels watching o'er me, mother, 
 
 Till the breaking of the day. 
 I lay thinking of you, mother, 
 
 And the loving ones at home, 
 Till to our dear cottage, mother, 
 Boy again I seem'd to come. 
 
 He to whom you taught me, mother, 
 
 On my infant knee to pray, 
 Kept my heart from fainting, mother, 
 
 When the vision pass'd away. 
 In the gray of morning, mother, 
 
 Comrades bore me to the town : 
 From my bosom tender fingers 
 
 Wash'd the blood that trickled down. 
 
 I must soon be going, mother, 
 
 Going to the home of rest: 
 Kiss me as of old, my mother, 
 
 Press me nearer to your breast. 
 
AN EVENING STORM AT THE SEASIDE. Ill 
 
 Would I could repay you, mother, 
 
 For your faithful love and care : 
 God uphold and bless you, mother, 
 
 In this bitter wo you bear. 
 
 Kiss for me my little brother, 
 
 Kiss my sisters, loved so well : 
 When you sit together, mother, 
 
 Tell them how their brother fell. 
 Tell to them the story, mother, 
 
 When I sleep beneath the sod, 
 That I died to save my country 
 
 All from love to her and God. 
 
 Leaning on the merit, mother, 
 
 Of the One who died for all, 
 Peace is in my bosom, mother, — 
 
 Hark ! I hear the angels call ! 
 Don't you hear them singing, mother? 
 
 Listen to the music's swell ! 
 Now I leave you, loving mother: 
 
 God be with you — fare you well. 
 
 AN EVENING STORM AT THE SEASIDE. 
 
 THE heat is on the land and sea, 
 And every breast is panting ; 
 Still from the westward, burningly, 
 
 The fervid rays are slanting ; 
 When lo ! a long-drawn line of cloud, 
 
 Far in the north-east quarter, 
 Sends mutterings ominous and loud 
 Over the land and water. 
 
1 2 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 See night-black clouds, uptoppling fast, 
 
 To heights of heaven soaring, 
 Whose heralds sound a startling blast 
 
 As troops of lions roaring. 
 The hurrying winds rush to and fro 
 
 Like armies struck with panic, 
 While streams of liquid lightning flow 
 
 From cloudy mounts volcanic. 
 
 Over the land and over the sea 
 
 The thunder-peals are crashing, 
 And merrily — oh, how merrily — 
 
 The countless drops are plashing ! 
 Down pours the wild fantastic rain 
 
 On maple and the willow, 
 And roof and wall and window-pane, 
 
 And meadow, beach, and billow. 
 
 The curtain rises : far away 
 
 The cohorts stern are flitting ; 
 The sun comes forth in grand array 
 
 On a throne of glory sitting. 
 The clouds that shroud the flying storm 
 
 With bows of promise lighting, 
 Majestic beauty wreathes the form 
 
 Whose mission seem'd so blighting. 
 
 Oh, glorious is the sight to see ! 
 
 And gentle bosoms, burning 
 With pure and holy ecstasy, — 
 
 Their vision upward turning, — 
 Bless God for storm as well as calm, 
 
 Alike the theme of wonder, 
 And reverent voices swell the psalm 
 
 To Him who wields the thunder. 
 
LET ME KISS HIM FOR HIS MOTHER. 1 13 
 
 Ho, brothers ! this of mortal life 
 
 Most truly is the limning : 
 What joy, what wo, what peace, what strife, 
 
 The burden of our hymning ! 
 Though dark the clouds within the breast, 
 
 Though horrors round us gather, 
 Our Lord will give His perfect rest 
 
 To all who love the Father. 
 
 LET ME KISS HIM FOR HIS MOTHER. 
 
 LET me kiss him for his mother ! 
 * Ere ye lay him with the dead: 
 Far away from home, another 
 
 Sure may kiss him in her stead. 
 How that mother's lip would kiss him 
 Till her heart should nearly break ! 
 How in days to come she'll miss him ! 
 Let me kiss him for her sake. 
 
 Let me kiss him for his mother ! 
 Let me kiss the wandering boy: 
 
 It may be there is no other 
 Left behind to give her joy. 
 
 When the news of wo the morrow 
 Burns her bosom like a coal, 
 
 She may feel this kiss of sorrow- 
 Fall as balm upon her soul. 
 
 Let me kiss him for his mother! 
 
 Heroes ye, who by his side 
 Waited on him as a brother 
 
 Till the Northern stranger died ; 
 
114 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Heeding not the foul infection, 
 Breathing in the fever-breath : — 
 
 Let me, of my own election, 
 Give the mother's kiss in death. 
 
 "Let me kiss him for his mother!" 
 
 Loving thought and loving deed ! 
 Seek nor tear nor sigh to smother, 
 
 Gentle matrons, while ye read. 
 Thank the God who made you human, 
 
 Gave ye pitying tears to shed ; 
 Honour ye the Christian woman 
 
 Bending o'er another's dead. 
 
 A MORNING STORM IN THE ADIRONDACKS. 
 
 T^HE multitude of mountains rest below 
 ■*■ The overlying heavens, serene, sublime, — 
 Heaved from the depths in nature's earliest throe, 
 
 Before the annals of recorded time. 
 Like sleeping mammoths on this cloudy morn, 
 
 No sign give they save in the steamy breath 
 That, issuing from their nostrils, is upborne 
 
 To regions where the storm-king thundereth. 
 His tones how angry when he deigns to speak ! 
 
 How thick the darkness looming o'er his path, 
 Save when his lightnings play around each peak ! 
 
 Yet reck not they the muttering of his wrath ; 
 For this shall harmless fall, while they shall stand 
 
 Unmoved until the great prophetic day 
 When He shall speak who form'd them by His hand; 
 
 And then the olden things shall pass away, 
 And a new earth, more glorious, pure, and bright, 
 Shall dawn on man's regenerated sight! 
 
THE TAKING OF THE CHILD. 115 
 
 THE TAKING OF THE CHILD. 
 
 WE heard no knocking at the door, 
 There was no stealthy tread 
 Of vagrant feet upon the floor, 
 To fill our souls with dread. 
 
 We heard no voice within the room, 
 
 Nor saw a stranger's face, 
 And yet a trembling and a gloom 
 
 Crept over us apace. 
 
 Without the night was wild and drear, 
 
 Within was woful care : 
 And silence magnified our fear 
 
 Till broken by a prayer. 
 
 The dying boy wist what I said, 
 For simple words were they : 
 
 He clasp'd his hands and bent his head, 
 Our Father heard him pray. 
 
 As on his mother's breast reclined, 
 
 Nestling his flaxen head — 
 His little hands in hers entwined — 
 
 In quick surprise he said, 
 
 'Say, mother ! what is that I see?" 
 
 He pointed to the dim : 
 Sure something in the vacancy 
 
 Was beckoning to him. 
 
1 1 6 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Between the going-out of night 
 
 And coming-in of day 
 His spirit, like a meteor light, 
 
 Stole suddenly away. 
 
 A tearful company, we drew 
 Around the mother's chair, 
 
 And knelt in reverence, for we knew 
 The Lord himself was there. 
 
 ELISHA KENT KANE. 
 
 T 
 
 v OLL— toll— toll ! 
 Let the great bells knoll 
 For the parting soul, 
 Envoicing a nation's wo : 
 Let the funeral chime 
 As a plaining rhyme 
 Ring mournfully and slow : 
 In the isle where the lime and the orange trees grow 
 A good man — a true man — in death lieth low. 
 
 Toll— toll— toll! 
 Let the great bells knoll 
 For the parted soul, 
 The hero wise and brave : 
 O'er the frozen sea 
 Wounded conqueror, he 
 Has found an early grave 
 In the home where he play'd ere he ventured the wave, 
 In the freest of lands that the wild waters lave. 
 
ELISHA KENT KANE. 117 
 
 Toll— toll— toll! 
 Let the great bells knoll 
 For the parted soul, 
 The young and daring chief: 
 Solemnly resound 
 Christendom around 
 The ponderous tones of grief; 
 For the fame of his name, though his years were so brief, 
 Is like the halo'd glory of old heroes of belief. 
 
 Toll— toll— toll ! 
 Let the great bells knoll 
 For the parted soul, 
 The honour'd of the age : 
 Years but of a youth — 
 Heart of gentle ruth — • 
 With calmness of the sage: 
 To the giant of the North he threw a daring gage, 
 And won immortal name on the world's historic page. 
 
 Toll— toll— toll! 
 Let the great bells knoll 
 For the parted soul, 
 Upcalled to its God : 
 With a hopeful face 
 Looking for His grace — 
 The path of peril trod — 
 Now with the sandals of the better country shod, 
 How gratefully he rests 'neath his loved natal sod. 
 
1 1 8 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 OLD PINE STREET CHURCH, 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 A HUNDRED years ago 
 The mason laid the stone ; 
 Yet stately is the temple now, 
 And comelier has it grown. 
 The people gather'd round 
 
 With meek, uncover'd head; 
 They felt the spot was holy ground, 
 And trod with reverent tread. 
 
 A hundred years ago 
 
 Our fathers, moved by grace, 
 Toil'd long with heart and hand, and so 
 
 They built the holy place : 
 Confiding in His word, 
 
 The sturdy walls were rear'd, 
 And then the glory of the Lord 
 
 Within the courts appear' d. 
 
 A hundred years ago 
 
 The patriot Duffield came, 
 His soul with zeal and love aglow, 
 
 His tongue a warming flame. 
 Smith, versed in holy lore — 
 
 Milledoler, wisdom-fraught — 
 And Alexander, man of power — 
 
 Ely, of crystal thought. 
 
 A hundred years ago — 
 Ah, men of might were then ; 
 
OLD PINE STREET CHURCH. 119 
 
 Yet good Old Pine Street Church, I trow, 
 
 Hath since its mighty men. 
 How late our cheeks were wet 
 
 O'er honour'd Brainerd's pall! 
 Now Allen worthily is set 
 
 The watchman on her wall. 
 
 A hundred years ago — 
 
 How oft the Holy One 
 Here led the sinner's heart to bow 
 
 Before the Eternal Son ! 
 Here souls have pour'd their plaints 
 
 And graciously were shriven ; 
 Ay ! multitudes of chosen saints 
 
 Have here been school' d for heaven. 
 
 A hundred years ago 
 
 There pillow'd not a head 
 Where lie in many a grassy row 
 
 Her hosts of holy dead. 
 The spirits of her blest 
 
 Must surely hover round 
 These courts, where peaceful, loving rest 
 
 At Jesus' feet they found. 
 
 A hundred years ago 
 
 Her songs of praise began; 
 Oh ! let the joyful anthems flow 
 
 To latest times of man ! 
 Strong may her walls abide, 
 
 A shelter and a tower, 
 Until her Lord, the Crucified, 
 
 Shall come in pomp and power. 
 
120 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 MATRIMONY. 
 
 I HOLD that every one is bound to carry 
 In full effect the duties of this life; 
 
 That is, that man in proper time should marry 
 And live in love and harmony with a wife. 
 
 If now and then a woman prove a shrew, 
 'Tis an exception to the general rule : 
 And I would deem him either knave or fool 
 
 Who says that woman is not kind and true. 
 
 There may be men who ne'er should marry, — such 
 As have a heart affection cannot touch ; 
 
 But he who bears the impress of a man, 
 
 And has a bosom fill'd with yearnings human, 
 Should win the love of some pure-hearted woman, 
 
 And pop the question to her bravely as he can. 
 
 An angel always dwells beneath the roof 
 Where, in her virtue, a sweet wife fulfils 
 Her gentle duties; and unnumber'd ills 
 
 From that love-guarded precinct keep aloof. 
 And "he who finds a wife," 'twas said of old, 
 "Finds something good," and so I always hold. 
 
 The bachelor is a nondescript — (I beg 
 
 His pardon, but it's true;) — quite out of place, 
 He seems to me, among our loving race ; 
 
 Unfmish'd, like a chair that lacks a leg, — 
 A knife without a fork — a book unbound, — 
 
 A lonely traveller on a lonesome way, 
 
 Who, faint and sad, looks wistfully around, 
 
 But from the sun of love receives no cheering ray. 
 
FROM MY PILLOW. 121 
 
 If this be so, why don't he go and marry? 
 
 'Tis autumn now; the birds long since have pair'd; 
 
 And e'en the flowers their nuptial time have shared ; 
 Then why should he still solitary tarry ? 
 
 Were I a bachelor, I'm sure I'd fall 
 A captive to some maiden of our land; 
 
 I'd scarce know how to choose among them all : 
 Yet in our day a single heart and hand 
 
 Are all the law allows; and this is well. 
 The love of one sweet heart on one bestow'd 
 
 Is full enough to make his bosom swell, 
 And teach his feet to leap along life's road. — 
 
 Ye bachelors, go — a loving helpmeet take, 
 
 And send around your compliments and cake. 
 
 FROM MY PILLOW TO THE EDITOR OF 
 THE SATURDAY GAZETTE. 
 
 r^EAR MR. NEAL:— Say, did you ever rise 
 -L-^ When morning came, and feel as if you'd slept 
 
 Scarce half enough; but still your habit kept 
 Of early rising? Heavy were your eyes? 
 
 Your head as light as though the brains were gone ? 
 
 Your trembling legs too weak to rest upon? 
 With fever'd skin, and tongue encrusted white ? 
 
 Your neck and face besieged by tender lumps ? 
 If so, you can appreciate the plight 
 
 Of your afflicted friend — he's got the mumps ! 
 The doctor tells him they are much about, 
 
 And gives him medicine and the grease of goose 
 
 To make the malady its grip unloose ; 
 And soon he hopes to turn the enemy out. 
 
122 RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES. 
 
 Bear with him, then, if in his hour of pain 
 He drops his lighter rhyme, and in his breast 
 He makes a deeper, purer, holier quest, 
 
 And brings therefrom a tenderer, gentler strain. 
 He is, in truth, a sober-thoughted one, 
 
 And pensive in his ways, as other folks, 
 Although at times he loves a little fun, 
 
 When pure and harmless wit the jest provokes. 
 Awhile in tears we see an April day, 
 Till laughing sunshine dries its tears away. 
 
 When clouds of sorrow overspread our sky 
 We may be sure there still is light behind ; 
 
 The heavenly gales shall sweep the vapours by, 
 And purer bliss descend upon the mind. 
 
 List, gentle sir ! and let my pillow rhymes 
 Fall on the ear like Sabbath morning chimes : 
 
 "Ah, aching head! — ah, feeble, fever'd frame! — 
 Come, downy pillow, yield me kind relief! — 
 
 Sweet wife! — thy love's more dear to me than fame- 
 Come, sing a hymn to soothe my heavy grief. 
 
 Oh, fan my brow — and lay thy cooling hand 
 Upon my forehead : — how it throbs with pain ! — 
 
 How anguish wellnigh has my soul unmann'd !— 
 Ah, love ! how kind and gentle !— press that vein 
 
 With thy soft finger :— there !— now wipe the sweat 
 That gathers on my face. Water, sweet wife ! 
 
 Another cup of cooling water yet ! 
 
 Then softly place my head again. Now kneel, 
 
 And let us pray ; for in His hand is life ; 
 
 And in our time of woe His grace will He reveal. 
 
AFTER TEA. 1 23 
 
 AFTER TEA. 
 
 THE tastes of men are various as their faces; 
 Some toast their friends, and some their bread 
 and cheese ; 
 
 I like to toast my toes, and sit at ease 
 Beside my wife, in our accustom'd places. 
 
 Day and its busier duties ended, we 
 Pursue the promptings of our inclination, — 
 
 I with a pen or book in hand, and she 
 Intent on some maternal avocation. 
 
 Our little ones, entranced in dreamless slumber, 
 Lie snugly nestled in their downy beds, 
 
 With not a care their simple hearts to cumber, 
 With not a grief to bow their gentle heads, — 
 
 Save when, in waking hour, some disappointment 
 
 Afflicts them so, they seek affection's ointment. 
 
 Our puss betimes sits cosily a purring, 
 
 As if to imitate her musing master; 
 At other whiles she's all alive and stirring, 
 
 And runs and springs, and springs and runs the faster. 
 No common cat is she ; nor will she stand 
 
 A rude, presuming trick, but shows her claws, 
 And leaves her mark upon the heedless hand 
 
 That dares infringe her feline rights or laws. 
 She's commonly quite neat in her apparel, 
 Save when she falls into the charcoal barrel : 
 
 And then, poor tabby ! mousingly she goes 
 For many days, from kitchen to the attic, 
 
 Robed in a garb of pepper-colour'd clothes, 
 And mews in tones pathetic and emphatic. 
 
1 24 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 The north wind howls; but, shelter'd, safe, and warm, 
 
 Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger: 
 The fire burns blue, "betokening a storm " — 
 
 A brand falls down, "precursor of a stranger." 
 My thoughtful mind runs o'er the track of years, 
 
 When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat, 
 And poked the embers, till my mother's fears 
 
 Broke in upon the usual social chat : 
 "You'll fire the chimney, son !" The sparks would fly 
 
 Like imps of living lightning up the flue, 
 And snap and crackle as they soar'd on high, 
 
 As if they felt some pleasure in it too ! 
 That fire is out — that hearth is cold — and they 
 Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly pass'd away. 
 
 A DAY WITH THE INFLUENZA. 
 
 IF one should ask, "What have you done to-day?" 
 As brief as Caesar, I'd reply, "I've sneezed." 
 
 Ne'er loving swain his damsel's fingers squeezed 
 (To tell the tale his lips refused to say) 
 
 More tenderly than I my stricken nose. 
 'Twere vain to attempt to stand upon decorum, 
 I had to sneeze behind folks and before 'em. 
 
 At every sneeze, it seem'd that ringing blows 
 Fell on my head, that throbb'd and ached to frenzy; 
 
 From weeping eyes my strength appear' d to ooze, 
 
 And all my body was a general bruise : 
 I yielded captive to the influenza, 
 
 And I went home at dinner-time, and there 
 
 Sought help in medicine and my rocking-chair. 
 
A DAY WITH THE INFLUENZA. 1 25 
 
 Much like the custom of the ancient cities, 
 
 My nasal gateways closed at dusk of day, 
 And scarce a breath, for love's sake or for pity's, 
 
 Got in or out by the accustom'd way; 
 So on my couch I lay with open lips, 
 
 To let the air into the cells of life. 
 Instead of sleep, a dreamy-like eclipse 
 
 Came over me ; and vagaries were rife 
 Within my mind. The thread of dreaming broke 
 At intervals, and startled I awoke; 
 
 1 turn'd the pillow 'neath my fever'd head, 
 And gazed awhile upon the taper's smoke ; 
 
 And when a sigh of suffering softly sped, 
 A tender voice to me in tones of pity spoke. 
 
 A day thus pass'd is not a day misspent, 
 
 If it but teach a lesson — as it may — 
 
 That man is tenant of a house of clay, 
 Which he must leave whenever word is sent. 
 
 There's nothing here to grumble at, if we 
 
 The why and wherefore of our pains could see. 
 As our good pastor said, in all the year 
 
 There are more days of sunshine than of gloom. 
 More joys than griefs to virtuous men appear; 
 
 And round the path of every mortal bloom 
 Sweet flowers of love, and he may multiply 
 
 The generous plant by gracious words and deeds. 
 
 He reads amiss who never wisely reads 
 What heavenly mercies in our sorrows lie. 
 
 11* 
 
1 26 RH YMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 LILLY. 
 
 ROBE the beautiful for the tomb : 
 - We may no longer stay her; 
 She has pass'd away in virgin bloom, 
 
 In vestal white array her. 
 A single dark-brown tress we crave 
 
 Before her face ye cover : 
 Why should the cold and grasping grave 
 Take all from those who love her ? 
 
 Bear the beautiful to the tomb 
 
 While yet the sun is shining, 
 Ere the shadows and evening gloom 
 
 Denote the day's declining. 
 Bear her softly and slowly on, 
 
 Disturb no placid feature ; 
 Deep the sleep she's fallen upon, 
 
 The last of a mortal creature. 
 
 Bear the beautiful to the tomb : 
 
 A voice of rarer sweetness 
 Shall ne'er, till earth shall come to doom, 
 
 Be heard in more completeness. 
 What liquid notes flow'd from the tips 
 
 Of her enchanted fingers ! 
 And the holy music of her lips 
 
 Still in our memory lingers. 
 
 Bear the beautiful to the tomb : 
 
 'Twas heavenly the calling 
 Her Lord's sweet love bade her assume 
 
 To help the weak and falling : 
 
LILLY. 127 
 
 Tenderly as her tender Lord 
 
 She wrought her loving labour, 
 And ever had she a hopeful word 
 
 For erring friend or neighbour. 
 
 Bear the beautiful to the tomb : 
 
 Mark ye the smile of heaven, 
 Holier than the rays that illume 
 
 The western skies at even, — 
 The smile that lit her lovely face 
 
 When her footstep cross'd life's portal, 
 As though her Saviour, in his grace, 
 
 Crown'd her with bliss immortal? 
 
 Give the beautiful to the tomb, 
 
 The unselfish, guileless maiden: 
 Weep, children of unhappy doom ! 
 
 Her hands for you were laden 
 With love's rich benisons of good : 
 
 She was so gently human, 
 Ye know her name most rightly stood 
 
 For all that honours woman. 
 
 Lay the beautiful in the tomb ; 
 
 Beneath the drooping willow 
 Let the maiden have sleeping room, 
 
 And softly spread her pillow. 
 Angels hasten from realms of bliss, 
 
 Their watch above her keeping: 
 Dear to the heart of the holy is 
 
 The place where she is sleeping. 
 
 Lay the beautiful in the tomb, 
 
 The daughter of Heaven's sending, 
 
 To comfort, in its time of gloom, 
 My heart with sweet befriending. 
 
128 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 A shade is lying upon my way 
 That earth can no more brighten ; 
 
 A burden of woe is mine to-day 
 That only Christ can lighten. 
 
 Leave the beautiful in the tomb ; 
 
 There may be others fairer ; 
 A haughtier head may wave a plume 
 
 With glory to the wearer ; 
 But so beautiful and so good 
 
 — Think we who dearly held her — 
 Earth in its rarest sisterhood 
 
 May never have excell'd her. 
 
 THE HYMNS MY MOTHER SUNG. 
 
 THERE are to me no hymns more sweet 
 Than those my mother sung 
 When joyously around her feet 
 Her little children clung. 
 
 The baby in its cradle slept, 
 
 My mother sang the while: 
 What wonder if there softly crept 
 
 Across his lips a smile ? 
 
 And once a silent, suffering boy, 
 
 Bow'd with unwonted pain, 
 I felt my bosom thrill with joy 
 
 To hear her soothing strain. 
 
 The stealing tear my eye bedims, 
 
 My heart is running o'er: — 
 The music of a mother's hymns 
 
 Shall comfort me no more. 
 
THE REAPER'S RETURN. 129 
 
 THE REAPER'S RETURN. 
 
 ALONG the meadows, 
 - After the day 
 
 Has pass'd away, 
 The twilight shadows 
 
 Of trees and posts, 
 
 Like gauzy ghosts, 
 Are falling faintly: 
 
 The early moon, 
 
 Uprising soon, 
 With aspect saintly, 
 
 Shines on the edge 
 
 Of the rocky ledge, 
 And glances and dallies 
 
 In shimmering beams 
 
 Upon the streams; 
 While deep in the valleys 
 
 The darkness lies, 
 
 And clouds the eyes 
 Of the sickly sleeper. 
 
 His labour done 
 
 At set of sun, 
 The wearied reaper, 
 
 Stalwart and strong, 
 
 Hastens along 
 To his peaceful dwelling, 
 
 While thoughts of home 
 
 In his bosom come, 
 Like a fountain welling. 
 
 He treads the ground 
 
 Where once, to the sound 
 
130 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Of the trumpet's braying, 
 Armies of men 
 On hill and glen 
 
 Were wounding and slaying; 
 Where the brave and good 
 Unflinching stood 
 
 In the hour of danger, 
 When 'gainst the cause 
 Of their land and laws 
 
 Came Hessian and stranger. 
 
 Now peacefully sleeping 
 The sod below, 
 Their mortal wo 
 
 And time of weeping 
 Have pass'd away 
 This many a day. 
 
 The life-blood creeping 
 Through gaping wound 
 Over the ground — 
 
 The verdure steeping 
 In pools of gore — 
 Is seen no more. 
 
 There winds are sweeping 
 As sweet and low 
 As when they blow 
 
 Where flowers are peeping 
 On meadow-side 
 At evening-tide, 
 
 When June is keeping 
 A festival 
 That blesses all, 
 
 And men are reaping 
 A harvest-yield 
 From nature's field, 
 
THE REAPER ' S RE TURN. 1 3 1 
 
 And hearts are leaping 
 With present pleasure 
 Surpassing measure. 
 
 The field of battle, 
 
 Where men have died 
 
 On freedom's side 
 Amid the rattle 
 
 And roar of shot, 
 
 Is sure the spot 
 Where love will linger: 
 
 There maids will stand 
 
 With lifted hand, 
 And point the finger 
 
 In heartiest mood 
 
 Of gratitude 
 To the place where brother 
 
 And father fell; 
 
 And they will tell 
 To one another 
 
 The bitter wrong 
 
 That, suffer' d long, 
 Led wife and mother 
 
 To buckle on 
 
 The sire and son 
 The sword long rusted, 
 
 And bid them go 
 
 And meet the foe, 
 That proudly trusted 
 
 To smite the land 
 
 With blade and brand. 
 
 To God be glory! 
 They hush'd the boast 
 Of the hireling host: 
 
1 32 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 And song and story 
 In future age 
 Shall fill the page 
 
 Till earth is hoary; 
 And in the breast 
 Of men oppress' d — 
 
 For freedom yearning — 
 Our name and fame 
 Shall light a flame 
 
 That, fierce and burning. 
 Shall snap the cords 
 Of priests and lords: 
 
 Then, meekly learning 
 In Bethl'em's school 
 The golden rule, 
 
 And wisely spurning 
 The bigot's control 
 Over the soul, 
 
 Men, Christward turning, 
 Shall seek and find 
 Their Maker's mind; 
 
 Then scenes of gladness, 
 And love, and mirth, 
 From heart and hearth 
 
 Shall banish sadness, 
 And earth shall see 
 A jubilee. 
 
 The ravage and riot 
 And wrath of war 
 Were seen no more; 
 
 And comfort and quiet 
 In heart and home 
 Of man had come: — 
 
 The elders older 
 
THE REAPER'S RETURN. T33 
 
 And feebler grew, 
 
 Till 'neath the yew 
 They lay to moulder: — 
 
 The children, then, 
 
 Were grown to men, 
 And on their shoulder 
 
 The locks of white 
 
 Fell thin and light: — 
 The share of the plower 
 
 Upturn'd the stones 
 
 Mingled with bones; 
 And fruit and flower 
 
 Fertilely rose 
 
 Where mortal foes 
 Together were buried: — 
 
 The sun at morn 
 
 Shone on the corn 
 All tassel' d and serried: — 
 
 The tops of the trees 
 
 In the evening breeze 
 Were waving lightly: — 
 
 The mocking-bird 
 
 The silence stirr'd 
 Sportively, sprightly : — 
 
 When, after threescore 
 
 Of years, or more, 
 Light-hearted and cheery, 
 
 The reaper trod 
 
 Over the sod 
 Where groanings dreary 
 
 And cries of fear 
 
 Once met the ear 
 From the wounded and weary. 
 
 He lifts his eyes 
 
 To the moonlit skies, 
 
134 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 And thoughtfully ponders 
 On sacred things 
 The stillness brings 
 
 To him as he wanders. 
 To the land above 
 Friends of his love 
 
 Long have departed, 
 But faithful he bears 
 His daily cares, 
 
 Strong and stout-hearted. 
 A man is he, 
 Though lowly be 
 
 His human condition : 
 Nor will he bow 
 With servile brow 
 
 In humble petition 
 To scornful pride 
 That turns aside 
 
 From those who are lowly; 
 Yet meekly he 
 Doth bend the knee 
 
 To his Maker holy. 
 
 His children wait 
 At the garden-gate, 
 
 Till the skies darken; 
 And far in the dim 
 They look for him, 
 
 And earnestly hearken. 
 In a glad shout 
 Their lips break out; 
 
 They cry to their mother, 
 " See ! father's here !" 
 And run like deer 
 
 One after the other: 
 
AN ANCIENT PO TTER 'S-FIELD. 1 3 5 
 
 They round him stand, 
 And grasp his hand, 
 And sister and brother 
 Mid general din 
 Usher him in. 
 
 A REVERY IN AN ANCIENT 
 POTTER'S-FIELD. 
 
 THE sultry summer-day was past, 
 I sat me down beneath 
 A sycamore, the cooling winds 
 Of eventide to breathe. 
 
 I sat me down in silentness, 
 
 Half-hidden in the shade : 
 My thoughts on wondrous mysteries ran, 
 The birth and life and death of man, 
 
 And fancy freely play'd. 
 
 The lovely and the young were there, 
 
 And voices sweet and clear 
 As sound of bells o'er waters heard, 
 The air of early evening stirr'd, 
 
 And pleased the listening ear. 
 
 I heeded not the pleasant tones, 
 
 My spirit turn'd away 
 From present scenes to scenes of old, 
 
 When 'neath this very clay, 
 The poor and friendless sons of men 
 
 In strange confusion lay. 
 
136 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES 
 
 Methought the graves again appear' d, 
 
 Neglected, as of old ; 
 The bones protruding here and there, 
 A broken tooth, a lock of hair, 
 
 The pauper's portion told. 
 
 "This dust shall live again," I said, 
 "Though 'tis but pauper flesh ; 
 These bleaching bones the Word of God 
 Shall clothe with life afresh." 
 
 Methought, ere to this gospel truth 
 My lips bare utterance gave, 
 
 Lo ! slowly every corpse arose 
 And sat upon its grave. 
 
 My hair stood up in utter dread, 
 And horror fill'd my breast; 
 
 I closed mine eyes, but still the sight 
 
 Was clear to me as noonday light, 
 And to my side there press'd 
 
 A meek-eyed being, pure and bright, 
 Who thus mine ear address'd: — 
 
 "Fear not, O lover of the poor; 
 Mine errand is to thee : 
 Arise and walk, and wisely mark 
 This wondrous mystery." 
 
 I gazed within his eye of peace : 
 
 I loved him, and my fears 
 Departed like the morning mist 
 When, by the morning sunbeam kiss'd, 
 
 Unseen it disappears. 
 
AN ANCIENT PO TTER ' S- FIELD. 1 37 
 
 We walk'd together, he and I, 
 
 Among that silent throng : 
 The corpses lifted up their eyes, 
 And gazed on us without surprise, 
 
 While slow we paced along. 
 
 Each corpse upon its forehead bore 
 
 The method of its death ; 
 A few had died in peaceful hour, 
 When nature, failing in her power, 
 
 Gave mildly up her breath. 
 
 The pestilence had garner'd here 
 
 A multitude of slain, 
 When winds of doom pass'd o'er the land, 
 
 And men, like drops of rain, 
 Fell in the swollen stream of death 
 
 That swept the human plain. 
 
 The hand of hate had hurried some 
 
 To judgment and the dust; 
 And some had perish'd 'neath the smart 
 Of cruel words, that eat the heart 
 
 Like canker and the rust. 
 
 The meek-eyed angel still my guide, 
 
 We wander'd round and round, 
 And ever and anon we stood 
 
 Before a broken mound 
 Whereon a corpse was sitting, who 
 
 Had risen through the ground. 
 
 Among the congregated throng 
 
 Nor voice nor sound was heard; 
 What things the angel said to me 
 12* 
 
133 RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES. 
 
 I understood, yet audibly 
 He never spake a word. 
 
 We halted at an humble spot 
 Where sat a wasted form ; 
 
 Her eyes were like the evening light 
 Of Venus after storm. 
 
 "A daughter of the King is she; 
 Unknown she lived on earth : 
 Of lowly name and low degree, 
 She had a royal birth. 
 
 "They laid her in the potter's-field: 
 
 But little boots it where 
 The loving and the loved of Christ 
 
 Their dying portion share ; 
 They safely rest in earth or sea, 
 
 If He be with them there." 
 
 Three children sported on a grave, 
 Two sisters and a brother; 
 
 An old man and his daughter sat 
 Together on another ; 
 
 A little child lay also on 
 The bosom of its mother. 
 
 The suicide was there : he bore 
 
 Upon his forehead plain 
 A deeper furrow, dug by guilt, 
 
 Than mark'd the brow of Cain : 
 The harden'd gore was still unwash'd 
 
 That issued from the vein 
 His hand had sever'd; and his breast 
 
 Was crimson with the stain. 
 
AN ANCIENT PO TTER ' S-FIEL D. 1 39 
 
 The drunkard trembled on his grave, 
 
 The travesty of man : 
 Two of his sons had drunkards died; 
 Another for his life was tried — 
 
 A halter was its span. 
 
 The wife and mother meekly sat, 
 
 Her eye undimm'd by tear, 
 Though bitter was the weary life 
 
 That found its quiet here, — 
 A-resting till the day of days 
 
 Shall welcomely appear, 
 And bliss shall quench the memories 
 
 Of early woe and fear. 
 
 A rover of the deep was there, 
 
 His comrades by his side : 
 They'd sped their way to India's shore, 
 
 And gladly homeward hied : 
 They saw again their native land 
 
 With arms outstretching wide, 
 When fiercely tempest-winds did sweep 
 Across their path, and in the deep 
 
 A score of sailors died ; 
 And in this field were laid the few 
 
 Relinquish'd by the tide. 
 
 The living dead ! — the living dead ! — 
 
 I shut my tearful eyes, 
 And seekingly I turn'd my face 
 
 Unto the placid skies. 
 
 The midnight hour toll'd solemnly, 
 And lo ! I wept alone ; 
 
1 40 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 The moonlight crept along the ground, 
 And katydids were chirping round 
 
 With shrill and lively tone ; 
 And o'er my head the sweet, cool breeze 
 Stole in and out among the trees, 
 
 As if some sprites had come 
 Upon the boughs, and lightly swung, 
 And holy hymns together sung 
 
 Of their immortal home. 
 
 THE DESECRATED CHURCHYARD. 
 
 "P\OWN among the dead men's bones 
 *-J Lay the deep foundation-stones: 
 Mingle with the sand and lime 
 Dust of folk of bygone time : 
 
 Set the brick in order fair; 
 Be the timber sound and tough; 
 Make the plaster strong enough — 
 
 Intermix'd with human hair. 
 Let the rafters crown the walls, 
 
 Let the parapets be set; 
 Now the useless scaffold falls, 
 
 But the toiling ends not yet. 
 Crowd in many a rough-hewn box 
 
 All the surplus bones ye may ; 
 Shake them down with sudden shocks, 
 
 They are but insensate clay. 
 Still the sleepers shall remain 
 
 Mid the haunts so long their own, 
 Shelter' d from the snow and rain, 
 
 Hedged in with beam and stone. 
 
THE DESECRATED CHURCHYARD. 141 
 
 In the shops of gainful wares, 
 
 Ghosts among the buyers stray : 
 Viewless up and down the stairs 
 
 They shall glide by night and day. 
 When the songs of maidens gush, 
 
 Spectral hands the time shall beat: 
 In the mazy waltzing rush 
 
 There shall whirl the silent feet : 
 When the lovers whisper low, 
 
 Dreamless of a listener near, 
 Shadowy ears shall eager bow 
 
 Pretty words of love to hear : 
 When the babe first wakes a cry, 
 
 Spirit-fingers press its hand ; 
 When the aged fail and die, 
 
 Sprites beside the pillow stand. 
 Never till the judgment-day 
 May ye drive the sprites away. 
 
 Man in olden day this spot 
 
 Set apart as sacred ground, 
 Where, in his appointed lot, 
 
 He should wait the trumpet's sound: 
 He was comforted and blest, 
 
 Toiling till the day was done, 
 So he'd have a place of rest 
 
 At the setting of the sun, 
 Wife and children spreading flowers 
 Over him in summer hours. 
 Tiny breathers of a day, 
 
 Falling in the skirmish strife — 
 Youth cut down in morning gray — 
 
 Matrons ripe for heavenly life — ■ 
 Here were laid, in hopeful trust, 
 Till the rising of the just. 
 
1 42 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Much I wonder if the bones 
 Rattled underneath the stones, 
 When the mattock, pick, and spade 
 Horrid noises o'er them made; 
 Ribald jests and wrangling riot 
 Breaking on the spirits' quiet ! 
 As a swarm of angry bees 
 
 Sting the robbers of their hoard, 
 When the woodmen fell the trees 
 
 Where the hived honey's stored, 
 Did the uneasy ghosts arise, 
 
 Clustering round the diggers there — 
 Spirit tear-drops in their eyes, 
 
 Terror bristling up their hair — 
 Striking with their hidden hands 
 At the rough-shod working bands 
 Who so rudely rent away 
 Shelter from their coffin'd clay? 
 
 'Twas an ancient phrase, — to make 
 
 Honest hearts the wretch despise, — 
 Curst the caitiff who would take 
 
 Pennies from a corpse's eyes: 
 'Twas for man of modern day, 
 
 Slave of gold, to do the sin, 
 And invade the house of clay 
 
 That the dead were sleeping in. 
 O ye living, lay your dead 
 
 Far beyond the haunts of men ; 
 Sink them in the ocean's bed, 
 
 Hide them in the desert fen : 
 Bury them, like Moses, where — 
 
 By the covetous unknown— 
 They may rest till in the air 
 
 Christ shall sit on doomday throne. 
 
OUR AUTUMN WEATHER. 143 
 
 OUR AUTUMN WEATHER. 
 
 THE peerless bird is yet unfledged whose quill 
 Shall form a pen to write in numbers fit 
 Of our sweet Indian summer. He is still 
 
 Unborn who has been gifted with the wit 
 To sing its glory, loveliness, and worth. 
 Our land becomes the paradise of earth, 
 
 And angels cannot then be far away. 
 The wind like love's low breathing moves along, 
 And sighs in tones surpassing mortal song. 
 Such spiritualness gets in our heavy clay, 
 Our earth-born souls uplift themselves : we see, 
 - We hear, we feel, we breathe the beauty in; 
 A holier sense comes o'er the breast of sin, 
 And man in humbleness adores the Deity. 
 
 Autumn is life in sober quietness ; 
 
 'Tis manhood full of strength slow growing old; 
 
 'Tis womanhood mature, within whose fold 
 Are gather'd stores that man and nature bless. 
 
 The autumn 'minds me of a sire whose hair 
 Is beautifully silvering o'er — whose eye 
 
 Is mild with love : there stand around his chair 
 Right noble sons and daughters fair ; and by 
 
 His side the wife — the mother — sits, beloved 
 
 And loving all. By lapse of time well proved, 
 Their virtues bide rock-founded. Holy sight ! 
 
 The Indian summer-time of human life, — ■ 
 
 The resting-hour from turmoil and from strife, 
 Before the spirit takes its heaven-directed flight. 
 
144 RHYMES ATIVEEN-T/MES. 
 
 WHERE IS THE APPLE-MAN? 
 
 *T"*HE whereabouts — the present whereabouts — 
 ■*■ Of that old man, can any person tell ? 
 
 The tall, spare, gray old man, who used to sell 
 Nuts, cakes, and apples near the park ? — Some doubts 
 
 Have I if he be still alive ; but if he be, 
 
 His kindly face I'm fain again to see. 
 A pleasant thing to me it was to meet, 
 
 As day by day I pass'd, his smiling look : 
 
 (The human face is my delightful book, 
 Wherein I read while walking in the street.) 
 
 Some kindliness, methought, was garner' d up 
 Within his heart : though he was poor and old, 
 
 Yet sure am I his hand would ne'er withhold 
 From misery's lip love's rich, refreshing cup. 
 
 There patiently he stood, from early morn 
 
 Till watchman's call at night, beside the corner 
 
 Of Sixth and Walnut — (keep your little scorn 
 And pitying laugh within your bosom, scorner — ■ 
 
 I write of things beyond your heart and head:) 
 There, doling out for pence his sugar'd ware, 
 His little gains from children in the Square 
 
 Sufficed to find him in his daily bread. 
 I never learn'd the old man's history, 
 
 Nor whence he came, nor whither he has gone : 
 'Tis my belief no living kin had he, 
 
 But lonely in this world he plodded on. 
 
 Well ! if from earth he in God's time has pass'd, 
 This stone on his memorial heap I cast. 
 
THE DEAF. 1 45 
 
 THE DEAF. 
 
 THE deaf do live alone. In all the earth 
 There is no helpmeet found for them ; within 
 
 One circle is their empire bound. No din 
 Invades the temple of their mind : the mirth 
 
 And sighs of men are sounds to them unknown, 
 
 Though well they know the spirit's inward groan ; 
 And mortal agonies belong to them 
 
 As well as to their fellow men ; for death 
 
 Hath pass'd on all who draw the vital breath, 
 And where sin is, there doth the law condemn. 
 Ah, hapless men ! relentless silence keeps 
 
 Her watchpost at the portals of the ear ; 
 
 No heavenly word or sound approacheth near, 
 And music's magic harmony in lasting stillness sleeps. 
 
 To them, the tongue of Nature speaketh not 
 When on the earth her holy voice is heard ; 
 
 The sighing winds that haunt the shady grot, 
 The murmuring brook, the merry singing-bird, 
 
 Are mute to them. They have not learn'd how sweet 
 Are human tones when kindness tunes the voice, 
 Nor how a word may make the heart rejoice, 
 
 And change its sadness into bliss complete. 
 From all things audible debarr'd, they live 
 
 In lonely isolation, each apart : 
 Yet not for ever ! Christ in heaven shall give 
 
 The hearing ear to all the pure in heart. 
 With what delight the music of the spheres 
 Shall fill their rapt and newly-gifted ears ! 
 
I46 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 THE DINNER HOUR. 
 
 AT one o'clock I set aside my work, 
 ■**■ And go to dinner. One whole hour is mine 
 
 To frolic with the children and to dine. 
 I walk the pave as gravely as a Turk, 
 
 And muse in quietness along the way. 
 My dwelling is, perhaps, about a mile, 
 And yet, so busy is my mind the while, 
 
 The road seems short, e'en on a summer-day. 
 My children oft are peeping out the door 
 
 To see me turn the corner of the street, 
 And their bright eyes with joy are brimming o'er. — 
 
 As my good father did, before we eat 
 We seek the grace of Heaven, and then partake 
 The food that God provides for our Redeemer's sake. 
 
 " Did" is a word of past signification, 
 
 A sad and touching word when used to tell 
 Of those who've pass'd through toil and tribulation 
 
 To reach the land where saints and angels dwell. 
 A score of years have nearly pass'd away 
 
 Since I was seated at my father's table, — 
 Since, pallid, cold, and still, that father lay, 
 
 And our sad hearts were robed in funeral sable. 
 The shaft of sorrow pierced our mother's bosom. 
 She pined and sigh'd. The summer's fragrant blossom 
 
 Soon also bloom'd upon the mother's grave ; 
 And forth into the world the children went, 
 And God watch'd o'er those little ones, and sent 
 
 An angel with them charged to guide and save. 
 
HENR Y REED. 147 
 
 (How strangely memory leads me from my theme ! 
 Thus frequently my retrospective mind 
 Doth cast a fond and " lingering look behind," 
 
 Till rude reality disturbs the dream. 
 
 But life is strange, and often wide extremes 
 Are nearer kin than many a witling deems.) 
 
 The school-bell rings. The children rise to go ; 
 They say " Good by !" and gayly trip along. 
 
 My hour is past ; (oh, Time ! why not more slow ?) 
 The risen tide of sonnet and of song 
 
 Begins to ebb, and all is calm again. 
 
 I haste once more to business and to care, 
 And my accustom'd countenance I wear, 
 
 And I become a man like most of other men. 
 
 HENRY REED. 
 
 T^OR many days our eyes have seaward wander'd, 
 J- As if to search the Ocean o'er and o'er, 
 And tender hearts have sorrowfully ponder'd. 
 
 " Shall we behold his gentle face no more ?" 
 The silent sea no glad response returning, 
 
 We cry, " O sun ! that lightest nature's face, 
 
 Dost thou not shine upon some favour'd place 
 Where he is cast for whom our souls are yearning?" 
 
 No answering voice allays our trembling fears, 
 
 And long anxiety gives way to tears. 
 Beneath the waves o'er which great ships go flitting, 
 
 He waits the day when Ocean yields her dead ; 
 
 And sighs are breathed and bitter tears are shed 
 By desolate ones around his hearthstone sitting ; 
 
 And, while they mourn the gifted and the good, 
 
 The general grief shows holy brotherhood. 
 
1 48 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 TO THE COMET. 
 
 WHENCE thou, and whither bound, celestial 
 ranger ? 
 
 And what's thy mission in these lower skies? 
 
 Com'st thou from spheres beyond our mortal eyes, 
 Prognosticating some impending danger? 
 
 Or art thou on a tour of observation, 
 
 Before thou tak'st a permanent location ? 
 In olden time, the world had gone demented 
 
 To see thy tail long trailing 'neath the stars, 
 
 The sign of woes, of famines, and of jars 
 Among the nations, not to be prevented. 
 
 To them thou wert a spectacle of doom, 
 They fear'd thy train the earth would overwhelm; 
 
 To us it seemeth merely as a broom, 
 Wherewith the angels sweep their starry realm. 
 
 But why so hasty in thy northern flight ? 
 
 And where's thy head ? why hide it, like a maiden, 
 Behind a veil knit of fine threads of light 
 
 Abstracted from the sun, and richly laden 
 With gems and dyes of a celestial hue ? 
 
 Say, art thou journeying to the far-off place 
 
 Where Uranus runs his chilly, lonely race, 
 To learn how all thy brother comets do ? 
 
 Ethereal stranger ! when wilt thou return 
 
 In silvery splendour in our skies to burn ? 
 Methinks the light of many eyes shall pale, 
 
 And sorrowing spirits find a welcome rest, 
 Ere thou again thy glittering form shall trail 
 
 Athwart the heavens, fleet Meteor of the West ! 
 
TO A TROUBLESOME FLY. 149 
 
 TO A TROUBLESOME FLY. 
 
 ^1 li THAT! here again, indomitable pest! 
 
 * * Thou plagu'st me like a pepper-temper'd sprite ; 
 
 Thou makest me the butt of all thy spite, 
 And bitest me, and buzzest as in jest. 
 
 Ten times I've closed my heavy lids in vain 
 This early morn to court an hour of sleep ; 
 For thou — tormentor ! — constantly dost keep 
 
 Thy whizzing tones resounding through my brain, 
 Or lightest on my sensitive nose, and there 
 Thou trimm'st thy wings and shak'st thy legs of hair: 
 
 Ten times I've raised my hand in haste to smite, 
 But thou art off; and ere I lay my head 
 And fold mine arms in quiet on my bed, 
 
 Thou com'st again — and tak'st another bite. 
 
 As Uncle Toby says, "The world is wide 
 
 Enough for thee and me." Then go, I pray, 
 And through this world do take some other way, 
 And let us travel no more side by side. 
 
 Go, live among the flowers ; go anywhere ; 
 Or to the empty sugar-hogshead go, 
 That standeth at the grocer's store below ; 
 
 Go suit thy taste with any thing that's there. 
 There's his molasses-measure; there's his cheese, 
 And ham and herring : — What ! will nothing please ? 
 Presumptuous imp! then die! — But no! I'll smite 
 Thee not; for thou, perchance, art young in days, 
 And rather green as yet in this world's ways ; 
 So live and suffer — age may set thee right. 
 
 13* 
 
50 RH 1 'MRS ATM 'EEN- TIMES. 
 
 A COLLOQUY WITH MY PEN. 
 
 O SI LENT solace of my lonely time, 
 Beloved pen ! why so reserved of late? 
 
 Hast thou renounced all fellowship with rhyme, 
 And grown at once both rusty and sedate ? 
 
 Art thou a-weary with thy journeyings o'er 
 
 The paper plain, and wilt thou go no more? 
 
 Or is thy jetty fluid all expended ; 
 
 The standish dry ? — or hast thou lost the art 
 Of limning well the passions of the heart ? 
 
 Or art thou, like a touchy thing, offended 
 
 Because thou hast so long time been untended? 
 Do tell what is the matter ; let me know 
 Why is't, my friend, that thou behavest so, 
 
 And all thy grievances shall soon be ended. 
 
 Stoutly the pen replied: "Good master mine! 
 
 Thy willing servant 'tis my pride to be : 
 Why chide me when the blame is only thine ? 
 
 But seldom lately dost thou fondle me ; 
 Seldom dost thou, with mild and musing air, 
 Doze dreamingly on thy accustom'd chair; 
 
 To spread the sheet but seldom dost thou come, 
 And in thy former firm, affectionate way, 
 
 Embrace me 'tween thy finger and thy thumb, 
 To note thy flitting thought. Wo worth the day 
 
 When I no more may share thy fond regard ! 
 Who'd wish to live when he no more is prized ? 
 My throat is dry — my frame is oxidized; 
 
 Indeed, good sir, you use me very hard!" 
 
A COLLOQUY WITH MY PEN. 151 
 
 Nay, faithful pen ! somewhat have I to say- 
 In my behalf. Mine is a busy life ; 
 
 And man, remember, is a pipe of clay, 
 
 And often breaks while hardening in the strife 
 
 And fiery fury of this world's red oven, 
 
 And needs a time for soldering and cooling — ■ 
 
 An idling-time, though he be not a sloven, 
 
 To mend his ways, and cease from self-befooling. 
 
 Then too remember, pen ! the summer weather, 
 
 When every thing seem'd doom'd to melt together. 
 The mind, besides, may have its wintry season, 
 
 When feeling flags, and all the mental sap 
 
 Runs down into the root, and rhyme and reason 
 
 And thought and fancy take a quiet nap. 
 
 Remember further, pen ! I'm growing older, 
 
 And lazier too, perchance, in my estate ; 
 Or it may be, too much is on my shoulder, 
 
 And I bow down a little 'neath the weight ; 
 Or I may think my wit has lost its salt, 
 
 If ever truly thus 'twas impregnate ; 
 
 Or I may murmur at the poet's fate, 
 E'en though he be the sinner chief in fault. 
 Be what the cause, say not I love thee less, 
 
 Nor chide me that I love thee not the more ; 
 
 Some days like early ones may be in store, 
 When I again thy polish' d form shall press, 
 
 And I create, and thou daguerreotype 
 The thinkings of my mind in every shade and stripe. 
 
152 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 LINES TO MY SPECS. 
 
 A /TyEONIDES rehearsed a tale of arms, 
 
 -I- ' -I And Naso told of curious metamorphoses; 
 
 Unnumber'd pens have pictured woman's charms, 
 
 While crazy Lee made poetry on porpoises : 
 But mine the glory to recount thy worth, 
 
 crystal Specs! that stand'st invisibly 
 Before mine eyes, and giv'st them power to see 
 
 What else they had not seen in heaven or earth. 
 
 Thou second-sight that sham'st old Scotia's seers! 
 Thou vision-giver of the scenes that lie 
 Beyond the reach of unanointed eye, 
 
 Far, far away in sight-confounding spheres ! 
 Thou scal'st the very fortress of the stars, 
 And climb'st its gate for me, and lettest down the bars. 
 
 Without thee, what were life ? A misty vision, 
 
 A murky morn, ne'er breaking from its gloom ; 
 A barren world, without a field elysian ; 
 
 A weary waste, with not a flower in bloom. 
 When, in time past, thou gottest first a-straddle 
 This nose of mine, a sort of nasal saddle, 
 
 Mine optics caper'd in the field of sight, 
 Like a young horse let loose among the clover, 
 That kicks his heels, and flies the meadow over, 
 
 And loudly whinnies in his fond delight: 
 Now, soberer grown, I sit like reverend sage 
 
 Beside the hearthstone while old Winter blows ; 
 
 1 place thee on my patriarchal nose, 
 
 And ponder gravely Wisdom's pregnant page. 
 
THE OX AND THE GNAT. 1 53 
 
 Art's wondrous world thou layest bare to me; 
 
 The painter's skill, the sculptor's graceful line : 
 
 Thou openest the entrance to the mine 
 Of hidden treasures of philosophy ; 
 Or, by thy magic power, I plume the wing, 
 
 And fly to realms where deathless poets dwell : 
 I hear the lays their lips immortal sing, 
 
 And list the tales their tongues were wont to tell. 
 By thee I scan the "human face divine," 
 
 The pleasing study loved so long and well ; 
 I mark the graces that within it shine 
 
 When in the breast the deep emotions swell, 
 Till mine own heart impulsively gives vent 
 To streams of gladness and affection blent. 
 
 THE OX AND THE GNAT. 
 
 A PEACEFUL ox, in ruminating mood, 
 ■^"*- Beneath a tree one summer evening stood. 
 A hungry gnat, emerged from stagnant pool, 
 Cried angrily," I'll kill that plodding fool !" 
 Its ire grew hot against the useful beast, 
 And straight got ready for a fight and feast. 
 " My blade I've drawn to take away thy life: 
 Thou booby brute, prepare thee for the strife!" 
 The ox disdain' d to give the gnat reply, 
 Nor turn'd his head, nor even wink'd his eye. 
 "Have at thee, then!" the fiery insect said ; 
 The ox but whisk' d his tail — the gnat was dead. 
 
154 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 VISITERS' WELCOME. 
 
 RIGHT welcome, good friends! but madam 
 would know 
 Do ye come as the rain or come as the snow ? 
 If ye come as the rain, it passeth away : 
 If ye come as the snow, it maketh a stay. 
 So come ye as rain or come ye as snow, 
 Ye're welcome to stay and ye're welcome to go. 
 
 WINTER'S PHASES. 
 
 ALL day long the clouds have hover'd, 
 - Drizzling on the earth below : 
 Tree. and shrub with ice are cover'd, 
 And like gems the branches glow, 
 And twisted twig and slender stem 
 Outglory any diadem. 
 Were the dull clouds to break away, 
 Were the mid-heaven sun to shine, 
 The jewell'd world would flash to-day 
 
 As if it were a diamond mine : 
 The dwellers on the orbs afar 
 
 Might gaze in rapturous surprise, 
 And shout "A new-created star 
 Is rising in the distant skies!" 
 But drearily the day runs down, 
 And night comes with a sullen frown. 
 
 Gather near the crackling embers, 
 Toast the slipper'd nether members, 
 
WINTER ' S PHASES. 1 5 5 
 
 While the wind among the willows 
 Sweeps with deep re-echoing roar, 
 
 Till we seem to hear the billows 
 Breaking on the sandy shore. 
 
 What rattles so against the pane, 
 Unlike the pattering of the rain ? 
 Tishail! 'tis hail! The rushing blast 
 Impels it furiously and fast : 
 Like pebbles pelted at a pillory, 
 Cracks the storm-cloud's small artillery. 
 
 It ceases now ; 
 
 The noiseless snow 
 Coquettishly comes sidling down, 
 
 And here and there 
 
 And everywhere 
 It lies all o'er the dingy town, 
 Like a pure mantle thrown above 
 A sinful soul by pitying love. 
 
 The wind exults in sportive power; 
 Look out, and mark the frosty shower 
 It whirls from housetop and from tree 
 Till they are bare as poverty, 
 
 And many a heap, 
 
 Half fathom deep, 
 Is piled away in quiet nooks ; 
 
 And the plastic 
 
 Snow, fantastic, 
 Whirls and twirls in curious crooks, 
 
 Until we gaze, 
 
 In feign'd amaze, 
 As if it were the work of spooks. 
 
 How beautiful the morning scene ! 
 A single peep 
 
156 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Reveals what pranks the wind has been 
 
 About throughout 
 The hours when we were sound asleep. 
 And it has blown against the door 
 A heap so high 'twill make us sore 
 
 To bear it hence away ; 
 And, buried inches deep below 
 The surface of the untrodden snow, 
 
 The spade is gone astray ! 
 
 Who needs must work, and cannot play, 
 Alone go forth this snowy day 
 Till the path-finders clear the way ; 
 And then hurrah for the gliding sleigh ! 
 Cheerily, cheerily now they go, 
 Skippingly, trippingly over the snow; 
 
 Ears a-tingling, 
 
 Bells a-jingling, 
 And every belle beside a beau, 
 With eyes a-light and cheeks a-glow. 
 Skip it and trip it while ye may, 
 For a melting change is coming to-day. 
 There's a gentle breeze — it comes from the South- 
 As sweet as breath from the milch-kine's mouth; 
 And the rays of the sun bend down to kiss 
 
 The ice and the snow, 
 
 And away they go 
 As if they perish' d beneath the bliss, 
 Like simple souls in human clay 
 Whose love has stolen their life away. 
 
 The cold, hard coat earth lately wore 
 Grows soft and sleek as muddy ooze ; 
 
 And happy they who have good store 
 Of patience and impervious shoes. 
 
WINTER 'S PHASES. I $7 
 
 It drips from the cornice, 
 
 It drips from the eaves, 
 It drips from the boughs 
 
 That are barren of leaves. 
 It thaws in the garden, 
 
 It thaws in the street ; 
 Alas for the bonnet 
 
 And slight-cover' d feet! 
 
 The smoke from our chimney's too lazy to rise, 
 And like a sad story brings tears in our eyes ; 
 While, aching and sneezing 
 And shaking and wheezing, 
 For weather that's freezing the invalid sighs. 
 
 Lo ! the king of the North 
 
 Again rushes forth, 
 A ravenous beast from his lair, 
 
 And, howling and growling, 
 
 Around he goes prowling, 
 As fierce as his own polar bear. 
 He touches the brooks, and the frighten' d elves 
 'Neath roofs of crystal conceal themselves ; 
 And the earth grows hard as a selfish heart 
 That lives from its human-kind apart. 
 
 The frosty king has ceased his din, 
 
 And cold and quiet night sets in; 
 
 The stars, incomparably bright, 
 
 Swing near the earth their lamps of light, 
 
 As if to cast a cheering glow 
 
 O'er the dark and frozen world below. 
 
 There is a hearth — I know it well — ■ 
 
 Where love and peace and plenty dwell ; 
 
 14 
 
158 RHYMES ATWE EN-TIMES. 
 
 And thankful hearts are biding there, 
 
 Who praise the Giver in their prayer : 
 
 And many such are in our land 
 
 Where love and hope link hand in hand ; 
 
 Yet are there not God's poor who shrink, 
 
 On night like this, from every chink, 
 
 And crouch like beasts that have no soul 
 
 Before a dim and dying coal ? 
 
 Oh, Thou whose pity, love, and power 
 
 Around us hover every hour, 
 
 Awaken in our breasts the zeal 
 
 To toil for man as well as feel, 
 
 And for the love we bear to Thee 
 
 To comfort poor humanity. 
 
 ELLEN. 
 1. 
 
 N 
 
 EAR where the crested billows kiss 
 The Hudson's crystal water, 
 In years agone there lived in love 
 A widow and her daughter. 
 
 Dear Ellen was a gentle girl, 
 
 With sister none, nor brother: 
 Her sire had perish'd in the sea, 
 And other kindred none had she, 
 None but her God and mother. 
 
 I've wander'd in a summer wood 
 When all around was stilly, 
 
 And in a wayside nook I've seen 
 A solitary lily. 
 
ELLEN. 159 
 
 Like such a lily, Ellen bloom'd 
 
 In modesty and sweetness, 
 And, nurtured by a heavenly care, 
 
 She grew in heavenly meetness. 
 
 I've wandered on the mountain side 
 With gladness reigning o'er me, 
 
 And suddenly a wily snake 
 Uncoil 'd its form before me. 
 
 So in her peaceful path there came 
 
 A man with aspect smiling; 
 He came as Satan came to Eve, 
 
 In look and word beguiling. 
 
 "Beware of him whose speech is smooth," 
 The mother spake her daughter; 
 
 "The deepest depths are ever found 
 Where flows the smoothest water." 
 
 " His heart is like an angel's heart," 
 The daughter spake her mother; 
 
 "He seeks to be to thee and me 
 A loving son and brother." 
 
 For Robin laid his cunning game 
 
 With art so deep and skilful, 
 That gentle Ellen's mind was turn'd 
 
 To disobedience wilful. 
 
 And secretly at eventide 
 , She left her home and mother: 
 The reverence to her parent due 
 She gave unto another. 
 
 They stood before the man of GOD, 
 Without a mother's blessing; 
 
l6o RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES. 
 
 Then came again, and knelt to her, 
 The hasty act confessing. 
 
 ii. 
 
 The days of honeymoon were few — 
 
 The days of joy were fewer; 
 For ere had pass'd the pleasant moon 
 That shineth in the month of June, 
 
 The bride began to rue her. 
 
 Her sun of hope had set ere noon: 
 
 Ah me! how sad the story, 
 That sudden night should follow morn 
 
 Which woke in peace and glory. 
 
 The evening meal was set: the wife 
 
 Was sitting by her mother: 
 The cloth was spread for three, — but where 
 
 Was lingering now the other? 
 
 They sat in troubled silence there; 
 
 The mother sadly eyeing 
 The speechless wife, whose eyes betray'd 
 
 Her secret tears and sighing. 
 
 Y 
 
 When secret tears are shed, the heart 
 Has cause to be a weeper: 
 
 For hidden grief is mortal grief, 
 And surely slays its keeper. 
 
 The evening time wore slowly on — 
 The clock did chime eleven, 
 
 And Ellen and her mother bow'd 
 And sought the grace of Heaven. 
 
ELLEN. l6l 
 
 Another hour has pass'd, and, lo! 
 
 The mid of night is over; 
 And where is Robin loitering still? 
 
 Why cometh not the rover? 
 
 The dog is barking down the lane, 
 
 A traveller's foot is coming: 
 And Ellen lifts her swollen eyes, 
 And staggering Robin she descries, 
 
 A drinking-carol humming. 
 
 He falls upon the floor, and sleeps — 
 
 More brutal he than human; 
 Oh cruel thought, that wretch so great 
 Should e'er become the bosom-mate 
 
 Of meek and gentle woman! 
 
 The hours of early day approach; 
 
 And as the morn is breaking, 
 Sad Ellen at the cooling spring 
 
 Her fever' d heat is slaking, 
 And fearfully she waits the hour 
 
 Of wretched Robin's waking. 
 
 Farewell to hope — the seed she cast 
 
 Had blossom'd to be blighted! 
 Farewell to love — its purest gifts 
 
 Were offer' d and were slighted! 
 
 in. 
 
 A piteous thing it is to see 
 A child who has no mother, 
 
 Her father dead, her sisters dead, 
 And dead her only brother. 
 
l62 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 That child is still a happy child, 
 
 If only rest upon her 
 The memory of a father's name 
 
 Crown'd with the humblest honour. 
 
 More touching is the sight to see — 
 
 And to be pitied rather — 
 A hapless child whose portion is 
 
 A drunkard for a father. 
 
 Four summers pass'd o'er Robin's son; 
 
 His cheek was fair and glowing; 
 Behold him to the infant-school 
 
 With eager footsteps going. 
 
 He walks alone; and when the school 
 Is o'er, behind he lingers : 
 
 The merry children stand aside, 
 And point at him their fingers. 
 
 "His father is a drunkard!" cry 
 The heedless infant voices; 
 
 And Robin's boy sits down and weeps, 
 While every child rejoices. 
 
 He hasten' d to his home — his cheek 
 Without a smile or dimple: 
 "Father! am I a drunkard's child?" 
 He said in accents simple. 
 
 Then Robin smote him; and he fell, 
 His forehead sorely bruising, 
 
 And from his mouth a little stream 
 Of blood came darkly oozing. 
 
ELLEN. 163 
 
 The boy awoke to pain and life, 
 
 And Ellen sought to still him: 
 Yet reck'd he not the hand that nursed, 
 
 Or his that fail'd to kill him. 
 
 Through many days, unmeaning words 
 
 The hapless martyr mutter'd; 
 Then holy things of heaven and earth, 
 
 By angels taught, he utter' d. 
 
 And God had mercy; and again 
 
 He gave the child his reason: 
 And strange and wondrous things he said, — 
 Man's thoughts came from an infant's head, 
 
 Like fruits before their season. 
 
 He never play'd again; but on 
 
 Sad Ellen's bosom lying, 
 "Dear mother, sing!" to her he'd say, 
 And he would fold his hands and pray, 
 
 And talk of heaven and dying. 
 
 'Twas on the holy morn that tells 
 
 The resurrection-story, 
 He kissed her lips, and in her arms 
 
 He pass'd to heavenly glory. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Tis night. The spirit of the frost 
 
 Upon the tempest rideth; 
 And wilder'd travellers o'er the waste 
 
 A doom of death betideth. 
 
1 64 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Yet madden'd Robin wanders forth, 
 
 Unearthly noises ringing 
 Within his ears, and in his breast 
 
 Remorse, the scorpion, stinging. 
 
 The evil demon of the still 
 
 A war with him is waging, 
 And reason topples from her throne, 
 
 And Robin's wild and raging. 
 
 He wanders to the mountain's brink, 
 
 Nor knows his fatal error; 
 He falls upon the jagged rocks, 
 
 And cries in pain and terror. 
 
 The winds shriek hoarsely round his head, 
 Like hungry tigers growling; 
 
 And through the night the tempest's voice 
 Makes mockery of his howling. 
 
 No human ear is nigh to hear, 
 
 And in his woe he dieth ; 
 Upon the rocks at morning dawn 
 
 A mangled body lieth. 
 
 V. 
 'Twas autumn eve. The tender flowers 
 
 On every side were blighted; 
 The setting sun upon the hills 
 
 The crimson maples lighted. 
 
 A breeze as soft as angel's breath 
 Round Ellen's couch was stealing, 
 
 Where, praying fervently in faith, 
 A man of God was kneeling. 
 
MY FATHER BLESSED ME. 16; 
 
 The neighbours stood within the room 
 
 In silence all unbroken: 
 'The peace of God!" These only words 
 
 Were by the dying spoken. 
 
 The quietness of death was there 
 
 When her true soul departed; 
 For grace and mercy crown'd her end 
 
 Who lived the broken-hearted. 
 
 MY FATHER BLESSED ME. 
 
 MY father raised his trembling hand, 
 And placed it on my head : 
 " God's blessing be on thee, my son !" 
 Most tenderly he said. 
 
 He died, and left no gems nor gold, 
 
 But still was I his heir, 
 For that rich blessing which he gave 
 
 Became a fortune rare. 
 
 And in my day of weary toil 
 
 To earn my daily bread, 
 It gladdens me in thought to feel 
 
 His hand upon my head. 
 
 Though infant tongues to me have said 
 " Dear father !" oft since then, 
 
 Yet when I bring that scene to mind, 
 I'm as a child again. 
 
1 66 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 WHISTLING. 
 
 NEGROES and boys may whistle in the street,— 
 The boys because they're void of better sense, 
 
 And Afric's sons because kind Providence 
 Has gifted them with whistling pipes complete, 
 
 For oft they make a music rather sweet. 
 
 Indeed, I listen with a sort of pleasure 
 
 When they perform in harmony and measure, 
 And beat the time with swiftly-moving feet. 
 
 And even men may whistle when they hear 
 A tale that's somewhat marvellous and tough: 
 In case like this it may be well enough 
 
 To make their incredulity appear ; 
 Yet still I think most sensible men with me 
 That whistling is a bore will heartily agree. 
 
 At times when I have languidly reclined 
 In musing silence, waiting for the birds 
 
 Of fancy to descend upon the mind, 
 And sing to me the sweet poetic words 
 
 That people love, — when all the town was still 
 Save the low, murmuring, human hum that rose 
 Like mutter' d moanings from the lips of those 
 
 Who form the grist of death's e'er-going mill, — 
 
 Some glib performer with his music shrill 
 Has made my fancies take a hasty flight, 
 And, like the north wind of a winter night, 
 
 Has through my bosom sent a sudden chill. 
 Despairingly, I've put my pen aside, 
 And to my pillow pensively have hied. 
 
SEPTEMBER RAIN. 1 67 
 
 SEPTEMBER RAIN. 
 
 PATTER! patter! 
 Listen how the rain-drops clatter, 
 Falling on the shingle roof; 
 How they rattle, 
 Like the rifle's click in battle, 
 Or the charger's iron hoof! 
 
 Cool and pleasant 
 Is the evening air at present, 
 
 Gathering freshness from the rain ; 
 Languor chasing, 
 Muscle, thew, and sinew bracing, 
 And enlivening the brain. 
 
 Close together 
 Draw the bands of love in weather 
 When the sky is overcast ; 
 Eyes all glisten, 
 Thankfully we sit and listen 
 To the rain that's coming fast. 
 
 Dropping — dropping 
 Like dissolving diamonds, — popping 
 'Gainst the crystal window-pane, 
 As if seeking 
 Entrance-welcome, and bespeaking 
 Our affection for the rain. 
 
 Quick, and quicker 
 Come the droppings, — thick, and thicker 
 Pour the hasty torrents down : 
 
1 68 RHYMES A TUE EN -TIMES. 
 
 Rushing — rushing — 
 From the leaden spouts a-gushing, 
 Cleansing all the streets in town. 
 
 Darkness utter 
 Gathers round: we close the shutter; 
 Snugly shelter' d let us keep. 
 Still unceasing 
 Falls the rain ; but oh ! 'tis pleasing 
 'Neath such lullaby to sleep. 
 
 How I love it ! 
 Let the miser money covet, 
 Let the soldier seek the fight ; 
 Give me only, 
 When I lie awake and lonely, 
 Music made by rain at night. 
 
 LOST AND SAVED. 
 
 IT was a gallant ship 
 And a goodly company 
 That left a peaceful port, and went 
 A voyage o'er the sea. 
 
 The winds blew soft and fair, 
 And sweet as a holy hymn 
 
 When chanted by the tuneful tongues 
 Of heavenly cherubim. 
 
 The mariner's hearts were glad, 
 And they slept without a fear; 
 
 And day and night the ship sped on, 
 Till the wish'd-for land was near. 
 
L OST AND SA VED. 169 
 
 A little cloud arose, 
 
 And a fire-ball suddenly came 
 With a thunder-clap from the little cloud, 
 
 And set the ship on flame. 
 
 A circle was round the moon, 
 And the North-Star hid his light; 
 
 And sorrow and fear fell on the hearts 
 Of the mariners that night. 
 
 The burning ship appear'd 
 
 Like a torch in a world of gloom ; 
 
 And they knelt and pray'd to Christ to save 
 Their souls from a fiery doom. 
 
 They launch'd their boats, and lay 
 
 In silence on the sea ; 
 And there they seem'd alone with God 
 
 In his infinity. 
 
 With a hiss and a sudden plunge, 
 
 The ship sunk in the wave, 
 And their fragile boats alone were 'tween 
 
 The voyagers and the grave. 
 
 The morning slowly broke, 
 
 " Ho, a sail ! ho, a sail!" they cried, 
 
 And a lofty vessel, sent of Heaven, 
 Came dashing o'er the tide. 
 
 Soon safe upon her deck, 
 
 Their terrors were allay'd, 
 The mother was not left childless, nor 
 
 The wife a widow made. 
 
 15 
 
170 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 In many an after year, 
 
 His children round his knee, 
 
 The father at his hearthstone told 
 The dangers of the sea. 
 
 THE TWO PROCESSIONS. 
 
 ALONG the city's proudest street 
 - I heard the tread of many feet : 
 'Neath velvet pall and waving plume, 
 They bore a mortal to the tomb. 
 
 Ay, 'twas a grand and proud array, 
 And haughty mourners led the way : 
 Their scarfs in fashion's style were trimm'd, 
 Their eyes with sorrow all undimm'd. 
 
 I sigh'd, and o'er my bosom came 
 An utter sickening pang of shame ; 
 And I had wept, had not mine eye 
 Found cause for worthier sympathy. 
 
 For as I turn'd my feet aside, 
 And through a nameless alley hied, 
 Slow issuing from an humble shed, 
 I saw the poor bring forth their dead. 
 
 The widow and her orphans twain 
 Outpour'd a sad and piteous strain: 
 Of husband and of father 'reft, 
 What had such hapless mourners left? 
 
 A moment, and the hearse was gone, 
 They feebly, faintly following on ; 
 
THE BELL IN THE STEEPLE. 171 
 
 With silent tears and aching breast, 
 They bore him to his place of rest. 
 
 There in the potter's-field he lay 
 
 As soft as if in holier clay : 
 
 It matters little where they sleep 
 
 Whom Christ hath promised he will keep. 
 
 The harder toil, the sweeter rest; 
 More deeply cross' d, more richly blest; 
 And heaven a welcome boon must be 
 To such a weary man as he. 
 
 No holy man of God was there 
 To utter slow and solemn prayer, 
 Or bid them lift their weeping eyes 
 To homes and hopes beyond the skies. 
 
 But God was there ; with healing balm, 
 He made the mourners' hearts grow calm : 
 They knelt and pray'd, and wondrous grace 
 Abounded in that lonely place. 
 
 THE BELL IN THE STEEPLE. 
 
 yHE bell is hung 
 ■*- In the new church steeple ; 
 
 Let it be rung 
 In the ears of the people; 
 
 Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
 
 Is the pleasant song, 
 
 Sonorous and strong, 
 
 It rolleth along 
 
172 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Over the ancient borough; 
 For the founder's art 
 Hath wrought its part 
 
 In a manner cunning and thorough 
 And over the rills, 
 And up the hills, 
 
 And down in the verdant hollows, 
 Note after note 
 From its silver throat 
 
 In gambolling cadences follows. 
 While the quick ear 
 Of the kine and steer 
 
 Prick up in a sudden wonder, 
 And skittish lambs 
 Beside their dams 
 
 Frisk on the hillside yonder. 
 When the birds shall come 
 To their summer home, 
 
 To prey on the insect and berry 
 Its musical ring 
 Will charm them to sing 
 
 In choruses lively and merry. 
 
 O comforting bell, 
 Of ravishing swell, 
 That steals like a spell 
 
 Over the soul of the sighing; 
 And chases the gloom 
 From the dim-lighted room 
 Where, boding his doom, 
 
 A dim-eyed mortal is lying. 
 The night creepeth on: 
 "Will it ever be gone?" 
 
 The watchers inaudibly mutter. 
 
THE BELL IN THE STEEPLE. 1 73 
 
 The bell tolleth one — ■ 
 
 The morn is begun; 
 And, mid a silence most utter, 
 
 The eyelids close 
 
 In a deep repose, 
 And, pain the breast forsaking, 
 
 God maketh whole 
 
 The smitten soul, 
 And joy salutes its waking. 
 
 O warning bell ! 
 
 Its morning knell 
 Calleth to prayer and duty ; 
 
 For the early hour 
 
 Strengthens the power 
 Of outer and inner beauty. 
 
 O sleeper ! rise, 
 
 And lift thine eyes 
 To Heaven as dawn is breaking, 
 
 And God shall bless 
 
 With good success 
 Thy righteous undertaking. 
 
 O honour' d bell ! 
 
 Hung high to tell 
 The day of consecration — 
 
 The week's best prime, 
 
 The holy time 
 Of Sabbath and salvation. 
 
 A silent psalm, 
 
 Devout and calm, 
 Is felt within the spirit ; 
 
 Though all unsung 
 
 By audible tongue, 
 Yet God's redeem'd may hear it ; 
 
174 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 And Peace comes down 
 
 And drops a crown 
 Of blessing on His people, 
 
 Who seek the place 
 
 Of promised grace, 
 When, from the sunlit steeple, 
 
 The musical din 
 That filleth the air 
 
 Shall welcome them in 
 To worship and prayer. 
 
 Let the bell still ring 
 To the glory of God, 
 
 When they who now sing 
 Sleep low in the sod : 
 
 When the high and the lowly 
 Born in all time 
 
 Shall bless the Most Holy 
 In chantings sublime. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 r T^HESE days of balmy breathings say 
 ■*■ The spirit of the south 
 Is lingering on her homeward way, 
 
 Sweets dropping from her mouth : 
 Her presence field and forest fills, 
 And tunes to music all the rills. 
 
 The brilliant leaves adorn the trees, 
 
 Within whose cooling shade 
 The aged men inhaled the breeze, 
 
 And many an urchin play'd; 
 The trees whose dying loveliness 
 Is brighter than their summer dress. 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 175 
 
 The boughs are tenantless of birds ; 
 
 The squirrel's chirp is heard 
 Where concerts of melodious words 
 
 The woods and orchards stirr'd : 
 Light-hearted warblers ! wise betimes, 
 They've hied away to sunnier climes. 
 
 The sun, emitting modest rays, 
 
 Hastes early to the west, 
 And bursts into a golden blaze 
 
 Just as he dips his crest, 
 And bids our land a long good-bye 
 And speeds to light the western sky. 
 
 As one beloved expiring lies, 
 
 And lifts her eye awhile 
 To give love's token ere she dies, 
 
 And smiles a last sweet smile, 
 That e'er shall bide within the cell 
 Where memory's holiest treasures dwell,— 
 
 Thus Summer, as she dies away, 
 
 Looks on the earth again, 
 And bids her shadows softly stray 
 
 Amid the homes of men — 
 To bless them with her parting breath, 
 And reconcile them to her death. 
 
1/6 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 THE GIRL AND WOMAN. 
 
 A CHEERY-MINDED maiden, 
 -^*- Just stepping o'er the line 
 Where womanhood and girlhood 
 Their boundaries combine ; 
 
 The joyousness of girlhood, 
 The woman's conscious pride, 
 
 Commingled like the sunlight 
 In dalliance with the tide. 
 
 Her lips emitted music 
 That thrills my bosom yet; 
 
 Her eyes were bright as dew-drops 
 Upon a violet. 
 
 I say not she was handsome — 
 That may or may not be ; 
 
 But she, in every feature, 
 Was beautiful to me. 
 
 I saw her, and I loved her — 
 I sought her, and I won ; 
 
 A dozen pleasant summers, 
 And more, since then have run 
 
 And half as many voices, 
 Now prattling by her side, 
 
 Remind me of the autumn 
 When she became my bride. 
 
I'VE NOT THE HEART. 1 77 
 
 I'VE NOT THE HEART TO CUT THEM DOWN ! 
 
 T'VE not the heart to cut them down! 
 J- These dry and dusty flowers, 
 That spring and summer smiled upon, 
 
 And fed with dews and showers : 
 I know they're dead ; their leaves have flown, 
 
 Their stalks are crisp and brown ; 
 Yet they may stand till winter's gone — 
 
 I cannot cut them down. 
 
 I've not the heart to cut them down! 
 
 For during summer's heat, 
 While pent within the sultry town, 
 
 They sprang up round my feet : 
 They look'd up in my face and smiled, 
 
 And comforted my soul, 
 So that I, like a chasten'd child, 
 
 Endured my daily dole. 
 
 I've not the heart to cut them down! 
 
 They were my garden's pride, 
 And when the buds were fully blown 
 
 Their fragrance wander' d wide, 
 And freely enter'd at my door 
 
 Below, around, above, 
 Till from the ceiling to the floor 
 
 The house was sweet with love. 
 
 I've not the heart to cut them down! 
 
 It may be they will fall 
 When Winter casts his heavy crown 
 
 Of snow upon them all : 
 
1 7 8 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Yet if they stand till Spring shall lay 
 Her blessing on the earth, 
 
 I'll gently bear the dead away, 
 While kindred flowers have birth. 
 
 GENTLE HUMANITIES. 
 
 SHOE the horse and shoe the mare 
 Never let the hoof go bare : 
 Trotting over flinty stones 
 Wears away the hardest bones. 
 
 Life has many a stony street 
 Even to the toughest feet : 
 Men the sturdiest find it so 
 Ere through half of life they go. 
 
 Streaks of blood are in the way 
 Trod by humans every day, 
 Seen by love's anointed eye 
 While the blinded world goes by. 
 
 Yea, if all the sighs were caught 
 Wherewithal the air is fraught, 
 What a gale would sweep the skies 
 Laden with man's miseries. 
 
 Gently, then, O brother man ! 
 Do the utmost good you can : 
 God approveth e'en the least 
 Deed of ruth to man or beast. 
 
TO MY BOOT. 179 
 
 TO MY BOOT. 
 
 MINE ancient pedal friend, a last farewell ! 
 So many days we've footed it together 
 
 The lane of life, in fair and stormy weather, 
 Mine eyes wellnigh their lid-dikes overswell. 
 
 I well remember when thou didst encase 
 My nether limbs with pressure warm and tight; 
 And many a corny twinge from morn till night 
 
 Evinced the ardency of thine embrace. 
 Soon, like the love of some long-married wife, 
 
 Thy grasp, if not so strong, was still as true, 
 And pleasanter ; and as we grew in life, 
 
 Thou wert as gentle as a pliant shoe ; 
 And while on thee I trampled every day, 
 To shield me thou didst wear thy very sole away. 
 
 Though I despise the scandal-monger's art, 
 
 And scorn the wretch who blackens the fair fame 
 Of one whose richest fortune is his name, 
 
 (The wretch whose steel goes deeper than the 
 heart,) 
 Yet it has been my daily wont, I own, 
 To black thy face until its skin has shone 
 
 With ebon glow, as lustrous as the hue 
 That forms the charm of Guinea's native breed. 
 But 'twas not that I hated thee : indeed, 
 
 I prized thee so, that when thy sole broke through 
 And let in water, 'twas my special heed 
 
 A man of awls thy gaping wounds should sew; 
 And sundry pangs athwart my pocket shoot 
 To part with thee at last, O worn and faithful boot ! 
 
I So RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE PRESENCE IN THE DWELLING. 
 
 AN awful Presence fills the silent dwelling — 
 L The dread Unseen unwelcomely is there ; 
 And stricken bosoms piteously are swelling, 
 And pallid lips are quivering in prayer. 
 
 The household band, from the young, timid lisper 
 To hoary grandam, sit in sad dismay : 
 
 Their words are few, and spoken in a whisper, 
 While wofully they wait the coming day. 
 
 Meek as a lamb, a victim there is lying, 
 A deathly paleness covering all his face : 
 
 His mortal frame is slowly, surely dying — 
 His soul is strong, and comforted by grace. 
 
 So loving is he in his last behaviour, 
 
 His heart is touch'd by sorrowing friends' distress: 
 "Be thou this widow's God, O Lord my Saviour, 
 
 And Father be to these my fatherless." 
 
 Before the Presence, mute is the physician ; 
 
 No drug can heal the fatal wound of Death ; 
 And deaf alike to threatening or petition, 
 
 He seals his victory with the parting breath. 
 
 The shadowy night, while all the earth is sleeping, 
 Moves slowly on, and morning brings its cares; 
 
 The dead is here, but in the world unweeping 
 Another brow a crown of glory wears. 
 
TO BOB. l8l 
 
 TO BOB. 
 
 I BEAR you malice, Bob ? — not I, indeed. 
 I can't afford it, Bob. It costs too dear 
 To hate a human soul. I'd rather bleed 
 
 Than thrust the point of hate's envenom'd spear 
 In any mortal's breast. No, no ! I say. 
 
 How could I seek a pardon at His hand 
 
 Who in The Book has left His stern command 
 That we must pardon others ere we pray ? 
 
 There's far too much of selfishness in me 
 To sell my comfort for hate's paltry pay: 
 
 Of other's love I've grown too miserly 
 To cast it rashly, wickedly away. 
 
 Love is the all we have of heaven here ; 
 
 If that were gone, this life were desolate and drear. 
 
 There is a bias, Bob, in every man 
 
 To go astray. So was I taught in youth, 
 And later years have shown to me its truth. 
 
 Has there been one who without halting ran 
 The course of life ? If any such there be, 
 He's clad in more than our humanity: 
 
 And I am not the man, for I am frail, 
 
 As all earth's children are. One — only One — 
 Once lived on earth by whom no wrong was done. 
 
 Though through infirmity I oft may fail, 
 Yet if, friend Bob ! when suddenly assail' d, 
 
 I answer'd sharply when I should have smiled 
 And own'd that you had but jocosely rail'd, 
 
 Think not my mind by malice was beguiled. 
 
1 82 KIJ I 'MES A T WEEN- TIJ\ fES. 
 
 THE STING OF THE TONGUE. 
 
 r I ''HE slanderer mingles falsehood with the truth, 
 -*- And serves the devil in his viler work. 
 
 Within his lips there may be found to lurk 
 A fang more deadly than the cobra's tooth. 
 
 With keen, insane, insatiable delight, 
 He marks the accents of a victim's tongue; 
 
 On idle words he sates his appetite, 
 And forth he goes, disgorging them among 
 
 A world of slander-lovers. Magnifying 
 The more they're spead, they tingle on the ear : 
 And those who tell the tale, and those who hear, 
 
 Are apt confederates in the work of lying : 
 Thus a fair fame among the slanderers thrown 
 Is gnaw'd as hungry dogs delight to gnaw a bone. 
 
 More cruel is the slanderer than the snake ; 
 
 He spits his venom on a man's good name, 
 
 Until the guiltless bows his head in shame, 
 And the fine fibres of his spirit break. 
 
 The world avers, because his countenance changes 
 When some vile charge is made, that " 'Tis a sign 
 
 The man is guilty;" "That it very strange is;" 
 "And he deserves a punishment condign." 
 
 But innocence is like the sensitive leaf; 
 Whene'er 'tis touch'd by breathings of suspicion, 
 
 It trembles in an agony of grief, 
 And men misjudge its sorrowful condition : 
 
 While brazen guilt confronts a righteous charge, 
 And blustering like a braggart, walks the earth at 
 large. 
 
PITY, GOOD GENTLEFOLKS. 1 83 
 
 PITY, GOOD GENTLEFOLKS. 
 
 HAVE pity on the poor, good gentlefolks ; 
 For they are cold and hungry. Starving pain 
 Is hard to bear, and oftentimes provokes 
 
 The deed of infamy and crime, t'obtain 
 The bread that honest labour fails to earn. 
 Have pity on the poor; nor coldly turn 
 
 The ear away from their distressful sighs. 
 Spurn not too rudely e'en the beggar: he 
 Has fallen far, yet let his misery 
 
 Plead with your heart and dew your tender eyes. 
 Oh pity him ! Perchance 'twas strong temptation 
 
 That drew him to this fate : perchance 'twas grief 
 For loss of all. Deep is the desolation 
 
 Of an unfriended heart. Vouchsafe him some relief. 
 
 Have pity on the poor — the hidden ones, 
 Who shut their sorrows in their hearts, — the worn 
 
 And weary man, — the widow, and her sons 
 And daughters fatherless, — the overborne. 
 
 Have pity on the hapless slave of toil, 
 The patient, gentle, fragile sewing-girl, 
 Whose thin and sunken cheek is pale as pearl, 
 
 Whose slender fingers constantly must moil, 
 To wring from masters the small weekly dole 
 That barely binds the body and the soul. 
 
 And ye fine ladies, beautiful and proud, 
 
 Whose delicate forms are clad in rich array, 
 
 Remember those whose sister-heads are bow'd 
 With toil for. you, endured by night and day. 
 
1 84 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Ye strutters in the gilded halls of fashion, 
 Who idly brush the humble man aside, — 
 
 Ye exquisites, too dainty for compassion, — 
 Ye pinching, hard, unfeeling sons of pride, — 
 
 Ye who increase upon the poor man's labour — 
 Who reap the harvest ye have never sown — 
 Who eat the fruit that other men have grown, — 
 
 The Lord has said : " The wretched is your neighbour. 
 Your brother too. And in the Father's heart 
 
 (Who holds the world within His love, and gives 
 
 Its daily food to every thing that lives) 
 Perchance he has a large and loving part. 
 
 Be kind and pitiful while yet ye may, 
 
 And sweep somewhat of human wo away. 
 
 The world is dark ; and who for Jesus' sake 
 Do good to man, are like the wayside lamps : 
 
 Their genial rays through yielding darkness break, 
 And cheer the wanderer in the midnight damps. 
 
 They pale at breaking of the morn ; but soon 
 The sun majestic shall arise, and pour 
 
 A flood of radiance from the skies' mid-noon : 
 Their little lamps are needed then no more, 
 
 But all enwrapt in heaven's own light and glory, 
 These sons of mercy hear the Saviour say, 
 "Ye did it to the suffering sons of clay, 
 
 And so 'twas done to Me." The immortal story 
 O'er the wide plains of Paradise shall fly, 
 And crowds descend to welcome them on high. 
 
THE DEAR ONE AT HOME. 1 85 
 
 THE DEAR ONE AT HOME. 
 
 OFT as I wander in fashion's crowded way, 
 Multitudes I see of the beautiful and gay : 
 With gold and with diamonds resplendent though 
 
 they be, 
 There's a dear one at home more beautiful to me. 
 
 Graceful as antelopes, and rouged with cunning skill, 
 A glance from their eyelids has potency to kill ; 
 Their tones are as soft as the buzzing of a bee, 
 Yet a dear one at home is more beautiful to me. 
 
 Proudly their carriages roll along the street, 
 With coachman and footman and livery complete ; 
 The fair ones within them may frown disdainfully, 
 The dear one at home is more beautiful to me. 
 
 They dwell in palaces, and mine's a lowlier lot ; 
 But grandeur and palaces my soul will covet not, 
 If only at eventide I hear the melody 
 Of the dear one at home, so beautiful to me. 
 
 Our fireside has prattlers, whose laughing eyes are set 
 As brightly as diamonds within a violet ; 
 And when, light as fairies, they spring upon my knee, 
 I love more the dear one so beautiful to me. 
 
 When I am weary and faint and overfraught, 
 I think of my home, and am happy in my thought ; 
 The weight of my burden reminds me lovingly, 
 There's a dear one at home to lighten it to me. 
 
 10* 
 
1 86 EH YMES A TWEEN- TIMES, 
 
 WHY DELAY THE VIOLETS? 
 
 OWHY delay the violets ? 
 'Tis time they were 
 Again astir, 
 My pretty, modest, blue-eyed pets ! 
 
 I look'd for them but yestermorn — 
 
 For every day 
 
 I pass that way — 
 To see if they had yet been born. 
 
 I'll seek again to-morrow noon: 
 
 The ice and snow 
 
 Went long ago, 
 So I expect my darlings soon. 
 
 Then I will take my children there, 
 
 And bid them see 
 
 How modesty 
 May make the lowliest more than fair. 
 
 THE CITY-BOUND. 
 
 WHAT a pity- 
 Biding in the parched city 
 All the fiery summer through ! 
 Dry and dusty, 
 Soul and body getting rusty, 
 Lacking will to think or do. 
 
THE CITY-BOUND. 1 87 
 
 Ever growing 
 Hot and hotter — fiercely glowing 
 From the morning till the noon ; 
 Hot and hotter, 
 Like the furnace of the potter 
 When it sings its 'custom'd tune. 
 
 Not a pitcher 
 
 Full of water, to make rich, or 
 
 Mollify the baken ground, 
 
 Falls from heaven 
 
 From the sunrise till the even ; 
 
 All is dustiness profound. 
 
 Of the ices, 
 Hundred hundred-weight suffices 
 Not to cool the city's heat; 
 Drinking, drinking 
 Is in vogue instead of thinking ; 
 Frozen water is our meat. 
 
 Oh for fountains 
 Running down from icy mountains ! 
 Oh for palaces of cream ! 
 Oh for shadows 
 Cast by trees o'er pleasant meadows 
 Dreamt of in a poet's dream ! 
 
 Oh to wander 
 Where the tinkling rills meander 
 Down the hill-side to the strand ; 
 Often stooping, 
 Draughts of cooling water scooping 
 With the hollow of my hand. 
 
[ 88 RH YMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Oh what pity 
 In the hot and parched city 
 
 To abide the summer through ! 
 Dry and dusty, 
 Soul and body growing musty, 
 
 Lacking strength to will or do. 
 
 THE ANGEL IN A MAIDEN'S EYES. 
 
 ONCE methought I saw an angel 
 Peeping from a maiden's eyes, 
 And my heart was captive taken, 
 Like a city by surprise. 
 
 Then it seem'd another angel, 
 Springing upward from my heart, 
 
 From mine eyes look'd on the other, 
 And beheld its counterpart. 
 
 At the moment of the greeting, 
 From her lips no whisper fell ; 
 
 And before her I was silent, 
 Rapt in a delicious spell. 
 
 Love, awaking in my bosom — 
 Love of pure impulses born — 
 
 Lighted up my happy pathway, 
 Like a sun ®f summer morn. 
 
 Mark'd for mine the gentle maiden 
 
 With the angel in her eyes, 
 Years agone we link'd our fortunes 
 
 By indissoluble ties. 
 
HE WILL NOT AGAIN FORGET US." 
 
 HE WILL NOT AGAIN FORGET US." 
 
 'T^HAT phrase I cannot help but feel, 
 •*- Unless my heart be made of steel : 
 Forget mine ancient friend— my Neal! 
 "Nevermore!" 
 As said the raven 
 To the trembling, timid craven 
 Lover of the maid Lenore, — 
 "Nevermore!" 
 
 How many pleasant memories — 
 
 And mournful ones as well — 
 (These to sadden — those to please) — 
 
 A.re treasured in the cell 
 Within my mind wherein I store 
 Memorials of the days of yore, — 
 
 How many such 
 
 But need a touch 
 To break their gentle slumber ; 
 
 And up they start 
 
 Around the heart 
 A host without a number. 
 
 Forget! forget! 
 
 Nay, never yet 
 Have Lethe's waves my memory met; 
 
 And far away 
 
 May be the day 
 When, to " forgetfulness a prey," 
 
 My mental ear 
 
 No more shall hear 
 Dead voices speak that once were dear. 
 
I90 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Some days of darkness have been mine, 
 When hope had nearly ceased to shine; 
 
 And I have lain 
 
 In utter pain 
 Amid the blackness round me. 
 
 Yet even then 
 
 Light came again, 
 And God's own mercy found me. 
 
 No! I would not 
 
 Consent to blot 
 Such times from recollection, 
 
 For now they bring 
 
 No barbed sting, 
 But quicken my affection ; 
 
 And they fill up 
 
 Anew the cup 
 That cures the soul's dejection. 
 
 Nor is it needful to forget 
 The sins and follies we regret : 
 They well may stand, 
 And mark the shoal 
 Where once the soul 
 Was like to strand. 
 
 The memory of our errors past 
 
 A shade upon our path may cast ; 
 
 But if it lead us to abhor 
 
 The thing that grimed our soul before, — 
 
 And turn our face 
 
 To Heaven for grace 
 To do the evil deed no more, — 
 Then it were fitting that the sprite 
 Anon should dimly meet our sight ; 
 And wiser, better beings we 
 Perchance were for his company. 
 
OBESE HUMANITY. I9I 
 
 Forget a friend whose hand I've held, 
 
 Who sleepeth still and low, 
 The tumult of life's battle quell'd ? — 
 
 No! never — never! no! 
 
 OBESE HUMANITY. 
 
 ,r I A IS a distressing sight to see 
 
 ■*- A man of vast obesity, 
 Who needs but handle and a spout 
 To seem a pitcher out and out ; 
 Whose dumpling cheek and double chin 
 Show clearly how he does within; 
 Whose waddling walk and portly paunch, 
 And shoulder-width, and breadth of haunch, 
 Are proof he knows the worth of steak, 
 And that he eats for eating's sake. 
 
 His running days are overpast : 
 No fear can make him hurry fast ; 
 If bull or dog be at his heel, 
 The teeth or horns he's like to feel; 
 If sudden showers arise and fall, 
 He patiently must bide them all ; 
 While others "trip it as they go 
 On the light fantastic toe," 
 By law of gravity he's bound 
 To slip along the solid ground; 
 When Summer dons her melting guise, 
 And fills with heat the earth and skies, 
 The hapless victim fain would be 
 Diminishing diurnally ; 
 
I92 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 And yet but little less he grows 
 From crown of head to tip of toes, — 
 And Winter comes, soon filling him 
 With spermaceti to the brim. 
 
 Good-humour, cheerfulness and fun 
 In oily channels love to run ; 
 And all along the way he goes 
 The milk of human-kindness flows ; 
 And in the corner of his eye 
 A nest of smiles a child might spy, 
 And wnen he gives them wings to fly, 
 They flit to every bosom nigh. 
 
 I'd not be fat — I'd not be lean, 
 But in the middle state between. 
 'Tis very troublesome, no doubt, 
 To bear a load of flesh about; 
 And yet 'twere better so to do 
 Than be as crooked as a screw, 
 And lean as Cassius was, who drew 
 A dagger — lean and hungry too— 
 And with a mean and traitorous crew 
 The unsuspecting Caesar slew. 
 
 But be a person fat or lean, 
 If he but have the grace within 
 To be at peace with Heaven and man, 
 And does his duty as he can, 
 With hearty will his hand I'll take, 
 And love him for his goodness' sake. 
 
AUTUMN RHYMES. 193 
 
 AUTUMN RHYMES. 
 
 T'VE several times in vain essay' d to sing 
 •*- A simple song of Autumn. Other fingers 
 Have oft and sweetly touch' d the tuneful string, 
 
 And waked the pensiveness that lifelong lingers 
 In hearts of men, like some long-hallow'd story. 
 I've seen the tender flowers grow pale and die, — 
 The dry and wither' d leaves around me lie, — 
 The sun go down in his peculiar glory, — 
 The thrice-expanded moon come slowly up, 
 
 And break a passage through the eastern vapours, — 
 The clear-eyed stars light up their little tapers 
 And swing them out, each in a crystal cup, 
 As if to lure the feet of mortals thither, 
 The land of love, where hopes nor flowers wither. 
 
 And I have had within some partial movings 
 
 Of spiritualness ; some quickening of the feelings; 
 Yet careless heed I've given to the reprovings 
 
 Of nature in her many-voiced revealings. 
 The Autumn is a solemn missioner ; 
 
 A preacher to the sons of men is she : 
 And happy he who learns betimes of her 
 
 The wholesome truth of his mortality, 
 And ponders well the fleetness of his days, 
 And meekly walks in heavenly wisdom's ways. 
 
 The fading leaf's an eloquent text to man : 
 "We all do fade, and wither as a leaf;" 
 
 And he who reaches life's extremest span 
 Exclaims in sadness, "Ah ! my days are brief!' 8 
 17 
 
1 94 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE DECAYING HOMESTEAD. 
 
 APENSIVENESS of feeling 
 Unbidden comes a-stealing 
 
 Over me 
 
 When I see 
 An old house going 
 
 To decay, — 
 The wild grass growing 
 
 In the way — 
 The window-shutters hanging 
 
 Half awry, 
 Now creaking and now banging 
 When the gale sweeps by, — 
 
 The shatter'd panes 
 Bespatter'd by the rains — 
 
 The empty rooms 
 As silent as the tombs — 
 
 The dusty floor — 
 The spider weaving in the door — 
 The awfulness of desolation 
 Pervading the habitation, 
 
 While all things wear 
 A comfortless, unwelcome air. 
 
 The family gathering no more is there, 
 Cheerful and calm ; 
 
 No morning prayer 
 Nor evening psalm : 
 No joyous maiden's voice is heard 
 Outcarolling the mocking-bird ; 
 
 No children's laugh; 
 No old man leaning on his staff, 
 
THE DECA YING HOMESTEAD. I95 
 
 Nor matron there is seen 
 Before the door at eventide serene. 
 No neighbours come to chat 
 
 Of this and that, 
 And for old friendship's sake, 
 The Souchong cup partake ; 
 But silence and desolation 
 Pervade the habitation, 
 
 And all things wear 
 A comfortless, unfriendly air. 
 
 Where is the human band 
 
 That here abode ? 
 Have all departed to the land 
 
 Whose only road 
 Is through death's dim domain? 
 Vain the inquiry — vain ! 
 There is not one to tell 
 How the old family fell : 
 Pass'd out of mind, 
 
 Forgotten quite, 
 The record left behind 
 
 Is blank as night. 
 Gone to a world afar, 
 
 Perchance on high 
 From some resplendent star 
 
 They turn a wondering eye 
 To their old home below, 
 
 And love Him with intenser love 
 Who beckon' d them from wo 
 
 To an immortal home above, 
 Where holy exultation 
 Pervades their habitation, 
 And all things wear 
 A heavenly and glorious air. 
 
1 96 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL DAYS OF SPRING. 
 
 n^HE cold and rugged weather stripp'd the trees, 
 ■*■ And made them very desolate. 'Twas not 
 A single frosty, biting autumn-breeze 
 
 That tore the leaves from their first nestling-spot. 
 The winds unkindly came day after day, 
 
 And smote the gentle things. They bore the blast 
 
 Awhile, and then began to shrivel fast, 
 And wild December swept them all away. 
 The rage of winter having pass'd, the year 
 
 Put on a milder face. The sun broke forth 
 And dallied with the balmy atmosphere, 
 
 And shone so smilingly, the frigid north 
 Call'd back its murky clouds, and all around 
 The timorous plants came peeping through the ground. 
 
 The melancholy trees revived again ; 
 
 On every bough the budding leaves appear'd; 
 And earth grew lovelier in the sight of men, 
 
 And many a heart with hopeful thought was cheer'd : 
 For sadness with the winter pass'd away, 
 And spring gave promise of a better day. 
 
 The birds came trustingly and lived among us, 
 And sweet-lipp'd flowers on morning breezes flung us 
 
 A perfume delicate ; and every field, 
 Though simply clad in garniture of green, 
 
 The beauteous handiwork of God reveal'd. 
 How great the lesson taught by such a scene, — 
 
 That sunny looks and kindly actions e'er 
 
 Cause flowers of love to flourish fragrantly and fair. 
 
THE HOME OF THE HAPLESS. 1 97 
 
 THE HOME OF THE HAPLESS. 
 
 HUMANITY in its despised conditions, 
 Ye tender ones whose hands are soft as down, 
 Is oft too touching in its exhibitions 
 To wake a dainty or unpitying frown. 
 
 For here, apart from all the self-relying, 
 
 The spirit-broken desolate abide : 
 Dead souls, ambitionless and unreplying, 
 
 Their hopes long buried in the grave with pride. 
 
 And here are those by food and shelter cherish'd, 
 And clad in clothing that is not their own, 
 
 Who on life's highway else outright had perish' d, 
 Or stagger' d on with many an inward groan. 
 
 Here, too, are those whose minds are gone demented, 
 Served tenderly and nursed with healing care ; 
 
 Their shrewdest cunning wisely circumvented 
 Till reason sits in her accustom' d chair. 
 
 Small children, on the shore of life's deep ocean, 
 Like waifs pick'd up by charitable hands, 
 
 Are nurtured here with woman's own devotion, 
 And bound in virtue's time-enduring bands. 
 
 A refuge-place for Penury's sons and daughters, 
 Where they may ease its bitterness and smart ; 
 
 Bethesda's pool, where angels stir the waters, 
 And proffer healing for the bleeding heart. 
 
 17* 
 
198 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Thanks be to God, the wretched may be tended, 
 Although his kinsmen all be far away : 
 
 Thanks to His name, the orphan is befriended 
 When father, mother sleep beneath the clay. 
 
 Thanks be to God, that Christian love prevaileth 
 Against the sin and selfishness of earth : 
 
 Thanks to His name that charity ne'er faileth, 
 But now, as ever, shows its heavenly birth. 
 
 A COUNTRY SABBATH. 
 
 MORNING SCENE. 
 
 r I ^HE frost in its beauty lies over the meadows, 
 -*- Like down newly shaken from winter's young 
 wing; 
 The sun is ascending, and skeleton shadows 
 The trees in their nakedness pensively fling. 
 
 The morning is silent, save when the brook's flowing 
 
 Awakens a music like silvery bells, 
 Or where the cock's crowing, or gentle kine's lowing, 
 
 Of home and its treasures of charity tells. 
 
 The smoke from the homestead, one wreath on 
 another, 
 
 Like incense arises from piety's hearth, 
 Where father and mother, and sister and brother 
 
 In harmony worship the Lord of the earth. 
 
A COUNTRY SABBATH. 1 99 
 
 The sun lights the vane of a far-away steeple, 
 The sound of a bell is borne faintly along, 
 
 And staidly and peacefully gather the people, 
 To join in the prayer and awaken the song. 
 
 The calm of devotion refreshes the spirit, 
 The soul is set down to a banquet of bliss ; 
 
 The ministering angel must surely be near it, 
 For earth can provide no enjoyment like this. 
 
 EVENING SCENE. 
 
 THE day is departing — the shadows are denser; 
 The shrilly-voiced cock and the cattle are still ; 
 The cold of the north becomes keen and intenser, 
 And freezes to silence the tongue of the rill. 
 
 The arch of the heavens is glowing with glory, 
 For diamond-lit lanterns, by angels outhung, 
 
 Swing over the earth, and a marvellous story, 
 While man is unconscious, by seraphs is sung. 
 
 The darkness of night like a mantle is lying 
 
 On the children of joy and the children of sorrow, 
 
 Who, while the still moments unheeded are flying, 
 Lie down in the hope of a better to-morrow. 
 
 When the locks of old age shall fall down on my 
 shoulder, 
 
 If the wisdom of Heaven so lengthen my time, 
 Oh may I present to the youthful beholder 
 
 A vision as peaceful — an end as sublime ! 
 
200 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 ASCENT OF ST. ANTHONY'S NOSE. 
 
 "\ T TK climb'd St. Anthony's Nose; 
 
 * * Its sides were powder'd with snows, 
 Yet up to the summit we rose 
 By favour of fingers and toes. 
 
 The labour was toilsome and long, 
 Our wills were sturdy and strong, 
 Each sinew was tough as a thong, 
 And our spirits were light as a song. 
 
 The track of the rabbit was there, 
 And the path of the fox to his lair; 
 And prints — perhaps of a bear — 
 Admonish'd us "Boys, have a care!" 
 
 The partridges rose with a whirr, 
 And many a quail did we stir ; 
 We harmless and weaponless were, 
 And harm'd not their feathers and fur. 
 
 As cliff after cliff we attain' d, 
 
 A cliff still higher remain'd; 
 
 Our strength more sternly we strain'd, 
 
 For a failure we proudly disdain' d. 
 
 So upward and onward we went, 
 And — ere we were totally spent — 
 Accomplished our purposed intent, 
 And stood on the topmost ascent. 
 
ASCENT OF ST. ANTHONY'S NOSE. 2oi 
 
 We witness'd the Hudson below 
 Roll on with its glorious flow, 
 While Lilliput vessels did go 
 With Lilliput men to and fro. 
 
 To see what more we might spy, 
 We climb'd an oaken tree nigh ; 
 But mountains and river and sky- 
 Outran the reach of the eye. 
 
 We roll'd some rocks down the hill 
 Along the bed of a rill ; 
 They went with a rush and a will — 
 I hear them, I fancy me, still. 
 
 Majestic each awful rebound, 
 As the rocks whirl 'd madly around, 
 And frequent their clattering sound 
 Came up from the solemn profound. 
 
 The days of boyhood and youth — 
 Ere we'd an aching eye-tooth, 
 When fun was mingled with ruth — 
 Seem'd present in primitive truth. 
 
 So much delight did we sip, 
 Our joy ran over the lip, 
 As drops from a bucket will drip 
 That late in the well had a dip. 
 
 But feeding on ideal food 
 Can do the stomach no good ; 
 We soon got over that mood, 
 And a course descending pursued. 
 
202 RHYMES A TWE EN -TIMES. 
 
 A bright lookout did we keep 
 As we slid each threatening steep; 
 And now did we warily creep, 
 And then took a slide and a leap. 
 
 We'd done all we had design'd 
 The day before in our mind, 
 And now, as our hunger inclined, 
 We went to the village and dined. 
 
 If, at some notable time, 
 The Swiss Jungfrau we should climb, 
 I'll tell it in verse more sublime, 
 Though not in a livelier rhyme. 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE IN A FOG ON THE 
 HUDSON. 
 
 WE pass'd the night at Yonkers ; 
 The fog above, the fog below 
 Had made it quite unsafe to go 
 A-steaming down the river. 
 The captain wouldn't — 
 Couldn't — shouldn't 
 
 Peril lives 
 Of maidens, wives 
 And husbands, brothers, 
 Fathers, mothers — 
 No wonder he did shiver. 
 So there we lay 
 Half on our way, 
 Yet not a soul was fain to stay. 
 
NEW YEARS EVE ON THE HUDSON. 203 
 
 The darkness horrid 
 
 Deeply loom'd; 
 And aft and for'ard 
 Were entomb 'd. 
 The drizzly drops around us fell, 
 
 The essence of the fog distill'd; 
 Our bosom's anguish who can tell, 
 With hope of home so rudely chill'd? 
 And there we sate 
 In silent state, 
 And like the kine did ruminate. 
 Without debate 
 The joy was great — 
 When tea-time came — to masticate. 
 
 It hath been never 
 That a man could eat forever; 
 And soon the tea 
 Was no more 'mong the things that be. 
 Some did this, and some did that ; 
 Some were silent, some did chat ; 
 Some frown'd, and others loudly laugh'd 
 As if a cup of fun they'd quaff 'd; 
 When, lo ! a silent gathering — 
 A preacher rose to pray : 
 And when he'd said his solemn say, 
 Then we began to sing, 
 To "Auld Lang Syne," 
 "When I can read my title clear." 
 
 And oh ! it made this heart of mine 
 Dance lightly as a mountain deer 
 When summer mornings shine. 
 Though we were met as strangers there, 
 
 We own'd our brotherhood; 
 And joining in the social prayer, 
 Before our Father stood. 
 
204 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 I felt assured the Father's eye 
 Look'd kindly on that company. 
 
 The Old Year now was wellnigh gone ; 
 
 The remnant sands were falling, 
 When suddenly there broke upon 
 
 Our ears the din of brawling. 
 Some rowdies bound for Gotham city, 
 
 Thus prison 'd on their route, 
 Obtuse to gentleness or pity, 
 Got huge horse-fiddles out : 
 They rang a bell, 
 And sprang a rattle 
 With many a yell 
 As if of battle : 
 And though no human lost his life, 
 Yet "sleep was murder'd" in the strife. 
 Quietly, quietly, 
 Snug in a corner, 
 
 Sat a small company, 
 Fearing no evil and heeding no scorner. 
 Tired of singing, 
 Sleep her sweet poppies upon them was flinging; 
 But scarce had an eyelid 
 Reposed on its fellow, 
 Ere sleep ran off frighten' d 
 As the wild bellow 
 And shout of the b'hoys 
 Astounded the Highlands with thundering noise. 
 No rest was there to be found 
 
 For the drowsy head; 
 The noise of the riotous drown'd 
 (It truly was said) 
 The snore of the sleeper, and woke him outright, 
 As mad as a bull and ready for fight. 
 
CELESTIAL FROLICS. 205 
 
 So, groaning, aching, 
 Chilly, shaking, 
 Stretching, yawning, 
 We awaited morning's dawning. 
 Wo-begone and vigil-worn, 
 Every human 
 Man and woman 
 Grew dishearten'd and forlorn. 
 Oh, how dreary, 
 Sad, and weary 
 Was that night at Yonkers ! 
 
 CELESTIAL FROLICS. 
 
 ' I 'HE sun had put his night-cap on, 
 ■*- And cover'd o'er his head, 
 When troops of stars appear'd amid 
 The curtains round his bed. 
 
 The moon arose, most motherly, 
 
 To take a quiet peep 
 How all the stars behaved while he 
 
 Her sovereign was asleep. 
 
 She saw them wink their silvery eyes, 
 
 As if in roguish play ; 
 Though silent all, to her they seem'd 
 
 As if they'd much to say. 
 
 So, lest their winking should disturb 
 
 The sleeping king of light, 
 18 
 
206 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 She rose so high that her mild eye 
 Could keep them all in sight. 
 
 The stars, abash' d, stole softly back, 
 And look'd demure and prim ; 
 
 Until the moon began to nod, 
 Her eyes becoming dim. 
 
 Then sleepily she sought her home, 
 That's somewhere in the west; 
 
 And as she went, the playful stars 
 Wink'd at the dame in jest. 
 
 And when the moon was fairly gone, 
 The imps with silvery eyes 
 
 Had so much fun it woke the sun, 
 And he began to rise ! 
 
 He rose in glory ! — from his eyes 
 Sprang forth a new-born day, 
 
 Before whose brightness all the stars 
 Ran hastily away. 
 
 THE HOUSE LOVE-HAUNTED. 
 
 GIVE me a house that's haunted, 
 With Love the only sprite ; 
 I'll dwell in it undaunted, 
 Nor fear its utmost spite. 
 
 Though witching tones are swelling 
 
 Above me and beside, 
 Where Love is in the dwelling 
 
 I am content to bide. 
 
THE HOUSE LOVE-HAUNTED. 2.0J 
 
 If every beam and rafter 
 
 And every stone and tile 
 Re-echo with its laughter, 
 
 My heart shall laugh the while. 
 
 The favour'd room or chamber 
 
 Frequented by the ghost, 
 I'll gladliest remember, 
 
 And I will prize it most. 
 
 When in the midnight lonely 
 
 Day's brighter scenes are hid, 
 I'll sweetly sleep if only 
 
 Love stirs the coverlid. 
 
 When morn is stilly breaking, 
 
 And earth is growing light, 
 I'll tremble not if, waking, 
 
 Mine eyes behold the sprite. 
 
 If, as the day grows older, 
 
 The heavenly-temper' d thing 
 Taps tenderly my shoulder, 
 
 Rejoicingly I'll sing. 
 
 I'd ever be enchanted 
 
 By Love's bewitching spell, 
 And in a house love-haunted 
 
 I would my lifelong dwell. 
 
 And when my time is ending, 
 
 And heaven is coming nigh, 
 Let Love, my soul attending, 
 
 Go with me to the sky. 
 
2o8 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S PRAYER. 
 
 HOW long, O Lord, shall this dear land be rent ? 
 How long must she the cup of anguish drink? 
 How long her children's souls, unshriven, be sent 
 
 To nameless graves of horror-clouded brink ? 
 Trembling with woe, she like a mother stands, 
 
 The tears thick dripping from her cheek of clay, 
 Her garments stain'd with blood that brothers' hands 
 
 Have spill'd from brothers' hearts in mortal fray. 
 Her sons in thousands, fever'd, maim'd, and pale, 
 
 The wreck of men, are moaning at her feet, 
 While widow'd and fatherless lift up the wail 
 
 O'er sires and husbands in their winding-sheet. 
 O holy God ! let thy sweet mercy shine 
 To thy great glory on this land of Thine. 
 
 Let not ambition and the thirst for power 
 
 Still rule the spirits of rebellious men : 
 Not lust for gold put off the lingering hour 
 
 When CHRisx-like peace shall bless our homes again. 
 Purge us of sin, and let thy wrath go by, 
 
 Lest all the people perish from the land. 
 For His dear sake whom Thou didst give to die 
 
 For all the world, O turn away thy hand. 
 May holy men on holy days recount 
 The words of peace of Jesus on the mount, 
 
 Till love shall conquer hate, and kindred foes, 
 Forgiving as they hope for grace from Thee, 
 
 And turning from the sins that brought our woes, 
 Shall evermore abide in strengthful unity. 
 
FANCIES BY THE SEA. 209 
 
 FANCIES BY THE SEA. 
 
 E ] 
 
 ONELY by the sea, 
 On the reaches 
 Of the beaches 
 Wandering dreamily, 
 Gazing o'er its dim expanse into infinity : 
 Listing to the moaning of the multitude of sprites 
 That skim along the waters in the dark of moonless 
 
 nights : 
 Listing to the groaning as of voices of the lost, 
 The spectral forms invisible on restless billows tost : 
 The tumbling and the rumbling 
 Of the sea, of the sea, 
 The shrieking and the howling and the grumbling 
 Of the sea, 
 As it rushes to the shore 
 With a wild and hungry roar, 
 While the whirling and the twirling and the curling 
 Of the breakers on the sand 
 Foreshow the wilful madness 
 Of passion in its badness 
 Dashing into ruin on vice's fatal strand. 
 Oh, the moaning and the groaning, 
 The monotonous intoning 
 Of the sea, 
 The moaning sea, 
 The groaning sea, 
 So like to humankind, so like perchance to me. 
 Yet the bland old sea, 
 
 The giver of our health ; 
 The grand old sea, 
 
 The bringer of our wealth, 
 
2 IO RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Creator of the clouds of blessing over all the land, 
 
 Replenishing the rills 
 
 That, sliding down the hills, 
 Fructify the valleys where the growing harvests stand ; 
 
 The great wide sea, 
 
 The sea whose majesty 
 Proclaims the love as well as might 
 
 Of our most holy Lord, 
 Who call'd the sea and land out of realms of chaos- 
 night 
 
 At His word. 
 
 DAVID MYERLE. 
 
 WE lay him here. 'Tis but the dust 
 We hide beneath the sod ; 
 The soul is dwelling with the just, 
 
 The saint is with his God : 
 And while our eyes bedew the clay, 
 From his all tears are wiped away. 
 
 Not many lines by him were writ 
 
 In life's unfading scroll ; 
 But they were beautiful, and fit 
 
 For such a saintly soul, 
 And they will stand in living light 
 Before his heaven-anointed sight. 
 
 Life's more than years. He who begins 
 
 His work at early day 
 The crown of glory often wins 
 
 Ere morn has pass'd away; 
 And enters in his budding prime 
 The rest of an eternal time. 
 
GOD'S ADOPTED. 2 II 
 
 GOD'S ADOPTED. 
 
 THE sun may wrap his face in cloud, 
 The midnight winds may scream aloud, 
 The snow may sweep o'er hill and plain, 
 Or vales be flooded by the rain ; 
 The thunder follow lightning's flash 
 Till earth shall tremble at the crash, 
 And waves may leap aloft in foam, 
 Yet God provides a sheltering home 
 Where his adopted ones may rest 
 Like birds safe-hidden in their nest, 
 Where, in the dim and silent night, 
 When every shadow seems a sprite, 
 The lambs of Jesus sweetly sleep, 
 While watch and ward his angels keep, 
 Bend gently o'er the unconscious heads 
 And hover round about their beds : 
 And in the day, when evil men 
 Would lure the hapless to their den, 
 And many a trap is laid to snare 
 The young and friendless unaware, 
 Then angel footsteps with them go 
 In pleasant rambles to and fro, 
 Their wants supply, and lessons give 
 How the good Lord would have them live, 
 And teach them in the heavenly lore 
 That makes them wise forevermore. 
 The angel-hands the child caress, 
 The child whose name is fatherless, 
 The angel kisses warm the brow 
 That shares no mother's kisses now. 
 No wings have they, these angels fair, 
 To soar afar in upper air ; 
 
2 1 2 RHYMES ATWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 No strange, fantastic robes have they ; 
 No bands across their brows they lay ; 
 A holier garb they wear instead, — 
 A spirit meek and quieted. 
 The mothers of the motherless 
 
 And fatherless, they pass along ; 
 So God their loving work shall bless, — 
 
 They seek no plaudits from the throng. 
 This busy world is vast and wide, 
 With want and woe on every side ; 
 And they work well who take some part 
 Of sorrow from a single heart ; 
 And they work best whose work in love 
 Shall meet the Master's praise above. 
 
 HUNGARY. 
 
 IF tears were medicine for wo, 
 Then were it well to weep ; 
 For Hungary has fallen — fallen low 
 Before her foe, 
 And slavery's legions sweep 
 Across the plains where Liberty descended. 
 
 The unequal strife is ended ; 
 And man, oppress'd and foil'd, sinks down 
 Beneath the frown 
 Of proud and cruel lords. 
 The patriot swords, 
 Drawn in defence of liberty and right, 
 And gory with the blood of valorous fight, 
 Lie in the dust, 
 Discolour'd with the rust; 
 
HUNGARY. 213 
 
 The tyrant's steel 
 Has touch' d a vital part; 
 His heel 
 Is set on Hungary's quivering heart. 
 
 Oh ! hapless land, 
 Bestead by fire and brand! 
 Her mothers and her maidens refuge seeking, 
 Their garments reeking 
 With blood from the accursed rod, 
 That tears their flesh while they are shrieking 
 
 In agony to God. 
 The homes where hope had lighted 
 Her promise-fires are desolate and blighted : 
 The winds, melodious once with freedom's song, 
 Groan with the piteous plaint of causeless wrong : 
 
 The sunlight falls on blasted fields, 
 Whose soil no recompense to reaper yields : 
 The stars look tearfully on hopeless men 
 Who have no heart to look on high again ; 
 But stricken, humbled, broken, crush' d — 
 The nobler voices of their being hush'd — 
 
 They bear the heavy chain, 
 Or gnaw in silence at its links in vain. 
 
 Shall it be ever so ? 
 Heaven and earth together answer No ! 
 But, sure as the eternal heaven stands, 
 The Lord will break the bands 
 Wherewith the tyrants fetter Freedom's hands. 
 Freedom is but a little child of days, 
 
 And yet a child immortal as the truth ; 
 When tyranny shall totter in its ways, 
 
 That child shall show the lusty strength of youth ; 
 The rusty shackles from its limbs shall fall, 
 And down to ocean's deepest depths shall go ; 
 
2 14 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 The oppress'd in all the earth shall heed the call, 
 And join the strife against the common foe. 
 
 O day of glory and of triumph too ! 
 
 O wretched foes, accursed of God and man ! 
 
 Where will ye hide when heaven and earth pursue, 
 And Truth and Freedom lead the battle-van ? 
 
 THE FALLING HOUSE. 
 
 "\ li 7HO dwells within this mansion hoary, 
 
 * * Crumbling, tottering, soon to fall ; 
 The tokens of whose former glory 
 Linger faintly on the wall ? 
 
 The windows, dark and stain'd and dusty, 
 
 Dimly light the inner room ; 
 The hinges of thy limbs are rusty, 
 
 Lonely sitter in the gloom ! 
 
 Is there no voice in thee abiding, 
 
 Accent tremulous or strong, 
 To tell the passer-by some tiding 
 
 As he wanders here along ? 
 
 The watcher at thy gate of hearing, 
 Dull and drowsy, heeds no sound, 
 
 The outer world to him appearing 
 Silent as a burial-ground. 
 
 Oh ! why art thou so unreplying, 
 
 Inmate of this ruin gray ? 
 Alas ! I speak but to the dying ; 
 
 Lo! the soul has pass'd away! 
 
LINCOLN. 
 
 Deserted, dark, disfurnish'd dwelling, 
 
 Empty utterly and riven, 
 Thy lifelong tenant now is swelling 
 
 Psalms and hymns and songs in heaven. 
 
 And thou, in beautiful expansion 
 
 Built again, no more to fall, 
 Shalt be the soul's immortal mansion 
 
 Who here tenanted thy hall. 
 
 215 
 
 LINCOLN. 
 
 SO deep our grief, it may be silence is 
 The meetest tribute to the father's name : 
 A secret shrine in every breast is his 
 
 Whom death hath girt with an immortal fame ; 
 And in this dim recess our thoughts abide, 
 
 Clad in the garment of unspoken grief, 
 As fain the sorrow of the heart to hide 
 
 That yields no tears to give our woe relief. 
 But death is not to such as he, we cry : 
 
 His tongue is mute ; his heart may pulse no more 
 Yet men so good and loved do never die ; 
 
 But while the tide shall flow upon the shore 
 Of time to come, a presence to the eye 
 
 Of nations shall he be, and evermore 
 Shall freemen treasure in historic page 
 This martyr-hero of earth's noblest age. 
 
2 1 6 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 REMEMBER THE POOR! 
 
 REMEMBER the poor ! 
 • It fearfully snoweth, 
 And bitterly bloweth ; 
 Thou couldst not endure 
 
 The tempest's wild power 
 Through night's dreary hour, 
 Then pity the poor ! 
 
 Remember the poor ! 
 
 The father is lying 
 
 In that hovel, dying 
 With sickness of heart. 
 
 No voice cheers his dwelling, 
 
 Of Jesus' love telling, 
 Ere life shall depart. 
 
 Remember the poor ! 
 
 The widow is sighing, 
 The orphans are crying, 
 
 Half starving for bread ; 
 In mercy be speedy 
 To succour the needy, — 
 
 Their helper is dead ! 
 
 Remember the poor ! 
 
 The baby is sleeping, 
 Its mother is weeping, 
 
 For woe's in her breast ; 
 
THE EDITOR SAT IN HIS SANCTUM. 217 
 
 Her cheek, wan and hollow, 
 Betokens she'll follow 
 Her husband to rest. 
 
 Remember the poor ! 
 
 To him who aid lendeth, 
 
 Whatever he spendeth 
 The Lord will repay; 
 
 And sweet thoughts shall cheer him, 
 
 And God's love be near him, 
 In his dying day. 
 
 THE EDITOR SAT IN HIS SANCTUM. 
 
 r I A HE editor sat in his sanctum, 
 *- In a hapless plight was he ; 
 Fain would he fall in a thinking fit, 
 For he was at the end of his wit 
 As to what his leader should be. 
 
 He had reap'd his brain so often, 
 
 The soil seem'd barren grown ; 
 The forest of wit was fell'd to the stump, 
 The flowers of fancy were gone, save a clump 
 
 Where the seed had lately been sown. 
 
 He fish'd in the river of knowledge, 
 
 But his angling-line was short : 
 'Surely there's plenty of fish in the sea, 
 But 'tis as plain as a herring," quoth he, 
 
 "In deeper waters they're caught." 
 
2l8 RHYMES ATWEEN-T1MES. 
 
 He dived to the bed of his ocean, 
 
 Where the pearls did erst abound ; 
 He raked and sifted the briny mud 
 That lies below the emerald flood, 
 But not an oyster he found. 
 
 "Ah, what shall I do!" he murmur'd: 
 That imp will rap at the door : 
 Methinks his tones on my ear-drum stir, — 
 ' The men are all waiting for copy, sir, 
 And they are growling for more.' " 
 
 " It hath been quoted often, 
 
 With a full meed of credit, 
 The maxim Witherspoon spake in his day, 
 ' Never to speak till you've something to say, 
 
 And stop when you have said it.' 
 
 "Ah, good advice to a parson," 
 
 He sadly went on to say ; 
 "But I would ask, who ever said it, or 
 Hinted such thing to a brain-worn editor, 
 From his birth to his dying-day?" 
 
 He rose in his mental anguish, 
 
 And turn'd the key in his door; 
 The messenger came, and loudly did knock, 
 But the editor sat as still as a stock, 
 And the imp then knock'd the more. 
 
 The editor lean'd on his patience 
 
 As on a cushion'd chair; 
 And he sat him down, and he rock'd away, 
 While fancies began in his mind to play, 
 
 And thoughts to nestle there. 
 
THE EDITOR SAT IN HIS SANCTUM. 2 1 9 
 
 He neither swore nor cursed, 
 
 He hated a word profane ; 
 (Ah, verily, he who curses and swears 
 But adds to his sins and adds to his cares — 
 
 And the vice is mean and vain.) 
 
 The editor and the devil 
 
 Maintain'd the skirmish-strife; 
 For the inky imp kept sturdily knocking, 
 While the editor was incessantly rocking 
 
 And thinking as for his life. 
 
 His fancies came like a morning 
 
 In the beautiful time of May ; 
 And thoughts, like the rays of light, shot out, 
 And tremblingly glimmer' d and twinkled about, 
 
 Till his mind was as clear as day. 
 
 The imp was drumming and drumming 
 
 A rat-a-tat on the door ; 
 The editor cared not a whit for his thumps, 
 But quietly finger' d his ideal bumps, 
 
 Till the flood began to pour 
 
 Down to the tip of his fingers, 
 
 When he caught the paper and pen, 
 And beautiful things from the bodiless air 
 Were call'd into being, and written down there, 
 A blessing to true-hearted men. 
 
 Truth shone on the face of the paper, 
 
 And the editor's heart was light: 
 For noble the man among noble men 
 Who fears not to ply a truth-telling pen 
 
 For God and for human right. 
 
220 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 He sprang to the door of his sanctum 
 
 As swift as a Grecian winner 
 When reaching the goal in Olympian race, 
 And the copy he push'd in the messenger's face, 
 
 And thankfully went to his dinner. 
 
 LIFE ERAS. 
 
 A FOUR-YEAR, prankish and dumpy, 
 In time long, long ago, 
 Like Cupid, fat and stumpy, 
 With a skin as pure as snow ; 
 And a cheek that round its dimples very 
 Much resembled a honey-cherry 
 That had blush' d through all the month of June 
 'Neath the kisses of sun and stars and moon ; 
 With hair that straggled everywhither, — 
 So light that a puff 
 Of wind was enough 
 To waft it freely hither and thither. 
 His eyes were blue, 
 And sparkled like drops of tremulous dew, 
 And winks of love and flashes of fun 
 Flew from the lids like shot from a gun. 
 Yet oftentimes a serious shade 
 Of thought across his forehead stray' d, 
 And so he said to himself one day, 
 " Shall I be happy as I am now, 
 When one-and-twenty summers shall lay 
 Their sign upon my brow ?" 
 
LIFE ERAS. 221 
 
 I think he was a curious child 
 
 To deal in queries so odd and wild. 
 
 He may have had presentiment 
 
 Of times of sighs and sorrow : 
 Forewarnings may to-day be sent 
 
 To arm us for to-morrow. 
 
 Anticipation's hot desire 
 
 Urges Time to speed his race ; 
 But he, as if in sullen ire, 
 
 Steals along with lazy pace. 
 So, like a colt that prances round 
 The prairies' endless pasture-ground, 
 The frisky boy danced wild and free 
 In fancy o'er the life to be. 
 He took to his book, 
 
 And laid up of lore 
 By hook and crook 
 A plentiful store. 
 The sea of knowledge open'd wide 
 On every side. 
 He launch'd his ship 
 And made a trip 
 Upon that quiet sea, 
 Till on a far isle 
 He fell by the wile 
 Of the siren Poesy. 
 Now gracious, now coy 
 Was she to the boy : 
 She taught him that ever- 
 Continued endeavour 
 Alone could obtain 
 A place in her palace : 
 That draughts from the chalice 
 Of piety, patience, and pain 
 
222 RH YMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Must purge from his spirit 
 
 Its earthlier dross ; 
 And he must inherit 
 
 The crown through the cross. 
 
 The man of five-and-forty see, 
 The father of a family 
 
 And husband of a wife ; 
 With lacs of love at interest, 
 But little of (what's more in quest) 
 
 The golden gear of life ; 
 A little house, and comfort in it ; 
 
 A little library, all too small ; 
 Of idle time he's scarce a minute, 
 
 Thought and labour filling all. 
 A little garden, where the sun 
 
 Lingers lovingly and long, 
 Where his children lightly run, 
 
 Full of mischief, play, and song. 
 A little silver in his hair; 
 
 A sacred sorrow in his heart ; 
 A corner with a vacant chair ; 
 
 Some little trinkets set apart; 
 A little mound 
 In holy ground, 
 That he tends with loving care. 
 Work by day and rest by night 
 
 Interweaving warp and woof 
 Of his life, now dark, now bright, 
 
 Love is queen beneath his roof. 
 As the stone rolls down the hill 
 
 With an ever-growing force, 
 Running faster, faster still 
 
 Near the ending of its course : 
 
THE WAR-FIEND. 223 
 
 So his life hastes on apace, 
 
 Fleeter-footed day by day : 
 Give him, Jesus, helpful grace 
 
 To live for God and man alway. 
 
 THE WAR-FIEND. 
 
 A SHADOWY spectral shape : 
 The form of a man, 
 But haggard and wan 
 And hideous as an ape. 
 
 His substance was thin 
 As clouds that crawl 
 • Up the side of a mountain wall 
 
 By forests hedged in. 
 And airier wings the dragon-fly 
 Never display'd against the sky. 
 His eyes were set as if carved in stone. 
 And, never winking, gazed right on, 
 With a stolid stare, leaden and drear, 
 That struck onlookers with ghastly fear. 
 His cavernous jaws wide open stood, 
 And his lips were all a-drip with blood, 
 And yet seem'd parch'd by hunger's rage 
 That mountains of victual could not assuage. 
 
 He spread his pinions, and quick as light 
 Over the land he sped his flight, 
 Over the length and breadth of the land 
 From Maine away to the Rio Grande, 
 Halting a while o'er hillocks green 
 That show'd where the din of battle had been. 
 He stopp'd and scented the hospital air 
 As an odorous dainty rich and rare ; 
 
224 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 The sighs of the dying tickled his ear, 
 And he flapp'd his pinions to show his cheer: 
 He grimly chuckled in wild delight 
 Where brothers fell in the mortal fight : 
 He laugh'd while widows and orphans wept 
 And flames around the homestead swept. 
 
 "Ho! ho!" quoth he, "never in hell 
 Have I feasted so lusciously and so well!" 
 And, folding his wings, he sat him down 
 Beside the ruins of a town 
 Where Death stood waiting by Despair, 
 And pestilence defiled the air. 
 
 Yet glowing bulletins over the land, 
 From fields of slaughter gory, 
 
 Made shouts arise on every hand 
 Of " Victory mid glory /" 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 NO news to tell. The lightning's fire 
 Flashes it all along the wire, 
 And every wonder now grows old 
 Before 'tis fully heard or told ; 
 Indeed, some folk know what is done 
 Before the hour the thing's begun. 
 And every day we're growing wiser; 
 And sure a keener man than I, sir, 
 'Twill take to tell where we shall stop 
 In our immense progressive hop. 
 Ere many years — quite likely soon — 
 We'll find the way to reach the moon, 
 Or take a summer-jaunt upon 
 The locomotives of the sun. 
 
TO A FRIEND. 225 
 
 It may be, Sam, the child is born 
 
 That shall behold a flaming morn 
 
 Whose splendor shall eclipse our light 
 
 As mid-day sun the stars of night. 
 
 — Tut! what's my trickish muse about, 
 
 To caper so when she's let out ? 
 
 But give my muse a slacken'd rein, 
 
 She scampers wildly o'er the plain, 
 
 When in a most familiar way 
 
 I seek to troll a simple lay. 
 
 Nay, say not, Sam ! " 'Twill be, perchance 
 
 Like sprites of transcendental trance, 
 
 So dim, impalpable, and thin — ■ 
 
 The shadow of a spectre's skin — 
 
 That when a critic seeks to find 
 
 Some real creature of the mind, 
 
 A dubious mist he faintly spies, 
 
 Which like a morning vapour dies 
 
 Ere he can wink his wondering eyes 
 
 Or mark its texture, shape, or size." 
 
 Though poets, in these loose-shod times, 
 
 Sow seeds of brain-confounding rhymes, 
 
 And raise a crop of wordy stuff 
 
 Luxuriant as a fungous puff, — - 
 
 A thunder-clap of sense will come 
 
 And strike each jargon-grinder dumb; 
 
 Then men shall say he was an ass 
 
 Who, by hydrogenated gas, 
 
 Got in the clouds above the steeple, 
 
 Dumbfounding for a while the people, 
 
 Till, tumbling from that giddy pitch, 
 
 He fell in vile Lethean ditch. 
 
 But lest you set me down a bore, 
 
 I'll hie to bed and write no more, 
 
 And dream of Sam and schoolboy days, 
 
 The days of fun, and tricks, and plays. 
 
226 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE LATEST BORN. 
 
 A MERRY babe and beautiful is this our latest born ! 
 Her cheek is soft as silky threads that overlay 
 the corn; 
 Her eye is like a tiny spot of heaven's serenest blue 
 Imbedded in the fleecy clouds, with starlight flashing 
 through. 
 
 Her voice is but a little voice, and yet it enters in 
 My bosom with a welcome that a monarch could not 
 
 win: 
 I love the rill that down the hill comes dancing with 
 
 a song, 
 But more I love her liquid notes that trickle all day 
 
 long. 
 
 Her hair is not a silver white, nor yet of golden hue, 
 But of a colour cunningly compounded of the two : 
 'Tis not a flimsy gossamer that glistens in the sun, 
 But like the richer fabric from the multicaulis spun. 
 
 With mother-love and patient skill, there's one who 
 
 strives to teach 
 Her guileless tongue the simple sounds that form our 
 
 human speech: 
 She looks up in her mother's face, as if in wonder why 
 Her lip should speak the tender things once spoken 
 
 by the eye. 
 
 'Tis but a year and seven months she's dwelt among 
 
 us here, 
 And yet has she become to us an object passing dear; 
 
LET'S SIT DOWN AND TALK. 227 
 
 Tis wondrous that a love so young should twine its 
 
 tendrils so, 
 As make us fear our hearts would tear before they'd 
 
 let it go. 
 
 She enters on the race of life with tottering steps and 
 
 slow, 
 And often trips upon the floor from overhaste to go : 
 Thus infancy has ups and downs as well as graver 
 
 years, 
 But bears them with a lighter heart, if not with fewer 
 
 tears. 
 
 A thousand mothers in our land may fold within their 
 arms 
 
 A babe as beautiful as this, or sweeter in its charms : 
 
 The blessing of our loving Lord be on these bosom- 
 flowers ; 
 
 Arid may their bliss in them be such as we have found 
 in ours ! 
 
 LET'S SIT DOWN AND TALK 
 TOGETHER. 
 
 L E 
 
 ET'S sit down and talk together 
 Of the things of olden day, 
 When we, like lambkins loosed from tether, 
 
 Gayly tripp'd along the way. 
 Time has touch' d us both with lightness, 
 
 Leaving furrows here and there, 
 
 And tinging with peculiar brightness 
 
 Silvery threads among our hair. 
 
228 RHYMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together; 
 
 Many years away have past, 
 And fair and foul has been the weather 
 
 Since we saw each other last. 
 Many whom we loved are living 
 
 In a better world than this ; 
 And some among us still are giving 
 
 Toil and thought for present bliss. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together; 
 
 Though the flowers of youth are dead, 
 The ferns still grow among the heather, 
 
 And for us their fragrance shed. 
 Life has thousand blessings in it 
 
 Even for the aged man ; 
 And God has hid in every minute 
 
 Something we may wisely scan. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together ; 
 
 Boys we were, — we now are men ; 
 We meet awhile, but know not whether 
 
 We shall meet to talk again. 
 Parting time has come : how fleetly 
 
 Speed the moments when their wings 
 Are fann'd by breathings issuing sweetly 
 
 From a tongue that never stings ! 
 
THE STORM AND THE CALM. 
 
 THE HOWLING STORM AND THE 
 WONDROUS CALM. 
 
 "I li 7HILE sailing on the sea of life, 
 
 * * I saw a storm arise ; 
 The troubled waters met in strife, 
 
 And lightnings rent the skies. 
 
 My fleet and fragile bark above 
 
 The tossing billows roll'd; 
 My utmost store of hope and love 
 
 All garner'd in its hold. 
 
 The winds blew mightily, and swept 
 
 My fearless vessel on, 
 While murky clouds the sky o'ercrept 
 
 Till sun and stars were gone. 
 
 My heart upheld its steadfastness, 
 
 As if 'twere stone or steel : 
 The deeper horrors of distress 
 
 'Twas needful I should feel. 
 
 The darkness of the night came down 
 
 And on my soul it lay, 
 As if my righteous Maker's frown . 
 
 Were gathering round my way. 
 
 The darkness cover' d all the sky, 
 
 And cover'd all the sea : 
 I madly cast the compass by, 
 
 And steer'd uncertainly. 
 
 229 
 
230 RHYMES ATWEEN-T1MES. 
 
 My bark was rack'd, its sails were rent, 
 I heard the rudder break ; 
 
 The hungry ocean seem'd intent 
 My very life to take. 
 
 I said, "Why should I longer strive?" 
 
 I lay me down to sleep, 
 And let my bark at random drive 
 
 Along the fearful deep. 
 
 High on the utmost billow's top 
 'Twas for a moment seen, 
 
 But more impetuously to drop 
 Deep in the gulf between. 
 
 As lonely as if I alone 
 
 In all the earth were left, — 
 
 As helpless as an infant-one 
 Of mother's care bereft, — 
 
 How swift and sure had been my doom 
 Had Christ forgotten me ! 
 
 A voice arose amid the gloom, 
 "Thy Saviour loveth thee!" 
 
 Immediately there was a calm, 
 
 A calm without, within ; 
 For Jesus wrote upon my palm 
 
 Full pardon of my sin. 
 
 The inward tempests rage no more, 
 
 The spirit's sorrows cease, 
 When Jesus stands upon the shore, 
 
 And gently whispers, "Peace!" 
 
SONNET RHYMES. 
 
 RAINY APRIL. 
 
 'T^HE wind still blows from the north-eastern 
 -*- quarter, 
 
 Full charged with chills, and coughs, and sniffling 
 
 sneezes! 
 Let poets sing of April's balmy breezes, 
 
 'Tis my belief that Spring's a wayward daughter, 
 
 Whose parentage is found in clouds and water; 
 Or she is Nature's washerwoman, splashing 
 The earth's old clothing — suds around her dashing. 
 
 At all events, I wish her reign was shorter. 
 The weathercock awhile turns to the north, 
 The long-imprison'd sun comes weeping forth, 
 
 His eyelids fringed with diamond drops ; when, lo ! 
 The wind returns to its accustom'd place, 
 And blows the clouds directly in his face, 
 
 And turns their watering-pot on man below. 
 
 231 
 
232 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 NOON IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 ,r I ^WAS Sabbath noon. I sat me down upon 
 
 J- A fallen tree, beside a little rill 
 
 That ran along the bottom of the hill 
 And sang upon its way. The summer sun 
 
 Beam'd hotly down ; but 'neath the shadowing trees 
 
 My bosom felt the coolness of the breeze. 
 A noise and silence seem'd by turns to reign; 
 
 The squirrels nimbly pranced along the fence; 
 
 I harm'd them not, nor feign'd to scare them 
 thence, 
 For who could put such merry things to pain ? 
 
 Upon the ground came lightly down a bird ; 
 A frog was gravely sitting by the rill ; 
 But far from me was thought to affright or kill, 
 
 And quietly I sat and saw, and quietly I heard. 
 
 HAPPY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 *T^HE birthright of a child is love; and be 
 -*- The portion his, without a stinted measure : 
 
 O may his bosom be brimful of pleasure 
 Aflowing from affection's treasury. 
 
 A happy child is beautiful to me : 
 Let others praise the picture-limner's art, 
 
 Mine eye prefers the quick reality, 
 Whose living beauty thrills upon my heart. 
 
 Then let him taste a little while that earth 
 
 Hath yet a cup of blessedness and mirth. 
 Soon will he learn the falseness of the world, — 
 
 The selfishness of man, — the hateful strife 
 
 Of brothers, and the tyrannies of life — 
 And see his childhood's castles into ruins hurl'd. 
 
SONNETS. 233 
 
 THE COMING OF SPRING. 
 
 THE gentle Spring comes knocking at the door; 
 And surly Winter gruffly bids her wait ; 
 Her timorous foot she places on the floor, 
 
 But Winter growls and shows his wrinkled pate, 
 And she, affrighted, swiftly flees away. 
 The southern winds invite her steps to stay, 
 
 And she returns and softly knocks again, 
 And nature smiles and beckons her to enter. 
 Around her pathway flowering beauties centre 
 
 And pleasure overfills the hearts of men. 
 The Spring arrives at Summerhood in June. 
 
 When flowers are young and beautiful and bright, 
 And brooks and birds troll out their sweetest tune, 
 
 And longest is the day, and balmiest is the night. 
 
 EARTH'S NOBLEST MEN. 
 
 SOME men are born t'endure the toil and strife 
 And heavy burdens of the earth. They are 
 The pillars in the temple of this life, 
 
 Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far 
 Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone. 
 In nobleness they stand distinct and lone, 
 
 Yet other men upon them lean, and fain 
 (Such selfishness in human bosoms swells) 
 
 Would lay on them the weight of their own pain. 
 Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells ; 
 
 They least repine who bear and suffer most : 
 
 In calm and stern endurance they sustain 
 
 The ills whereof ignoble minds complain ; 
 
 And in their lot they stand, nor weakly sigh nor boast. 
 20* 
 
234 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 "THIRTY." 
 
 "AT thirty wise, or never!" So 'tis said; 
 ^*- How wisely said, the poet sayeth not: 
 
 I'm thirty now, yet scarce am I a jot 
 More grave than when less years sat on my head. 
 But life is not so beautiful as then ; 
 
 Its opening scene was lovely to my view : 
 Then earth was heavenly, and the race of men 
 
 I deem'd its angels while the scene was new. 
 I'm wiser now, or better taught. I've found 
 The world to be a sin-polluted ground. 
 
 Man crushes man; God's image lies in chains; 
 And Pride looks down from her unstable throne : 
 
 Unpitied Misery weeps amid her pains, 
 While few indeed are they who live like Christ alone. 
 
 "MAY I COME UP?" 
 
 " 1\ /fAY I come up?" the waking germ inquires; 
 1V1 "All winter long, the fearful frost has bound 
 Above my head a mass of icy ground. 
 
 I've slept in silence, till the solar fires 
 
 Have driven away the frost; the soften'd earth 
 Invites me now to claim the right of birth. 
 
 Oh may I come, and see day's sunny smile?" 
 "Not yet, not yet. 'Tis past the time of snow, 
 But frosts may come, and nipping winds may blow. 
 
 'Tis safe for thee to bide a little while 
 Within thy cell : ere long shalt thou arise, 
 
 And God thy life wilt keep." The April hours 
 Soon weeping come, with warm and genial skies; 
 
 The germ springs up, and bears a crown of buds and 
 flowers. 
 
SONNETS. 235 
 
 THE BABE ASLEEP. 
 
 THE babe is sleeping. Hist ! no footfall here 
 To jar the placid air. Cease, singing-bird, 
 
 Thy melody; and, puss! no mewling word 
 To grate upon the little sleeper's ear. 
 
 How still she lies! and see that dimpled curl 
 About her lip, as if some pleasant thought 
 Were in her heart, from heavenly angels caught. 
 
 God's blessing rest upon my baby-girl ! 
 Were I to give my frolic fancy play, 
 
 I'd sing of her as some angelic sprite, 
 
 Who, wandering from her native home of light, 
 Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way ; 
 
 I'd fear to wake her, lest she'd plume her wings 
 
 And soar away from me and all sublunar things. 
 
 THE EARLY ICE. 
 
 HPHE ice has come! The cold-lipp'd Frost has 
 J- kiss'd 
 
 The waters while they slept at night ; his breath 
 Has laid them in a torpor, as of death. 
 
 Nor shrub nor flower the midnight ranger miss'd, 
 But on them all he press 'd his fatal fingers. 
 
 He touch'd the trees ; and when the sun comes forth 
 And warms the leaves, they fall in many a shower; 
 The midnoon-rays, like sudden joys, o'erpower 
 The feeble health that in them faintly lingers. 
 
 The blast is keen this morning from the north ; 
 
 All tender things are dying day by day ; 
 
 Soon, soon will they be gone, and seen no more, 
 And we shall stand on nature's wintry shore, 
 
 The gentle dreams of summer having pass'd away. 
 
236 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 TO JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, ESQ. 
 
 GRAVE potentate of scissors and the quill ! 
 Few days agone I sent thee sundry rhymes, 
 
 Befitting well the temper of the times, 
 And wrought with all the printer-poet's skill. 
 Though daily since, I pored thy lucid sheet — 
 
 The inner columns and the outer side — 
 Nor line, nor word, nor syllable did greet 
 
 My eager gaze or gratify my pride. 
 My curious wits are at a loss to know 
 Why thou hast used thine humble servant so. 
 
 Deep in my heart a spring is bubbling up 
 Of thoughts most sweet and pleasant unto me ; 
 
 And when I dip and proffer thee a cup, 
 Wilt thou, untasted, cast it far from thee ? 
 
 THE PUBLIC PARK. 
 
 I LOVE the spot where God's great trees have room 
 To spread their branches far on every side, 
 
 And lift their tops in pristine forest-pride 
 As in their own domain, and bud and bloom 
 
 In vast variety; while round their roots 
 The grassy spires the unctuous mould o'erspread 
 And fragrant clover shows its honied head, 
 
 Or buttercup or violet upward shoots. 
 Awake from slumber, drowsy dreamer! wake! 
 
 Inhale the healthful breathings of the sod; 
 Night's sickly bonds from thy dull being shake, 
 
 And while the birds are piping praise to God, 
 Lift up thy heart — in gladness lift thy voice: 
 When nature sings, let man with her rejoice. 
 
SONNETS. 237 
 
 HORTICULTURAL EXHIBITION. 
 
 \J 71THIN old Eden's walls methinks I stand, 
 * * While sin is not, and innocence and love 
 Make earth the counterpart of realms above, 
 
 And streams of joy flow through the happy land. 
 The blooming beauties of earth's varied climes 
 
 Together here in sisterhood have met; 
 
 Their Latin names would spoil my English rhymes, 
 
 Else I might have them all in order set. 
 These fruits and flowers of every shape and hue, 
 
 And bees, and honey in its virgin comb, 
 
 And peaches, pears, plums, grapes, and apples too, 
 
 I fain could wish were in my larder home. 
 Oh that an Eve would wander near my seat, 
 And bid me rise, and freely pluck and eat ! 
 
 FATHER IS COMING. 
 
 "TTURRAH! here father comes!" the children 
 
 -LI shout, 
 
 While standing at the door at set of sun 
 
 They see him in the distance. Down they run 
 To meet him coming. Gathering round about 
 
 His weary feet, they wildly romp and race. 
 One hugs his knees, the others clasp his hands, 
 
 While tottering Will, for want of better place, 
 With glad and laughing look behind him stands 
 
 And grasps his outer garment's pendent tail ; 
 
 And thus their weary parent they assail. 
 He kneels, and Will climbs up his back, and throws 
 
 His arms around his neck. With Ella, sweet, 
 
 And Agnes, in his arms — the others round his feet — 
 Beneath his lovely load the father gateward goes. 
 
238 RH YMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN. 
 
 T F any man must fall for me to rise, 
 
 J- Then seek I not to climb. Another's pain 
 
 I choose not for my good. A golden chain, 
 A robe of honour is too poor a prize 
 
 To tempt my hasty hand to do a wrong 
 Unto a fellow man. This life hath wo 
 Sufficient, wrought by man's satanic foe; 
 
 And who that hath a heart would dare prolong 
 Or add a sorrow to a stricken soul 
 That seeks some healing balm to make it whole? 
 
 My bosom owns the brotherhood of man ; 
 From God and truth a renegade is he 
 Who scorns a poor man in his poverty, 
 
 Or on his fellow lays his supercilious ban. 
 
 THE POET'S MISSION. 
 
 EACH mortal being hath a mission here: 
 'Tis mine to travel soberly along 
 
 The track of life, and sing, perchance, a song 
 That ringeth sweetly on some listening ear. 
 
 A fellow-traveller jostles me at times, 
 
 And scorns the music of my simple rhymes ; 
 But still I sing; for soon will come the day 
 
 When mental hunger will his breast annoy, 
 
 And love of gold and sensual things will cloy, — 
 And then he'll bow submissive to my sway. 
 
 My life is not an idle one. I sing 
 And work together. When my time is o'er 
 
 My frame — like some old harp whose every string 
 Is gone — will be worn-out, to labour here no more. 
 
SONNETS. 239 
 
 ANOTHER GONE. 
 
 r I A HE hasty mail hath brought me heavy news ! 
 J- A friend is dead. Of distant kin, yet very near 
 
 To me in love was John. The tribute-tear 
 Mine eye, that seldom weeps, may not refuse ; 
 
 For I shall see him here no more, and we 
 Perchance shall long be parted from each other. 
 The love between us was the love of brother. 
 
 He was alone ; nor wife nor child had he, 
 
 Yet all the world were of his family, 
 For he had love for all, and love supreme 
 
 To God his Maker, Saviour, Comforter. 
 My brother-friend! his death oft seems to me 
 The strong delusion of a morning dream, 
 
 And makes the tenderest strings in my sad bosom stir. 
 
 THE SICK BABE. 
 
 OUR child is very ill. She sigh'd and moan'd 
 Through all the night. I press'd her to my breast 
 
 And sang a hymn, but still she found no rest; 
 And while she wept my spirit also groan'd. 
 
 The house was still as when one lieth dead. 
 All faint and sorrowful, the mother slept, 
 Exhausted by the vigil she had kept. 
 
 I held the babe, and paced the floor, my tread 
 Re-echoing through the silent house. She threw 
 
 Her trembling arms around my neck, and laid 
 
 Her burning cheek on mine, and softly said, 
 In broken speech, "Dear father, I love you." 
 
 I pray'd a speechless prayer ; and when the morning 
 broke, 
 
 She sank away in sleep. 'Twas long ere she awoke. 
 
240 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE PRINTER. 
 
 A MENTAL lamp hung out by life's wayside ; 
 Unnoticed ; yet his unpretending ray 
 
 Shines clearly on man's intellectual way, 
 And proves to pilgrims an unfailing guide. 
 He hath within a worthy sort of pride, 
 
 And knows his worth, though some allow it not. 
 
 A heart and thinking mind above his lot 
 'Mong men are his. His coffers ill-supplied, 
 
 Yet want and virtue seldom ask in vain. 
 
 Nor is his life exempt from various pain ; 
 Few days are his: the rose that freshly bloom'd 
 
 On boyhood's cheek assumes the hue of death; 
 
 The oil of life within him soon consumed, 
 In life's supremest prime he yields his vital breath. 
 
 THE THOUGHTS DWELL WHERE THE 
 HEART IS. 
 
 MY mind to-day is ever homeward turning ; 
 Amid the cares of business, every thought 
 
 With an intense anxiety is fraught, 
 And homeward, homeward still, my heart is yearning. 
 
 There, wearily a loving daughter lies : 
 By day the fever-heat prevents her rest ; 
 By night the cough doth rend her quivering breast ; 
 
 And meekly doth she bear it all. The sighs 
 Of our sick hearts we hide from her ; for she 
 Appears endued with quiet constancy. 
 
 I would not speed Time's swiftly-moving wings, 
 Yet how impatiently the day's decline 
 My soul doth long for, when I may entwine 
 
 My arms around my child, and soothe her sufferings. 
 
SONNETS. 241 
 
 FANNY FORESTER. 
 
 OFAIR and fanciful Fan Forester! 
 I wish I knew her — honestly I do ! 
 
 A brotherly regard have I for her, 
 She is so natural, sisterly, and true. 
 
 There is no cant in her : her feelings rise 
 
 From Nature's fountain, like a crystal stream 
 Upspringing from the depths, — love's sunny beam 
 
 Reflected there, — and glistening in our eyes, 
 As if pure diamonds over beds of gold 
 In liquid torrents all around her roll'd. 
 
 Would it were mine to leave the world's confusion, 
 And live in love in some hill-hidden nook, 
 Like Fanny's green, romantic Alderbrook, 
 
 And sing, like her, lifelong in my seclusion. 
 
 JUVENILE REMINISCENCE. 
 
 WHEN we were boys, my brother Will and I, 
 The night before, were wont to tie together 
 
 Our largest toes at two ends of a tether, 
 To wake us early on the Fourth o' July. 
 
 We loved the dawning light of Freedom's time ; 
 
 We loved to hear the bells at daybreak chime, — 
 Those hundred bells, that o'er Manhattan sent 
 
 Their wild and mingling clangour, till the air 
 
 Seem'd charged with music full as it could bear, 
 And joy's vibrations shook the firmament. 
 
 Through the warm night I guess we suffer' d some ; 
 If either moved, he pull'd the tether'd toe, 
 And many a sleepy, simultaneous " Oh !" 
 
 From our unquiet lips all night was heard to come. 
 
242 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 T BEAR a special love to sweet September: 
 ■*■ Though people say partialities are wrong, 
 
 From youthful Janu'ry to old December 
 No month I love with love so true and strong. 
 
 The year hath got its richest ripeness then, 
 Like womanhood when in its perfect prime 
 And comeliness, before the hand of Time 
 
 Hath lined the forehead with his telltale pen. 
 September's lap is full, and plenty reigns 
 To recompense the toiler for his pains 
 
 And feed the poor. A pleasant look hath she, 
 Such as the children love to see upon 
 Their mother's face, when they her smile have won : 
 
 Let others choose their love — September give to me. 
 
 DRAWYERS CHURCH, DELAWARE. 
 
 A DOWN in brave old Delaware there stands 
 - An ancient church amid a field of dead ; 
 The trees implanted by its children's hands 
 
 Now cast deep shadows o'er their peaceful bed. 
 This church hath long borne witness for its God, 
 
 And He hath had a people here, to praise 
 
 His blessed name, for sevenscore years of days. 
 Four generations here have risen, and trod 
 
 Life's changeful path, since first the sod was broken 
 To lay therein the corner-stone, and build 
 This temple which His Presence oft hath fill'd, 
 
 And where His grace hath set its sealing token. 
 Here reign, our God ! till time shall fade away 
 Into eternity, like night in morning's ray. 
 
SONNETS. 243 
 
 SNOW-STORM SONNET. 
 
 OLD father Winter's powdering o'er his hair: 
 Grim Vanity ! he's gray enough already ; 
 
 For one so old, he ought to be more steady, 
 Yet he's as fickle as the springtime fair. 
 
 But yesterday, his was a balmy breath ; 
 To-day he blusters, sending out his frost 
 
 To nip the buds, and smite with sudden death 
 The early flowers that ventured forth to peep 
 If cruel Winter yet had fallen asleep : 
 
 The daring act their gentle life hath cost. 
 Thus died Louise, our tenderest summer flower, 
 
 So meek, so mild, so beauteous in her bloom ; 
 The blast of winter howl'd around her bower, 
 
 She shrank away, and hid within the tomb. 
 
 THE WANE OF LIFE. 
 
 ' I "HE world around me groweth gray and old: 
 ■*• My friends are dropping one by one away ; 
 
 Some live in distant lands — some in the clay 
 Rest quietly, their mortal moments told. 
 
 The lightness of my youth is gone ; the veil 
 That hid from me the selfishness of man 
 Is lifted up, and I have learn'd to scan 
 
 The world with wary look. My cheek is pale ; 
 A dimness often stealeth o'er mine eye, 
 And many furrows on my forehead lie ; 
 
 And when my children gather at my knee 
 To worship God and sing our morning psalm, 
 
 Their rising stature whispers unto me 
 My life is gently waning tow'rds its evening calm. 
 
244 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 OUR BABE. 
 
 WE have at home a cunning babe. Her eyes 
 Are blue and beautiful, and flash out gleams 
 Of changeful light, much like the trembling beams 
 
 On frosty winter nights from starlit skies. 
 
 Her cheeks are tinted with the blushing dyes 
 Which Heaven, so wisely bountiful, bestows 
 In virgin freshness on the mossy rose. 
 
 When, worn and sad, I seek the spot where lies 
 My lovely all — that infant's budding charms, 
 As she disports within her mother's arms, 
 
 Dispel my sadness, and her winning wiles 
 
 And crowing shouts provoke unwitting smiles, 
 Till every care is from my soul beguiled : — 
 Blest is the man who loves a little child! 
 
 HEART LONGINGS. 
 
 I LONG to be beloved. My bosom yearns 
 Tow'rds all that's pure and beautiful; and fain 
 
 Would find a recompense of love again. 
 My pensive soul with ardent thirsting turns 
 
 To heaven and earth to seek its fill of love. 
 
 Beyond the sun's domain, in realms above, 
 Abide full many whom I loved on earth ; 
 
 My father liveth there, and there my mother; 
 
 My sister there, and there my elder brother ; 
 For coldness rests on our paternal hearth. 
 
 Though kin and friends remain who love me well, 
 I long to hear again my parents' voice, 
 With early loved ones fain would I rejoice, 
 
 And in God's presence re-united dwell. 
 
SONNETS. 245 
 
 THE COMET. 
 
 LOW in the west — the early night begun — 
 <* A silvery streak appeareth in the air. 
 
 'Tis neither star nor planet; but some fair 
 Attendant at the palace of the sun. 
 
 It shineth clearly when the deeper night 
 Pervades the skies, and all the stars appear 
 Upon the ramparts of the upper sphere, 
 
 Like heavenly watchmen, with a torch of light. 
 Perchance it comes a messenger in haste, 
 
 On embassy from the extremest bound 
 Of some immense, immeasurable waste ; 
 
 Or it may be a chariot on its round, 
 Wherein the angels fly with news of grace 
 And loving-kindness to some distant race. 
 
 LOVE FOR LITTLE THINGS. 
 
 I KNOW where bloom some violets in a bed 
 Half hidden in the grass ; and crowds go by 
 
 And see them not, unless some curious eye 
 Unto their hiding-place by chance is led. 
 
 I often pass that way, and look on them 
 With loving, lingering gaze. I know not why 
 My heart doth love such humble things ; but I 
 
 Esteem them more than robe or diadem 
 Of priest or king. A babe, or bird, or flower 
 Has o'er my soul a most despotic power. 
 
 The tearful eye of infancy oppress'd, 
 A flower down-trodden by the foot of spite, 
 
 Awaken sighs of sorrow in the breast, 
 
 Or nerve the arm to vindicate their right. 
 21* 
 
246 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 THE SICK MAN'S SONNET. 
 
 THROW wide the shutter! Let me see the light, 
 And feel the cooling breeze upon my face. 
 
 So long have I been hidden from my race, 
 Sweet nature's aspect seemeth doubly bright. 
 These many days I've lain upon this bed, 
 
 And turn'd my weary frame and sought for rest; 
 
 But strong disease hath gnaw'd within my breast, 
 And throbbing pangs have rack'd my fever'd head. 
 
 The long, still nights have brought to me no sleep ; 
 I've counted all the hours until the morn 
 Hath broken in the east; and, weak and worn, 
 
 I've pray'd my Maker for a heart to weep. 
 The pitying Father hears the child's request : 
 My sins rebuked, He gives me perfect rest. 
 
 THE OLD BLIND VOTER OF PINE WARD. 
 
 MAKE way, ye generous freemen ! let him come 
 And cast his ballot into Freedom's urn ! 
 His arm, perchance, once aided to strike dumb 
 
 His country's foes; and still his feelings burn 
 With all their ancient warmth for liberty. 
 
 Approach, old man ! We honour thy thin locks — 
 So white, so few— that tell thy lengthen'd age. 
 The time thou liv'dst hath been a glorious page 
 
 Of human history, and proudly mocks 
 All former times. It hath been given to thee 
 
 To see the virgin flag of Freedom flung 
 Abroad to float in every breeze ; while he 
 
 Whose head in humble abjectness had hung, 
 Did heavenward lift his eye, and strike — and dare be 
 free! 
 
SONNETS. 247 
 
 THE BUTTONWOOD STUMP. 
 
 WHENE'ER I walk in Third, near Willing's alley, 
 I mark the spot where that old buttonwood 
 
 Beyond the memory of man had stood 
 As proudly as if in Missouri's valley. 
 
 I mourn its fall, as of a pleasant friend 
 
 Whose useful life hath met a hasty end. 
 The ruthless axe that hew'd its silver'd trunk 
 
 Struck at the ties that, tendril-like, had bound 
 My love unto the tree ; and when it sunk, 
 
 My heart sunk with it, grieving, to the ground. 
 Old men are doubtless living, who, with me, 
 
 Bewail its doom ; who, in its grateful shade, 
 Some threescore years ago, in boyish glee 
 
 With glad companions innocently play'd. 
 
 THE PATH OF LIFE. 
 
 THERE is a pathway leading to the skies; 
 'Tis strait and narrow, and the travellers climb 
 
 With songs and sighings toward its height sublime, 
 Where faith discerns a bright, immortal prize. 
 The aged man uplifts his failing eyes, 
 
 And presses on to reach his welcome rest; 
 The man of sinew shouteth fearless cries 
 
 To animate the youthful pilgrim's breast; 
 And ever and anon the voice of song 
 Or prayer uprises from the heavenward throng. 
 
 Angelic watchers compass all the road, 
 And aid the travellers when their spirit faints ; 
 
 Till Death comes near to bear to Christ's abode 
 The holy hosts of His elected saints. 
 
248 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 LONELINESS. 
 
 ALONE! My soul doth never feel alone! 
 L From tender childhood to this hurrying hour, 
 
 God hath indued me with a potent power 
 Of calling spirits from a realm unknown, 
 
 With whom I hold communings sweet and free. 
 This life hath never been a cumbrous chain 
 For me to drag with heaviness and pain ; 
 
 But Time hath sped on feathery wings with me. 
 My thoughts to me are sweeter than my bread ; 
 And while my lips have lack'd, my mind hath fed 
 
 Luxuriously, as if it were a king. 
 And when the Lord hath smiled upon my way, 
 I've walk'd in heaven on many a glorious day 
 
 While yet on earth my feet were wandering. 
 
 THE GREAT DAY. 
 
 THE shiver'd skies flee fast away ; and flame 
 And smoke burst out, and horrid noises roar 
 
 As if a burning sea surged on the shore, 
 And rack'd old Nature's perishable frame. 
 
 Creation shudders ; and the trembling sun 
 Turns red like blood, and casts a crimson glare 
 Throughout the heaving billows of the air. 
 
 The moon and stars, as if affrighted, run 
 In wild confusion ; while the trump of God 
 
 Resounds, and all the dead are call'd to life, 
 And — hush'd at once the elemental strife — 
 
 In solemn stillness men await his nod. 
 Ah, day of doom ! Redeemer on thy throne ! 
 Oh let thy robe of grace be cast around thine own. 
 
SONNETS. 249 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 WHATEVER be the language of the skies, 
 There is no fitting word that I can find 
 
 To express the affection of a mother's mind 
 When roguish smiles play in her infant's eyes. 
 
 The cherub has a passport to her heart ; 
 A key that opens nature's fastest locks ; 
 A natural skill of witchery that mocks 
 
 The wise professors of the mystic art. 
 Thanks be to Heaven that man is once a child ; 
 
 That once our nature wears the guise of all 
 That's truthful, loving, lovable, and mild; 
 
 That tones of childhood to our thoughts recall 
 The rapturous times when in a fond embrace 
 We clasp'd our mother's neck, and kiss'd her cheerful 
 face. 
 
 PENITENTIAL PRAYER. 
 
 T DO acknowledge unto thee, O God ! 
 
 ■*• A child of wilful waywardness I've been; 
 
 In crooked paths of selfishness and sin 
 These many years my wandering feet have trod. 
 
 But, oh! be merciful! The world I've loved 
 
 Like Sodom's fruit of bitterness has proved; 
 And I, repentant, bleeding at the heart, 
 
 Would find a Helper in this time of wo ; 
 
 And, save to thee, I know not where to go 
 To find a balsam for my bosom's smart. 
 
 Be merciful, O God ! Let Him atone 
 Who died for wretched men like me : no plea 
 
 My anguish knows but this last plea alone ! 
 For His dear sake, my God! oh spare and pity me! 
 
250 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 A SPRING SONNET. 
 
 r I ""HE maiden-hearted spring has come. The weeping 
 *- And smiling skies alternate o'er us reign; 
 
 The grass is springing verdant on the plain, 
 And little germs that long time have been sleeping 
 Beneath the sod are timidly up-peeping ; 
 
 Sweet buds and blossoms thick are putting forth, 
 As if in confidence Heaven's sure keeping, 
 
 And fearless of the threatenings of the north. 
 The flowers will soon be here, and bees will come ; 
 
 The notes of spring and summer birds will ring, 
 
 And winds, and brooks, and birds in concert sing, 
 And make the human soul leap up in gladness, 
 
 Save the sad hearts who, in their des'late home, 
 Do weep the loved and lost, though not in hopeless 
 sadness. 
 
 HUMAN PORCUPINES. 
 
 SOME men are cruel in their nature — rough 
 In mind and manner — burly sons of strife ; 
 So coarsely wrought of nature's coarsest stuff, 
 
 With them there's nothing delicate in life. 
 Were man a tree, they were the outer bark ; 
 
 Were man a wood, they were the brier-bush : 
 But now they're snarling porcupines, that mark 
 
 With scratches all who 'gainst their prickles push. 
 They've little love for any living thing; 
 
 Their hearts are barely big enough to hold 
 
 Affection for themselves and for their gold ; 
 Perchance a little for their dog or mother, 
 Which selfishness has not had time to smother ; 
 
 To all the world besides, they only live to sting. 
 
SONNETS. 251 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 HAS death, my gentle brother, pluck'd a bud — 
 An opening bud — from thy sweet tree of love ? 
 
 And did the depths of thy fond nature move, 
 Until thine eye pour'd forth a scalding flood? 
 
 If it were so, I could not blame thy grief; 
 But I would sit beside thee in thy wo, 
 And bid my tears to thine responsive flow, 
 
 Till He who smote should bring thy soul relief: 
 My tongue would words of consolation say, 
 And lead thy thoughts from this sad world away ; 
 
 And tell thee of the land beyond the tomb, 
 The gardens beautiful, where Jesus' hands 
 
 Have planted thy sweet bud, to grow and bloom, 
 And gladden thee and thine, while heaven eternal 
 stands. 
 
 A CHILD AT A WINDOW. 
 
 BUT yesternoon my curious eye espied 
 A child out-looking through a window-pane : 
 Urgent my haste, yet as I onward hied, 
 
 I turn'd to gaze upon the child again. 
 Her face was fair, her eyes were bright and blue, 
 
 Her hair hung loosely with peculiar grace 
 Of curl, and all uncertain was its hue ; 
 
 But whether more of mirth were in her face, 
 Or innocence, or modesty, 'twere not 
 
 An easy word to say. A sweet red spot 
 And dimple beautified her cheek, and lent 
 
 A comely aspect to the child. She wore 
 No gaudy dress, nor golden ornament; 
 
 In her own native self her chiefest charm she bore. 
 
2 ;2 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 THE TEA-TABLE. 
 
 HOW beautiful the sight!— the tidy table 
 Set out for tea — the buckwheat cakes all smo- 
 king, 
 
 The steaming urn, the watering mouth provoking; 
 The girls and boys, with eating powers able, 
 
 Awaiting father's grace ere they begin 
 
 To lay a store of mother's good things in. 
 The knife and spoon they ply with artless grace : 
 
 To chide their eager haste, the mother cries 
 
 In gentle tones, and warns them that "their eyes 
 Are bigger than their stomachs. " Every face 
 
 Grows big with wonder as to what she means. — 
 The tea-time o'er, the children say their prayers, 
 And go to bed and sleep devoid of cares. 
 
 Would that our land were studded with such scenes ! 
 
 JOSEPH C. NEAL. 
 
 HOW fast the living fade away around us ! 
 Some in the spring, and in the summer others : 
 
 Autumn and winter smite our human brothers, 
 And snap the tendrils that to them had bound us. 
 
 It seems but yesterday I saw his face ; 
 And now I sit in silence and alone, 
 And ask in doubt, "And is he surely gone, 
 
 And pass'd to his eternal dwelling-place?" 
 Fallen in his prime, like an un wither' d leaf, 
 The pen is poor to phrase our speechless grief. 
 
 Of gifted mind and gentle in his spirit, 
 And kind and tender as a very dove, 
 And fill'd with an exuberance of love, 
 
 A long remembrance richly doth he merit. 
 
SONNETS. 253 
 
 A POET AND HIS SONG. 
 
 HE was a man endow'd like other men 
 With strange varieties of thought and feeling: 
 His bread was earn'd by daily toil; yet when 
 
 A pleasing fancy o'er his mind came stealing, 
 He set a trap and snared it by his art, 
 And hid it in the bosom of his heart. 
 
 He nurtured it and loved it as his own, 
 And it became obedient to his beck ; 
 He fix'd his name on its submissive neck, 
 
 And graced it with all graces to him known, 
 And then he bade it lift its wing and fly 
 
 Over the earth, and sing in every ear 
 
 Some soothing sound the sighful soul to cheer, 
 Some lay of love to lure it to the sky. 
 
 ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF A CHILD. 
 
 "T^WAS but a little child ; and yet I felt 
 -*• Unutterable thrills arise within : 
 I thought on what my infant days had been, 
 
 When I before my mother simply knelt, 
 
 And clasp'd my hands and said our Saviour's prayer, 
 
 A happy boy, with blue and playful eye, 
 
 And flaxen hair, and cheek that might outvie 
 The crimson of the rose. But toil and care 
 
 Have done their wonted work. Ah me ! how strange 
 
 That years so few should bring such wondrous change ! 
 This pallid cheek — this calm and serious air — 
 
 This quiet eye — this weary, weary frame- 
 Can these be his whose promise was so fair ? — 
 
 With growing hope of heaven, the being is the same ! 
 
254 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 THE SPIRIT'S AILMENT. 
 
 FOR many days I walk'd beneath a cloud 
 Which no sun-ray found any passage through : 
 
 The mid-noon like the depth of midnight grew, 
 And my faint soul was in the darkness bow'd. 
 Uncomforted, I wander'd mid the crowd, 
 
 Where all were busy, eager, earnest, gay ; 
 Some idly chatting, others laughing loud, 
 
 And friend saluting friend along his way. 
 Amid them all, I was alone — alone ; 
 
 A yearning man, and with a human heart, 
 
 From other men set seemingly apart ; 
 Mine ear receiving not a friendly tone, 
 
 Mine eye perceiving not an answering gleam ; 
 
 And life was nigh become a dim and dreary dream. 
 
 THE SPIRIT'S REMEDY. 
 
 WHEN overcome with darkness and dejection, 
 And wintry clouds o'ercast the mental sky, 
 'Tis good to stir the ashes of affection, 
 
 And gather up love's embers ere they die, 
 
 And breathe upon the coals, and add new fuel. 
 
 The fire of love needs, frequently, renewal ; 
 Supplies of tenderness and deeds of kindness, 
 
 And tones of sympathy and gentle meaning; 
 
 A brother's faults benevolently screening, 
 For love is nurtured by a purposed blindness. 
 Thrice blessed he who finds it in his heart 
 
 To follow Christ ! Then sadness spreads her wings, 
 
 And pleasantly the soul within him sings ; 
 And of the good he does, he shares a double part. 
 
SONNETS. 255 
 
 POSTHUMOUS FAME. 
 
 DEATH sanctifies the poet. While he lives 
 Men seem to think he is an idler here ; 
 
 And cold and heartless often is the cheer 
 The world to him in wanton measure gives. 
 Perhaps he asks too much when he has sung 
 
 A lay that long shall humanize his race ; 
 For him — a mortal with an angel's tongue — 
 
 Perchance the earth has no befitting place ; 
 
 Perchance too soon he lives — perchance too late ; 
 Or he is poor, or lacks a family name 
 Renown'd for glory or renown'd for shame; 
 
 Perchance — too great to murmur at his fate — 
 He toils, and dies a toiler at the oar : 
 Then men remember him, and his sad fate deplore. 
 
 THE POOR BOY. 
 
 WHENE'ER I meet an orphan boy, I say 
 Within my heart, "Lord! bless this desolate 
 child, 
 And be his guide in all his heavenward way : 
 
 Oh, bid the winds to this lone one be mild, 
 And burning suns to gently beam on him : 
 Let lowering clouds make not his pathway dim ; 
 
 May stony ways be soft beneath his feet, 
 
 And bitter waters to his taste be sweet !" 
 A waif of heaven, cast upward by the sea 
 
 On this drear shore, how pitiful his lot ! 
 Nay ! heavenly watchers bear him company, 
 
 And help and cheer him, though we see them not; 
 For God a Father sits upon the throne, — 
 The poor and fatherless are specially his own. 
 
256 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 MAN'S STEWARDSHIP. 
 
 A LL men are stewards of some gift or grace, 
 ■^"*- And must account to Him who lent the boon : 
 
 Some use it till old age — some, in the noon 
 Of life are call'd to stand before His face, 
 
 And give to Him their reckoning. None so poor 
 But hath his work to do in peace and love, 
 Which, rightly done, shall in the world above 
 
 Place in his hand a palm that shall endure. 
 The field is wide ; each labourer hath full room 
 
 To improve his talent, and secure the word 
 
 Of glad approval from his gracious Lord ; 
 Some barren heart his love may bid to bloom, 
 
 Some wretch may cease his weeping at his voice, 
 
 And in hope's restful bosom gratefully rejoice. 
 
 MY SABBATH SCHOLAR. 
 
 A CHILD came in our school on Sabbath-day, 
 A little one, whose years were very few : 
 
 I sat me down, as I am wont to do, 
 Beside her, saying, as I'm wont to say, 
 
 "And what's your name, my dear?" She look'd 
 at me 
 And meekly said, " My name is Mary, sir." 
 I felt a yearning of my heart to her: 
 
 " How old are you, my child ? " — Then answer'd she 
 Her years were only four. She had no brother, 
 But lived alone at home, she and her mother. 
 
 "Tell me what is your father's name," I said. 
 "My father is in heaven," was her reply, 
 
 And silently she lifted up her head. — 
 Ought I be deemed weak if tears o'erfill'd mine eye? 
 
SONNETS. 257 
 
 OCTOBER'S COMING. 
 
 HPHE prudish maid October's coming down 
 ■*- From her accustom'd visit to the north: 
 
 Of her approach the signs are putting forth : 
 I hear the rustling of her russet gown ; 
 
 Her voice rings shrilly on the frosty air. 
 The forest leaves are blushing red and brown, 
 And Nature wears a dark, forbidding frown, 
 
 Intensely vex'd that she's no longer fair. 
 October comes ! her nose is sharp and blue, 
 
 Her temper changeable : at morning cold, 
 At noon she tries to smile, then, like a shrew, 
 
 At night she's lowering, turbulent, and bold. 
 Ah ! how unlike the pregnant months, that pour 
 In our rejoicing bosoms their abundant store ! 
 
 TO A RAT IN THE PRINTING OFFICE. 
 
 r ~PHOU long-tail'd, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger! 
 J- What led thee hither 'mong the types and cases ? 
 
 Didst thou not know that running midnight races 
 O'er standing types is fraught with imm'nent danger? 
 Did hunger lead thee ? didst thou think to find 
 
 Some rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw ? 
 
 Vain hope! none but a literary jaw 
 Can masticate our cookery for the mind. 
 Perchance thou hast a literary taste, 
 
 A love for letters, and that sort of thing; 
 
 But why, thou wire-tail'd imp — thou vermin-king! 
 Didst thou but yesternight devour our paste, 
 
 And throw our types in pyramids of pi? 
 
 Thy doom's decreed! — here, Towser! at him fly! 
 
 22* 
 
258 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 THE POET'S VISITER. 
 
 T SING for mine own pleasure, more than name 
 -■- Or money's worth : and he who lists may read 
 
 Or not, as pleases him : my gospel-creed 
 Allows to all the equal rights I claim. 
 
 Within the inner chambers of my mind 
 There cometh oftentimes a visiter, 
 
 Whose loveliness surpasseth human-kind : 
 I sing the mysteries that I learn of her. 
 
 I'm captive to her beauteousness ; her spell 
 Is potent. Miserable man were I 
 
 To slight a being whom I love so well, 
 Or pass her wooings unregarded by. 
 While my Great Maker sends me such a guest, 
 I'll tell what pleasant thoughts she wakens in my 
 breast. 
 
 UNCEASING PRAYER. 
 
 ' I ^HE voice of prayer upriseth constantly 
 -*" From mortal man to his Redeemer, God : 
 
 Where'er the sun, in shining sandals shod, 
 Speeds o'er the busy land or lonely sea, 
 
 Some chosen ones, awaken' d by its light 
 
 From soothing dreams and slumbers of the night, 
 Leap from their couch, and bend to Him in prayer, 
 
 Adore His mercy, and confess their sins. 
 The lip of one is scarcely silent, ere 
 
 Some brother-worshipper his plaint begins. 
 The slave looks up with mute prayer in his eye; 
 
 The worn and weary pray ; yea, everywhere 
 The Lord inclines to man's imploring cry; 
 
 And earth is girdled alway with a zone of prayer. 
 
SONNETS. 259 
 
 ON HEARING A SERMON. 
 
 AGAIN mine ears drink in the flowing tide 
 **» Of tones more sweet than if an angel spoke : 
 In days long gone, that voice my spirit woke 
 
 From dreams of folly, vanity, and pride. 
 The chain that bound me to earth's pleasures broke, 
 
 Which once I loved as if there were none other, 
 
 I learn' d that man to every man was brother, 
 And on my neck Christ laid his easy yoke. 
 
 New life was mine : a holier course begun, 
 I loved — and love — my teacher as a son. 
 Let coward Slander rear its venom'd crest, 
 
 And seek to sting in some unguarded place, 
 Still God's good hand shall shield him by his grace, 
 And they shall love him most who've known him long 
 and best. 
 
 OH! HIDE THY FACE. 
 
 OH ! hide thy face from all my sins, good Lord ! 
 I cannot answer for them, no not one, 
 
 But mutely stand before thy righteous throne, 
 And dare not ask thee justice to award. 
 
 Grace — grace through Christ — unmerited by me, 
 
 This, this I crave, most Merciful ! from thee. 
 These many years a fitful course I've trod, 
 
 Running or halting, leaping or groping on ; 
 
 Yet all the hours, as they have come and gone, 
 Have brought some blessing from thy hand, my God. 
 
 But I have made such recompense of ill, 
 Ashamed am I to look up to thy face ; 
 
 So weeping o'er my sins, yet hoping still, 
 I hide my erring soul beneath thy robe of grace. 
 

 jtf&m 
 
 way 2 - 
 " ""in* 
 
 Tam's Fortnight Ramble. 
 
 
 261 
 
TAM INTRODUCED TO THE READER. 
 
 Most gentle Reader ! Tarn's a friend of mine — 
 
 A bosom-friend : I long have known him well: — 
 I pray thy grace and courtesy benign 
 
 While he in words of verity shall tell 
 The story of his travels. Sit with hint 
 
 An evening hour ; and should his strain bedim 
 TJiy tender eye, or cause thy heart to swell, 
 
 It may be, Reader ! also thou shaltfind 
 
 Refreshment in it for a thirsty mind, 
 And joy with thee a welcome guest shall dwell. 
 
 I stand aside, like one who bears the bowl 
 Whereof his friends partake ; and if the draught 
 Afford delight to those by whom "'tis quaff d, 
 
 A kindred pleasure shall pervade my soul. 
 
 T. McK. 
 
 262 
 
RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 
 CANTO I. 
 
 ' 'T^WAS Christmas time. From over-toil and thought 
 
 ■*• My spirits droop' d like wheat-ears in the rain, 
 And moody whimseys brooded in my brain 
 As evening fogs brood in low meadows fraught 
 With dew. "I'll go," in suddenness I said, 
 "And see again the place where I was born, 
 And where I had my schooling ; where I shed 
 The early bitter tear of one forlorn, 
 When Death appear' d before the accustom' d time, 
 And smote my parents in their midlife prime. 
 I'll stand again where once I stood of yore 
 And gazed with wondering and asking eye 
 Far out unto the dim, uncertain shore 
 
 Of time to come, where boyhood's mysteries lie." 
 
 263 
 
264 RH YMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 II. 
 
 Still mine the memories of the boyish days 
 When young delight went hand-in-hand with hope, 
 And life to come was but a sunny slope, 
 Where roses bloom' d and birds sang merry lays. 
 What though the experience of my wiser years 
 Has proved that heaven is not of earth, and he 
 Who would inherit bliss that ever cheers 
 Must work in love, and love unselfishly ; 
 Yet, pleasing still the fantasies remain 
 Of careless times, when trustfully I dream'd 
 Of years with naught but pleasure in their train, 
 And paradise in coming manhood seem'd. 
 Those hours illusive long have pass'd away. 
 But, bright for aye, ye memories, with me stay. 
 
 III. 
 
 I took the cars, and went to New York city : 
 'Twas Sat'day night, and ere eleven o'clock 
 The ferry-boat had brought us into dock 
 Across the Hudson. ('Tis somewhat a pity 
 The cars can't drop us in the town ; 'tis very 
 Uncomfortable thus to cross the ferry 
 On winter nights. It makes a mortal shiver 
 To leave the cosey cars, and face the blast 
 That whistles frozen notes in rushing past. 
 Ugh ! how I hate that voyage o'er the river !) 
 I went to bed, and got up rather late 
 Next morn, for I had lain till nearly eight : 
 I kiss'd my friends ; my lips with love did quiver; 
 And then I kept the Sabbath with becoming state. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 265 
 
 IV. 
 
 Were I to judge from every towering steeple 
 
 That rises grandly o'er their city round, 
 
 I'd say the Yorkers are as pious people 
 
 As anywhere upon the earth are found. 
 
 On Sabbath morn I went to Dr. Potts' s, 
 
 (He who had wordy jousts with Dr. Wainwright : 
 
 Which one of these good men was in the main right, 
 
 If I should say, I'd get as many shots as 
 
 My literary vestment could contain : 
 
 And so 'tis wise my dictum to refrain.) 
 
 The doctor preach'd an apostolic sermon, 
 
 As orthodox as plain folk wish to hear, 
 
 Strong Scripture common sense ; and on mine ear 
 
 It fell refreshingly as dews on Hermon. 
 
 V. 
 
 The music witchingly my cares beguiled, 
 Echoes of heaven amid a world of sin ! 
 Like mother's crooning to a sobbing child, 
 It calm'd the tumult of my thoughts within. 
 Nature ne'er meant that man should be a Quaker ; 
 And though the Friends are students in her school, 
 They follow not each clearly written rule, 
 Nor in her full harmonic teachings take her. 
 Life without music is night without a star, 
 Day without sunshine, bud that never blows, 
 Eye without lustre, cheek that never glows, 
 Home without inmate with the door ajar. 
 Music on earth for me, besides the promise given 
 Of music and of hymns high in the courts of heaven J 
 23 
 
266 RH YMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I walk'd alone upon the Battery, 
 
 And look'd upon the waters as they roll'd — 
 
 A crystal sheet, with many a crumpled fold — 
 
 Up through the Narrows from the distant sea. 
 
 Vessels in multitude lay safe in port ; 
 
 And some were outward bound with flowing sails, 
 
 And others, stain' d and batter' d by the gales, 
 
 Yet full of treasure, came to pay their court 
 
 To the proud island city by the sea : 
 
 While shell-like skiffs were skurrying everywhere, 
 
 Skimming like sea-birds most capriciously, 
 
 As if now on water, — then as if in air. 
 
 The scene so varied, once so old to me, 
 
 Like a rare master's picture, held me gazing there. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Twice I received a wholesome castigation 
 
 For stealing to the Battery to play 
 
 Without parental leave and approbation ; 
 
 I'll not forget it to my latest day. 
 
 I told a rather hesitating story, 
 
 Not quite in keeping with my course in youth ; 
 
 It may have been a crooked allegory, 
 
 And did not run in straight lines with the truth. 
 
 I bless the rod, and bless the hand that wielded, 
 
 Although it made my youthful shoulders tickle. 
 
 'Twas thus I learn'd a rod was in the pickle 
 
 For me when I to wilful follies yielded. 
 
 This was the moral I shall long remember — 
 
 Prune in the early year for fruitage in September. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 267 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Both long and brief beseem the varied years 
 That have since then departed ; joy or sorrow- 
 Coming to-day and vanishing to-morrow : 
 All fitfully as April, hopes and fears 
 Bore changeful sway. Now heavy care depress' d 
 My sinking soul ; anon a sudden flow 
 Of wondrous pleasure overran my breast 
 Like sunlight after storm, till in a glow 
 Of ecstasy I gazed upon a stone 
 And loved my Maker more because He made it. 
 But there's no brook that has no tree to shade it, 
 And dim the dancing diamonds that shone 
 Upon its sunlit waters. So, I ween, 
 The experience of the most of men has been. 
 
 IX. 
 
 There was a period of my young existence 
 
 (Far in the misty past, while yet the haven 
 
 Of manhood glimmer'd in the uncertain distance, — 
 
 My cheek still dimpled, and my chin unshaven) 
 
 When o'er my mind unwittingly came stealing 
 
 A tide of deep and melancholy feeling. 
 
 Up-bubbling fancies sparkled, and then broke 
 
 And sank away, and were forever gone. 
 
 Softly I breathed the while the spell was on, 
 
 Nor moved my lip, nor audibly I spoke. 
 
 I strove to catch each evanescent thought 
 
 That, like a meteor in the August sky, 
 
 With sudden brilliancy oppress' d mine eye ; 
 
 But long — oh ! long — my strivings were for naught. 
 
268 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Words may not tell how hopelessly I've lain 
 Upon the floor, while seeking to give vent 
 To fancies that, like molten lava pent, 
 Surged madly in my wild, chaotic brain ; 
 Till passionately I cast my pen from me, 
 And, like an infant wearied with long weeping, 
 Resign'd myself to thoughtless apathy, 
 And lay supine as if in quiet sleeping. 
 Then love stole slyly in ; and she was first 
 To bid my fancy own a conqueror's sway : 
 The barriers of the flood were swept away, 
 And wild and rude the hurrying numbers burst. 
 O'erwhelming and exuberant was the joy 
 The rough-shod rhymes imparted to the boy. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Nor may I paint the years that follow' d after,— 
 
 The thoughtful hours— the hours of melancholy, 
 
 Commingling with the days of joy and laughter, 
 
 That led me oft to moralize on folly. 
 
 From fame's illusion, in my sober view 
 
 Unworth a struggle or a suffering pang, 
 
 I turn'd aside, and, with earth's simple few, 
 
 Life's simple themes in simple words I sang. 
 
 Within my soul religion shed her grace, 
 
 And cast her pure irradiance on the lyre ; 
 
 The glow of peace illumed my pallid face, 
 
 And kindled all my better passions' fire ; 
 
 My haughty temper melted in the flame, 
 
 And o'er my chasten' d breast a meeker influence came. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 269 
 
 XII. 
 
 Idle it were to pile a pyramid, 
 
 Or seek a place among the sons of fame, — 
 
 To grave on rock the letters of a name, 
 
 And tell the world of what one said or did. 
 
 In poet's lore, and sentimental story, 
 
 It seems as 'twere this life's supremest aim 
 
 For heroes to achieve what men call glory, 
 
 And die intoxicate with earth's acclaim. 
 
 Ah me ! how little care the dead for breath 
 
 Of vain applause that saved them not from death. 
 
 Could fame immortalize the human frame, 
 
 And fix undying bloom on beauty's cheek, 
 
 And cancel guilt and memories of shame, 
 
 Then were it well the precious boon to seek. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 True fame and dignity are born of toil : 
 
 'Tis so ordain'd by Him who saw it good 
 
 That man by thought and toil should earn his food. 
 
 Ev'n the brown'd delver in the yielding soil, 
 
 Who draws from earth the sustenance of life, 
 
 Has more of nobleness than he who slays 
 
 His fellow-man on fields of bloody strife, 
 
 And bears a weapon stain'd in mortal frays. 
 
 The world and Christ have different measurements : 
 
 While He has said, that Blessed are the meek 
 
 Who in forgiveness their avengement seek, 
 
 The world applauds the coward who resents 
 
 A scornful word — whose craven spirit fears 
 
 His Maker's anger less than man's disdainful sneers. 
 
 23* 
 
70 RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A wrong avenged is doubly perpetrated ; 
 
 Two sinners stand where first had stood but one : 
 
 But wrong forgiven is wrong annihilated ; 
 
 The sin is almost as 'twere never done. 
 
 Oft, love and mercy and their gentle train 
 
 Appeal to man's hard-heartedness in vain : 
 
 Mercy and love, in holiest incarnation, 
 
 Once dwelt upon the earth ; but hate arose 
 
 And fired the fury of their deadly foes, 
 
 And smote them in the Prince of our salvation. 
 
 Yet He who felt the fiercest stroke of malice, 
 
 And, 'spite its wrath, man's full redemption wrought, 
 
 Ev'n He takes from our hand revenge's chalice, 
 
 And bids us hold a cup with loving-kindness fraught. 
 
 'Vengeance is mine," 
 Saith God : 
 "Not thine, 
 Child of the sod. 
 
 ' I will repay 
 
 The wrong, 
 Though long 
 My time delay." 
 
 Ye wronged and crush'd, 
 
 And weak, — 
 
 Ye meek, 
 Whose plaint is hush'd 
 
 By fraud and power, — 
 Hope on ! 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE, 27 1 
 
 The hour 
 Will come anon, 
 
 When Heaven shall strike 
 
 Your foes, 
 
 And like 
 Untimely snows 
 
 They'll melt away, 
 
 And ye 
 
 Shall be 
 No more their prey. 
 
 Who stings a heart, 
 
 The sting 
 
 Shall bring 
 To him a smart. 
 
 Ye who in heaven 
 
 Would live, 
 
 Forgive, 
 To be forgiven. 
 
 Who suffer loss — 
 
 And take, 
 
 For sake 
 Of Christ, His cross, — 
 
 Pray for your foes, 
 
 Do good 
 
 To those 
 Who long have stood 
 
 Across your path, 
 And glared 
 
272 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 In wrath 
 To see you snared : 
 
 And when your time 
 
 To die 
 
 Is nigh, 
 In strength sublime 
 
 Your souls with hope 
 Shall wait : 
 The gate 
 
 Of heaven shall ope, 
 
 And voices sweet 
 With love 
 Shall greet 
 
 Your flight above. 
 
 xv. 
 
 The test of worth is wealth, it seems to me ; 
 
 Too often in this world a fearful ban 
 
 Is on the poor. Nay, tell me not "a man, 
 
 If honest, is respected, though he be 
 
 A dweller in the vale of poverty." 
 
 When he would rise, the meaner sort combine 
 
 And lift a heavy heel to push him down ; 
 
 And if the noble struggler do not drown, 
 
 'Tis not because they show no base design 
 
 Or purposed negligence. At any rate, 
 
 He rises in despite of Mammon's hate, ' 
 
 And his own hand his hard-earn'd bays entwine 
 
 Were Heaven to add ability to will, 
 
 Nature's man-children Pharaoh-like they'd kill. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 273 
 
 XVI. 
 
 When haply some more generous spirit lifts 
 A child of promise from the vale obscure, 
 Who else had died unknown among the poor, 
 And cheers him with his sympathy and gifts, 
 "A miracle!" the astonish'd public shout, 
 And laud him loud and lavishly because 
 The man obeys the Almighty Father's laws, 
 And like a brother throws his arms about 
 His lowlier brother's neck. Oh, blessed lot 
 To be possess'd of wealth and of a heart 
 So heavenly made that it refuses not 
 Of its abundance freely to impart ! 
 Our Saviour says the blessedness of giving 
 Is better than the pleasure of receiving. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 To waste this life in selfish pleasure-taking, 
 To have it on the book of heaven printed, 
 "He feasted and he died, nor ever stinted 
 His revel-nights or days of merry-making 
 To wipe the dews of grief from brows of sorrow, 
 Or cheer the soul that sat in gloom of night, 
 Nor bade it look with hope for a to-morrow 
 When God should give it a supernal light" — 
 To noble natures how contemptible ! 
 For such a life the vial of scorn is full. 
 Who gives a cup of water in God's name — 
 The water of affection — to the lip 
 Of some sad one who scarce has strength to sip, 
 Shall have a vast reward, and heaven shall know his 
 fame. 
 
274 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 While impudence, like weeds, will thrive apace, 
 
 Genius is child-like, and so sensitive 
 
 It scarce can find a fit abiding-place ; 
 
 And love must tend it, or it cannot live. 
 
 Neglect and contumely have destroy'd 
 
 Full many a man whose spirit long was buoy'd 
 
 By the fond hope that yet would come a day 
 
 That should repay him for the pain he bore : 
 
 The world's unkindness, like a canker, wore 
 
 Into his heart, and life escaped away. 
 
 'Tis sad that earth should lose so suddenly 
 
 Her gentle ones, and few be left behind 
 
 To temper the impetuous selfish mind, 
 
 And pour affection's oil on passion's furious sea. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 So let it be — it has been ever so ; 
 
 For since the world's foundation-stone was laid, 
 
 And sin brought "death and all our mortal wo," 
 
 Suffering has been the ransom-money paid 
 
 For man's redemption. Precious lesson taught 
 
 By suffering Jesus!— Murmuring heart, be still! 
 
 Enough for thee that 'tis thy Maker's will. 
 
 Then let thy work in faithfulness be wrought: 
 
 Thy weary toil shall fit thee for thy rest. 
 
 Thy grave more welcome — quieter thy sleep — 
 
 If round thy coffin many sigh and weep, 
 
 Who but for thee had lived and died unblest. 
 
 God grant to thee, my soul — God grant to all — 
 
 Ripeness in faith and works before our time to fall. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 27$ 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 THE Utica was steaming up the Hudson; 
 And we (some friends and I) took passage in her, 
 And reach' d Peekskill in ample time for dinner. 
 The mountain trees had neither leaves nor buds on, 
 Yet beautiful the haughty Highlands stood. 
 Oh blessed land of rivers, plains, and mountains ! 
 Beyond all regions Heaven has made it good ! 
 More precious than the golden-bedded fountains, 
 Or diamond stones of India or Brazil, 
 My country is my Holy Land. I love her ! 
 The purest, brightest skies are spread above her, 
 And heavenliest beauties cover vale and hill ; 
 Her lakes are oceans, and her mountains hide 
 More secret wealth than all the earth beside. 
 
Ij6 RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES, 
 
 (Reader ! forgive the muse's transient rapture — 
 
 Thy heart is cold if thou forgivest not.) 
 
 We gazed on Tarrytown, the famous spot 
 
 Where three militia-men made noble capture 
 
 Of Andre, the adventurous English spy. 
 
 The man was hang'd, and bravely did he die. 
 
 Some years ago the British sought his bones 
 
 And placed them 'mong their famous worthies. We 
 
 Once lost a hero worthier than he ; 
 
 And still he lies beneath the unnoted stones 
 
 Where he was buried. I have ever kept 
 
 A corner of my heart for Nathan Hale 
 
 To live in ; and until my days shall fail, 
 
 I'll honour him whose fate a lonely mother wept. 
 
 in. 
 
 He ask'd them for a Bible e'er he died: 
 
 He had been taught to love it in his youth, 
 
 And now he sought the solace of its truth 
 
 In his last moments, — and he was denied ! 
 
 The Britons swung him 'twixt the heavens and earth, 
 
 As if he were a dog ; nor scarcely gave 
 
 A shred of time to fit him for the grave. 
 
 (Howe! noble merely by the chance of birth — 
 
 Thine is the sin, and thine the ignoble fame ! 
 
 I loathe to stain my verses with thy name. 
 
 I hold thee forth as one of vermin-breed, 
 
 That men may scorn thee as they scorn a lie !) 
 
 Hale grieved — let freemen ponder as they read — - 
 
 "That for his country he but once could die." 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 2j1 
 
 IV. 
 
 The envious tell us, " We are base-begotten — 
 A mongrel nation, born in Time's declension- 
 Plebeian people — sellers of corn and cotton, 
 Unworthy high and honourable mention." 
 Well, be it so. The lusty strength of youth 
 Is better far than proud decrepitude. 
 With mind and might and fortitude endued, 
 We stand erect, and fight for present truth. 
 We're in the young delight of new existence ; 
 The ardent blood leaps lively in our veins ; 
 The dim traditions glimmering in the distance 
 We scorn, for objects worthy manly pains. 
 We tread a path our slanderers never trod, 
 And as we choose, we serve and worship God. 
 
 v. 
 
 It ill becomes our brethren thus to mock. 
 
 Their homesteads once were also ours ; and we 
 
 Have well upheld the family dignity, 
 
 Nor proved degenerate scions of the stock. 
 
 Let all the earth produce a parallel 
 
 To this good land wherein our people dwell. 
 
 'Tis ours to show what man, most free, can be : 
 
 The mission is not given to us to pore 
 
 O'er cobweb'd tomes of well-forgotten lore ; 
 
 Progression is our law and destiny. 
 
 We lead the van of battle, well begun 
 
 By Sidney — Hampden, Cromwell, on the field, — 
 
 And glorious Milton, who a pen did wield 
 
 That glow'd with light from mind's unclouded sun. 
 
 24 
 
273 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, that the blind seer's mental mantle might 
 (Like the rapt prophet's) fall upon this land, 
 Which owes its freedom partly to his hand, 
 That dared betimes the fearless truth to write. 
 The man immortal of our father-isle, 
 His fame is also ours. 'Twere well all men 
 Should sit like children at his feet awhile 
 And wisely learn of him. All nations then 
 Would show their giants. I wish in vain, I fear. 
 When he was old and blind, they gave him ten 
 (They promised twenty) pounds for his great poem, 
 And let him die. And 'twould be so again. 
 Thus angels sometimes on the earth appear, 
 But till they fly to heaven the world seems not to 
 know 'em. 
 
 VII. 
 
 If I believed in canonizing men, 
 
 I'd canonize John Bunyan. But, indeed, 
 
 My faith is in a stern and simple creed, 
 
 The "excellent way" Paul taught by tongue and pen. 
 
 And so the tinker may content himself 
 
 To take a place upon my mental shelf 
 
 Beside John Milton. Twelve full years was he 
 
 A guiltless prisoner held in Bedford jail; 
 
 And, companied by his daughter, blind and pale, 
 
 Manlike he bore the wrath of bigotry. 
 
 '"Twas time to curb the license of his speech; 
 
 They had not sent him," thus the prelates reason'd: 
 
 " In their own tenets he had not been season'd, 
 
 And strange 'twould be to let a tinker preach." 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 279 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Tis hard to hinder bitter thoughts from rising— 
 To keep the word of scorn unspoken — when 
 I read the cruelties of these mitred men 
 Who seem t' have thought that man-anath'matizing 
 Was a far holier work than man-redeeming. 
 But Bunyan was beyond their power : nor cords 
 Nor bars could bind the immortal thoughts and words 
 His genius hid beneath the guise of dreaming. 
 He stands alone in his peculiar glory, 
 Sole sovereign of the realm of allegory. 
 Two hundred years have pass'd; yet brightly beams 
 (Such fascination in his necromancy) 
 On us the radiance of his brilliant fancy. 
 What wondrous sleep was his that had such glorious 
 dreams ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thou, too, stand up, Noll Cromwell ! Take thy place 
 
 Among thy country's mightiest; for thou wert 
 
 The sturdy champion of thy suffering race ; 
 
 And thou didst battle, ev'n to thine own hurt, 
 
 For man and truth and God. They slander'd thee, 
 
 The minions of the second Charles. The dirt 
 
 Of slander now is dried, and, verily, 
 
 Like good old Bunyan's pilgrim, thou art girt 
 
 With brighter glory. Godless cavaliers 
 
 Made merry of thy manly spirit's heaving; 
 
 Thy sighs and groans, thy prayers and flowing tears 
 
 Were mocking mysteries to the unbelieving 
 
 And scoffing followers of the bigot-king, 
 
 Whose velvet fingers hid the accursed sting. 
 
28o RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES. 
 
 X. 
 
 The first and faithless Charles (since falsely named 
 
 The Martyr) sat on England's throne, and sought 
 
 To set aside the precepts wisely framed 
 
 To guard the freedom of man's word and thought. 
 
 He maim'd the men who spoke the unwelcome truth, 
 
 Imprison'd some, and some the tyrant fined; 
 
 In pillories stood stern martyrs of the mind, 
 
 Yet all the people show'd them kindly ruth. 
 
 A reckoning-day was coming. Cromwell ! thou 
 
 And thy true cousin Hampden scorn'd to bow 
 
 Before the pride of monarch, priests, and lords. 
 
 Humanity arose in arms ; and dire 
 
 And awful were the mortal hate and ire 
 
 When tyranny and freedom measured swords. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Arm divine o'erthrew the foes of men : 
 
 The death of Charles a small atonement made ; 
 
 And tyranny sneak'd to its murky den, 
 
 And tiger-like lay watching in the shade. 
 
 'Neath thy protectorate, old England's fame 
 
 Grew great and glorious. Thy simple name 
 
 Sufficed to keep a turbulent world in awe ; 
 
 And people great and small securely dwelt 
 
 Beneath the shelter of the equal law ; 
 
 And at their wont the high and lowly knelt 
 
 And worshipp'd God. When death to thee came 
 
 near, 
 Still trustedst thou in Him who died to save. 
 Thou hadst thy faults ; but who, alas ! is clear ? 
 Immortal memories sanctify thy grave. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 28 1 
 
 XII. 
 
 Short time it was that thou hadst been entomb'd 
 
 When tyranny came howling for its prey ; 
 
 Thy sacred corpse was savagely exhumed, 
 
 And on a gibbet swung in open day. 
 
 They cast thee in a pit : thy mother dear 
 
 And thy sweet daughter too : and many more 
 
 Of pure and holy ones. The atmosphere 
 
 Shook nightly with the bacchanalian roar 
 
 And horrid riot of the royal court; 
 
 And freedom's wail afforded royal sport. 
 
 I can no more. Let future writers tell 
 
 The faithful story of those murderous times, 
 
 The merry monarch's shameless tricks and crimes, 
 
 Whose merriment provoked the laugh of hell. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Old Europe bends beneath her load of crime : 
 Her catalogue of guilt is written down, 
 And Justice waits, with ever-deepening frown, 
 To smite for sins of past and present time. 
 The lordly few eat up the land ; the poor, 
 Vilely earth-trodden, sullenly endure 
 The hunger-pang ; and foundling infancy, 
 Unfather'd and unsponsor'd, marks the shame 
 Of unwed mothers — babes without a name. 
 The cry of man uprises to the Lord — 
 Of man oppress'd, and moaning helplessly ; 
 And shall not He fit recompense award 
 To those who spurn Almighty God's decree 
 That man in very deed a man should be ? 
 
RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 HP HE rugged head of Winter on the lap 
 -■- Of Autumn lies. His snowy locks he flings 
 Upon her bosom. His chill arms enwrap 
 Her shivering form, until her quiverings 
 Subside in death. His voice breaks forth in wild 
 And piteous howls, as if he mourn'd the death 
 Of the meek one who perish' d at his breath. 
 On his stern brow the angry clouds are piled, 
 And bitter are his rage and vengeful spite ; 
 And seamen on. the rocky coast at night 
 Fall victims to his ire. At times he seems 
 To put away his wrath, and melting tears 
 Run down his icy cheeks in copious streams ; 
 But soon anew they freeze, and all his rage appears. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 283 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet nature in her barrenness has charms ; 
 And men of cheerful hearts may even see 
 Some beauty in a brown and leafless tree, 
 While silently it stands, with naked arms 
 Appealingly uplifted tow'rd the skies. 
 The man has dim and uninstructed eyes 
 Who never finds the precious gems that lie 
 Beneath his feet wherever he may tread ; 
 And he who bears a high and haughty head 
 Will pass unseen God's works of wonder by. 
 The flowers may all have gone, the birds departed, 
 And babbling brooks be changed to speechless ice, 
 Still nature's winter aspect may suffice 
 To fill with tender thought the pure and earnest- 
 hearted. 
 
 in. 
 
 The man who looks around him as he walks 
 
 Sees objects strange and wonderful and new ; 
 
 And he who thinks while his companion talks 
 
 In time may grow the wiser of the two. 
 
 An open eye — a quick, attentive ear 
 
 Will lead the mind into the ways of knowledge ; 
 
 For all the world's a universal college, 
 
 And every one may be a learner here. 
 
 Experience is the teacher : dear, indeed, 
 
 Her charges are to thoughtless folk and fools; 
 
 But all' who follow carefully her rules 
 
 The various tongues of nature learn to read. 
 
 Thought adds to thought ; and soon the mental pile 
 
 Uprises heavenward, like a coral isle. 
 
RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 rv. 
 
 Who seldom sows his mind shall reap but little; 
 Weeds quickly overspread the fallow soil ; 
 The toiler may be wearied by his toil, 
 But it shall yield sufficiency of victual, 
 Enough for his own use, and much to spare. 
 To him who hath, abundance shall be given ; 
 From him who squanders wastefully his share, 
 All that he has shall righteously be riven : 
 The world shall make a proverb of his name, 
 And he shall fill a sepulchre of shame. 
 Work waits for every man ; and he who fills 
 The measure of a working Christian here, 
 Shall little heed life's ordinary ills, 
 And calm content his life and death shall cheer. 
 
 v. 
 
 In our humanity the Lord has hidden 
 
 Things richer and more beautiful than lie 
 
 In Colorado's mines; and we are bidden 
 
 To seek and find. We live below the sky, 
 
 Yet we may lay up treasure even there ; 
 
 Yea, life immortal to the pure in heart — 
 
 Similitude to God, in that we bear 
 
 Our Saviour's image in our better part — 
 
 The taste and thirst for knowledge failing never, 
 
 But strengthening in us ever and for ever, 
 
 While depths of love and goodness we explore, 
 
 And wondrous mysteries of His working learn 
 
 In the grand worlds that in the distance burn, 
 
 And find new cause to praise Him evermore. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 285 
 
 VI. 
 
 This present life seems full of mysteries ; 
 The vulgar mind, to superstition prone, 
 In nature's movements fearful omens sees, 
 And shrinks aghast from terrors of its own 
 Imagining. Despotic is the power 
 Of ignorance ; and thousands live in fear 
 And die unnumber'd times before the hour 
 That Heaven has set to end their strivings here. 
 The trustful, quiet, mighty thinker seeks, 
 In loving faith, the unknown orderings 
 Of the Great Former of created things, 
 And God to him in guiding accents speaks. 
 Still, in the dealings of the Lord with men, 
 Are mysteries far beyond our human ken. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Some dwell in palaces, and some abide 
 In huts; some languish from the lack of toil, 
 And others wait the hour when they may hide 
 Their over-weary bodies 'neath the soil. 
 Some men go hungry all the day ; and some 
 Do turn away with loathing from their food, 
 For Heaven has given them multifarious good 
 Until satiety has overcome 
 
 The natural craving. Some have friends to spare ; 
 And some, the prey of loneliness and grief, 
 Have none to bring them comfort and relief. 
 Some sink in trouble, some have naught to bear ; 
 Some soar to power, and some are trod in dust ; — 
 Can lots so various 'mong equal men be just? 
 
286 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Were death annihilation — were this life 
 
 A lamp extinguish'd, never to be relit, — 
 
 Then words of deep despondency were fit; 
 
 Then man perchance might lift his arm in strife 
 
 Against his Lord. Were blessedness of mind 
 
 Dependent on the vastness of the heap 
 
 Of gold and gems the schemers 'mong mankind 
 
 Could gather, then 'twere virtuous to weep. 
 
 But 'tis not so. Infinity of time 
 
 Is yet to be. Beyond our vision lie 
 
 Eternal realms ineffably sublime 
 
 And beautiful. Nor heart, nor ear, nor eye 
 
 Of man has known what things are laid up there 
 
 For all who love Him and His spirit share. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The mourners of the earth there mourn no more ; 
 
 The sigh, the tear in heaven is unknown : 
 
 They walk as children round the Father's throne 
 
 Who in their mortal life were spurn' d the door 
 
 Where Sin and Mammon reign'd within the dwelling. 
 
 Unselfish bliss their raptured breasts is swelling, 
 
 And all are brothers there. None rolls himself 
 
 In dust of gold, and lifts his head above 
 
 His fellow worms because the glittering pelf 
 
 Sticks to his slimier coat. The law of love 
 
 Is perfectly obey'd. The innumerable throng 
 
 Have separate tnemes of thankful joy; yet all 
 
 Unite in hallelujah and in song, 
 
 And God's benignant smiles on all the brethren fall. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 28; 
 
 X. 
 
 And there is rest, — the full and perfect rest 
 
 Of unfatigued activity : not such 
 
 As lulls awhile the languid mortal's breast 
 
 When he has thought or labour'd over-much; 
 
 Not such : but more, immeasurably more, 
 
 That needs eternity to tell it o'er: 
 
 A ceasing from infirmity and sin, 
 
 From envy, lust, and hate, a banded crew, 
 
 That, through its oft-unguarded doors, let in 
 
 Upon the soul a cursed retinue 
 
 Of evil spirits : — rest in the love of God, 
 
 The garment of His grace His people covering, 
 
 Their feet with sandals of his goodness shod, 
 
 And clouds of blessing ever o'er them hovering. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And has this various life a change so fair 
 And glorious ? May man, his death-sleep o'er, 
 Awake angelic ? Then who would not bear 
 And suffer long, and wait in patience for 
 Deliverance ? — O weeper on the way ! 
 Do many sorrows on thy bosom prey? 
 Dost feel thy burden heavy ? Lift thine eye 
 To Christ thy strengthener. If from thee He take 
 No burden, still He helps thee at thy cry : 
 Who bear His yoke, their back shall never break. 
 And oh, ye poor ! contemn not God's decree : 
 If poverty, a bitter medicine, cure 
 The soul's distempers, blessed are the poor; 
 Yea, if ye are Christ's poor, thrice blessed men 
 are ye. 
 
238 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 XII. 
 
 If plenty pall the palate of the rich, — 
 
 If appetite be lacking at the feast, — 
 
 If honours lose their magic power to 'witch, 
 
 And when obtain'd, are loved and worshipp'd least, 
 
 It is that man should heavenward aspire, 
 
 And seize the substance, while the shadows pass, 
 
 Dim images reflected in the glass, — 
 
 Should warm his spirit with the sacred fire 
 
 Of love to God and man, and day by day 
 
 Work in the good Lord's field as well as pray, — 
 
 A follower in the path of Providence, 
 
 Cheering the halting on life's rougher way, 
 
 The orphan's helper and the widow's stay, 
 
 Till God shall call his willing servant hence. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Uprightly stand, then, brothers of my race! 
 
 And manly meet the troubles of the way : 
 
 A trustful hope in our Redeemer place, 
 
 And lovingly and kindly as ye may 
 
 Assist some weaker ones who meekly bear 
 
 A weight of which your arm should take a share. 
 
 Whate'er your station, ye are call'd of Heaven 
 
 To do a generous work among your kind : 
 
 Into your trust a talent has been given; 
 
 It may be wealth of gold or wealth of mind, — 
 
 It may be large, it may be very small ; 
 
 But use it well, and ye shall surely hear 
 
 The Master's voice in gracious accents call 
 
 Your souls to dwell in an immortal sphere. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 289 
 
 XIV. 
 
 There are some bosoms, all the wide world over, 
 That flow with what is call'd the milk of kindness; 
 And though I've not been an extensive rover, 
 Yet I were chargeable with moral blindness 
 Did I not see and own the winsome grace 
 That. Heaven has given to many of our race. 
 The image of the Highest may be seen 
 Borne brightly in His children on the earth. 
 No claim make they to a patrician birth, 
 Yet in their loving tone, their peaceful mien, 
 Their faith and works, and self-denying spirit, 
 They give us strong assurance they inherit 
 The temper of their Lord, who, on the Mount, 
 In matchless words man's duty did recount. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles ; 
 The cream of love is in it pure and sweet: 
 With every charm that human nature girdles, 
 And every grace of gentleness replete, 
 The man who has a kindly heart is most 
 In pattern like his Lord ; for where the law 
 Of kindness rules the heart, the virtues draw 
 Together in companionship, and post 
 Themselves around that citadel of love. 
 The kindly man doth always kindly prove : 
 He has a word of sweetness for the child — 
 Of pity for the poor — of sympathy 
 For all who mourn ; and truly glad is he 
 When through his generous care some sorrowing face 
 has smiled. 
 
290 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 There's music always in the kindly soul, 
 
 For every deed of goodness done awakes 
 
 Its chords of pleasure, till the harmonies roll 
 
 (Sweeter than man's most cunning finger makes) 
 
 In waves of joyance o'er the happy breast, 
 
 Like the blest home whose gleeful daughter's singing 
 
 Sets bells of gladness through its halls a-ringing. 
 
 How foolish they who seek in biting jest 
 
 Amusement at a weaker brother's cost! 
 
 The wanton anguish man inflicts on man 
 
 Is written down — it never shall be lost ; 
 
 Some coming day 'twill meet God's righteous ban. 
 
 Be ours the grace to breathe our daily breath 
 
 In kindliness, and die the good man's death. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Old Peekskill village has a goodly share 
 
 Of kindly men and women. ("Women! I pray! 
 
 Use softer term, Sir Poet! Ladies, say." 
 
 The proudest name the gentler sex can bear 
 
 Is woman, simply woman — bosom-mate 
 
 Of hardier man, and sharer of his state. 
 
 And 'tis, besides, the name bestow'd by Heaven : 
 
 I'll use it till a better word be given.) 
 
 How big the human heart ! How much 'twill hold 
 
 Of love ! In it the blissful stream may pour 
 
 Continually, and yet there's room for more. 
 
 Should I be spared till I am gray and old, 
 
 I'll not forget the freshet of affection 
 
 That met me there and drown'd my mind's dejection, 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT GAMBLE. 291 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Brother and I together took a ride 
 
 To Shrub Oak Plains. There cousin John alone 
 
 Is lying — friend nor kinsman by his side. 
 
 His resting-place is noted by a stone 
 
 Of whitest marble : truthful words are those 
 
 Inscribed thereon. The scene of his repose 
 
 Befits his life : 'twas beautiful and calm. 
 
 In meekness and in love he went his way, 
 
 Uprightly walking — filling up the day 
 
 With useful deeds. He often pour'd the balm 
 
 Of healing into wounded breasts ; nor sought 
 
 The praise of men in doing good, — for he 
 
 Had been a learner at Gethsemane, 
 
 And he remember'd well what his loved Master taught. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Dear John ! 'Twas but a little while ago 
 When he beside me, pensively and still, 
 Wander'd among the mounds at Laurel Hill, 
 And sought the grave of one he loved. The snow 
 Had melted from the fields, and spring was coming; 
 And southern winds blew with a gentle humming. 
 He left me for his northern home. The flowers 
 Of summer bloom'd and faded; autumn came, 
 With setting sun that gleam'd like golden flame. 
 Then winter brought long nights and stormy hours. 
 But John the autumn or the winter days 
 Saw not; for, call'd of God in summer time, 
 He pass'd away in his and nature's prime. 
 A nobler pen than mine might worthily write his 
 praise. 
 
292 RHYMES ATWEEN -TIMES. 
 
 XX. 
 
 There also dwelt another godly man ;* 
 
 But there he dwells no more ; he too has cast 
 
 Aside mortality, and lately past 
 
 Into the heavens. His life was but a span 
 
 On earth ; and yet 'twas long enough to win 
 
 The crown that waits the victor over sin. 
 
 "I have one hope — one only hope," he said, 
 
 "My precious Saviour!" And as thus he spoke, 
 
 Death's darkness gather'd slowly round his head; 
 
 And from the invisible world a brightness broke 
 
 On his new-given spiritual sight. 
 
 The morning of the Sabbath had arisen, 
 
 And earth was resting when his soul took flight, 
 
 And heavenward sped, like bird escaped from prison. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 In after-time I stood beside the grave 
 
 Fresh open'd for the youngest of my love, 
 
 My latest born. Affection vainly strove 
 
 Most earnestly the dying boy to save. 
 
 'Twas otherwise decreed. Were I to say 
 
 How pearly pale and beautiful he lay 
 
 Within his coffin, one might think it were 
 
 A sin to hide him in the sepulchre. 
 
 I touch'd his forehead and his tiny hand; 
 
 How cold they were ! — the chill went to my heart, 
 
 And wellnigh caused the pent-up tears to start ; 
 
 But stern composure came at my command, 
 
 And silently I stood, and loved the more 
 
 The child who, dead, look'd lovelier than before. 
 
 * Rev. Daniel Brown, pastor of the Second Presbyterian Church. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 293 
 
 XXII. 
 
 We bore him to the grave while yet 'twas morn, 
 The winter sunlight shining on his coffin : 
 The weight of grief was heavy to be borne, 
 And the salt tears rose in our eyelids often. 
 We slowly walk'd in mutely sad procession, 
 The pitying people freely making way ; 
 And the blest child, yet guiltless of transgression, 
 We softly placed between the walls of clay. 
 We sang a hymn — we bow'd our heads to pray; 
 And God, who had our bitter grief appointed, 
 Sent also strengthening grace by lips anointed. 
 With lingering steps we left him as he lay 
 In angels' care ; and when we homeward went, 
 We felt his home was better 'yond the firmament. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The old clock in the hall is slowly ticking ; 
 
 And hour by hour it tolls a funeral chime : 
 
 Its ever-going and unhurried clicking 
 
 Denotes the speed of the old traveller Time. 
 
 It is a solemn voice. Who hath an ear 
 
 To hear its warning accents, let him hear, 
 
 And preparation make to meet the day 
 
 When he shall lie alone upon the brink 
 
 Of human life, and death shall bid him drink 
 
 The hemlock cup that none can put away. 
 
 What though man turn from the unwelcome theme, 
 
 Will Time sit still for man's forgetfulness ?— 
 
 To watch betimes were wiser than to dream 
 
 And wake at last to wo remediless. 
 
 25* 
 
294 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " 'Tis time we should be going," Socrates 
 Said to his judges; " I to die, and you 
 To live : the better which, is known unto 
 The gods alone." Happy for him who sees 
 'Tis time for him to go about his work 
 And finish well the allotted part before 
 The set of sun, when labour-hours are o'er, 
 And night descends in mantle damp and murk. 
 In reckless mood, some waste their morning-time, 
 And, like an idiot gathering straws, they clasp 
 The gewgaws of this world with earnest grasp, 
 While life slips on ; till, past its glorious prime, 
 With trembling steps they carry down the road, 
 Hugg'd to their breast, a perishable load. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Spring for the youth, and summer for the man, 
 And autumn-time for him whose head is sere ; 
 But when one meets the winter of his year, 
 Then should he rest, and well and wisely scan 
 The tenor of his life, and lessons give 
 How younger men may well and wisely live. 
 I loathe to see the old man dabbling in 
 The turmoils of the world. Like one apart, 
 Turning aside from Mammon's work and sin, 
 Be his the holy task to teach the heart. 
 In the midway between two worlds he stands: 
 His foot is lifted; when he steps again, 
 He passes from the dwelling-place of men, 
 And a new stage of life begins in other lands. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 295 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Thus earth goes forth in constant emigration 
 
 To the good land of Heaven. And evermore 
 
 The angel who stands sentinel on the shore 
 
 Proclaims, "Another from the lost creation!" 
 
 The sea of death continually is dotted 
 
 With barks of spirits voyaging across ; 
 
 And all whose guilt the grace of Christ has blotted 
 
 Sail swiftly on, nor meet with harm or loss. 
 
 True, darkness to the natural eye may cover 
 
 The still and dismal waters, and alone 
 
 Each vessel ploughs a sea before unknown, 
 
 Yet o'er the track invisible angels hover; 
 
 And the death-hidden, from the darkness waking, 
 
 Beholds the morn of day-eternal breaking. 
 
2 9 6 
 
 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 THE Singsing stage up to the door was driven; 
 I was the only passenger that day, 
 And sadly, gladly pass'd I on my way, 
 My wavering heart by varying feelings riven, 
 And, like a pendulum, swinging to and fro. 
 From dear and loving friends I grieved to go, 
 Still fain was I to turn my wandering feet 
 And hasten homeward to affection's seat. 
 St. Anthony's Nose blew forth a bitter blast, 
 And pierced my bosom with the sharp-edged cold; 
 All snugly wrapp'd in many an ample fold 
 Of cloak and fur, I held them close and fast, 
 As o'er the wild romantic road I sped 
 Whose winding way along the river led. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 297 
 
 II. 
 
 The Dunderberg sat silently beneath 
 
 The snowy clouds, that form'd a vapory wreath 
 
 Above its peak. The Hudson swept along — 
 
 'Tis not in me to paint. Had I a pen 
 
 Endued with master gifts and genius, then 
 
 Might I aspire to tell its praise in song. 
 
 But I'm an humble bard, without a name, 
 
 Who tunes his straw in praise of homely things ; 
 
 If gentle hearts are touch' d by what he sings, 
 
 He is content, and thinks it noble fame. 
 
 All mistily let transcendentals sing, 
 
 And soar to realms of sense-confounding fog ; 
 
 So that my rhymings have a natural ring, 
 
 In common pathways be it mine to jog. 
 
 Hi. 
 
 Of human things my muse delights to tell — 
 Of home and hope* — of gentleness and love, 
 That sink like oil into the deepest cell 
 Of selfish hearts, and make the hinges move 
 More readily to let sweet mercy in. 
 There's poetry bound up in every life 
 Whose years with love and usefulness are rife, 
 For poesy and love are sister-kin. 
 The affectionate glances of a happy wife — - 
 A husband's tender tones — an infant's smile — 
 The voice of childhood merrier than a fife — 
 With themes like these 'tis good an hour to while ; 
 And so, when musing on a lonesome way, 
 With things of common life my thoughts are wont to 
 play. 
 
298 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And thus it was the woof and warp of thought 
 Into this web of ballad-lines were wrought:— 
 
 MARY'S HOLLOW. 
 
 A shady dell beside the road, 
 Sequester'd, cool, and grassy: 
 
 A pleasant brook anear it flow'd, 
 Its current pure and glassy. 
 
 And Mary's home was on the hill, 
 Up in the farm-house yonder : 
 
 But in the dell so cool and still 
 It was her wont to wander. 
 
 Her father's sheep the tender maid 
 Her steps had taught to follow, 
 
 And friskful lambs around her play'd 
 Down in the grassy hollow. 
 
 And there she sat on summer days, 
 Her nimble fingers flitting 
 
 Through many an intertwisting maze 
 In curious arts of knitting. 
 
 And there she sang some simple song 
 Or hymn learn'd from her mother: 
 
 The hours to her were never long — 
 Each moment chased the other. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 299 
 
 A native quietude of mien 
 
 So graciously became her, 
 The maidens on the village-green 
 
 With honour loved to name her. 
 
 The peaceful meekness of her brow 
 
 Awoke no special wonder, 
 Though like a brook beneath the snow 
 
 A stream of thought ran under. 
 
 And oftentimes a sudden smile 
 
 Her countenance stole over, 
 As flitting sunbeams dance the while 
 
 O'er fields of blooming clover. 
 
 The very angel of her hearth, 
 Her mother's hand caress'd her: 
 
 She changed her father's care to mirth, 
 And silently he bless'd her. 
 
 On Sunday, in the village choir, 
 Her pure, sweet voice, outpealing, 
 
 Struck up in listening hearts the fire 
 Of deep and holy feeling. 
 
 When sorrow's burden fell upon 
 
 Some soul too weak to bear it, 
 She bent her willing shoulder down 
 
 And kindly sought to share it. 
 
 The great wide world was all astir, 
 And heaved in toppling billows ; 
 
 But all was calm as heaven to her 
 Beneath the drooping willows. 
 
300 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 As life ran on with silent pace, 
 Her meek and pious spirit 
 
 Grew meeter for the holy place 
 The pure in heart inherit. 
 
 And when the leaves were turning red, 
 And autumn winds were sweeping, 
 
 Sweet Mary with the blessed dead 
 Beneath the grass was sleeping. 
 
 The neighbours, still, who pass that way 
 Where Mary's sheep did follow, 
 
 Remember her ; and to this day 
 They call it Mary's Hollow. 
 
 V. 
 
 I pass'd the homestead of a rancorous Tory, 
 
 Who fought against his country in the years 
 
 Of our old revolutionary glory. 
 
 He well deserved a cropping of his ears, 
 
 But Britain pension'd him. His neighbours round 
 
 Gave him a pension too — of hearty scorn. 
 
 Of freeman's powers he by law was shorn, 
 
 Yet was he wont to come upon the ground 
 
 Where freemen met to vote. His very name 
 
 A jest-word on the tongues of men became. 
 
 "Ho! ho! sir patriot! will you cast a vote?" 
 
 They cried with biting tone and lip upcurling. 
 
 "I'd rather have," he mutter'd in his throat, 
 
 "Two hundred fifty pounds in money sterling!" 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 3° J 
 
 VI. 
 
 This was the sum the British paid him yearly: 
 
 And Judas-silver 'twas that nation did owe 
 
 To such as he. They gave it to his widow 
 
 When he was dead. Methinks 'twas earn'd too dearly : 
 
 The smiter of his fatherland for gain 
 
 Deserves the doom of the old murderer Cain. — 
 
 What germs of wild romance here go to waste ! 
 
 What ripen'd memories cluster on the stem 
 
 Of old tradition ! Who shall gather them 
 
 But one whose line's with some ancestor graced 
 
 That sow'd the heroic seed? Chivalric tales 
 
 Might be rehearsed of these grand hills and vales. 
 
 Had the mute rocks a voice, what poet's verse 
 
 Might even feign the deeds they would rehearse ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 The times of Seventy-six and after-years, 
 
 Till freedom on our hills sat peacefully, 
 
 Were times not often given to earth to see, 
 
 When men, triumphing over natural fears, 
 
 And with a courage bonds nor hunger broke, 
 
 W T rench'd from their country's neck the rasping yoke 
 
 Of foreign sway. It was not meet that they — 
 
 The hardy tamers of a continent — should give 
 
 Their birthright to their kinsmen far away, 
 
 Who dwelt upon an island in the sea ; 
 
 A haughty isle, yet so diminutive, 
 
 That, were a giant, in a sportive sally, 
 
 To toss it in our Mississippi Valley, 
 
 'Twould seem an infant on a Titan's knee. 
 
 26 
 
302 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Twas kingly tyranny and priestly rule 
 
 That drove our fathers from the homes and graves 
 
 Of their ancestors. In staunch Freedom's school 
 
 They learn'd man's dignity; and crouching slaves 
 
 In mind or body they could ne'er become. 
 
 They cast the price, and sternly paid the sum 
 
 Their ransom cost. They took their venturous way 
 
 Over the sea, and set their feet upon 
 
 A free wild land beneath the western sun. 
 
 The God they served was their unfailing stay ; 
 
 And busy towns and villages arose, 
 
 And peace and plenty dwelt within the land, 
 
 Till in a fateful hour the Briton's hand 
 
 Fell heavily on them, and brethren turn'd to foes. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The men of Seventy-six in their good arm 
 
 — Hoping in God — reposed a manly trust; 
 
 O'er all the land was sounded war's alarm, 
 
 And victory crown'd the valour of the just.. 
 
 The fire of liberty fell down from Heaven 
 
 Till from our shores the enemy was driven ; 
 
 And freedom, with the land's redemption shod, 
 
 Her benison flung o'er every hill and plain. 
 
 None of that band of noble men remain ; 
 
 The death-roll sounded at the word of God, 
 
 And they were laid in honour's sacred fane, 
 
 Their toils repaid by o'er-abounding gain. 
 
 While love of home the freeman's breast shall fill, 
 
 Their fame shall cause the freeman's breast to thrill. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 303 
 
 X. 
 
 Dear brethren, friends, and country of my love ! 
 
 "The lines are fall'n to us in pleasant places:" 
 
 A newer blessing every moment chases 
 
 Some previous blessing sent us from above. 
 
 Our cup is full, and rich as Heaven can make it 
 
 For lips of man unworthy. Brethren, take it, 
 
 And let us quaff it with a grateful spirit. 
 
 Its fulness will remain; and while -we drink 
 
 Of bliss surpassing nectar, let us think 
 
 How great and pure was our forefathers' merit. 
 
 Let thankful thoughts, like morning's fragrance, rise, 
 
 Whene'er to us returns our natal day; 
 
 And He who smiles upon us from the skies 
 
 Will guide our country in a righteous way. 
 
 XI. 
 
 — -Our coach got in too late. The waiting stage 
 
 Had started on the way to Tarry town ; 
 
 So at an inn my driver sat me down. 
 
 Folly it were to fall into a rage, 
 
 And so I paid the fare and kept from strife. 
 
 The sun was to its winter zenith risen, 
 
 And forth I went to visit Singsing prison, 
 
 Where some have berths for years, and some for life. 
 
 A thousand live in company, yet alone, 
 
 And earn an honest meal by quarrying stone. 
 
 The prison stands along the river shore ; 
 
 It has no outer wall ; but men with guns 
 
 Keep watch, and shoot the felon if he runs ; 
 
 And rogues, in silence, learn to steal no more. 
 
304 
 
 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES, 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 THE tide of time is stealing up the shore: 
 A wrinkle's on my temple, and my hair 
 Is not so brown as in the days of yore ; 
 And my complexion (ruddy once and fair) 
 Begins to show the trace of work and wear : 
 And several children clustering round my chair 
 (One is in A, B, C ; the others read 
 In languages : they're very apt indeed) 
 Look up to me with fond respectful air: 
 Yet sober truth impels me to declare 
 My heart will not grow old ; but, full of joy 
 And sportiveness as when I was a boy, 
 With mischief and with mirth my bosom teems, 
 And still I take a part in childhood's fun and schemes. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 305 
 
 II. 
 
 I give this merely as a fond excuse 
 For all the whims and fancies of these papers : 
 If graver people, liable to vapours, 
 Object, and say, " The poet is a goose!" 
 Why, let them say it. Well enough I know- 
 That living springs in April overflow ; 
 But who'd refuse the limpid stream to quaff 
 Because the waters, as they run along, 
 Dance over stones and sing a cheerful song, 
 And whirl and purl a sort of aqueous laugh ? 
 Methinks my verses human life betoken ; 
 Sadness and mirth mix'd curiously together, 
 Like clouds and sunshine in the spring-time weather : 
 What cheerful heart that has not nigh been broken ? 
 
 in. 
 
 In summer-time the fleet-wing'd shadows skim 
 Trippingly o'er the hills and vales of earth: 
 So transient shades flit o'er the face of mirth, 
 And casual tears the brightest eyes bedim. 
 For instability and change are written 
 On us and all our works. The loveliest things, 
 When full of promise, oftentimes are smitten ; 
 And sweetest roses foster sharpest stings. 
 The world, if loved too well, is prone to pall, 
 And the poor fool who set his heart thereon 
 Beholds his idol into ruin fall, 
 Its frail foundation undermined and gone. 
 May thus a mortal utter his complaint, 
 When faith is weak, and spirit worn and faint? 
 
306 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " I weary of this wosome world, O God! 
 
 My languid spirit sinks ; my nerveless hands 
 
 Have lost their wonted skill ; my feet are shod 
 
 No more with diligence. Like one who stands 
 
 Supine and listless at his journey's end, 
 
 Or like a beggar who has naught to spend, 
 
 There is no relish in this life for me. 
 
 For I have sought for kindliness and ruth 
 
 And brotherhood among my human kind : 
 
 But I have found the visions of my youth 
 
 Unreal fancies of a dreaming mind ; 
 
 And fame and riches false and fleeting be. 
 
 The twig may thrive when sever' d from the tree, 
 
 But all my comforts die when I am far from Thee." 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet good's in every thing save only sin ; 
 
 And even sin itself makes virtue seem 
 
 More beautiful. Pain is of brother kin 
 
 To pleasure. Night adds brightness to the beam 
 
 Of day. The spring is balmier for the cold 
 
 And bitterness of winter. Budding trees, 
 
 That long seem'd dead, are pleasant to behold. 
 
 In tropic heat, more grateful is the breeze. 
 
 Thirst makes mere water sweet : to hunger, bread 
 
 Is heavenly manna; and the weary head 
 
 Contented rests upon a bed of straw. 
 
 The goodness of our Maker may be found 
 
 In every place the wide creation round : 
 
 His daily providence proclaims this blessed law. 
 
TAM'S FOR TNIGHT RAMBLE. 307 
 
 VI. 
 
 How warmly we are loved, we seldom learn 
 Till pain and sorrow take our strength away ; 
 Then, hearts too long estranged to us will turn, 
 And be at peace, as in a former day. 
 Our true and loving wife more loving grows ; 
 Our little ones in pitying wonder stand 
 Beside the bed and clasp our fever'd hand; 
 Their glistening eye the tear of feeling shows ; 
 And it may be, when evening calls to rest, 
 They meekly kneel beside their mother's chair, 
 Their silvery voices blend in simple prayer, 
 And for their sire they make a child's request. 
 The times of anguish are not vainly given 
 That lead a family to unity and heaven. 
 
 VII. 
 
 An urchin said, " If he were rich, he'd swing 
 
 All day upon the gate." And witless people 
 
 Oft nurse the vain conceit that it would bring 
 
 All heaven to them, if they could climb the steeple 
 
 Of their desires. They clamber up full high, 
 
 But still the goal seems far off to the eye ; 
 
 For as they rise, ambition grows the stronger ; 
 
 Insatiate longings prey upon their mind; 
 
 And while they seek what they can never find, 
 
 Death intervenes, and lets them seek no longer. 
 
 Their day and dream of life together past, 
 
 Aside their kinsmen lay them in the tomb ; 
 
 A passing thought upon their fate is cast, 
 
 And myriads still rush on to meet a similar doom. 
 
308 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And is this all of life ? Is bursting bubble 
 
 Or Sodom apple all that man may gain ? 
 
 Like a lone partridge wandering mid the stubble, 
 
 Must he so wander o'er life's barren plain ? 
 
 Sowing for happiness, and garnering pain, 
 
 Is this his portion ? Selfishly alone, 
 
 Shall he supremely ever seek his own, 
 
 And leave the suffering one to weep in vain ? 
 
 Is all that heart requires accomplish' d when 
 
 A heap of wealth is gather'd at our door ? 
 
 How thirsts the yearning soul for something more, 
 
 Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken! 
 
 And must that thirst forever be unslaked ? 
 
 Shall suicidal dreamers never be awaked ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 For man immortal, it is wisdom's way 
 
 To make this life the pathway to a better ; 
 
 To do to all as kindly as he may, 
 
 And love as well in spirit as in letter. 
 
 Let man achieve a victory o'er himself; 
 
 Let him observe the blessed Master's teaching, 
 
 And turn aside from trickery and o'erreaching, 
 
 Nor grind his fellows for the sake of pelf. 
 
 Oh let us take each other by the hand, 
 
 And help the weaker o'er the rougher places: 
 
 Sure, God will bless so brotherly a band, 
 
 And gift our souls with high and holy graces. 
 
 What is there here worth living for, if it 
 
 Be not to work in love, and grow for heaven fit? 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 309 
 
 X. 
 
 The book of human nature is a tome 
 
 Most strange and curious. He reads it ill 
 
 Who sees not man's perversity of will 
 
 Written on every page. Eschewing home 
 
 And all its quiet joy — neglecting all 
 
 The little tender acts that fill love's measure, 
 
 And, like the dews that on the prairies fall, 
 
 O'erspread the heart with fragrant flowers of pleasure, 
 
 And seeking good wherein no good abides, — 
 
 Is't strange that disappointment man betides ? 
 
 What though the earth has thorns, the roses grow 
 
 Among them. Hapless is the lot of one 
 
 Who goes through life and never finds it so. 
 
 For him the pitying muse bids these quaint numbers 
 
 The happy man is he, 
 In city or countrie, 
 Whate'er his lineage be, 
 Who liveth lovingly 
 Amid his family ; 
 Whose heart is like a tree 
 That flowereth beauteously, 
 And beareth seas'nably, 
 And yieldeth fruitfully ; 
 Whose mind from guile is free ; 
 Who followeth equity; 
 Who scorneth flattery; 
 Who showeth charity ; 
 Who toils with industry ; 
 Who walks in constancy 
 And true humility ; 
 
3io RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Who loveth minstrelsie 
 And natural poesy, 
 And trees and shrubbery, 
 And brook, and bird, and bee; 
 Who serveth reverently 
 The Lord of land and sea; 
 Who honoureth the decree 
 Of the heavenly chancery, 
 And uncomplainingly 
 Resigns mortality ; 
 Whose faith in Christ's a key 
 To ope eternity, 
 Where, while the ages flee, 
 He'll dwell immortally, 
 And wondrous glories see 
 Unveil'd by Deity. 
 Be this the destiny, 
 Reader ! of thee and me. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I went from Singsing in the afternoon 
 And rode to Tarrytown, and willing pains 
 The driver took to get in to White Plains 
 To reach the cars ; and he was paid a boon 
 In welcome coin. — The alarm-bell shrilly rang, 
 The steam-horse all impatient to be gone : 
 The passengers in sudden hurry sprang 
 And took their seats : and we went dashing on. 
 All nature seem'd to be with legs endow'd: 
 A circling race the trees began to run ; 
 The hills, the rocks, the fences joined the fun, 
 Creation hastening past us in a crowd. 
 In plainer phrase, along the rail we flew 
 Till Manahatta's city open'd on the view. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 311 
 
 XII. 
 
 I met a man — I may not tell his name — 
 
 His face was frank and fair: but one who gazed 
 
 Into his eye might see that he was crazed ; 
 
 His wife had crazed him by a deed of shame. 
 
 He sat beside me in the flying car; 
 
 I know not why he told the tale to me, — 
 
 Perchance he saw and felt the sympathy 
 
 I had for him whose soul had such a scar. 
 
 He dwelt in peace in his own home afar, 
 
 And love and quietness abode with him; 
 
 And in that heaven his wife was as a star, 
 
 Until a cloud arose and made it dim. 
 
 A villain stole her heart ; and what was left 
 
 To comfort him when of her love bereft ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 She left his dwelling, and she bore away 
 
 Their only child — a blooming boy, but blind: 
 
 The blow was fatal ; and his anguish' d mind 
 
 Totter' d like some half-rooted tree, whose stay 
 
 The hurricane has rent. He sallied forth, 
 
 And on the wretch he plied the stinging stroke 
 
 Until the rod in useless fragments broke ; 
 
 And then he took his journey to the north 
 
 To seek the child. " I would not take his life," 
 
 He calmly said, " though he beguiled my wife : 
 
 Who sits upon the cloud beheld the wrong 
 
 I suffer'd — He will make it right." We parted 
 
 And met no more ; but in my memory long 
 
 Shall bide the look of one so wan and broken-hearted. 
 
3 1 2 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Within the cars were various sorts of people : 
 
 Some sat in couples — others sat alone ; 
 
 Some softly spoke, and some in boisterous tone. 
 
 A churchman told of his new church and steeple, 
 
 And rightly show'd a warm regard for both ; 
 
 A fellow near, who God nor man regarded, 
 
 His low and vulgar language interlarded 
 
 At intervals with an emphatic oath. 
 
 He claim'd to be a gentleman, no doubt; 
 
 Methinks he was alone in that opinion ; 
 
 A common swearer's Satan's meanest minion. — 
 
 'Twas dark when we got in; and I got out: 
 
 To brother's dwelling I went hastily, 
 
 And quietly with friends sat down to talk and tea. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Delightful is an evening's cheerful chat 
 With pleasant friends, especially to one 
 Who has been long away. The minutes run 
 With speed that all the talkers marvel at. 
 So much to talk about — so much to tell — 
 So many sleeping memories to awaken — 
 The various fates that absent friends befell — 
 Whom time had spared, and whom the grave had 
 
 taken 
 The tear to shed for those who pass'd away — 
 The sigh to breathe for those who went astray — 
 Our times of darkness, and our days of light — 
 Our purposes and plans for coming years — 
 Our heavenly hopes, our earthly human fears — 
 Andlo! 'tis time to say, "Good-night, dear friends, 
 
 good-night!" 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 313 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Now seek we balmy sleep. How happy he 
 Who folds his arms upon his peaceful breast, 
 And calmly takes his 'custom'd nightly rest! 
 But some sad soul is sighing wearily : 
 The eye is dull, yet sleep the lid forsakes; 
 The ear is quick to catch the faintest noise ; 
 The clock's dull tick the drowsy spell destroys, 
 And on his couch the sufferer lies awake. 
 All sleep but him — all in the silent town, 
 And lonelier grows the still and lonely night. 
 The stealthy cat, with footfall fleet and light, 
 Along the stairway patting up and down, — 
 The cricket in the hearth, — the creaking door, — 
 But serve to make the silence deeper than before. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And thus the hours in solemn stillness roll, 
 While plaints, like rifted clouds, drift o'er his soul : 
 
 I lay me down, but cannot sleep; 
 My thoughts unwilling vigil keep ; 
 I turn in weariness and pain, 
 And, lo ! I hear the sentry's strain— 
 " Twelve, and all is well T 
 
 The air with noise no longer stirs ; 
 
 Still as the place of sepulchres 
 
 The sleeping city is, save when 
 
 The sentry's voice is heard again — 
 
 " One, and all is well T 
 27 
 
3 H RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 How solemn is the night ! — the eyes 
 Of heavenly creatures light the skies : 
 They glimmer o'er the ancient tower 
 Wherein the sentry marks the hour — 
 " Two, and all is well!" 
 
 Does any other wake with me, 
 Dear brother in infirmity ? 
 Does any homeless wanderer hear 
 The tones that fall upon mine ear, — 
 " Three, and all is well 7" 
 
 Sad heart ! how wearily and slow 
 The long and lengthening moments go ! 
 When will the darkness pass away ? 
 Why tarries so the coming day ? — 
 " Four, and all is well '/"• 
 
 Yes ! all is well ! Though now I weep, 
 I know my God will give me sleep ; 
 The morning light is in the skies, 
 And slumber softly shuts mine eyes — 
 "Five, and all is well '/" 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT X AMBLE. 
 
 315 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 'HTIS Sabbath in the town. The calm of rest 
 
 -*- Is in the souls of men. The sound of bells 
 The hour for holy convocation tells ; 
 And sacred aisles by worshippers are press'd. 
 Mean Mammon hides within the deepest cells 
 Of the mean hearts wherein he wonted dwells. 
 The rich man's day — he feels his poverty, 
 His need of grace bestow' d without a price : 
 The poor man's day — he learns his high degree, 
 That he is noblest who has least of vice : 
 The gathering-day around a Father's table, 
 When brethren from their wandering-places come 
 And sit in peace like children at their home ; 
 An Eden of the soul, outspringing from a Babel. 
 
3 1 6 RH YMES A T WEEN- TIMES. 
 
 II. 
 
 The day is past. Another morning breaks, 
 
 And man again to wholesome labour wakes : 
 
 Labour, mother of rest ; the discipline 
 
 Of love ; the doom most merciful and just, 
 
 That keeps the soul uncanker'd from the rust 
 
 That else would eat it with the tooth of sin, 
 
 And let innumerable sorrows in. 
 
 The stillness of the Sabbath — passing sweet 
 
 It was — has given place to various din : 
 
 The hammer's clang, the rumbling in the street, 
 
 The sound of many voices, hurrying feet, 
 
 The massive stroke of ponderous machines, 
 
 All these, and countless more, the listener greet, 
 
 And magical appear the city's wondrous scenes. 
 
 ill. 
 
 The blind man groping cautiously his way 
 
 Along the crowded pavement of a city, 
 
 Has natural claims upon our tender pity. 
 
 Whether 'twere night, or whether it were day, 
 
 Would seem to make small difference to him 
 
 Whose days and nights alike are ever dim ; 
 
 Yet still the tramp of human feet, and hum 
 
 Of human voices, sweetly fill his ear ; 
 
 The surgings of the tides of life appear 
 
 Like the deep sounds that from the ocean come 
 
 At midnight to the list'ner. Pity's glance 
 
 Upon his form instinctively I throw ; 
 
 And while some sadness clouds my countenance, 
 
 To God I pray to save me from such wo : — 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 317 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Thine earth, O Lord! is beautiful. Mine eyes 
 Have seen — my heart has felt it so. Thy hand 
 Has set its mark of glory on the land, 
 The sea, and every thing beneath the skies. 
 The earth was bright to me in early days, 
 Ere dimness fell on me. O Father God ! 
 Thou know'st that I its hills and vales have trod, 
 My bosom full of love to Thee, and praise. 
 I love the earth because 'twas made by Thee, 
 And made so fair. I still would look upon 
 Its face when lit with radiance by the sun, 
 Or by the moon or paler stars. To me 
 'Tis beauteous still, the earth and all its kind : 
 Then spare me, gracious Lord! and let me not go 
 blind! 
 
 v. 
 
 "About my hearth, five little ones are playing; 
 
 Their mother sitteth with our last-born near : 
 
 What hand shall feed them, and what voice shall 
 
 cheer, 
 
 If I am smitten blind ? Lord, I am praying 
 
 For these my children whom Thou gavest me, 
 
 And her, more loved in my extremity. 
 
 I kiss the rod that smiteth me. Thy will, 
 
 Thy sovereign will, be done ! But yet I pray, 
 
 Oh ! spare to me the pleasant light of day, 
 
 And let me look upon my kinsfolk still. 
 
 The face of man to me is very dear ; 
 
 Then set me not alone, where I shall see 
 
 My human kind no more, and ever be 
 
 A dweller in a land all lonely, dark, and drear." 
 27* 
 
318 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 More pitiable is the man whose mind 
 Is darker than the ancient night that fell 
 On Egypt, (as our holy Scriptures tell,) 
 And who has never learn'd that he is blind. 
 In rank and saucy speech he calls to task 
 The Great, the Wise, the Holy All in All! 
 With questions such as he alone dare ask, 
 He mocks Infinity ! The lightnings fall, 
 And scath him not — he scorns the Thunderer ! 
 He swells in pride, a little deity, 
 Nor heaven nor earth shall make his spirit stir ! 
 Fool were a word as weak as word can be 
 To brand his brow : — Ah no ! the man is blind : 
 The God of grace illume his darksome mind. 
 
 VII. 
 
 From Manahatta may be seen Long Island; 
 
 It lies between the river and the ocean, 
 
 And interposes many a verdant highland 
 
 Between the city and the sea's commotion. 
 
 There, near the beautiful Gowanus bay, 
 
 Is Greenwood Cemet'ry, the place of rest 
 
 Of mouldering men whose souls are with the blest. 
 
 With loving friends I wander'd there one day, 
 
 A winter day, such as we sometimes see 
 
 When old December, hoar with age and rime, 
 
 Relents its rigour in its dying-time. 
 
 The snow lay here and there ; and spots of green, 
 
 Amid the snow, diversified the scene, 
 
 The emblems of a life beyond mortality. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 311 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In after-time, when musing on that hour, 
 My thoughts fell captive to the muse's power: 
 
 Were I to choose where I would rest 
 
 When all my care is o'er, 
 I'd bid them lay my silent breast 
 
 Beside Gowanus' shore. 
 
 In Greenwood's vale should be my grave, 
 
 Or in its shady steep ; 
 The ceaseless singing of the wave 
 
 Should charm my peaceful sleep. 
 
 I'd rest on nature's dreamless bed, 
 
 Beneath the smile of God ; 
 His hand of love beneath my head, 
 
 And cover' d with her sod. 
 
 I'm weary, weary now, and long 
 
 Have weary, weary been; 
 And melancholy tunes my song 
 
 When sadness reigns within. 
 
 Yet so I work His gracious will, 
 
 And so my Lord approves, 
 I'll bear my daily burden still, 
 
 Till He its weight removes. 
 
 When God shall bid me enter on 
 
 The Sabbath of the dead, 
 He will not leave me all alone 
 
 The silent way to tread. 
 
320 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Confiding as a child I'd lie, 
 And slumber on his breast; 
 
 Who sleep in Jesus never die — 
 They rest in living rest. 
 
 IX. 
 
 On Monday afternoon — it lack'd a quarter 
 
 Of five o'clock — I like to be exact 
 
 In days and dates, and other things of fact — 
 
 I bade my friends good-by, and cross' d the water 
 
 To Jersey City, and took the homeward cars. 
 
 The evening shades set in, and soon the Night 
 
 In silentness put on his crown of stars. 
 
 The moon came up, and sprinkled o'er with light 
 
 The rifted clouds. Of all the stars, mine eye 
 
 Chose Sirius, the glory of the sky: 
 
 It pointed to my home ; and then a rhyme 
 
 Rose in my mind, and cheer'd the lagging time. 
 
 Thus lovingly I rhymed, while tasting only 
 
 The luxury of lounging languidly and lonely : 
 
 RHYME IN A RAILROAD CAR. 
 
 Afar from home for many days, 
 I cried, "More swiftly move, 
 
 Ye cars, upon your iron ways, 
 And bear me to my love." 
 
 The wintry day had pass'd, and night 
 
 Put on his jewell'd crown, 
 And from the moon the beams of light 
 
 In silver showers came down. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 321 
 
 A single star appear' d at first, 
 
 And twinkled near the moon, 
 Undimm'd by all the host that burst 
 
 Around its pathway soon. 
 
 The steamy engine, like a bird, 
 
 Skimm'd o'er the level rail ; 
 'Twixt mountain-heights it wildly whirr' d, 
 
 And leap'd along the vale. 
 
 But still the star sped on before, 
 
 As if to lead the way : 
 ' Perchance my love within our door 
 Beholds its silvery ray ; 
 
 'And peace comes softly in her heart, 
 
 And dark and troublous fears 
 
 Beneath its cheering light depart, 
 
 And hope dries all her tears." 
 
 And then methought the eye of God 
 
 Doth ever shine upon 
 The darksome way in patience trod 
 
 By every suffering son. 
 
 And comfort, like a sinless dove 
 
 Soft brooding in its nest, 
 Nestled within my heart, and love 
 
 O'erfill'd my quiet breast. 
 
 Deep silentness was all around, 
 
 The mid of night was o'er, 
 When mine own faithful love I found 
 
 A-watching in our door. 
 
322 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 X. 
 
 Anon I thought, at home 'twould not be ill 
 
 To set up for a poet — get a sign, 
 
 "Tarn, Poet — and Commissioner for the Nine,' 
 
 And tack it to an office window-sill, — 
 
 Procure a desk, a library-case, and chair, 
 
 And then put on a literary air, 
 
 And cross my legs and wait for customers, 
 
 As legal men and medical doctors do. 
 
 I'd send my card to liberal publishers, 
 
 Thus, "Office hours from 10 o'clock to 2." 
 
 A quid pro quo I'd always render; that is, 
 
 The merit of the poetry should be 
 
 Proportionate to the bigness of the fee 
 
 The editors and album-ladies gratis. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Ah ! what a revolution would be brought 
 About in things poetic ! Then no more 
 Would scribblers dwell within starvation's door, 
 Supping on words and breakfasting on thought, 
 Till, like frost-bitten plants, they wilt and die : 
 No Motherwell or Chatterton be mated 
 With lean and hungry want : no more be fated 
 To live midway betwixt the earth and sky 
 'Neath attic rafters. Crowns of tinsel glory, 
 A foremost place in babbling men's esteem, 
 The puffs that give a transient name in story, 
 And daze their wits as in a drunken dream, — 
 All these were theirs who'd take their pay in kind 
 And cast away the birthright of their mind. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 323 
 
 XII. 
 
 Pah! pah! I'll none of it. I'd rather stand 
 
 Nobly among the poor, than soil my soul 
 
 And stain the palm of my unsullied hand 
 
 With Mammon's glittering and dear-bought dole. 
 
 If I possess a fairly-founded claim 
 
 To add the poet's title to my name, 
 
 Let me sing on as nature teaches me : 
 
 Let virtue's signet be upon my words; 
 
 O let me touch in human hearts the chords 
 
 That vibrate in completest harmony, 
 
 And waken music in the souls that sit 
 
 Afflicted and disconsolate in their door, — 
 
 Till far from them the evil spirits flit, 
 
 And in their desolate hearts joy bides for evermore. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But oft I have no heart to make a rhyme ; 
 'Tis scarce worth while to tell the reason why. 
 I cast my verses negligently by, 
 And lay them over for a happier time. 
 "Why should I seek with earnest care to find 
 A jewel, worthless in the eyes of many, 
 Who set a higher value on a penny 
 Than on the purest diamond of the mind?" 
 When thus I ask, awhile my spirits fail ; 
 But better thoughts and purposes prevail : — 
 I'm but a man amid a world of men; 
 Among them all, a few may haply listen, 
 Until their hearts grow soft, and eyeballs glisten 
 With tender tears awaken'd by my pen. 
 
324 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then my own heart grows stronger, and I feel 
 That God has given us naught that is in vain ; 
 That simple herbs may cure acutest pain, 
 And gentle words a bosom-sore may heal. 
 Then sing I on in hopefulness and faith, 
 And close mine ear to what the scoffer saith ; 
 Nor heed the cold, unsympathizing stare, 
 The haughty look, the dull, ungainly grin 
 That marks some faces, as 'twere printed there 
 In living type, "There is no man within!" 
 Oh, that my rhymings, like a living rill 
 That slakes the thirst of mortals worn and weary, 
 May flow in pure and crystal streams at will, 
 And make the heavy-hearted light and cheery. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Somehow another train ran off the rail, 
 
 And thus were we consid'rably belated, 
 
 And longer kept than we anticipated 
 
 Upon the road. At midnight we made sail 
 
 Across the Delaware. Few minutes more, 
 
 And I was standing safely in my door. 
 
 A warm embrace soon told me all was right ; 
 
 In arms of Love our lives had all been hid. 
 
 I kiss'd the children :— 'bove the coverlid 
 
 Their bright blue eyes twinkled like stars at night. 
 
 If breasts e'er gladly throbb'd, our bosoms did! 
 
 Kneeling to Heaven our grateful vows to plight, 
 
 In fearless trust our weary eyelids closed, 
 
 And softly, sweetly, soundly we reposed. 
 
NOTES AND ADDENDA. 
 
 Tam's Fortnight Ramble. — Pages 261-324. 
 
 This piece was written for Neal's Gazette, and published 
 under the pseudonym of Tarn. 
 
 Page 265. 
 
 On Sabbath morn I went to Dr. Potts's, 
 
 He who had wordy jousts with Dr. Wainwright. 
 
 An allusion to the famous controversy between these clergy- 
 men occasioned by a remark in an oration made by Mr. RuFUS 
 CHOATE, that " New England in its settlement exhibited the 
 striking spectacle of a church without a bishop, and a state 
 without a king." 
 
 Page 300. 
 
 And to this day 
 They call it Mary's Hollow. 
 
 A locality near the village of Peekskill, Westchester 
 County, N. Y. 
 
 28 325 
 
326 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 Page 91. 
 
 Then the people, if unmournful, 
 
 Said, " Poor Norah's dead!" unscornful. 
 
 HONORA POWER, known as Crazy Norah, was for many- 
 years a notable character in the streets of Philadelphia. The 
 Sunday Dispatch gave the following reminiscences of this 
 strange woman : — 
 
 The dress of Norah was as fantastic as her speech. Strange- 
 ly enough, too, considering her antipathy to men, her garb was 
 usually more than half masculine. A man's hat, long boots, 
 and curiously-cut plaid coat, secured around her waist by a 
 broad leather belt, formed her usual costume. At times Norah 
 bedecked herself with fanciful ribbons and flaunting finery, and 
 with a bootjack or some equally uncouth utensil in her hands, 
 she paraded the streets, stopping occasionally to make a speech, 
 in which fantastic thoughts were clothed in strange verbiage. 
 
 From our earliest days, the wild fantastic garb and the coarse 
 though not unhandsome features of poor Norah have been as- 
 sociated with our recollections. We remember well, at a time 
 when we could scarcely shape a sentence with our juvenile lips, 
 how Norah would take us by the hand and compel us — under 
 fear of her displeasure — to repeat after her, word by word, the 
 Lord's Prayer and the Creed of the Catholic Church. If we 
 obeyed her directions cheerfully, and betrayed no fear of our 
 wild monitor, a reward was sure to follow. Norah invariably 
 carried with her a capacious bag, well filled with little odds and 
 ends, which she had gathered in her wanderings, and a recitation 
 of a creed or a prayer would certainly be rewarded with a bit 
 of broken china-ware, a fragment of looking-glass, or perchance 
 a piece of red tape or gay ribbon. Norah had a strange jargon 
 of her own, and she made odd speeches. Her grandmother 
 was mixed up with the prince of darkness most singularly in all 
 her orations ; and his satanic majesty and her aged relative 
 invariably figured conspicuously in connection with the trash 
 she bestowed upon good children as a reward for their pro- 
 ficiency in the matter of creeds and prayers. 
 
NOTES AND ADDENDA. 327 
 
 Page 109. 
 
 What is death to one that liveth 
 In the love of our dear Lord? 
 
 The Philadelphia Inqtiirer, on December 22, 1863, published 
 the following tribute to the memory of Anna Maria Ross. 
 
 In the first hours when the call was made for woman's labour 
 in the cause of patriotism, Miss Ross took her position as 
 nurse and principal of an institution for the suffering soldiers, 
 and from the moment when she first undertook the onerous 
 duties appertaining to the position she has never faltered, never 
 wearied. Day and night found her at her post ; no disease was 
 too dangerous, no wound too loathsome for her hands to minister 
 to ; no sufferer was too rude for her gentle sympathy ; no dis- 
 couragement too great to unnerve her heart ; and when the way 
 was opened for the foundation of a Home for the discharged 
 soldiers, her whole energy and life were thrown into the enter- 
 prise. She visited all who could give aid or influence to the 
 scheme, travelling over the State, canvassing the city, and, while 
 still constant at her old position, her earnest endeavours were 
 ever bent toward the forwarding of the noble scheme. 
 
 The perfect self-sacrifice of her life can only be appreciated 
 fully by those who have watched her course, been taken into a 
 place in the same warm heart that cast no one out, and marked 
 the daily and hourly toil for the beloved object. At last the 
 work was near completion. Aided by noble and patriotic friends, 
 sustained by the citizens of Philadelphia, and encouraged by 
 every well-wisher of the disabled soldier, she saw the building 
 opened for the reception of furniture, took her position as 
 Vice-President of the lady managers, and worked still faithfully 
 to bring all to perfection, till worn down by almost superhuman 
 toil, and utterly exhausted by her unparalleled exertions, she 
 laid down her life on the very day when the Home for which 
 she had given it was dedicated, her words of parting being, " I 
 did not think my work was done, but God has willed it so ; His 
 will be done." 
 
 Anna Maria Ross, after a life of devotion to others, has 
 gone to meet the reward awaiting her at her Master's hands. 
 
328 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 She has spent her life in earnest seeking after God's will, 
 and resolute efforts to fulfil it faithfully ; every charity found 
 in her an active and untiring co-operator ; her hand was ever 
 ready to minister to the suffering and needy ; her warm heart 
 was ever open to loving charity, and her pure Christian words 
 always waiting to pass the portals of her lips. 
 
 Page no. 
 
 On the field of battle, mother, 
 All the night alone I lay. 
 
 Founded on a line in a soldier's letter to his mother, " When 
 you meet together, tell my little brother and sister that I died 
 to save my country." 
 
 Page 113. 
 
 Let me kiss him for his mother, 
 Ere ye lay him with the dead. 
 
 A young man from Maine, hale and ruddy from his native 
 hills, was seized by the yellow fever in New Orleans ; and the 
 tender care and nursing of the Howard Association failed to 
 save his life. When the coffin was about being closed, " Stop," 
 cried an aged woman who was present, " let me kiss him for his 
 mother !" 
 
 Page 136. 
 
 Methought the graves again appear'd, 
 Neglected, as of old. 
 
 The beautiful Park in Philadelphia, known as Washington 
 Square, was in former times the public burial place, or 
 potter's-field. 
 
NOTES AND ADDENDA. 329 
 
 Page 147. 
 
 For many days our eyes have seaward wander' d 
 As if to search the ocean o'er and o'er. 
 
 The beloved and honoured Henry Reed, Professor of 
 Literature in the University of Pennsylvania, on the twentieth 
 of September, 1854, embarked at Liverpool for New York, in 
 the United States steamship Arctic. Seven days afterward, at 
 noon, on the twenty-seventh, when almost in sight of his native 
 land, a fatal collision occurred, and before sundown every 
 human being left upon the ship had sunk under the waves of 
 the ocean. 
 
 Page 189. 
 
 Forget mine ancient friend, my Neal ! 
 " Nevermore!" 
 
 The witty and amiable Joseph C. Neal, Editor of Neat's 
 Gazette in Philadelphia, who died suddenly a day or two after 
 his marriage to one of the lady contributors to his paper. 
 
 Page 73. 
 
 Oh for a spell of the former time, 
 When I dwelt beside the river of rhyme, 
 And the frequent thought would over me steal, 
 " Shall I dip a bowl of its waters for Neal?" 
 
 Many pieces in this volume were evoked by the kind en- 
 couragement of Mr. Joseph C. Neal, the well-known editor. 
 The author's literary connection with the Gazette began with 
 the series of jocular rhymes here appended : — ■ 
 
RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 "THERE IS NO POETRY IN A HAT." 
 
 Neal's Gazette. 
 
 The editor says, " No poetry in a hat !" 
 I throw the gage to him on his assertion : 
 1*11 prove it but an undeserved aspersion — 
 
 I'll make the editor " get out of that." 
 
 " No poetry in a hat !" His hat, I s'pose, 
 
 He means — and then perchance 'tis true ; 
 
 But sure 'twould be a pretty how d'ye do ? 
 For him to stand in other people's clothes, 
 
 And say they have no poetry in their hats. 
 Some hats and trunks are lined with poetiy, 
 All printed fair, and beautiful to see ; 
 
 And hats are used by some as mental vats, 
 
 Wherein they pour the brewings of their brain : 
 
 And curious 'twere to taste the beverage they contain ! 
 
 A hat's the dome, the steeple-top of thought — 
 
 The attic room, the cockloft of the head — 
 The hive where fancy's honey-bees are caught, 
 
 Which, else, beyond the memory's reach had fled. 
 A hat, well-brush'd, 's a cap-stone to the man; 
 
 Corinthian column he, with cap to match — 
 A column it were poetry to scan, 
 
 And with a glance its fine proportions catch. 
 A crownless hat lacks poetry; and he 
 
 (Whoe'er the miserable man may be) 
 Whose tangled hair stands peering through the crown, 
 Far from the graces hath he tumbled down : 
 
 Sans hat, sans coat, sans character, sans all — 
 
 Who thus hath fallen, how fearful is his fall ! 
 
 " No poetry in a hat !" (my strain is growing 
 
 Perhaps too sombre — so I'll change the theme :) 
 Who ever saw a poetaster going 
 
 Forth to the fields, in ecstasies to dream, 
 Without a hat upon his head ? — not one ! 
 Were it by day, the fervid noontide sun 
 
 Would quench his fire with floods of perspiration : 
 Were it by night, mosquito, bug, and gnat 
 
 Would place him in a painful situation, 
 And make him long for e'en a napless hat. 
 
NOTES AND ADDENDA. 331 
 
 " No poetry in a hat !" Behold the Quakers, 
 Who always wear their hats, except in bed ; 
 
 Of all mankind, they are the keenest takers, 
 For poetry and common sense enshrine each placid head. 
 
 Now, here I'll stop : — I hope that you will own, 
 Dear Mr. Neal, your charge is overthrown: 
 If you won't yield, why, I must try again 
 What virtue still abideth in my pen. 
 
 The editor stoutly denied that he said there was no poetry in 
 hat : his assertion was that there was 
 
 "NO MUSIC IN A HAT." 
 
 I PRAY your pardon, gentle editor : 
 
 You have me on the hip, and I am smitten 
 As dumb as lead for what my pen has written. 
 
 I see not how it was I said it, or 
 
 How my good specs misled me as I read 
 
 " No poetry/' when " no music" 'twas you said. 
 
 But so it was : — man often double sees ; 
 
 And sometimes sees what is not to be seen ; 
 And, when he is particularly green, 
 
 Is made to see what his tormentors please. 
 
 But still, methinks, I was not much in wrong; 
 
 A hat I heard of which had music in't, 
 
 (At least, so thought the hero of the song;) 
 
 The way was this, as I have read in print : — 
 
 There was a man (for thus the story goes) 
 Who always wore a claret-colour d nose; 
 
 Some bees once took it for a gaudy flower, 
 And settled in a swarm upon his face. 
 
 A horrid fear the wretch did overpower ! 
 (A wretch is any man in trouble ;) — he 
 
 Stood like a stone in his perplexity, 
 For bees can sting more keenly than a gnat : 
 
 But soon a thought came with a sudden grace. 
 With steady hand he lifted high his hat ; 
 
 The bees mistook it for a hive, and flew 
 Straight into it, and fill'd it to the brim : 
 Methinks, the hum from that old hat to him 
 
 Was sweeter music than the spheres can " do." 
 
33 2 RHYMES A TWEEN- TIMES. 
 
 (The rhyme just made is good — the English bad.) 
 'Tis said the razor-strop man oft doth tell 
 A story to the point — of what befell 
 A wretched man who drunken habits had. 
 (I pity him who, in this better day, 
 For alcohol will give his soul away.) 
 His shoes were toeless, and his elbows out ; 
 His face was puffy, and his tangled hair 
 Evinced no daughter's love nor sweet wife's care ; 
 And in the breeze his hat-crown flapp'd about, 
 And made a music that an owl would scout, — 
 (Queer music that, but music still, no doubt.) 
 A few more lines, and then I'll cut the thread 
 That draws the rhymes in couples from my head. 
 
 There's many a hat, on every pleasant day, 
 
 That's full of music and of poetry ; 
 
 And any man the truth of this may see 
 Who leisurely will saunter on his way 
 
 Through Chestnut Street, or in the verdant Square, 
 And mark the foreheads lit with intellect : 
 In every glance, a poet may detect 
 
 The life of poetry indwelling there; 
 And from the mouth of our true-hearted girls 
 Soul music issuing 'tween the rows of pearls 
 
 That stand like sentries just within their lips ; 
 The sweet sounds dying when they close the mouth, 
 Belike the moon last night, when in the south 
 
 Her mild, fair form was hidden in eclipse. 
 
 Whenever woman's brow her beauteous bonnet bears 
 A hat of music and of poesy she wears. 
 
 Besides many others, the New Orleans Delta now took part 
 in the fray ; whereupon the Rhymer conferred with Editor Neal 
 as ensueth : — 
 
 TO EDITOR NEAL. 
 
 We'll drive that interloper off. He's poaching 
 Upon our grounds. We have pre-emption right, 
 And we must show our spunk, and give him fight. 
 
 That Oregon is ours. We'll suffer no encroaching. 
 
NOTES AND ADDENDA. 333 
 
 'Tis ours from centre to circumference, 
 Throughout its utmost, universal bound, 
 From pole to pole, or water, ice, or ground, 
 
 E'en up to nature's last, extremest fence ! 
 But, by-the-way, I wonder if a hole 
 Into the earth is found at either pole ; 
 
 For if there is, we claim the world inside 
 (Its mines of diamond wit — its golden piles 
 Of thought — and all its coral fancy isles) 
 
 As well as all upon its outer tough, rough hide. 
 
 You squatted first, and I sat down beside you, — 
 
 You Daniel Boone, and I his nearest neighbour ; 
 
 You set the stakes, and I partook the labour; 
 Now, I'll stick to you, let what will betide you. 
 
 We fell'd the trees, — we clear'd the brush away; 
 
 The minx, the coon, the beaver felt our sway, 
 And yielded us the crown. — Shall Delta come 
 
 And shoulder us aside ? Shall he apply 
 Unto his nose the tip end of his thumb, 
 
 Twiddling his fingers, with a winking eye ? 
 He shan't play Yankee game with Indian folk : 
 
 We'll hold our own, like Prussian miller bold, 
 
 Who loved his homestead more than Fred'rick's gold : 
 We'll keep the hat, undaunted by his joke. 
 
 A pretty pass sure things are coming to 
 
 When you and I can't hoe alone our row, 
 But every little cockadoodle-doo 
 
 Must flap his wing and imitate our crow. 
 The hat — the whole hat — nothing but the hat! 
 Ha, Mr. Delta, what d'ye say to that? 
 
 So, now be off, and go t' the Nile, and climb 
 The Pyramids, or seek the Sphinx's nose, 
 
 Or learn if it is true, that, at the time 
 Of morning-light, old Memnon music wakes. 
 But pray don't come where we have planted stakes, 
 
 Or we may tread on one another's toes. 
 So take the hint, or Mr. Neal and I 
 The virtue found in stones at your expense may try. 
 
 The Delia, nothing daunted, sang in this wise : — 
 
334 RHYMES ATWEEN-TIMES. 
 
 " We say, Sir Tarn, the hat is all our own, 
 As by a thousand reasons could be shown ; 
 
 But what of that ? 
 By our retaining it we feel 
 We would be tempting you to steal — 
 
 So take ' our hat.' " 
 
 TAM'S SAY TO THE DELTA. 
 
 We do not want your hat; we'll keep our own; 
 
 We're much obliged — your article won't fit. 
 
 And what's a hat, unless a head of wit 
 Is underneath ? As well present a bone 
 
 Denuded of its marrow. We've a head — 
 The editor and I — that " can't be beat;" 
 Full grown in size, and stored with mental meat 
 
 Of various sorts, and literary bread ; 
 
 And from its garners hungry folk are fed 
 With wholesome food that satisfies the mind, 
 And nurtures thought, and makes them wise and kind. 
 
 The busy beaver's neither snared nor dead 
 Whose fur shall form a hat that will compare 
 With that which we on Saturdays do wear ! 
 
 Ha ! " take your hat !" You 'mind me of the days 
 
 When I went courting. Happy days were they ! 
 
 One freezing night I beau'd my lady gay 
 To hear some singers warble lovely lays 
 
 Composed by Handel (or perhaps by Haydn.) 
 My hat I placed upon a bench near by, 
 
 My soul entranced by music and my maiden ; 
 A man of warty face and squinting eye 
 
 Approach'd my hat, and set himself beside it. 
 
 With sidelong look I watch'd what might betide it. 
 He moved, and moved, and still kept moving on, 
 
 And when he moved, he moved my hat along ; 
 
 My mind was caught a moment by the song, 
 And when I look'd again, the man and hat were gone. 
 
 Not gone — but going quickly to the door ! 
 
 I follow'd fast. " That hat is mine" I said. 
 
 "Oh! ah! is't yours ?" exclaimed the warty head ; 
 "I thought 'twas mine!" I took my hat once more. 
 
NOTES AND ADDENDA. 335 
 
 The warty squint er pick'd up from the floor 
 A furless thing made in the days of yore, 
 
 And bore himself away as well he might. 
 — Thus Mr. Delta, fancying our hat, 
 Quick whips it up, and thinks he has it pat ; 
 
 But we, forgetting not the concert night, 
 
 And conscious that we have the legal right, 
 Arrest the culprit and reclaim the prey. 
 We lecture him, and let him go his way ; 
 
 And he, ungrateful, claims the hat — the wight. 
 
 During the hat controversy in Neal's Gazette, some curious 
 persons sought to fix the identity of Tam. Hence the following 
 
 "ASIDE" FOR THE EDITOR'S EAR. 
 
 They ask who Tam is ? Pray don't whisper it 
 
 To any one. Enough that you and he 
 
 Are cognitive of his identity. 
 He's rather modest ; and he loves to sit 
 
 Behind the curtain of his pseudonym 
 And throw his rhymings in the midst of men : 
 
 Like some kind fellow who, from some odd whim, 
 Ensconces him from all observers' ken 
 
 Behind a wall, and pitches apples out 
 Among a hungry crowd : they take and eat, 
 
 And while they munch the food, they look about 
 To ascertain who throws them in the street. 
 
 They praise his fruit, and vote the man to be 
 
 A clever chap, and say, " Pray who is he?" 
 
 He's neither Parson, Doctor, nor Professor Tam, 
 Nor Lawyer Tam ; nor even does he claim 
 
 (So deep his scorn of humbug and of sham) 
 To add Esquire to his simple name. 
 
 His home is in a place where Providence 
 Has set him. Neither very rich nor poor, 
 His bread and water have been ever sure. 
 
 To man or brute intending no offence, 
 
 He seeks to live, and die, in peace with all. 
 
 Years three times ten (and more) he's trudged along 
 
 The lane of life, and sometimes humm'd a song 
 To cheer him in a heavy interval. 
 
 He bears a burden equal to the might 
 
 That Heaven has given, and hope has made it light. 
 
RHYA fES ATI VEEN- TIMES. 
 
 Then let him travel on his quiet way; 
 
 Ask not his name, his whereabouts, and so forth. 
 
 If 'tis his wish incognito to go forth, 
 And gently touch the doings of the day, 
 So let him do ; and let him have his say. 
 What reasonable man will answer Nay ? 
 
 Expect him not to kick at every cur 
 That snarls behind his heels. He has an aim 
 More noble than a thirst for vulgar fame : 
 
 The better feelings of man's heart to stir, 
 His dearest purpose. If to fun he bends, 
 
 It is to wisely win the multitude, 
 
 And lure the mirthful to a thoughtful mood, 
 And thus accomplish high and worthy ends. 
 
 ELECTKOTYPED BY MACKELLAE, SMITHS & JORDAN, 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 

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