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BUTTONWOOD 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 L. F. BITTLE. 
 
 FIRST EDITION. 
 
 Here, reader. In their metric flow, 
 Ar'» treasure4 thoughts of^long ago. 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS, IND. 
 
 OCTOGRAPHIC REVIEW 
 
 1904. 
 
T 
 
 .^ 
 
 bP' 
 
 LIBRARY o* CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 FEB 18 1904 
 
 V CopyiigM. Entry 
 CLASa a,- XXc. No 
 
 7 J o X H- 
 
 doPY 3 
 
 Copyrighted, 1904, 
 
 BY 
 
 L. F. BITTLE. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 It is not without misgiving that I allow these verses 
 to be printed in a book. With a few exceptions they 
 were written many years ago as a relaxation from 
 severe study; and now as I revise them for publica- 
 tion they do not please me as they did when I com- 
 posed them. But the critical mood is not the poetical 
 one, nor is an author always the best judge of his 
 own work. Besides, as time passes, our tastes 
 change, and many things which delight us in youth 
 become insipid in old age. And if we make good use 
 of the opportunities afforded us, our standards of 
 excellence rise higher and higher, though they nev- 
 er reach absolute perfection. 
 
 Poetry appeals to the sensibilities rather than to 
 the intellect; and when a person by means of verse 
 reveals his inner life, he can reasonably expect little 
 genuine sympathy except from those whose experi- 
 ences have to some extent been similar to his own. 
 His readers must put themselves into the mood in 
 which he writes, and forbear criticism on his style if 
 they would fully enjoy his stanzas. 
 
 Many of these effusions, selected from a much 
 larger number and here printed in permanent form, 
 are records of real life. Others are merely pictures 
 of fancy. Still others have only a personal or local 
 interest. All of them, such as they are, I offer to 
 my friends, and especially to my beloved daughters, 
 Mona and Linnoea, in the hope that my unpretending 
 stanzas will leave in the mind of the reader some 
 thoughts worth remembering. L. F. B. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Buttonwood, 
 Ellemwold, 
 Autumnal Musings. 
 
 1. Radnor, 
 
 2. The Birds, 
 
 3. The Landscape, 
 
 4. The Seasons, 
 
 5. Meditation, 
 
 6. Nature, 
 
 7. The Moral, 
 
 8. Consolation, 
 
 9. Aspiration, 
 
 10. Childhood, 
 
 11. Rambles, 
 
 12. A Subject, 
 
 13. Saint David's Church. 
 
 14. The Critics, 
 
 15. Cowper and Milton, 
 
 16. The Graveyard, 
 
 17. The World Unseen, 
 
 18. M. J. B., 
 
 19. Truth, 
 
 20. Mount Pleasant, 
 
 21. Conclusion, 
 Lilly, 
 Tredyffrin 
 Queries, 
 
 Too Late, 
 
 Death, 
 
 Good Night, 
 
 June, . . - 
 
 Enlightened, 
 
 A Prayer, 
 
 1-42 
 43-48 
 
 49-51 
 51-52 
 52-53 
 53-55 
 55-56 
 56-57 
 57-58 
 58-59 
 59-62 
 62-63 
 63-64 
 64-67 
 67-70 
 71-72 
 72-74 
 74-77 
 78-81 
 81-84 
 84-87 
 87-89 
 89-90 
 91-92 
 92-94 
 94-95 
 95-97 
 97 
 
 100 
 
 100 
 
Day dreams, 
 
 Mary, 
 
 At Even, ... 
 
 The Glass of Faith, 
 
 When I Am Gone, 
 
 Across The Stream, 
 
 The Arbutus, 
 
 Semper Ora, 
 
 The Angels, 
 
 To J. H. B. , 
 
 To M. P. D., 
 
 To B. C., - - - 
 
 To B. B., - - - 
 
 The Richmonds' Home, 
 
 The Early Dead, 
 
 Lines On The Funeral of W. R. 
 
 The Smithy, 
 
 A Proem, 
 
 The May Queen, 
 
 "Not Death But Sleep," 
 
 Love, - - . 
 
 To M. J. B., 
 
 The Hunters, 
 
 A Wish, 
 
 Fortune, ... 
 
 ToM. B. B., 
 
 The Rain, 
 
 An Epigram, 
 
 Christ Triumphant, 
 
 Content, ... 
 
 Brandywine, 
 
 For an Album, 
 
 Millie, 
 
 Hope, 
 
 Centennial Hymn, 
 
 Centennial Poem, 
 
 To Hygeia, 
 
 At Mother's Grave, 
 
 The Glory of tl.e Lord, 
 
 Spring, 
 
 101 
 
 101-102 
 
 102-103 
 
 104 
 
 105 
 
 105-106 
 
 106-107 
 
 107 
 
 108-109 
 
 • 109-110 
 
 110 
 
 111 
 
 112 
 
 112-113 
 
 114 
 
 115 
 
 116-117 
 
 117-118 
 
 118-120 
 
 120 
 
 121-122 
 
 122-126 
 
 126-127 
 
 127-128 
 
 128 
 
 129 
 
 130-131 
 
 131 
 
 131-132 
 
 132 
 
 133-134 
 
 134-135 
 
 136-137 
 
 138 
 
 139-140 
 
 140-141 
 
 141-144 
 
 144-145 
 
 146-147 
 
 147-148 
 
Lines for an Album, ... 148 
 
 To the Woodthrush, - - - 149-150 
 
 A Morning Concert, ... 151 
 
 Expectation. .... 152 
 
 Sunshine, ..... 153 
 
 A Reproof, . . _ - - 154 
 
 Memory's Bells, .... 155 
 
 Autumn, ..... 156 
 
 Life, - 157 
 
 Deceived, . . - . . 158 
 
 Meeting and Parting, - - - 159 
 
 In Vain, 160 
 
 The Baptism, .... 160-162 
 
 Croton Pond, - < - - 163 
 
 A Fragment, .... 104 
 
 Great Valley Church, - - - 165-166 
 
 Linnsea, • . . . . 167 
 
 My Baby, 168 
 
BUTTON WOOD. 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 Dear Buttonwood, I love thy shade, 
 For sweet contentment fitly made; 
 And when I walk the crowded street, 
 And mark dull care in most I meet. 
 Or cross at noon the dusty Square, 
 And swelter in the fervid glare 
 Of sunshine from the August sky, 
 I long into thy shade to fly. 
 
 There would I lie beneath the trees, 
 And hear the droning of the bees. 
 Or listen to the rippling flow 
 Of waters in the vale below, 
 Or watch the thrushes as they glide 
 Among the bushes at my side. 
 Or overhead the gambols see 
 Of blithe and noisy chickaree; 
 For any sight or any sound 
 That in thy solitude is found, 
 Is picturesque or musical 
 Contrasted with the city full 
 Of all the senses hold in dread, 
 Or baleful planet ever shed. 
 
 Oh, not for me the marts of trade. 
 Those scenes which man himself has made! 
 Where Wealth and Poverty reside, 
 And shame each other side by side. 
 Where thieves and beggars most abound 
 In courts and alleys all around, 
 Where harsh extremes of life we meet 
 Which ever way we turn our feet, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Where daily we are forced to grieve 
 O'er wretchedness we can't relieve, 
 And where we view, with burning soul, 
 Injustice we can not control. 
 
 Pretentious mass of brick and stone, 
 Built up for sordid Mammon's throne, 
 The city stands and welcomes in 
 Each folly, vice, and grosser sin. 
 There artificial ways abound, 
 And useless etiquette is found, 
 And spirits, yeai^ning to be free, 
 Are slaves to Fashion's tyranny. 
 The finer feelings of the heart 
 Are blunted by the cruel art 
 Which selfish customs, silly rules. 
 The mutual work of knaves and fools, 
 Have introduced to help us hide 
 Ourselves behind suspicious pride, 
 Or, what is often tenfold worse. 
 Our lives to poison with a curse 
 Of Vanity, Truth's wily foe. 
 That veils in falsehood all below. 
 
 The thing ycleped Society 
 Is often but a mockery 
 Of those warm instincts of our race 
 Which prompt each one to take his place 
 Amid the gathering of friends. 
 And share the pleasure that attends 
 Informal interchange of thought 
 And gentle courtesies unsought. 
 
 Amid the fevered life we lead, 
 The things our natures mostly need. 
 The quiet hours from business free, 
 Companionship and sympathy 
 Of those whose friendship, full and true, 
 Brings out our better selves to view, — 
 These are the things we seldom find 
 But others of a different kind, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Approved by Madam Grundy's voice, 
 We see presented for our choice. 
 
 We gain admission to a clique, 
 If through the wonted means we seek, 
 And then are privileged to greet, 
 With stilted manners, the elite. 
 Then at the door to make a call, 
 And hear a servant from the hall 
 The "Not at home to-day" repeat, 
 And bow us back into the street. 
 Or present else, by present grace. 
 In glaring parlor — horrid place! — 
 We meet with others who have come 
 To see the folks now all "at home" 
 For entertaining every guest, 
 And showing off when at their best. 
 
 Thus in such parlors meet we them 
 Whom rules of etiquette condemn 
 To spend the hours in pleasure's search, 
 That always leaves them in the lurch. 
 When these soirees we look right through, 
 What sorry sights are brought to view! 
 Cards, dances, gossip, promenades. 
 With brainless fops and silly maids 
 As leading actors in the scenes. 
 While very rarely intervenes 
 A single minute of good sense 
 To pay for trouble and expense. 
 'Tis but a sham, as all can see. 
 Where none is happy, none is free, 
 But all are under bondage sold 
 To customs useless, senseless, old. 
 The relics of a barbarous day, 
 Which should forgotten be for aye. 
 
 Thus governed by a vicious taste, 
 We favor luxury and waste. 
 In most things coarse, in none refined, 
 To real beauty we are blind; 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 And gaudy colors, graceless lines, 
 And inappropriate designs 
 Fill up the measure of our sight. 
 While all around us, day and night, 
 The loveliness of Nature lies 
 Unnoticed by our careless eyes. 
 
 Behold the Miss, yet in her teens, 
 Appear in Fashion's gaudy scenes. 
 Her manners masculine and rude. 
 No qualms of modesty intrude, 
 To mortify her swaggering air, 
 Or check the boldness of her stare. 
 Her conversation void of sense. 
 But full of simpering pretense. 
 Superlatives the verbal stock, 
 That constitutes her endless talk, 
 With slang acquired upon the street 
 To make her rhetoric complete. 
 But what she lacks in mental grace 
 She furnishes in powdered face. 
 And cheeks whose tinting not their own 
 Suggest a tea-rose fully blown. 
 Her costly wardrobe most her care. 
 She lives in Fashion's poisoned air, 
 A thing of vanity and pride, 
 That fools admire and wits deride. 
 
 Yet such a creature lacking soul 
 And all true power of self-control. 
 With fitful temper, empty head 
 Presumptuously is often led. 
 To seek, competing with the good. 
 The place of wife and motherhood. 
 No wonder that the age declines 
 When imbeciles usurp the place 
 Of guardians to the coming race. 
 
 See too her masculine compeer 
 In social life his front uprear 
 And claim the homage only due 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 To virtue high and manhood true. 
 
 His manhood figures tailor-made, 
 
 With hatter's and cordwainer's aid 
 
 And ieweller's, who join their skill 
 
 To have their dandy "dressed to kill." 
 
 Thus in the latest style attired, 
 
 Somehow withal he has acquired 
 
 The art to say with gallant air 
 
 A thousand nothings to the fair. 
 
 And make himself, it is confessed. 
 
 In drawing rooms a welcome guest. 
 
 For piety he has a sneer. 
 
 For womanhood a bow or leer, 
 
 For noble aims concealed disgust. 
 
 And much prefers a life of lust; 
 
 Yet covers up each base design 
 
 With pretty phrase and manners fine; 
 
 A hero in Flirtation's eyes, 
 
 But one whom honest men despise; 
 
 To useful labor quite averse 
 
 He battens on his parents' purse, 
 
 And all their hard-earned cash he drains, 
 
 Till not a picayune remains. 
 
 In dissipation an expert. 
 
 Yet scarce in reputation hurt 
 
 By drunkenness or worse excess. 
 
 He glories in his worthlessness; 
 
 Though poor perchance, yet in his air 
 
 He apes the haughty millionaire. 
 
 And plays with impudence his part 
 
 A libel in his head and heart, 
 
 A low burlesque in all his plan 
 
 Upon the noble race of man. 
 
 Nor should I leave unnoticed here 
 Old maids and widows that appear 
 As eager venders in the mart 
 Where bids are made for hand and heart, 
 And males and females long to pair. 
 If they can win the lion's share. 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 What toils are spread, what nets are cast, 
 
 What arts to bind the victims fast, 
 
 What time and labor freely spent, 
 
 By those on Hymen's ends intent, 
 
 All know who watch the amorous game 
 
 The crafty play in friendship's name! 
 
 O woman, long by poets praised. 
 And on a pedestal upraised. 
 Which Flattery, with cunning hand. 
 Has built upon the treacherous sand, 
 No angel art thou, but a child 
 Of mother Eve, who was beguiled 
 To eat of that forbidden tree. 
 The source of all our misery. 
 It is not well that we should paint 
 Thee in the likeness of a saint, 
 While follies in thy life abound 
 And sin within thy soul is found. 
 Thou knowest it is better far 
 To limn thy features as they are, 
 To show thee stripped of all disguise, 
 And turning from romantic lies. 
 Speak out whatever we shall find 
 To be the measure of thy mind. 
 
 Thou lovest ev'ry pretty thing. 
 The ostrich plume, the flicker's wing, 
 The golden watch, the flashing gem. 
 And standest ready to condemn 
 Each useful change and wise device, 
 Unless the nabobs call it "nice"; 
 Thou torturest thy graceful form. 
 Thou goest chilled or over-warm. 
 And pinching feet and squeezing chest. 
 Deforming both at Style's behest; 
 Thou oft art Fashion's willing tool, 
 Till men deride thee as a fool; 
 Thou lovest gossip, nor afraid 
 Art thou of scandal's ruthless trade, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 That dares to wring with pain intense 
 The shrinking heart of innocence. 
 Thou art no slave, as thou hast pled, 
 But art of social life the head; 
 In ev'ry thing thou hast thy say, 
 In most, thine own unthinking way. 
 And the whole world is at thy will, 
 That world of which thou speakest ill. 
 The world is what thyself hast wrought 
 Out of the children thou hast brought. 
 The infant race is thine to train 
 To thy desire in heart and brain, 
 And none are sinners overmuch. 
 But thy example makes them such. 
 Didst thou but cease thyself to hurt. 
 Resolved no more to dress and flirt. 
 From vanity release thy soul. 
 And put thee under Truth's control. 
 Thou wouldst be what we all desire. 
 What angels love and men admire. 
 Then the whole world at thy command 
 On Virtue's side would firmly stand; 
 All in her practice would engage. 
 And usher in the golden age. 
 
 Then let the better time roll round 
 When men shall rational be found. 
 When, conscious of their high estate, 
 They lift themselves, with hearts elate 
 Out of the low and miry plains, 
 And washed of their polluting stains. 
 Climb up the steeps to regions fair, 
 And breathe the purer, upper air. 
 Where no miasma taints the soul. 
 But, under Truth's serene conti^ol, 
 Each shall accord with virtue's plan. 
 And reach the stature of a man. 
 
 When God the land and sea had made 
 And the broad heavens in stars arrayed, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 He looked on all, and called it good, 
 
 But saw the need of one that should 
 
 Be over all, and all admire, 
 
 And to the noblest deeds aspire. 
 
 So in pursuance of his plan 
 
 To crown creation's work with man 
 
 He from the dust a body made. 
 
 Which every grace of form displayed, 
 
 Then into it he breathed a soul 
 
 Of life and thought and self-control. 
 
 In his own image God thus formed 
 
 The first man, Adam, to be warmed 
 
 By love divine, and to be found 
 
 "With strength and skill to till the ground. 
 
 God placed him then in Eden's bowers. 
 
 To dwell amid its trees and flowers. 
 
 And have its fruits as recompense 
 
 For labor and for innocence. 
 
 But man as yet was all alone, 
 And social ways had never known; 
 So God formed Eve, a partner meet. 
 To make the joy of life complete. 
 These two from their Creator came 
 All free from thought of sin or shame. 
 And when, by Satan led astray, 
 They were from Eden sent away. 
 It was to earn their daily bread, 
 And be by honest labor fed. 
 
 The Lord designed the human pair 
 For rural scenes and country air. 
 The city was an after-thought 
 Which Cain the fratricidal wrought, 
 When from the presence of his God, 
 He fled into the land of Nod. 
 There he, of Adam's race the worst, 
 To found a city was the first. 
 Long afterwards, the people, bent 
 On city life, to Shinar went, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 To make a name, and build a tower, 
 
 For unity of speech and i^ower. 
 
 But God soon checked their vanity. 
 
 When he came down their work to see. 
 
 He in their midst confusion wrought, 
 
 And brought their foolish scheme to nought. 
 
 With divers tongues he scattered all 
 
 The builders of the tower tall, — 
 
 The builders of that city vast 
 
 Whose name 's a byword of the past. 
 
 Experience seems to indicate 
 That man, to gain his best estate 
 Requires a freedom only found 
 Within the country's ample ground 
 For folks in crowded cities grown 
 Like hot-bed plants too closely sown 
 Are healthy none, but all are frail. 
 And of life's noble objects fail; 
 Like fruit in humid cellar piled. 
 The tainted have the sound defiled, 
 Till none infection can evade, 
 But all the mass becomes decayed; 
 Or else like fish of various kind 
 Within a little pool confined, 
 The larger ones the smaller eat, 
 And with their victims thus replete. 
 Become a proud and pampered few 
 That one another envious view. 
 
 There breathing the unhealthy air, 
 "With scant attire and meagre fare, 
 The poor oft toil from day to day. 
 Beneath some haughty lordling's sway, 
 Whose only merit is his wealth. 
 Obtained, perchance, by fraud or stealth. 
 They by replenishing his store, 
 Increase their penury the more, 
 And sinking lower in the scale, 
 As self-respect and honor fail, 
 
10 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 From virtue's paths at last they stray, 
 And reckless walk the downward way. 
 With evil deeds familiar grown, 
 They form a circle of their own. 
 And thus remain an outcast race, 
 But still retentive of their place, 
 . They like a plague contagion spread, 
 Empoisoning the fountain head 
 Of social life and happiness— 
 A fearful wrong without redress! 
 
 There guarded by our license laws, 
 With Appetite to plead his cause, 
 The Alcoholic Demon reigns, 
 And in his retinue retains 
 The hydra dire of vice and crime, 
 And, with an impudence malign, 
 Enthrones himself in church and state, 
 And rules the little and the great. 
 Untrammeled in his evil ways. 
 Upon the nation's life he preys. 
 Degrades the lofty, stains the pure. 
 And robs the wealthy and the poor, 
 Arouses hatred, kindles strife. 
 And makes the land with murder rife, 
 Each pauper house and prison fills, 
 The innocent assails and kills. 
 Breaks woman's heart with purpose fell, 
 And dooms his devotees to hell! 
 His horrors our officials view, 
 And all permit for revenue, — 
 Permit, encourage, sanction all 
 The fiendish deeds of Alcohol, 
 That they may fill the public purse 
 With taxes from a nation's curse. 
 
 When Guttenberg, on German ground, 
 The noble art of printing found. 
 And, first of all, the book divine 
 To type committed, line by line, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. H 
 
 That men the way of life might know, 
 And with the love of virtue glow, 
 He little dreamed that after years 
 Would iustify the pious fears, 
 That Satan, in a printer's dress, 
 Was the magician of the press. 
 But here the devil has his sway. 
 And guides the issues of the day. 
 In books and papers he conceals 
 The virus which to all he deals — 
 The unbelief that now pervades 
 The social body, and invades 
 The church and home, till all around 
 Fools, rakes, and anarchists abound. 
 And scoffers, worse than those of old, 
 All virtue in derision hold. 
 And all this verbal deviltry 
 Within the city rages free; 
 The cultured and the rabble rout 
 Here from the busy press pour out 
 An endless stream of idle words— 
 The jabber of Stymphalian birds- 
 Science and sermons full of sneers. 
 And novels packed with quips and jeers 
 At the old book whose righteous law 
 Demands a life without a flaw, 
 And whose good message rescues all 
 From sin that heed the gracious call. 
 
 Such scenes in city life we see. 
 And even worse we know to be 
 In all the dens and haunts of sin 
 Found every where the town within. 
 In every clime and every age. 
 Since man began his pilgrimage. 
 The greatest scourges of our race 
 In cities find their brooding place. 
 There nurtured in their dark retreats. 
 Till stronger grown they seek the streets, 
 And overleaping every bound, 
 
12 BUTTONWOOD, 
 
 They ravage all the country round. 
 
 Thus rapine, war, and tyranny, 
 
 Blighting all lands from sea to sea, 
 
 And pestilence that walks by night, 
 
 Nor shuns the noontide's glaring light, — 
 
 Begin their course where pleasure's dome 
 
 Looks down on misery's squalid home. 
 
 So Rome the mighty testifies, 
 
 Whence all the ills beneath the skies 
 
 Have issued forth in dire array, 
 
 To make the tribes of men their prey. 
 
 Give me the country's quiet life, 
 Far from the crowd's unseemly strife, 
 Give me the scenes that God has made, 
 And with his matchless skill arrayed 
 In all that charms the thoughtful eye, 
 Or wakes the soul to ecstasy. 
 
 The greatest want that I have known, 
 A want I scarcely dare to own, 
 Is sympathy in such pursuits 
 As those my vagrant fancy suits. 
 For plodding work my restless mind 
 By Nature never was designed, 
 Much less has she my spirit made 
 Inclined to politics or trade, 
 Nor more congenial is the life 
 Which spends itself in legal strife, 
 Nor can I Galen's art endure. 
 More likely far to kill than cure, 
 Nor have I cherished a desire 
 To cleric honors to aspire. 
 For pastor ating is a trade 
 By which a livelihood is made, 
 And men in sombre garb attired. 
 By pious folks are yearly hired 
 To please the critics of the pew, 
 And bring the sect with honor through. 
 
 Unmerchantable thoughts are mine. 
 That with my purposes entwine, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 13 
 
 And lead me to far different ends 
 
 Than those for which the world contends. 
 
 I hate the clamor of the crowd, 
 
 And gossip constantly allowed 
 
 In all the circles called polite — 
 
 That name so seldom used aright — 
 
 And every vain amusement made 
 
 For idlers of themselves afraid; 
 
 I hate the envy and the pride, 
 
 That form a mountain high and wide 
 
 Between the souls that else would run, 
 
 Like crystal streamlets into one; 
 
 I hate Ambition's mad career, 
 
 Supplanting love with cruel fear, 
 
 And keeping struggling millions down, 
 
 That one may wear a worthless crown; 
 
 I hate the noisy paths of life, 
 
 The eagerness and selfish strife, 
 
 The fires of rivalry that burn, 
 
 Whichever way our footsteps turn; — 
 
 I hate them all, and glad would flee 
 
 From all their scenes of misery. 
 
 From early childhood my delight 
 Has been to rove from morn till night 
 Where Nature holds her court serene 
 In leafy grove or meadow green, 
 Or where the uplands stretch away 
 To mountain steeps remote and gray. 
 The song of bird or hum of bee 
 Is music sweeter far to me 
 Than all the notes that man can bring 
 From wood, or brass, or sonant string. 
 I'd rather listen to the breeze 
 That sways the stately forest trees. 
 Than stand within cathedral dim. 
 And hear the grandest vesper hymn. 
 
 I well remember what strange awe 
 Seized on me when a child I saw 
 
14 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 The heavens atev'ning spreading far, 
 And Cynthia in her silver car, 
 And stars unnumbered shining down 
 From sceptred Night's imperial crown. 
 And ever since I've loved to come 
 Beneath this awe-inspiring dome, 
 This stately temple which the Word 
 That Darkness and old Chaos heard 
 Bade rise from its foundations deep. 
 To stand until the dead from sleep 
 Are called by that Almighty Voice 
 That made the sons of God rejoice, 
 And all the stars of morning raise 
 The loftiest anthems of their praise. 
 With fast dilating thought I then 
 Forget the petty creeds of men. 
 Forget the strifes of folly bred, 
 Where neither side by truth is led, 
 Forget each low, ignoble aim. 
 Each base desire of earthly fame, 
 Which leads so many souls astray 
 That might have gone the upward way. 
 Forget them all, with naught between 
 My spirit and the dawn serene 
 Of peace ineffable and love 
 Each earth-born feeling far above. 
 Bathed in the fount of pure delight, 
 My soul then takes an upward flight, 
 Explores aloft with ardor keen 
 Sweet realms by mortal eyes unseen. 
 
 But if I love in solitude 
 To ramble in the field and wood 
 And constant pleasure in them find, 
 'Tis not because in human kind 
 A cynical indifference 
 I bear, displaying want of sense. 
 No, in these lonely walks I feel 
 An interest in human weal 
 Far greater than I ever knew 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 15 
 
 When, wandering the city through, 
 My steps I frequently allowed 
 To mingle with the fevered crowd. 
 
 To one who looks at both when near. 
 Like rough statues men appear. 
 The chisel marks and numerous flaws 
 Defiance bid to Beauty's laws. 
 Lift np these to their home 
 Around some temple's lofty dome, 
 And each one, in its destined place, 
 Becomes a form instinct with grace, — 
 The distance covers every flaw 
 Which, just before, the gazer saw; 
 No sign of roughness is retained, 
 But smoothest elegance is gained. 
 So is it with uncultured man. 
 Who seems to mar great Nature's plan, 
 Presenting flaws on every side 
 To those who neighboring abide. 
 And watch the evils, day by day, 
 That in our common actions play. 
 
 Contemptuous feelings oft arise, 
 If man with too familiar eyes 
 Is scanned in this degenerate age. 
 But I, withdrawing from the crowd. 
 Where noise of conflict waxes loud. 
 Where Folly's victims ceaseless mourn. 
 And curse the day that they were born, 
 Where Vanity parades the streets. 
 And homage asks of all she meets, — 
 Find, in the lonely solitudes 
 Of meadows broad and lofty woods, 
 A prospect of each human scene. 
 With fault-concealing miles between. 
 The race abstracted from its crimes 
 And viewed throughout the changing times 
 Seems like a f ar-oflf statue grand. 
 Fresh from the unseen Artist's hand. 
 
16 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Thus distance lends to man a charm 
 
 That makes my bosom towards him warm. 
 
 The feelings of dislike and pride 
 
 That often prompt me to deride 
 
 The frailties of my fellow men 
 
 Are all exchanged for pity then; 
 
 And strength for duty thus I draw — 
 
 Strength to conform to every law 
 
 Belonging to the gracious plan 
 
 By heaven ordained for wayward man — 
 
 I draw, by Nature hither led. 
 
 From Truth's eternal fountain head. 
 
 But class me not with them who hold — 
 Pretended thinkers vain and bold — 
 That Nature of herself can show 
 What we so much desire to know, 
 That written on her ample page. 
 In characters for youth and age, 
 Are revelations of the way 
 That leads to Glory's endless day, 
 And that no further voice we need 
 If we but Nature's language heed. 
 Though beauties constantly appear 
 To man's enraptured eye and ear, 
 Yet Nature is forever dumb 
 To all who unenlightened come 
 To question her with anxious mind 
 About the things that lie behind 
 The mystic veil that hangs between 
 The visible and the unseen. 
 Philosophers with prying eyes 
 Have scanned the earth and starry skies, 
 And, with the plummet's slender line. 
 Have dipped beneath the ocean's brine, 
 But nothing more have ever found 
 In making their remotest round 
 Than varied matter bound by laws 
 That indicate a hidden cause — 
 Almighty force directing well, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 17 
 
 But what it is they cannot tell. 
 
 What strange infatuations seize 
 All those who seek themselves to please I 
 At their wild follies oft I gaze, 
 Yet ever view them in amaze. 
 How sad that men with noble powers 
 Unworthily should spend their hours, 
 Fair Wisdom's hoarded gems forsake. 
 And Falsehood's dust for jewels take! 
 All men not brutishly inclined 
 Their lives in duplicate will find. 
 Like double currents in a stream. 
 That in contrarious motion seem. 
 One turbulently onward goes, 
 The other calmly backward flows; 
 One in gross matter must be sought, 
 The other in the realm of thought; 
 One life we have within the soul. 
 Completely under our control. 
 The other in the world of sense, 
 The sport of outward elements. 
 The latter mostly is preferred 
 Whenever preference is averred; 
 For, strange to say, the outer world. 
 Where Strife's red banners are unfurled, 
 Where disappointments erver reign, 
 And pleasures lose themselves in pain. 
 Where souls, forgetful of the sky. 
 In sloughs of degradation lie. 
 Or, heedless of the warning call 
 Of Virtue, into ruin fall. 
 Where on the waves of passion tost, 
 Man floats a wreck, and then is lost, — 
 Has more attractions for our kind 
 Than all the beauties of the mind. 
 Or all the lasting joys confessed 
 To dwell within a peaceful breast. 
 I'd have my fellows raised, refined. 
 As the Creator has designed ; 
 
18 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 I'd have them turn from baits of sense 
 To faith in God and providence, 
 Leaving their present low pursuits, 
 Which have produced such bitter fruits; 
 I'd have them seek the things unseen, 
 The bays of vii'tue ever green, 
 Bring passion under strict control, 
 , And guard that priceless thing the soul 
 From thought impure and wrong desire, 
 And it with noble purpose fire 
 To scale the heights where honor lies, 
 Immortal guerdon of the skies. 
 
 All true refinement has its spring 
 In generous purposes that bring 
 The soul to truth and purity. 
 And from all folly set it free. 
 'Tis not in forms of etiquette, 
 Nor lines by flaunting fashion set, 
 Nor any artificial grace. 
 That this refinement has its place. 
 No, 'tis a gift on men conferred, 
 Xiike power of music on the bird; 
 It is an instinct undefined 
 That rules within the owner's mind. 
 Repelling all things coarse and rude. 
 And welcoming the pure and good. 
 This instinct royalty insures. 
 And Natui'e's true nobility secures 
 To them who ever guard it well 
 And in its presence constant dwell. 
 Where such refinement can be found. 
 There Culture has a solid ground 
 On which her temple to upraise. 
 The graceful object of our praise. 
 Then speech and action all accord 
 To render man creation's lord, 
 A prince in thought and word and deed, 
 Made worthy of the highest meed. 
 
 The times, alas, in which we live 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 19 
 
 Few signs of real progress give; 
 For, notwithstanding all the stir 
 Of business, and constant whir 
 Of steam-propelled machinery. 
 And bustle loud of industry. 
 The whole is oft a specious show 
 That to a race already low 
 Becomes a blandishment of ill 
 Which will degrade it lower still. 
 Though this, the boasted age of steam 
 Surpasses fable's wildest dream, 
 Binding the long-rebellious main, 
 Like Xerxes with his iron chain. 
 And hurling with unerring hand 
 The lightnings over sea and land, 
 Its triumphs merit not our praise, 
 For they the race can never raise 
 Above material sensuous life. 
 And turn it from the bitter strife 
 Of selfishness and cruel pride, 
 And crush the serpent lusts that glide 
 Around fair Virtue's sacred bower, 
 And poison all within their power. 
 These triumphs which increase the store 
 Of pampered Wealth are often more 
 Like dire defeats that mar the plan 
 Of Providence and ruin man. 
 The highly vaunted victories 
 Our century now daily sees. 
 Where Science toiling like a slave 
 In gloomy mine or ocean cave, 
 In workshop or in clattering mill. 
 Or elsewhere at its masters' will, 
 May in the end prove worse than those 
 Great Hannibal won o'er his foes. 
 He, foremost soldier of the world. 
 His standards on the Alps unfurled, 
 Defied their icy summits grand. 
 And, bursting on Italic's land, 
 
20 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Swept all before him in dismay, 
 
 Until on Cannae's bloody day 
 
 He crushed the legions of old Rome 
 
 And shook Tarpseca's sacred dome. 
 
 But victory turned to defeat: 
 
 In Capua's luxurious seat 
 
 He with his army staid a space, 
 
 And laid the ruin of his race. 
 
 The conquered Romans were his bane, 
 
 And, with corruption's fatal chain, 
 
 Bound his unthinking veterans fast, 
 
 And proved his victors at the last. 
 
 How few there are whose wishes rise 
 To compass deeds of high emprise. 
 Who cast the chains of matter off, 
 Though fear may doubt and wit may scoflf, 
 And in the cleansing fount of truth 
 Renew their innocence and youth. 
 Leon, 'tis said, with eager band 
 Of Spaniards through the Flowery Land, 
 Sought far and near the fabled spring 
 Whose waters to the bather bring 
 That cleaves their crystal purity 
 The loveliness of infancy, — 
 Elastic health and beauty's bloom 
 That fear no sickness, dread no tomb. 
 The soldier found not what he sought. 
 And all his labors were for naught. 
 Deluded by an idle tale 
 Like that about the Holy Grail, 
 He wandered on till hope was spent 
 And death the fatal arrow sent. 
 Not so with him who seeks the wave 
 In which his weary soul may lave: 
 Close, close beside him it is found, 
 And in our quiet hours the sound 
 Of its low murmur meets our ear. 
 The sweetest music mortals hear. 
 Beside its sparkling waters deep 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 21 
 
 May our freed spirits ever keep, 
 And gather flowers of fadeless sheen 
 That grow upon its margent green. 
 And bathe till washed of all alloy 
 We reach the golden gates of joy! 
 
 There is enough in nature's plan 
 To satisfy the needs of man; 
 The fields afford him daily food, 
 And thus supply material good; 
 To serve him all the forces vie 
 That govern earth or rule the sky ; « 
 For him the seasons make their round, 
 For him each pleasing sight or sound, 
 For him alone the task to trace 
 The soul that beams through Nature's face, 
 To lift the veil that hangs between 
 Mere matter and the Great Unseen, 
 To walk in paths before untrod. 
 And learn the wondrous thoughts of God. 
 But in this unbelieving age, 
 Though Nature's works the minds engage 
 Of thousands wandering to and fro. 
 And watching closely as they go 
 Whatever moves or quiet lies 
 Upon the earth, or in the skies. 
 Or in the everchanging sea, 
 They fail to solve the mystery 
 Of Nature's origin and laws, 
 And overlook the Primal Cause, 
 Without the knowledge of whose will 
 They wander in the darkness still. 
 Or cheated by the fitful glare 
 Of science through the murky air. 
 They shut their eyes to higher light, 
 And fall and perish from our sight. 
 
 They who from error are made free 
 By him whose voice at Bethany 
 Resistless forced the gates of doom, 
 
22 BUTTONWOOD, 
 
 And brought the sleeper from the tomb, 
 
 Can see with their anointed eyes 
 
 The mystery that hidden lies 
 
 From them whom vanities enthrall 
 
 Or superstition's rites appall. 
 
 The world which we by sense perceive 
 
 And pleasure from it oft receive 
 
 Is like those priestly symbols found 
 
 On obelisks with ages crowned 
 
 Along the Nile's enchanted flood 
 
 Whose waters once were turned to blood. 
 
 The traveler these curious lines 
 
 Of ancient learning's sculptured signs 
 
 Inspects, and if he has the key 
 
 That will unlock the mystery, 
 
 He passes through the hallowed door. 
 
 And reads the sacred thoughts of yore. 
 
 So he who views with reverent eyes 
 
 The world of sense that round him lies. 
 
 And all interprets by the word 
 
 Of Him whose voice Judoea heard, 
 
 Removes the veil and wondering sees 
 
 The mystery of mysteries. 
 
 As we the panorama view 
 Of changing Nature ever new, 
 Let us remember whose skilled hand 
 Has traced for us the picture grand. 
 As on it we enraptured gaze, 
 Let us the Mighty Artist praise. 
 And in our heart's most sacred shrine 
 Burn incense to His art divine. 
 
 O witching power of limning Art, 
 Source of delight to every heart, 
 Whose pleasures never leave behind 
 Regretful thoughts to vex the mind. 
 May I a moment turn to thee 
 Whom I have loved from infancy? 
 Thou art fond Nature's dearest child, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 23 
 
 Her second self whose manners mild 
 
 Allure us to thy mother's home, 
 
 And lead us in her steps to roam. 
 
 How many a day of joy serene, 
 
 With beauty gracing every scene, 
 
 I've spent with thee in years agone. 
 
 Whose memories crowd my heart upon, 
 
 And waken still the old desire 
 
 Unto thy garlands to aspire. 
 
 With book and pencil have I strayed. 
 
 And counterfeits of Nature made, — 
 
 Of landscapes stretching far away 
 
 Till lost in distance dim and gray, 
 
 Of rocks and stones with moss o'ergrown. 
 
 Of waterfalls in forest lone, 
 
 Of stately trees with vines festooned, 
 
 Where wood-thrush oft his notes attuned, 
 
 Of flower, and bird, and insect race, — 
 
 All these my pencil stopped to trace. 
 
 And thus engaged I wondering found 
 
 An unsuspected world around; 
 
 I saw new beauties every hour 
 
 Unveiled by Art's increasing power; 
 
 What seemed to others commonplace 
 
 To me appeared replete with grace: 
 
 The hut where poverty abode, 
 
 Each group of weeds beside the road, 
 
 The meanest object that I knew, 
 
 When touched by Art's enchantment, grew 
 
 To my no longer clouded sight 
 
 A thing of beauty and delight. 
 
 And this new sense which then she gained 
 
 My soul has ever since retained. 
 
 And ever since with reverent eyes 
 
 Beholds the loveliness that lies 
 
 In common things that seem uncouth 
 
 To minds that seek not hidden truth. 
 
 There is a spirit that we call 
 The Spirit of Beauty, filling all 
 
24 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Of Nature's works on every hand, 
 
 In the deep sea and on the land; 
 
 And only those whom Truth have crooned 
 
 "With purest love are worthy found 
 
 This radiant Spirit to receive 
 
 And lasting impress have it leave 
 
 Upon their hearts, of deepest joy 
 
 That worldly cares cannot destroy. 
 
 This Spirit is the wondrous power 
 
 That in creation's morning hour 
 
 Moved o'er the silent, shoreless sea 
 
 In steps of awful mystery, 
 
 Ere yet sweet joy-inspiring light 
 
 Came forth first-born of ebon Night, 
 
 And ere from out the waters rose 
 
 This earth, which now with beauty glows. 
 
 O wondrous Spirit, let me be 
 Companion ever meet for thee; 
 Take my obedient hand in thine. 
 And lead me to thy secret shrine, 
 And there anoint afresh mine eyes. 
 That I may see thy mysteries; 
 Thine own sweet self to me impart 
 Until thou fillest all my heart. 
 And then a fitting hymn I'll raise, 
 O Spirit of Beauty, to thy praise! 
 
 True peace, content, and happiness 
 Cannot be found, we must confess 
 Amid the selfishness of trade. 
 Where honor is for riches paid. 
 And men — I blush such truth to tell — 
 Their very souls for gold will sell! 
 My mind has had another bent. 
 On different scenes my thoughts intent, 
 Where purer light of heaven falls 
 Far, far beyond the city's walls, 
 On flowery mead, and sparkling rill. 
 On rocky glen and wooded hill. 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 25 
 
 A dream with which my fancy wild 
 Has pleased me even from a child 
 Has been to have a country home, 
 From which my heart should never roam. 
 I'd have it far from Traffic's din 
 Some wood-surrounded vale within, 
 A varied stretch of fertile land 
 By hills hemmed in and mountains grand, 
 With here and there a crystal stream, 
 Whose waters in the sunlight gleam. 
 Or, sheltered by the rocks and trees. 
 Scarce feel the touch of wanton breeze. 
 Toward the southward there should be 
 A prospect of the dark blue sea. 
 Raised high above the watery waste, 
 My cozy mansion should be placed. 
 But near enough to hear the roar 
 Of tempests on the ocean shore, 
 And afterwards to see the sand 
 Foam-covered on the rocky strand. 
 
 I'd have a house of rustic style, 
 Not some pretentious city pile, 
 But low, secure, with ample space 
 For all that rural life can grace. 
 Four rooms below, and six above, 
 With the great garret children love, 
 Right through the midst an ample hall 
 From vestibule to rearward wall, 
 And each with window wide and high 
 For air and sunlight and the sky. 
 Would furnish all the space I need 
 To emphasize my rustic creed. 
 Upon the walls and slated roof. 
 Against the storms of winter proof. 
 The clinging ivy should be found 
 In glossy clusters massed around. 
 Within, the chambers finished plain. 
 Should simple furniture contain, 
 For use and comfort all designed 
 
26 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Yet all displaying taste refined 
 
 Like that which cultured Grecia charmed 
 
 Before her race by wealth was harmed. 
 
 A garden park of rolling ground 
 This rural cottage should surround, 
 Where trees and flowers should grace the scene, 
 And other products intervene. 
 With spring's first breath of balmy air, 
 This garden park should be my care. 
 I'd neatly trim the hedges round, 
 Train up the vines, and clear the ground 
 Of leaves and twigs and withered stalks 
 By autumn strown o'er beds and walks. 
 The ground prepared by spade and rake, 
 Each plot and path with care I'd make. 
 And early seeds in order sow 
 In spots where they would likeliest grow. 
 Soon vegetables should abound, 
 And flowery clusters bloom around, 
 Each in its season watched with care, 
 The useful, r-edolent, and fair. 
 
 While thus engaged I'd hear the song 
 Of vernal gladness all day long; 
 For fearlessly the birds should come, 
 A happy family, round my home: 
 The redbreast with his ebon crown. 
 The thrush with plumage grey and brown. 
 The bluebird herald of the spring. 
 The swallow tireless on the wing, 
 The oriole with orange breast. 
 And sprightly song, and swinging nest, 
 The chat that from his heap of brush 
 With quivering wing delights to rush, 
 And then with somersault retrace 
 His way into his hiding place. 
 The wren with noisy, bustling ways. 
 The mocking-bird with witching lays, 
 The flicker with his prying bill, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 27 
 
 The night-resounding whip-poor-will, 
 
 The cardinal magnificent, 
 
 The crafty jay on plunder bent, 
 
 The sparrow with its trusting eye, 
 
 The lark, sweet poet of the sky, 
 
 The yellow-throat, the sly chewink. 
 
 The merry, ranting bobolink. 
 
 The cuckoo, prophet of the rain. 
 
 The killdeer, from the distant plain, 
 
 The pewit with its plaintive cry. 
 
 The dove with sorrow-breathing sigh, 
 
 The wood-thrush, rival of the flute, 
 
 The nut-hatch hoarse but never mute, 
 
 The partridge with his shrill bob-white, 
 
 The redbird with his feathers bright. 
 
 The cat-bird with his cunning stare, 
 
 The kingbird, tyrant of the air. 
 
 And terror of the busy hive 
 
 At which he makes his eager dive, 
 
 The chimney-bird with sooty coat, 
 
 And humming-bird with ruby throat, — 
 
 All these should come and many more, 
 
 And bring their music to my door. 
 
 And when the day of darkness born. 
 
 Unlocked the golden gates of morn, 
 
 Awakening the dreaming flowers 
 
 And ushering the rosy hours, 
 
 Then what a concert should resound 
 
 My leaf-embosomed mansion round! 
 
 Not Ole Bull and Jenny Lind, 
 
 With voice and instrument combined, 
 
 Could with a sweeter chorus there 
 
 Enthrill with joy the ambient air. 
 
 And when the health-inspiring sun 
 
 His course across the heavens had run, 
 
 And cooled his ruddy fervency 
 
 In waters of the western sea. 
 
 Those fairy melodies again 
 
 Would flow from meadow, hill, and glen. 
 
28 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Until the night had cast a pall 
 Of starry sable over all, 
 And universal silence reigned, 
 Unless, perchance the owl complained. 
 Or whip-poor-will with tireless throat 
 Disturbed the echoes with his note. 
 
 And I in turn protecting hand 
 Would lend to all this tuneful band. 
 No sportsman with his cruel eye 
 On my domain in wait should lie, 
 Or hover round with stealthy tread 
 To gloat upon the plumy dead. 
 No fierce grimalkin would I keep. 
 With horrid claw and fatal leap, 
 To make my warbling choir a prey, 
 And bear their bleeding forms away. 
 No, every feline should be sent 
 Into unending banishment. 
 Far from each haunt and nesting tree 
 Of my sweet band of minstrelsy. 
 Free from all danger they should flit 
 Among the trees, or swinging sit 
 Upon the boughs, or play around 
 Suspicionless upon the ground; 
 And some in time, familiar grown. 
 Would view me as a friend well known. 
 And venturing often to my feet. 
 From out my open hand would eat. 
 
 There would I spend the fleeting years. 
 Remote from all tormenting fears 
 That fill the city's fevered life, 
 Where men with men in Mammon's strife. 
 Or wild Ambition's thorny path. 
 Fill up the cruel cup of wrath. 
 And hurried on from day to day, 
 Throw all their precious hours away. 
 Divested of sad brooding care. 
 Content I'd breathe the quiet air. 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 29 
 
 Sweet Peace should come with angel wing, 
 And Joy domestic with her bring, 
 And both within my rustic cot 
 Should daily share my humble lot. 
 There with my books and busy pen, 
 As now, I still would labor then; 
 With rambles in the woods and fields. 
 To taste the sweets which Nature yields, 
 Or wanderings by the lonely shore, 
 Where Ocean murmurs evermore; 
 And now and then a cherished friend. 
 Additional delight, should lend 
 To sunny day and cloudless eve, 
 As each should give and each receive 
 Unconsciously from mind to mind 
 The grace of sympathy refined. 
 
 My Muse, too timid for the throng. 
 Would there renew her feeble song, 
 Delighted if a kindly few 
 Should hear her simple numbers through. 
 And, ever error passing by, 
 Regard her verse with partial eye. 
 Content with friendship's narrow fame. 
 No other audience would she claim; 
 Thrice happy to escape the claw 
 Of pouncing critic and the law 
 By spectacled reviewers passed 
 That every poem on a last 
 Made by themselves must closely fit, 
 Or be condemned as void of wit, 
 And destitute of every grace 
 That should in verse have constant place. 
 
 When Winter, with congealing hand, 
 Had waved his sceptre o'er the land, 
 And locked with ice the brooks and rills, 
 And had the mountains, and the hills. 
 And every valley, and the plain 
 That stretches to the distant main. 
 
30 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Enveloped in his mantle white 
 In token of his king-ly right 
 To rule the land, till genial May 
 Should overturn his icy sway; 
 Then, to my studies closely drawn, 
 I'd labor from the early dawn 
 Until the sun to seek his rest 
 Should draw the curtains of the West, 
 And through its golden portal glide. 
 And in its crimson chamber hide. 
 I'd fill my mind with polished thought 
 In stores of ancient learning sought, 
 And with increasing pleasure trace 
 The thrilling story of our race, 
 The rise of empires, pride of kings, 
 And all that humbler fortune brings 
 To them who quiet view afar 
 The rush of Glory's ruthless car. 
 But when the eve in vestments gray 
 Succeeded to the fleeting day. 
 Upon a lounge before the grate 
 I'd lie reclined in musing state; 
 And as I viewed the ruddy flame, 
 So like the fickle glare of fame, 
 I'd bid my fancy freely rove 
 In vernal mead and autumn grove, 
 Or calling up the cherished dead 
 To greet me from their lowly bed, 
 I'd live again the scenes of yore 
 Upon life's hapi^y morning shore, 
 Or clasping Hope's enticing hand 
 I'd wander on that blooming strand 
 Beyond Time's dark and troubled sea, 
 Where faith is crowned with victory, 
 And where the loved, now missing here, 
 In fadeless glory shall appear. 
 
 In such employment day by day 
 My life obscure would glide away; 
 Like rivulet whose waters pass 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 31 
 
 Unseen beneath the sheltering grass, 
 
 Or clustered alders bending low 
 
 To listen to its purling flow. 
 
 By feet of travel never stirred 
 
 And by the busy world unheard 
 
 It runs all pure and crystalline, 
 
 Fit emblem of that life of mine. 
 
 And such, O Thoreau, was thy lot 
 
 Secluded in thy pine-built cot 
 
 That in the cedar's shadow stood 
 
 Within the depths of Walden wood. 
 
 Leaving the restless crowds behind, 
 
 A sweet communion thou didst find 
 
 With Nature, and her mystic scroll 
 
 With skilful fingers didst unroll. 
 
 Displaying to our duller sight 
 
 Her secrets in a clearer light. 
 
 And thee her strangest child we call, 
 
 Yet one that loved her most of all. 
 
 Thy harmless life with her was passed,— 
 
 And in Earth's bosom now at last. 
 
 Indifferent to smiles or tears, 
 
 Thou sleepest through the changing years. 
 
 Alas! for all our plans below, 
 Our dreams of life that come and go, 
 And with us leave the gloomy thought 
 That all our happiness is naught. 
 In anxiousness we spend our years 
 Alternately with hopes and fears. 
 The things we wish we never gain, 
 Or win them only to our pain, 
 The bitter trials that we fear 
 Are mostly certain to appear. 
 And as we near at last the goal 
 And memory spreads before the soul 
 The record of the vanished days, 
 We view with terror and amaze 
 Neglected duties, evil deeds 
 Unhallowed thoughts and selfish needs. 
 
32 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 While Conscience stern and pitiless 
 Redoubles then our deep distress, 
 Till Mercy coming from the skies, 
 With tender heart and tearful eyes, 
 Leads us to Him who bore our shame, 
 And bids us trust in His blest name. 
 
 O Thou, the glory of our race, 
 In whom all perfectness has place. 
 The Sinless Man in whom we see 
 The fulness of divinity. 
 The Christ of purity and love. 
 Of earth and yet from heaven above. 
 Thou dead yet living Nazarene, 
 The only God our world has seen; 
 Thy God adorns Thee with His crown, 
 And angels bend adoring down; 
 All heaven echoes with Thy fame. 
 All demons tremble at Thy name, 
 And all their oracles are dumb. 
 Thou wast and art and art to come. 
 The only hope of weary hearts. 
 Whose grace to struggling souls imparts 
 Strength not their own and righteousness. 
 To lift them from their dire distress. 
 On earth we wander lone and sad. 
 Till Thee we meet ashamed yet glad. 
 Thou cheerest us in trouble's day. 
 And drivest all our gloom away; 
 To Thee our eyes must ever turn. 
 For Thee our love must ever burn, 
 In Thee our trust secure will rest, 
 By Thee we shall at last be blest. 
 Through Thee we yet though dead shall live; 
 For Thou eternal life dost give 
 To all who trustingly have heard. 
 And walked obedient to Thy word. 
 
 It cannot be that Fate denies 
 The age for which creation sighs. 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 33 
 
 The age in rapture oft foretold 
 
 By seers and dreaming bards of old, 
 
 The age of universal love 
 
 Like that which reigns in heaven above, 
 
 When Virtue shall resume her sway, 
 
 And mental darkness flee away. 
 
 When Justice, not with penal laws 
 
 Shall sternly reassert her cause, 
 
 But with the voice of Conscience true 
 
 Obtain for all their every due; 
 
 When men no more shall seek for wealth, 
 
 But rather peace and ruddy health. 
 
 Attaining by their simple ways 
 
 To patriarchal length of days, 
 
 And by Religion wisely led 
 
 Gain knowledge at the fountain-head, 
 
 And daily find in Truth's employ 
 
 A rich reward of sweetest joy. 
 
 This golden age will yet appear. 
 
 Already is its advent near; 
 
 Afar upon the orient sky 
 
 The first gray tints of morning lie; 
 
 Soon shall arise our world to bless 
 
 The healing Sun of righteousness; 
 
 Then joy shall banish every fear, 
 
 And Eden's innocence appear, 
 
 And Earth with bridal glory crowned. 
 
 Among her sister stars renowned. 
 
 Shall see angelic hosts descend. 
 
 And mortals with immortals blend. 
 
 Fair Buttonwood, how far away 
 Am I from thee this summer day, 
 Perhaps no more to see the shade 
 Where often in the past I strayed. 
 Yet calm delight in thee I find 
 As I thy scenes recall to mind. 
 The glow of summer lingered still 
 Within the vale and on the hill. 
 The golden-rod his nodding plume 
 
34 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Upraised beside the purple bloom 
 Of ironweed and astor pale, 
 While by the brookside in the vale, 
 Reminder gay of brighter days 
 The sunflower spread his yellow rays, 
 And on the forest's varied edge. 
 Or towering from the hawthorne's hedge, 
 The maple trees began to show 
 The first red tints of autumn's glow, 
 The swallow from the sky was gone, 
 The oriole had fled the lawn, 
 And in the wood the earliest bird 
 That comes from out the north was heard, 
 "When on a well-remembered day 
 I for the first time took my way 
 To see thy beauty and to hear 
 Kind welcome from the inmates dear. 
 As recollection brings to view 
 The ones whom once I found so true 
 I wonder if I am forgot 
 Or deemed as one who now is not. 
 I ask, because how very rare 
 Is friendship time does not impair, 
 Transforming it, howe'er intense. 
 At last to cold indifference. 
 A very few perchance we find 
 Who all their lives continue kind. 
 Our joys and sorrows, smiles and tears, 
 In spite of absence and of years. 
 They gladly share whene'er they learn 
 What way the tides of fortune turn. 
 But friends are mostly like the gay- 
 Plumed warblers of a summer's day, 
 That with the radiant June appear 
 But vanish in the autumn drear. 
 I ask because of one lone friend 
 Whom memory is wont to blend 
 With thy retreat and welcome shade, 
 And whom my Muse in fancy made 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 35 
 
 The auditor of all her song 
 In days serene now vanished long, 
 And whom from out her quiet rest 
 She thus in rhyming lines addressed: 
 
 "O thou whose voice from some near dale, 
 Where shades of loneliness prevail, 
 Has reached me in my forest glade 
 Encompassed with a deeper shade, 
 I thank thee with a heart sincere 
 For all thy words that greet me here 
 From thy dear lips intent to grace 
 With commendation every trace 
 Of merit in my simple lays. 
 Now wreathed by thee with friendship's bays. 
 I know not why thou shouldst delight 
 To favor me with smile so bright, 
 And praise so highly what I wrought 
 In such distrust I often thought 
 It was a sad misuse of time 
 To spend it on my humble rhyme. 
 Yet this fond fancy fills my mind 
 That thou to me art all so kind 
 Because thou long hast been like me 
 A rambler near some lonely sea, 
 Where nought is heard along the shore 
 But billows moaning evermore; 
 Or else, afar from sounding main, 
 A rover on some upland plain 
 Thou hast attained to heights unknown, 
 Yet ever sadder, sadder grown 
 As thou in that pure realm hast found 
 Oppressive solitude around. 
 
 "If so, O friend, I can divine 
 What thou hast found in verse of mine, 
 Can speak for thee the mystic word 
 Which often in thy heart is heard. 
 And to thy life afford the key 
 Which opens every mystery. 
 
36 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 "Like me thou lovest woods and streams, 
 Like me thou hast thy waking dreams, 
 Like me thou longest for a life 
 Afar from hate and pride and strife, 
 A life in which the law of love 
 Should govern all, as those above. 
 In thought allied, in heart alike. 
 No wonder, then that I should strike 
 The magic chords of sympathy 
 With my erratic minstrelsy. 
 And thy response so sweetly sounds, 
 In these my loved yet lonely grounds. 
 That thoughts long banished now return, 
 And new emotions I discern. 
 I think how pleasant it would be 
 To visit Nature's haunts with thee, 
 And hear the music which the trees 
 Awaken in the passing breeze. 
 Or listen to the fairy song 
 As endless waters glide along. 
 Or gather from each wild retreat 
 The hidden blossom fair and sweet. 
 And far more pleasant still to me. 
 As oft we loitered aimlessly 
 In wildest nooks without a fear, 
 Would be thy converse making dear 
 All spots where we had ling'ring stood. 
 In meadow green or leafy wood. 
 Or on the far-off mountain crest 
 To watch at eve the glowing west. 
 
 "But this, O friend, can never be. 
 So I afar must think of thee, 
 And view thee dimly through the days, 
 So often dark, and give thee praise 
 For all thou art, for all I see 
 Thou seekest earnestly to be. 
 If every one but understood. 
 Then might we wander where we would; 
 But in a world to wrong allied 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 37 
 
 The innocent are oft denied 
 
 Their kindest, best society, 
 
 That unsuspected they may be. 
 
 Nor is it wisdom to rebel 
 
 Against a custom ordered well 
 
 To check the false, and guard the true, 
 
 And give fair Virtue all her due. 
 
 So if we wisely love and well. 
 
 Still far apart we both must dwell, 
 
 Or meet as those who only feel 
 
 The selfishness they would conceal, 
 
 And who, in their contracted view. 
 
 All but the practical eschew. 
 
 "So wonder not if I seem cold. 
 And treat thee often as of old. 
 My tastes are womanly— my mind 
 Affects the simple and refined, 
 And like true Muse I gladly flee 
 The world's turmoil and misery, 
 And walk in life's secluded ways, 
 Indifferent to blame or praise, 
 Except from them whom love may move 
 My course to censure or approve. 
 And I, with Fancy's plastic hand. 
 Have fashioned an ideal land, 
 Where dwell the fair and good and dear 
 That worthy of my love appear; 
 And there I spend my quiet hours, 
 Like child among the vernal flowers. 
 So wonder not if thou shouldst find 
 The chill reserve, the vacant mind. 
 But deem me all the time sincere. 
 And know that thou hast naught to fear. 
 Left to myself I little feel, 
 Or else my kinder thoughts conceal, 
 And range in fairy solitudes. 
 Where never vain regret intrudes 
 To mar the peace which there is mine. 
 And which I wish were ever thine. 
 
38 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 "Our paths diverge — in separate ways 
 We two must pass the thorny maze, 
 Debarred from spending sunny hours 
 Together with the birds and flowers, 
 Till in the west the sinking sun 
 Reminded that the day was done, 
 And made us murmur that more fleet 
 Time should become when life is sweet. 
 
 "Be not discouraged — all around 
 Each faithful one is holy ground, 
 And messengers unseen are sent 
 To help us when our strength is spent. 
 The visible in which our thought 
 Is often centered is as naught 
 Compared with that immortal sphere 
 Whose confines reach us even here. 
 O valued friend, whom I must love 
 For what thou wouldst be, look above! 
 Within that cloudless ether blue 
 Once disappeared from human view 
 The Wondrous One to whom we raise 
 The holiest anthem of our praise. 
 He too, a pilgrim spent on earth 
 The years between his lowly birth 
 And that dread hour when on the tree 
 He suffered, died for thee and me, 
 In journeys sad and loneliness 
 More dreary far than words express; 
 Nowhere on earth a kindred mind 
 This man of sorrows e'er could find; 
 For who his thought could comprehend, 
 Or with his boundless spirit blend? 
 To God and man alike allied, 
 Alone he lived, alone he died. 
 The sympathy whose want he knew 
 He gives to all the ages through; 
 He comes to us our truest friend. 
 And bids us higher paths ascend. 
 He causes doubt and fear to cease, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 And fills us with his perfect peace, 
 
 He leads us gently by the hand, 
 
 Till on the heavenly mount we stand. 
 
 ' 'Our paths diverge, but they shall meet 
 Where brighter scenes our eyes shall greet; 
 Then, banished every fear of ill, 
 We shall our dearest hopes fulfil, 
 For in that realm of light afar 
 We shall be as the angels are, 
 And all the bliss on earth foretold 
 Shall realize a thousand fold. 
 Still if for human sympathy 
 And human friendship pure and free 
 Thy heart in secret often sighs 
 Till tears bedew thy gentle eyes, 
 Accept the humble gift I bring. 
 Assured that only truth I sing 
 When I confess how near allied 
 I feel to thee on friendship's side. 
 And how I wish, though years may fly. 
 Our mutual trust may never die, 
 But strengthen, till in heaven above 
 Our friendship ends in perfect love." 
 
 So sang my Muse in other days 
 In hope a tender soul to raise 
 From out the gloom that like a pall 
 Sometimes enfolds and chills us all. 
 She gained her end, and cheered the heart 
 Of one who took a transient part 
 In life and love, then bade adieu 
 To all we linger here to view. 
 
 Thus, Buttonwood, these thoughts I find 
 Far other things recall to mind. 
 That disconnected, yet allied, 
 Before my saddened fancy glide. 
 I think of thee, and quickly rise 
 Unnumbered scenes before my eyes. 
 At first all vague and strangely mixed, 
 
 39 
 
40 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 But soon distinct in order fixed; 
 Sweet pictures of my childish hours, 
 Enwreathed with mem'ry 's fairest flowers ; 
 And images of later years 
 When hope was yet remote from fears. 
 Yes, Buttonwood, how much in thee 
 I find that stirs fond memory 
 To paint her faded scenes anew. 
 And bring the hidden past to view, 
 To call up Hope's forgotten dream 
 When life was still a placid stream. 
 And arch the bow of promise high 
 Again across life's morning sky, 
 And cause once more Ambition's ear 
 Those yet delicious sounds to hear 
 Which youth imagined came afar 
 From glorious Fame's triumphal car. 
 But why again recount the years 
 Bedewed so oft with memory's tears? 
 No! be their tombs forever sealed. 
 And let me without murmur yield 
 To those decrees of destiny. 
 Which, ruling all, omit not me. 
 
 This life is but a changeful day, 
 And swift its moments glide away. 
 The merry morn delights our eyes 
 With dewy flowers ahd pearly skies, 
 The noon beholds us bent in toil, 
 Or surging in the world's turmoil; 
 Of all soon weary we repine, 
 And long to see the sun decline; 
 The evening comes with sombre sky 
 But finds us unprepared — to die! 
 Then why the rage for wealth and fame — 
 A heap of gold, a fleeting name? 
 Why struggle we so hard for what 
 We know can satisfy us not? 
 Better avoid the useless strife, 
 And turn us to a higher life, 
 
BUTTONWOOD. 41 
 
 And seek the things that give us peace, 
 And our unfading joys increase. 
 
 Dear Buttonwood, may peace be thine, 
 And light of hope within thee shine, 
 Be thine amid the fickle years 
 A happiness that never fears, 
 And may thy bowers be ever green 
 Till Time shall bring the closing scene, 
 And thy last inmate leaves thy door, 
 To seek thy shelter nevermore ! 
 
 But, Buttonwood, perhaps too long 
 I make this unpretentious song, 
 Which wanders like some lonely bird 
 That in the autumn may be heard 
 Repeating fragments of the tune 
 With which it welcomed smiling June, 
 Mingled with melancholy strains 
 Suggested by the dreary plains 
 And naked hills o'er which it flies, 
 And for their summer splendor sighs. 
 Yet hard it is to say farewell — 
 Sad word that like a funeral knell 
 Falls ever painful on the ear 
 And in the soul re-echoes drear. 
 Yet, I repeat; may peace be thine, • 
 And Joy for thee her garlands twine; 
 And in the future far and dim, 
 O cherish still a thought of him 
 Who often in the days to come. 
 Though destined far from thee to roam, 
 In fancy will revisit thee. 
 Still mindful of the sympathy 
 That bade him come a frequent guest, 
 To seek thy shade and grateful rest. 
 And should my life attain the years 
 The Psalmist crowns with toil and tears, 
 May I have gained a safe retreat 
 Like thine to rest my weary feet, 
 
42 BUTTONWOOD. 
 
 Where memory musing o'er the past 
 May give me pleasure to the last, 
 And win my mind from vacancy 
 By oft recurring thoughts of thee. 
 
ELLEMWOLD. 
 
 43 
 
 ELLEMWOLD. 
 
 O look upon that crystal sea, 
 Far in the dim futurity, 
 
 Where tempests never sweep, 
 But where the bright waves rise and fall, 
 Obedient to the zephyr's call, 
 
 Along the sunny deep. 
 
 In fond embrace its waters hold 
 The lovely isle of Ellemwold, 
 
 To hope forever dear. 
 Queen of all isles! its peaceful shore 
 A spring-like summer mantles o'er. 
 
 With blessings all the year. 
 
 The softest beams of orient light 
 
 Play round its wood-crowned mountain hight. 
 
 And o'er its fadeless bowers; 
 Its gentle skies the twilight through 
 Shed fragrant drops of pearly dew 
 
 Upon its sleeping flowers. 
 
 More beautiful than famed Cashmere, 
 Or Tempe's vale to poets dear, 
 
 Or Paradise of old, 
 Not Milton's muse from Eden sent 
 Nor all the powers to Raphael lent 
 
 Could picture Ellemwold. 
 
 O how my soul with wild delight 
 
 Was thrilled when first within my sight 
 
 This isle of beauty came, 
 For, lo, it was the bright ideal 
 Of all my dreams become the real, 
 
 Another, yet the same. 
 
44 ELLEMWOLD. 
 
 Ye dreams of beauty, love, and joy, 
 Not you shall wasting years destroy, 
 
 Or force to pass away; 
 Thought is eternal, and the mind 
 Its visions realized shall find 
 
 In forms without decay. 
 
 At last, before our longing eyes. 
 Our sweet ideals will arise 
 
 From out the graves of time; 
 All deathless then will meet our view 
 The beautiful and good and true, 
 
 The glorious and sublime. 
 
 The sympathy here vainly sought, 
 The love unchanging and unbought. 
 
 The friendship pure and warm, 
 As sweet realities will come 
 To beautify our future home, 
 
 And all in perfect form. 
 
 Alas! for him who fails to find 
 One candid, sympathizing mind 
 
 Or one true-hearted friend; 
 More lone he feels amid the crowd 
 Than where the tempest rages loud 
 
 And skies and waters blend. 
 
 For he who sails upon the main. 
 Or wanders on the desert plain. 
 
 Or in the pathless woods, 
 With Nature's self can converse hold, 
 And view her mystic scroll unrolled 
 
 Or watch her changing moods. 
 
 But isolation is the lot 
 
 Of him who seeks, all else forgot, 
 
 Truth's holy mount to climb; 
 He leaves the mob on Folly's plain. 
 And mounts the steep with toil and pain 
 
 To Virtue's hight sublime. 
 
ELLEMWOLD. 45 
 
 But in that silent, cloudless air, 
 Though beautiful are all things there, 
 
 His soul must dwell alone; 
 His cherished thoughts none understand. 
 Except the One whose gracious hand 
 
 Life's upward path has shown. 
 
 There yearnings strong beyond control 
 For sympathy rise in his soul. 
 
 And melancholy reigns. 
 While from the lower world upborne 
 A voice repeats in bitter scorn, 
 
 O fool, for all thy pains! 
 
 Oh, cruel fate ! when sundered far 
 From sympathy we wage a war 
 
 Against the powers allied 
 To circumvent each generous plan 
 Designed to lift the soul of man 
 
 From ignorance and pride. 
 
 Oh, cruel fate ! when whom we love 
 We strive to elevate above 
 
 This world's ignoble aims, 
 We find our plans misunderstood, 
 And evil rendered for our good. 
 
 And scorned our highest claims. 
 
 But this the cruelest of all 
 
 That can the human heart appall, 
 
 And rend it with despair, — 
 To have the friend we've trusted long 
 Turn on us with despite and wrong. 
 
 And hatred's visage wear. 
 
 But noble minds will hide their grief, 
 And from its tortures find relief 
 
 In hopes that constant rise 
 To cheer us in the gloomy night. 
 And bid us wait the morning light 
 
 That soon will greet our eyes. 
 
46 ELLEMWOLD. 
 
 Though faulted much, misunderstood, 
 And deemed devoid of every good. 
 
 They hold their faith the same, 
 That time will yet evolve the true. 
 And give all patient hearts their due. 
 
 And crown each higher aim. 
 
 But who so willingly a fool 
 
 As he who failing in life's school 
 
 His given task to learn. 
 Sighs then for death to give release, 
 Determined here to banish peace 
 
 And hinder hope's return? 
 
 Then in the gloomiest hour of life, 
 Imbittered by the ceaseless strife 
 
 With error and with wrong, 
 When on the billows thou art tossed 
 And all to fearful eyes is lost, 
 
 Let hope be doubly strong. 
 
 Let not the tempter force thy soul 
 To yield herself to his control. 
 
 But on thy faith rely; 
 Close all the avenues to sin. 
 And thou the victory shalt win, 
 
 And every foe shall fly. 
 
 Not here we see the final Cause 
 That urges Nature's rigid laws. 
 
 Nor comprehend the scheme, 
 But we believe the gracious plan 
 Includes the happiness of man. 
 
 Though hopeless all may seem. 
 
 We wait until the troubled maze 
 Of Being opens to our gaze, 
 
 And Life is understood; 
 Then will our wondering eyes perceive 
 What now reluctant we believe. 
 
 Our evil works for good. 
 
ELLEMWOLD. 
 
 The Cycle has at length revolved, 
 The Mystery at last is solved, 
 
 And all may read who can! 
 We'll take the cup of happiness, 
 And bid our lips foi^ever bless 
 
 The One who formed the plan. 
 
 Within this isle in safety rest 
 The sorrow-stricken and unblest, 
 
 Soothed by delights untold; 
 And youth may bloom but never die, 
 And hearts may love but never sigh 
 
 Within sweet Ellemwold. 
 
 This isle was formed for thee and me 
 In fairy beauty in that sea 
 
 Where tempests never come; 
 Far from displeasing sight or sound. 
 Embosomed in a vale is found 
 
 Our dreamland's happy home. 
 
 The bell which notes our golden years. 
 The bell which memory sadly hears, 
 
 Has for the last been tolled; 
 Then let us, ere the fatal Three 
 Shall cut the thread of destiny. 
 
 Seek out this Ellemwold. 
 
 Loose anchor from this dreary shore. 
 With life's sad wrecks all scattered o'er, 
 
 And spread our sails anew; 
 Hope crushed and bleeding never dies, — 
 Behold her from the dust arise, 
 
 Still to her purpose true. 
 
 Hushed is the tempest fierce and loud. 
 The light pours through the rifted cloud 
 
 In streams of molten gold; 
 The troubled ocean soon we'll leave, 
 Already near us we perceive 
 
 That tranquil sea foretold. 
 
 47 
 
48 ELLEMWOLD. 
 
 Let bitter memories of the past, 
 With all the darkness round us cast, 
 
 Into oblivion fly; — 
 Thanks for the glorious prospect now, — 
 The crown of joy awaits our brow. 
 
 Bright Ellemwold is nigh! 
 
 Now through the waves with rippling sound 
 Our frail bark nears the region crowned 
 
 With amaranthine bowers; 
 A few leagues more, and we shall land 
 Upon the beach's golden sand. 
 
 And Ellemwold be ours! 
 
 Blow stronger, O ye favoring gales. 
 With eager speed fill all our sails, 
 
 And bring us to the shore! 
 We touch — we land — with hearts elate 
 We enter Joy's uplifted gate 
 
 To pass without no more. 
 
AUTUMNAL, MUSINGS. 49 
 
 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 I, RADNOR. 
 
 I'm in old Radnor! 'Tis to me a place 
 Sacred above all others; here my eyes 
 
 First saw the light of heaven and the face 
 Of that best friend, my mother; here the skies 
 
 Seemed ever lovely, as amid the bowers 
 
 Of summer I beguiled my childish hours. 
 
 No other home on earth can be so sweet 
 As that in which our consciousness begins, 
 
 And love and hope in one existence meet 
 To share alike the good that either wins. 
 
 The brightest thoughts of life are treasured there, 
 
 And memory guards the trust with ceaseless care. 
 
 Radnor, though to some thy quiet vales 
 And rocky hills have little to commend. 
 
 And other lands are praised for brighter dales 
 And woodlands vast where grace and beauty blend, 
 
 1 fondly think of thee where'er I roam; 
 Thou art my natal ground, my earliest home. 
 
 Within thy groves and on thy meadows green 
 My infant feet first loitered, and my eyes 
 
 First learned to trace the beauties ever seen 
 In nature, and my mind first strove to rise 
 
 From out the visible and fleeting here 
 
 To Him who sits above the crystal sphere. 
 
50 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 Now after years of absence I've returned — 
 Years of far wandering and constant change — 
 
 To greet thee with the accents which I learned 
 From my loved parents. O how passing strange 
 
 The mingling of the old and new this morn, 
 
 As here I rest awhile where I was born! 
 
 O glorious morning! who can sing thy power 
 To waken life and hope within the soul, 
 
 Or paint the splendors of thy regal hour, 
 When nature yields once more to thy control? 
 
 An inspiration and a joy thou art 
 
 To all who love thee with a simple heart. 
 
 Thgi sun is up, and o'er the hilltop brown 
 His mellow beams fall slanting on the trees. 
 
 While here and there the leaves and thistle down 
 Whirl in the eddies of the south-west breeze. 
 
 It is in drear November, but the glow 
 
 Of Indian summer brightens all below. 
 
 A few long bars of red and purple cloud, 
 Deep fringed with gold, across the eastern sky 
 
 Lie motionless. The sun appears to crowd 
 Upon them with his disk of ruddy dye. 
 
 Which much enlarged, and freed from dazzling light. 
 
 And glare of summer, is a pleasing sight. 
 
 The haze of autumn fills the ambient air. 
 And vails all distant objects in its gray; 
 
 Along the streams that course the meadows bare 
 Faint forms of mist like sprites of midnight stray, 
 
 And, as I gaze, upon the breeze they rise, 
 
 And slowly vanish in the amber skies. 
 
 October's winds and rains soon stripped the wood 
 
 Of all the beauty that September gave 
 Of varied color; but the oaks withstood 
 
 The ruthless storms, their flaunting leaves to save. 
 They, with the cedars, lift their heads in air, 
 Like giant chiefs that all their armor wear. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 51 
 
 The flowers have drooped and died, the gentle race 
 That through the spring and summer cheered my 
 heart, 
 
 And through th' early autumn; now their place 
 Is vacant; late I saw the last depart. 
 
 Their wilted stems a mournful sight will lie, 
 
 Till by the snow they're buried from the eye. 
 
 II, THE BIRDS. 
 
 The sweet south-west has spent its playful force, 
 And all is silent now, save yonder rill 
 
 Whose waters murmur o'er their pebbly course. 
 A moment more — I hear the blue jay from the hill; 
 
 There on a tall and slender chestnut tree, 
 
 He hoarsely scolds, and wakes the echoes free. 
 
 The flicker and the nuthatch too I hear 
 From out the timber, and the wary crow 
 
 Circles around the corn-shocks standing near, 
 And early snow-birds by the roadside show 
 
 Their winter plumage, as they hunt the seeds 
 
 Scattered among the grass and fallen weeds. 
 
 How dear to me is every sight and sound 1 
 For these plumed denizens of woods and fields 
 
 Appear like cherished friends long lost now found. 
 And what a pleasure this reunion yields 
 
 Of bird and poet on this autumn day. 
 
 When dreamy thought resumes its olden sway. 
 
 The jay has flown, but here some robins come, 
 And perch upon the cedars at my right; 
 
 Save a sharp chirp, eaeh redbreast now is dumb. 
 Food is their only care, and soon their flight 
 
 They'll take to climes beyond stern winter's reign, 
 
 And greet the sun o'er many a southern plain. 
 
 Of all the birds that animate the grove, 
 
 Or cheer with melody the haunts of men, 
 Thou, Robin, art the one that most I love; 
 
52 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 And in the radiance of the spring-time, when 
 The whitened orchards scent the genial air, 
 No other music can with thine compare. 
 
 But, Robin, in the melancholy day 
 Of autumn must thy tuneful voice be still? 
 
 For Summer dead hast thou no fitting lay 
 To mingle with the dirges of the rill? 
 
 Ah, no! thy song's the echo of the Spring, 
 
 And only in her smile thy heart would sing. 
 
 That heart, perchance, is like my own this morn, 
 Filled with sad memories of the parting year. 
 
 And faded hopes that in the spring were born, 
 And decked my young life, then serene and clear, 
 
 Now often darker than the clouds that fly 
 
 Upon the storm that sweeps the wintry sky. 
 
 Yet sometimes when a sunny day appears. 
 Straying from out the spring into the fall, 
 
 And with its warmth wan drooping nature cheers, 
 I've heard thee, robin, drop thy plaintive call. 
 
 And fill the welkin with a joyous sound, 
 
 Forgetful of the desolation round. 
 
 And such a day methinks will this one be, 
 A day of sunshine to the eye and soul, 
 
 Bringing to view sweet scenes of infancy, 
 With hill and rock and stream and flowery knoll, 
 
 And leading forth those youthful forms once more 
 
 That played with me in merry days of yore. 
 
 m. THE LANDSCAPE. 
 
 The sun mounts higher, 'tis a fitting time, 
 The world shut out, to lose one's self in dreams 
 
 And gentle memories. But this hill I'll climb, 
 And view the landscape in the morning beams. 
 
 I've gained the top, and on a mossy stone 
 
 I set me down to gaze and muse alone. 
 
AUTUMNALi MUSINGS. 53 
 
 Before me in the sunlight far away 
 Southward the cultured fields of Newtown lie, 
 
 And eastward, gilded by the morning ray, 
 The rugged farms of Easttown greet mine eye; 
 
 In Chester this, in Delaware that is found, 
 
 Two counties that in rural joys abound. 
 
 I like the prospect, though the flowers are gone, 
 And nature to the careless eye is dead. 
 
 And all seems desolate to gaze upon; 
 For even in the naked boughs o'erhead 
 
 What graceful forms and lines I see revealed— 
 
 The beauties that their summer robes concealed. 
 
 Unlike the city with its noisome streets 
 And cramped up houses, is the scene I view. 
 
 Here the pleased fancy her own picture meets 
 In Nature's groups and action, form and hue. 
 
 O'er all the eye delighted wanders slow, 
 
 And notes each object in the morning glow. 
 
 The beautiful is here in earth and sky. 
 
 Appealing to each gazer's mind and heart, 
 
 And giving glimpses of the depths that lie, 
 And the vast heights unreached by limning art. 
 
 For who a single tree has yet portrayed. 
 
 Or with his brush the tints of morning laid? 
 
 rV. THE SEASONS. 
 
 I like, in all the seasons, every scene 
 
 Where traces of divinity are found. 
 Where man's work does not wholly intervene 
 
 To shut out every natural sight and sound: 
 I love the winter's drapery of snow. 
 The Spring's rich bloom, the Summer's fervid glow. 
 
 And thee I love, O June, whose pearly skies 
 And blushing roses charmed my boyish heart. 
 
 And now, in later years, whose azure eyes 
 Bewitch me yet; nor will it soon depart, 
 
54 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 The spell thou hast around me, thou most dear 
 Of all the daughters of the changing year. 
 
 Ah! once my fancies seemed realities, 
 As wandering in thy woods or by thy streams, 
 
 I listened to the murmur of thy bees, 
 Or saw at sunset hour thy magic beams 
 
 Transform the landscape to a glorious sight. 
 
 Like that where angels dwell in holy light. 
 
 But most I love the hazy autumn days, 
 When leaves are gayest and the later flowers 
 
 Still deck the meadows, and the yellow rays 
 Of sunshine glimmer through the woodland bowers, 
 
 And gaudy warblers from the Northland come, 
 
 Threading our forests on their passage home, — 
 
 The days when nature sits upon her throne. 
 In royal robes of richest purple dressed. 
 
 And wonders of magnificence are shown 
 Like those within the Islands of the Blest, — 
 
 These are my choice of all the retinue 
 
 Led by the sun his yearly circuit through. 
 
 How often did I, in the years long past, 
 
 Upon such days go forth to gratify 
 My taste for autumn scenery. Then I cast 
 
 Away all worldly feeling, putting by 
 The cares of life, and giving fancy wing. 
 Till like the blithe lark she would soar and sing. 
 
 Some chosen spots had I in those bright days. 
 Where frequently I rambled, and allowed 
 
 My soul to dwell with Nature and her ways 
 Admire, oblivious of the noisy crowd. 
 
 I well remember one — a meadow wide 
 
 Spreading along the forest's southern side. 
 
 A brook with alders skirted flowed along 
 The woodland, singing to the open day. 
 Or murmuring in the shade its endless song. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 55 
 
 It was a lonely spot, as some would say; 
 But who where nature smiles can lonely be 
 Lacks yet fit culture for society. 
 
 There, in the spring, the violets first were found, 
 There in the fall the latest asters stood, 
 
 There, culling blossoms, I have wandered round. 
 Or musing lingered in the shady wood. 
 
 O happy autumns, rich in golden dreams, 
 
 How sweetly sad to-day your memory seems! 
 
 V. MEDITATION. 
 
 Full many an hour beneath some spreading tree 
 Have I reclined without a single care. 
 
 And there consigned myself to reverie, 
 With fancies formless as the misty air, 
 
 Till like a leaf upon the waters tossed, 
 
 In thought's infinity I wandered lost. 
 
 And as I lay under the sheltering tree, 
 
 Through the cleft branches I would turn mine eye, 
 And gaze upon that silent mystery. 
 
 The blue and boundless ocean of the sky. 
 Whose ships are clouds that sail the earth around, 
 A restless fleet that to no port is bound. 
 
 A silent mystery the sky I call. 
 
 Yet silence has a meaning, and T felt. 
 As long I gazed upon the azure, all 
 
 That can the heart with gentle speeches melt 
 To tenderness; then yearned I for the pure 
 And good that everlastingly endure. 
 
 What are these longings?— all this strange unrest, 
 
 This turning to the Infinite alone? — 
 That have their place in every feeling breast, 
 
 And, like the billow, make continual moan? 
 Is it the plaining of a homeless soul. 
 Exiled to time and under earth's control? 
 
56 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 Returning then to self and consciousness, 
 
 I'd find the mysteries of Being rise, 
 And eager on my startled spirit press 
 
 For their solution: I would close my eyes, 
 Till reason, weary of the fruitless toil. 
 Upon herself would hopelessly recoil. 
 
 Glad then I'd look upon the world without. 
 Away from the invisible — look on the face 
 
 Of smiling Nature: she without a doubt 
 Was real; she, respondent to the place 
 
 Of sense and feeling, gave to me delight, 
 
 Pilling my soul with scenes of beauty bright. 
 
 And now I come these visions to renew. 
 To live the dead but unforgotten Past again. 
 
 O'erhead the morning sky is still as blue. 
 As pure and balmy is the air, as when 
 
 I courted nature in the olden time, 
 
 And hope's wild bells rang out their sweetest chime. 
 
 Our day-dreams are the bright effulgence cast 
 Down from the summits of perpetual joy. 
 
 Which we shall scale triumphantly at last, 
 Forever purified from earth's alloy; 
 
 Then mysteries so long from all concealed 
 
 In light ineffable will stand revealed. 
 
 VI. NATURE. 
 
 I was the youngest of our family 
 
 By near ten years. The rest to manhood grown, 
 Or womanhood, could have no sympathy 
 
 With childhood's reveries; so left alone, 
 Companionship I sought in field and grove 
 With Nature, whom I early learned to love. 
 
 I wandered with my charmer everywhere. 
 Morn, noon, and eve, in sunshine or in shade; 
 
 And in her cloud-roofed temple of the air 
 Homage sincere my eager spirit paid, 
 
AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 57 
 
 Till reverence for her and silent praise 
 Became the worship of my early days. 
 
 But I was formed for gentleness and peace, 
 And only with her smiles could nature charm; 
 
 Her frowns made all my admiration cease, 
 And filled my breast with tremors of alarm: 
 
 With dread I saw the lurid lightnings fly, 
 
 As the loud thunder shook the earth and sky. 
 
 Since then I've loved such elemental strife, 
 (Oft custom makes us love the thing once feared,) 
 
 I've felt a joy when furious storms were rife. 
 Or horrid War his bloody standard reared, 
 
 When the red bolts of heaven to earth were hurled, 
 
 Or deadly cannon startled half the world. 
 
 Filled with her inspiration oft I sketched 
 Bright pictures of my future, lovelier far 
 
 Than all the autumn landscape she had stretched 
 Before me; crowned with amaranth the car 
 
 Of fame I mounted, and was named and praised 
 
 By countless thousands who with wonder gazed. 
 
 And thus began my dream-life, and the wild 
 And beauteous fancies that the poets bind 
 
 To word and measure came to me a child. 
 Filling with admiration all my mind; 
 
 And scarcely knowing yet or verse or rhyme, 
 
 I joyed in all things lovely or sublime. 
 
 VII, THE MORAL. 
 
 This is the lesson that I daily learn, 
 As I behold the world of constant change: 
 
 Never despair, but from the darkness turn. 
 And let thy spirit in the future range, 
 
 Then olden joys from out their graves will rise. 
 
 And golden sunshine cover all the skies. 
 
 For him who to his better self is true, 
 The brighter future in the present dawns; 
 
58 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 Instead of clouds the heavens serene and blue, 
 
 Instead of waste green meads and flowery lawns 
 Await his smile, if he but dry his tears, 
 Rise in his strength, and banish all his fears. 
 
 The probable is mine and all beside 
 That man has e'er accomplished, even more 
 
 Than the most daring of our race has tried 
 I may attain, and reach the farthest shore 
 
 Of truth and joy, there make my anchor fast, 
 
 And of Columbuses become the first and last. 
 
 Mine is eternity in which to work 
 
 Out all the good a finite being can. 
 No failures, then, nor wily foes that lurk 
 
 For my destruction shall my plan 
 E'er thwart, or fill my soul with craven fears; 
 Light springs from darkness, heaven from sorrow's 
 tears. 
 
 Vm. CONSOLATION. 
 
 There is an inspiration in the scenes 
 Of genial nature that oft fills the soul, 
 
 Dispelling every cloud that intervenes 
 Between ourselves and the receding goal 
 
 Of expectation. Light again returns, 
 
 And in the fresh pursuit our ardor burns. 
 
 How often when with weary, downcast mind, 
 I looked in vain for Hope's sweet, sunny face, 
 
 Have I the scenes of men left far behind. 
 And sought the silence of some lonely place. 
 
 Deep hidden in the shadows of the grove. 
 
 Where free from all intrusion I could rove. 
 
 Years, years ago, on the far distant hills 
 Inclosing Somerset with oak and pine. 
 
 Ere yet the gentians by the meadow rills 
 Yielded their azure to the cold malign, 
 
 I took my way in bitterness of thought 
 
 And the seclusion of the woodlands sought. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 59 
 
 As here and there my aimless steps I bent 
 
 Amid the trees luxuriantly that grew, 
 Soon was I on their graceful forms intent, 
 
 And quiet pleasure from their beauty drew, 
 Till all forgetful of each gloomy care, 
 I lived in golden light and balmy air. 
 
 And as the sunshine glimmered through the screen 
 Of many-colored leaves touched by the frost, 
 
 A little bird enraptured by the scene, 
 A reminiscence of the Eden lost, 
 
 Burst forth into a song that seemed to be 
 
 A prophecy of endless peace to me. 
 
 We never know what trials we can bear 
 Until we feel their weight upon the soul, 
 
 Then, though in anguish, we a smile can wear, 
 Like water sparkling o'er a rocky shoal, 
 
 And in appearance even gladsome be. 
 
 When we are plunged in deepest misery. 
 
 Full many a trouble that had been my dread, 
 Though only possible to me it seemed, 
 
 When to it I by destiny was led. 
 Was finally of little moment deemed; 
 
 So facile are our natures to conform 
 
 Themselves unto the winter and the storm. 
 
 Brave spirits are elastic, and they rise 
 
 Above the cruel strokes of destiny; 
 Aspiring ever unto cloudless skies. 
 
 From fell despair to winsome hope they flee, 
 And find a home within that beauteous land 
 Themselves create upon life's barren strand. 
 
 IX. ASPIRATION. 
 
 Why must our hopes outrun fulfilment? We 
 Are forced to gaze upon the un attained, 
 
 Like mariners hurled by the angry sea 
 Upon a naked rock, where they have gained 
 
60 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 A respite brief from death, while in the skies 
 Mirage of fertile shores deceive their eyes. 
 
 We live false lives — Society enslaves 
 How many souls whose natural heritage 
 
 Is freedom, and the one who fearless braves 
 The cruel tyrant, and redeems the age 
 
 From social chains, will gain himself a crown 
 
 More precious far than Valor's red renown. 
 
 We wear our fetters, and we ceaseless toil 
 
 Our artificial wants to satisfy. 
 We murmur daily at our prison toil, 
 
 Yet hug our chains until at last we die. 
 What good accomplished? — Oh, how vain 
 Is human life spent all for sensuous gain! 
 
 Better to walk in Nature's narrow way. 
 And give the body only that much care 
 
 Which rugged health demands from day to day, 
 With simplest food its constant waste repair, 
 
 The plainest garments choose that art can name 
 
 To shield from cold and cover up our shame. 
 
 To eat, to drink, to dress with barbarous taste, 
 To make a formal call, to bandy words 
 
 Of trivial politeness, or to waste 
 Our hours of leisure on the restless herds 
 
 Of idlers that infest each social scene, — 
 
 Is scarce a reasonable life, I ween. 
 
 More than the body is the mind of man, 
 And therefore should receive the greater care, 
 
 To know, to speak, to act the best we can. 
 Ills unavoidable with hope to bear, — 
 
 For this let us arouse our sluggish powers. 
 
 And soon or late the victory is ours. 
 
 A little cot beneath the stately trees, 
 
 Thatshield from Summer's heat and Winter's storm, 
 A quiet nook where simple life with ease 
 
AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 61 
 
 Can unto Nature's various moods conform, 
 Is all man needs for home-like shelter here, 
 Where he can pass secure the changing year. 
 
 True industry is that which counts the cost 
 
 Of all things it endeavors to secure, 
 And dreads lest precious moments should be lost 
 
 In seeking riches that cannot endure; 
 The things that never peri sh are its care. 
 Wisdom divine and Virtue ever fair. 
 
 Our soul's ideals let us keep in view. 
 For they are harbingers of golden days, 
 
 Inviting us to force our passage through 
 The present world's entangled thorny maze, 
 
 And in the glorious future shall appear, 
 
 The good and beautiful we see not here. 
 
 Even on the earth do Wisdom's children find 
 A foretaste of the heaven for which they sigh. 
 
 Whose peace refreshing fills the child-like mind. 
 Whose joys inspiring all around them lie; 
 
 Life's precious chalice is our own to fill 
 
 With bitterness or sweetness as we will. 
 
 Our lives are linked with Nature, and all things 
 Created claim our praise or sympathy, 
 
 And every one with us an offering brings 
 Unto the altar of a common destiny; 
 
 They work for good to us, and in the end 
 
 Their immortality with ours may blend. 
 
 Man is the center of creation, all for him 
 Exists, and he for God, whose perfect scheme, 
 
 Set forth in types to us and shadows dim. 
 Appears more wondrous than the wildest dream; 
 
 And as a diamond to a mound of earth. 
 
 So man to suns is of superior worth. 
 
 For him the Christ upon Mount Calvary 
 
 Poured out the precious blood that saves from sin, 
 Enduring shame and untold agony. 
 
62 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 That life eternal faithful souls might win, 
 And crowns of righteousness henceforth belong 
 And endless rapture to the blood-washed throng. 
 
 X. CHILDHOOD. 
 
 It is a common notion of mankind 
 That life is sweetest, happiest in its spring, 
 
 Because in looking back we call to mind 
 Instinctively the pleasures, and we bring 
 
 Ourselves to thinking that the pains were none, 
 
 And into self-deception thus we run. 
 
 I cannot always trust the tales that come 
 From Memory's lips. Schooled by Romance, 
 
 She speaks, and shadowy forms long dumb 
 Burst into witching song or lead the dance: 
 
 Changed to a vista of delight appears 
 
 The thorny path of far receded years. 
 
 Yet I can truly say of Childhood's morn. 
 That its fair scenes were what they now appear. 
 
 For many a lovely rose without a thorn, 
 Was mine, and many a hope without a fear; 
 
 And battling now to free the souls of men, 
 
 And downcast oft, I'd be a child again. 
 
 My first years spent in Radnor, then to thee, 
 Tredyffrin, came I in the spring-time mild, 
 
 With simple heart that joyed in all things free, 
 A lover of the beautiful and wild. 
 
 Confiding, hopeful, watching Nature's ways, 
 
 Unlearned in books, those friends of later days. 
 
 I well remember when my father moved. 
 With mother, sister, and our household goods, 
 
 And me his youngest and most dearly loved, 
 To our new home beside the chestnut woods. 
 
 It stood half-hidden by two cherry trees, 
 
 Whose blossoms scented then the vernal breeze. 
 
AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 63 
 
 The house looked south, its walls were mica slate, 
 The front was narrow, on the eastern side 
 
 A long piazza faced the garden gate: 
 A rural manse, where resting place for pride 
 
 Was found not, but content could come 
 
 And have beneath its roof a genial home. 
 
 In that abode where want and luxury, 
 With all their evils were alike unknown. 
 
 With food and clothing in sufficiency. 
 And needed care to mind and morals shown, 
 
 I passed my boyhood till, become a man. 
 
 In the wide world life's struggle I began. 
 
 XI. RAMBLES. 
 
 Fair and romantic was the neighborhood, 
 Varied with hills and dales on every side; 
 
 Far-stretching north and east the forest stood 
 Of oak and chestnut in their sylvan pride. 
 
 While laurels clustering thick upon the ground, 
 
 Or arching o'er the winding paths were found. 
 
 Here warblers of gay tint and sprightly song 
 Came numerous in the Summer, Spring or Fall, 
 
 Making the woodlands vocal all day long 
 With joy's wild note or love's sweet plaintive call, 
 
 While from his covert oft the rabbit strayed, 
 
 Or whirring pheasant darted from the shade. 
 
 To me these woods seemed full of mysteries. 
 As I explored their depths with curious awe, 
 
 Or lay upon the moss beneath the trees, 
 And pondered silently on all I saw. 
 
 The beautiful I sought in all around, 
 
 And what I sought in everything I found. 
 
 Soon in my lonely rambles I had grown 
 Familiar with each flower and tree and bird, 
 
 Each moss-grown rock and even every stone, 
 And all the varied sounds in woodland heard, 
 
64 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 Prom the faint murmur of the hidden rill, 
 To the loud boom of grouse upon the hill. 
 
 All these by sight or sound, if not by name, 
 I knew, for I was then in books unread, 
 
 And ignorant of jargons that men claim 
 As science, which, from many a foolish head. 
 
 Issue in learned words or pompous phrase 
 
 That fill the thoughtless hearer with amaze. 
 
 I learned to use the pencil, and acquired 
 A measure of the skill of limning art 
 
 To reproduce the forms and colors I admired. 
 Preserving thus their loveliness in part. 
 
 And in the effort gained increase of sight 
 
 To view the handiwork of God aright. 
 
 Thus was my heart attuned to harmony 
 With the great world of Being, as I stood 
 
 Upon the threshold of its mystery; 
 And looking upon every work as good. 
 
 That power divine had wrought, soon was I led 
 
 To know and love great Nature's Source and Head. 
 
 Call ye such life the idler's? I reply 
 That this was my best training, and the way 
 
 To grow in strength and fairest symmetry. 
 The seeds of all good purposes that lay 
 
 Within my soul were started, took firm root, 
 
 And bore in after years their wonted fruit. 
 
 Who is the idler but the one who toils 
 To gather wealth he needs not? — thus to fill 
 
 His armory of life with golden foils 
 To fight a foe he never sees nor will. 
 
 He wastes his time with things he does not use, 
 
 But stores them up for others to abuse. 
 
 XII. A SUBJECT. 
 
 I want a subject — one to serve as text 
 For numerous stanzas. I can finish one 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 65 
 
 Without a special theme; but then the next 
 And sundry more cannot be easily done 
 Without a subject. I shall look around, 
 For some suggestive thing can soon be found. 
 
 Byron, I think, — I do not read his verse, 
 But saw this in an extract — somewhere speaks.. 
 
 In the Childe Harold or a poem worse, 
 Of certain poets that were surely freaks 
 
 Of nature, for they never rhymed nor brought 
 
 To light in any shape a single thought. 
 
 Such poets had no pressing need, I ween 
 Of subjects or of objects for their muse, — 
 
 No need the well-raked fields of thought to glean. 
 Or into withered leaves fresh life infuse. 
 
 For one and all silence they had alone, 
 
 And but for Byron they had died unknown. 
 
 If this be true — I rather doubt it though — 
 
 How grandly eloquent may often be 
 The poetry of silence, and the flow 
 
 Of human speech when words are still! To me 
 Has Nature been less partial: I must write. 
 Erase, rewrite, before my lines are dight. 
 
 I've ended the last stanza with a word, 
 
 A monosyllable, now obsolete. 
 Of which the reader may have ne\er heard: 
 
 I tacked it on to make the rhyme complete. 
 "Dight to prepare" says good authority; 
 This bit of information I give free. 
 
 Perhaps the reader does not like my style. 
 Or thinks the things expressed are rather trite. 
 
 If so, please pity me before you smile; 
 It is no common toil for me to write: 
 
 I am no poet born; nor constant well 
 
 The founts of song like waters in the dell. 
 
 I'm working at my best ability, 
 And if you're wearied just upon the start, 
 
G6 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 Then put my rugged verse aside: you're free, 
 
 And so am I; and I for my own part 
 Will labor on, and do the best I may. 
 The choice is mine — I'll write for many a day. 
 
 But then I want a subject — one that's named. 
 
 'Tis hard to write without a special theme; 
 My Pegasus as yet has not been tamed; 
 
 And void of subject rather odd may seem 
 My cantos. I'll not court a silent muse. 
 Rather the amaranth of fame I'd lose. 
 
 Yes, I am somewhat choice about a name; 
 
 One neither very short nor very long 
 Will serve my purpose best. Rather too tame 
 
 Are monosyllables for stately song, 
 And hard to manage are long words like that 
 Which two lines back comes in so smooth and pat. 
 
 "There's nothing in a name," so Shakespeare said, 
 But I am forced to think the poet lied, 
 
 Or if you deem me by that phrase ill bred, 
 Please change it then to this: the point's denied. 
 
 There's magic in a name: most men are known 
 
 To reverence names more than Jehovah's throne. 
 
 There's magic in a name, and with the crowd 
 Name and idea, word and thing are one. 
 
 Go to the rabble, call the charm aloud; 
 How quickly to the potent sound they run. 
 
 Ring but the changes — every act you do 
 
 Is godlike, every lie you tell is true! 
 
 There's magic in a name: the simple sound 
 Of cherished ones by demagogues is used 
 
 To lead our thoughtless masses, and is found 
 A power for ill. Freedom is thus abused: 
 
 Thousands bewitched by this word have been known 
 
 To blast their country's welfare and their own. 
 
 There's magic in a name: go turn your eyes 
 
 To sunny France, pronounce Napoleon:* 
 
 * Written when Louis Napoleon was Emperor. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 67 
 
 From heart to heart the thrilling' echo flies 
 
 Of that by which an empire has been won! 
 Yes, millions by the wonder-working power 
 Of that great name are governed every hour. 
 
 Am I digressing from my theme? Well then, 
 I beg the reader's pardon, — 'tis a fault 
 
 Common to all who use the tongue or pen, 
 And few there are that care at once to vault 
 
 Upon their topic; they must wander round, 
 
 View it askance, and map the neighboring ground. 
 
 Besides, I have not yet the subject named 
 Which I at starting should have had in mind ; 
 
 Then, after all, let me not much be blamed; 
 I'll reach my text in time: so reader kind, 
 
 Bear with my past deflections, and I'll make 
 
 But few in future for the Muse's sake. 
 
 XIII, SAINT DAVID'S CHURCH. 
 
 Below me south upon a small plateau. 
 Sheltered by cedars and begirt with tombs. 
 
 Stands a stone house to which the people go 
 At stated times to worship. It assumes 
 
 Too much, I think, to call this ancient pile 
 
 A church. Such speech would force a Paul to smile. 
 
 Yet church it is in theologic phrase. 
 
 And I shall not delay to argue here 
 Its impropriety. In modern days 
 
 But little meaning have such terms, I fear, 
 And with the prejudiced, untutored mob. 
 To change a name is oft a bootless job. 
 
 Ho then, I have a subject! This gray house 
 Will do. 'Tis old, suggestive, and I think 
 
 That from its solitude not e'en a mouse 
 Would prove to me an unimportant link 
 
 For binding verse with verse, and giving tone 
 
 To homely poetizing like my own. 
 
68 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 "Saint David's Church, " the subject of my song-, 
 Though who Saint David was I scarcely know. 
 
 To some old calendar he may belong, 
 A monk, perchance, that lived long years ago, 
 
 And saving grace, which only faith can gain, 
 
 Sought in strange words and self-inflicted pain. 
 
 And yet on second thought I can recall 
 That this one was the patron saint of Wales, 
 
 Who in that land of mountains outran all 
 His fellow pilgrims, who to him were snails. 
 
 And he a hare, unlike the fabled one. 
 
 Who sped, and slept not till the race was done. 
 
 Throughout the first and golden age of truth, 
 When pardon was proclaimed by heaven-sent men, 
 
 And when the Church of Christ in spotless youth 
 Was clothed in robes of regal beauty, then 
 
 The Christians all were saints, as we may learn 
 
 If we to some of Paul's epistles turn. 
 
 But men loved innovation; and the form. 
 Simple and pure, in which the gospel came 
 
 From God by inspiration, and gushed warm 
 From human lips touched by the heavenly flame, 
 
 Was soon corrupted; then by priests were made 
 
 Worship and creeds of every style and shade. 
 
 And sects have multiplied in Christendom 
 Each with a different form and dialect. 
 
 That when we try to count them and to come 
 At each one's doctrine, we are forced direct 
 
 To think of Babel, that most ancient town 
 
 Whose tale is in the Bible handed down. 
 
 Old Church! of fragments from the hard, dark rock 
 Thy massive walls were built, now hoar with time 
 
 And overrun with ivy. Thou the shock 
 Of eight score winters hast withstood sublime. 
 
 Time has not marred thee — he will let thee stand 
 
 For aye — thy danger is from human baud. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 69 
 
 The spirit of conformity is rife , 
 
 And bold in these degenerate days; 
 The old is little reverenced, and the strife 
 
 Is for new fashions, while the simple ways 
 And customs that our fathers dearly prized 
 By supercilious upstarts are despised. 
 
 And here I see thy peril. Fane antique; 
 
 Thy simple architecture does not make 
 A fitting theater for those who seek 
 
 To show their gold and satin, and they'll take 
 Umbrage at all thy quaintness, and the smell 
 Of ancient timber, and — but time will tell. 
 
 Yes, time will tell thy fate, but here I say. 
 
 If poet's imprecation can avail, 
 The impious hand that from thy stones away 
 The first one tries to tear shall instant fail 
 Of all its ill-used strength, and palsied fall 
 To warn all desecraters of thy wall. 
 
 They tell us that in Queen Anne's glorious reign, 
 
 When England by repeated victories 
 Became the mistress of the stormy main, 
 
 And arbitress of Europe's destinies, 
 The Church that Harry Tudor built in state 
 Gave thee a service of communion plate. 
 
 They tell us, too, that in the troubled days 
 When our foi^efathers, scorning tyranny, 
 
 Began with strong and zealous hands to raise 
 A temple to their goddess Liberty, 
 
 The soldiers stripped thee of each window bar. 
 
 And of the lead made bullets for the war. 
 
 And Superstition has around thee thrown 
 The mysteries of his unearthly power, 
 
 And many a sheeted specter has been known 
 To haunt thy shades at midnight's silent hour, 
 
 And from their graves upraised the coffined dead 
 
 Have filled lone travellers with speechless dread. 
 
70 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 Nor is thy name as yet unknown to song: 
 The bard who wrote the legend of a race 
 
 Now gone, and who will be remembered long 
 For graceful verse, once came and took a place 
 
 Among thy worshipers, then sang of thee 
 
 In numbers of heart-touching melody. 
 
 All this I pray, old house, may serve to keep 
 Thy ancient structure from the Vandal hand 
 
 Of Progress, that disturbs the quiet sleep 
 Of death, and overthrows throughout 'the land 
 
 The monuments our predecessors reared 
 
 To make their days remembered and revered. 
 
 Old Church! within thy venerable walls 
 What fearful struggles of the heart have been, 
 
 What wrestling of the soul with Duty's calls 
 To leave the paths of waywardness and sin. 
 
 Oft Truth resisted hopeless went her way 
 
 To meet the stubborn in the Judgment day. 
 
 Yet oft in tender mood she found the soul 
 Abased and helpless, waiting for its Lord, 
 
 Willing to yield itself to his control, 
 And waiting only the inviting word. 
 
 She raised the humbled ones with hand divine. 
 
 And led them forth in righteousness to shine. 
 
 O tell me not of famous victories. 
 Won on the bloody field of carnal strife. 
 
 Where frantic men ambitious chiefs to please. 
 Upon the shrinking earth pour out their life. 
 
 And bitter cries from stricken homes resound 
 
 That one vain brow with glory may be crowned. 
 
 The grandest triumphs that the earth has known, 
 In their results the most important far. 
 
 Where things more precious than an empire's throne 
 Have been the object of a desperate war. 
 
 Are those upon the heart's great battle-field 
 
 When Satan unto Christ is forced to yield. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 11 
 
 XIV. THE CRITICS. 
 
 Thy name, O Church, may all those critics please 
 Who often on us luckless poets fall, 
 
 And, reckless of our protestations, seize 
 Our limping verses, and then furious call 
 
 The public to behold, while tooth and nail 
 
 They bite and claw us till their spirits fail. 
 
 I've small regard for critics as a class; 
 
 They are a whimsical, uncertain race. 
 And foolish judgments many times they pass 
 
 While sitting in their self-appointed place: 
 They wield their pens to eulogize or kill, 
 As their digestion may be good or ill. 
 
 Still with them all I here would compromise; 
 
 My verse is homely both in sense and sound; 
 A pleasant name to please their ears and eyes 
 
 Will prove to me no common vantage ground; 
 Charmed by a title they will praise indeed 
 The contents of a book they do not read. 
 
 So not with harsh complaining I would fall 
 In turn upon these often useful men. 
 
 They serve as advertisers when they call 
 The public eye upon us, and we then 
 
 Commit to time whatever we have done. 
 
 That wisely judges who has lost or won. 
 
 I sent some stanzas of a poem to a friend. 
 For his opinion of my humble muse, 
 
 That I might learn what lines I ought to mend; 
 Light taskl Such grateful service to refuse 
 
 I never knew a critic howe'er learned, 
 
 So I had much advice posthaste returned. 
 
 In years agone this friend had greatly praised 
 
 The feeble lines my boyish fancy traced. 
 And now my hopes in consequence were raised 
 
72 AUTUMNAL, MUSINGS. 
 
 To hear again his plaudit. All misplaced 
 Had been my confidence, for he the plan, 
 Style, measure, all condemned — the fickle man! 
 
 Awhile I felt disheartened, and my muse, 
 With drooping wing, hid in the laurelled side 
 
 Of old Parnassus, and I thought to lose 
 My cherished bird, so humbled was her pride. 
 
 Next day the shock was over, and she rose 
 
 And sang defiance to all carping foes. 
 
 But wherefore, ask you, was this change of mind 
 
 In one so ready once to offer praise? 
 The reason here, dear reader, you will find: 
 
 I'd changed entire the fashion of my lays; 
 Careless of pausing at a rhyme, I'd run 
 The sentence onward till the thought was done. 
 
 Of course I often missed that nice effect 
 
 Which springs from pairing lines in cadence sweet, 
 Whose servile meaning, as we must expect. 
 
 Contracts or else expands so many feet, 
 That like a seesaw teeter up and down. 
 And please with trivial smoothness all the town. 
 
 XV. COWPER AND MILTON. 
 
 I own I do not like that kind of verse, • 
 So common in our day, in which the sound 
 
 Has little sense, or, what is tenfold worse, 
 In which the sheerest nonsense oft is found. 
 
 The writers think the only things required 
 
 Are vapid thoughts in jingling words attired. 
 
 Not such was thine, O Cowper, when the Task, 
 By gentle lips inspired, flowed from thy pen. 
 
 Thou all that taste refined should ever ask. 
 Or truth severe but just demand from men, 
 
 Did'st in thy clouded years, wreathe into lines 
 
 Whose beauty like the golden Autumn shines. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 73 
 
 We love to rove with thee o'er Olney's hills, 
 And with thy playful spirit converse hold, 
 
 We love thy song attuned to Summer rills, 
 Or to the breeze that sways the forest old. 
 
 Thou showest Nature till, in sweet accord, 
 
 We join thy praises of her glorious Lord. 
 
 And while our noble English speech shall stand, 
 And men shall love the gentle and the pure, 
 
 Thy verses still will charm in many a land, 
 And thy sad story and thy fame endure. 
 
 No need of bronze or marble graved by art; 
 
 Thy name will be enshrined in many a heart. 
 
 Nor thine, O Milton, prince of epic song. 
 Whose daring genius, bursting every bound. 
 
 Did to the heaven of heavens her flight prolong, 
 And sweep the farthest realm of chaos round. 
 
 A name more lustrous or a loftier mind 
 
 Among the sons of earth we fail to find. 
 
 As one who lived before the judgment throne, 
 With duty thou didst measure all thy days. 
 
 Nor think to call thy matchless gifts thine own. 
 But used them ever to the Master's praise. 
 
 With error waging a relentless strife. 
 
 Thy noblest poem was thine earnest life. 
 
 The more we know of thee the more we love 
 Thy pure exalted nature. Thou no part 
 
 Hadst with ignoble aims, but raised above 
 The vain and fleeting, with unequalled art 
 
 Didst picture Virtue till with fond desire 
 
 To climb her flowery heights we all aspire. 
 
 Thy muse descended from the mount of song 
 To set thy peoi^le, soul and body, free, 
 
 And most indignant at thy country's wrong. 
 Her thrilling words rang out for liberty; 
 
 Till feared and hated by tyrannic crowds, 
 
 She took her wondrous flight beyond the clouds. 
 
74 AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 
 
 Thine eyes, though outwardly so fair and bright, 
 Were dark within to noontide's piercing ray; 
 
 Thy spirit, filled with Truth's eternal light, 
 Shone forth resplendent as the orb of day. 
 
 Poor, blind, forsaken, in thy latter years. 
 
 With hope thou dwelt, apart from grief and fears. 
 
 Two densely crowded centuries have fled, 
 Since thou wast given to the earth's embrace. 
 
 And countless magnates to oblivion led, 
 Who dreamed unfading bay s their brows would grace; 
 
 But thou art still beloved of deathless fame. 
 
 That higher through the years exalts thy name. 
 
 And in the glories of that better day. 
 When Truth shall reign upon the earth supreme 
 
 No grander muse than thine shall verse essay. 
 Or wed to numbers a sublimer theme: 
 
 Calliope shall come to crown thee then, 
 
 Great Milton, king of poets and of men. 
 
 XVI. THE GRAVEYARD. 
 
 I leave awhile the hilltop, and the long 
 
 Declivity descending, soon I stand 
 Within the ancient churchyard. Here my song 
 
 In sadder accents on the silent land 
 Shall dwell, and from the stores of memory bring 
 Such thoughts of loved ones lost as here must spring. 
 
 What deep despondency fills all my soul. 
 As I look round me on these numerous graves ! 
 
 Oh Death! thou end of earth, thou dreaded goal 
 Of every worldly prospect, nothing saves 
 
 Us from thy grasp, thou curse upon our race. 
 
 For all must sink into thy cold embrace. 
 
 With terror and with loathing I must turn 
 From thy corruption — all that thou hast been 
 
 To fallen mortals, and my heart must burn 
 Against thy soui^ce malignant — human sin. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 75 
 
 What beauty poets in thy hideous mien 
 Have oft professed to find I have not seen. 
 
 But for the prospect of the radiant shore 
 That lies beyond thy dark and chilling stream, 
 
 And cheers us as we gaze the waters o'er 
 With faith's far-seeing eye, no one would dream 
 
 That thou hast been ordained the only way 
 
 To joys unending in the realms of day. 
 
 So after all our loathing and our dread. 
 We may prepare to meet thee with the trust 
 
 That thou art not eternal — that the dead 
 Shall yet be rescued, and from out the dust 
 
 Shall rise through Him of God and man the Son, 
 
 Who met thee in thy realm, and victory won. 
 
 Just here I see a little, grassy mound, 
 The resting place of some once playful child 
 
 That in the breast of mother earth has found 
 A refuge from the tempests dark and wild 
 
 That sweep from heaven like ministers of wrath, 
 
 And overturn our idols in their path. 
 
 How calm the loved ones sleep who pass away 
 Before the blush of morning leaves their sky; 
 
 They view the field of life at early day. 
 But ere the hour of labor comes they die; 
 
 Not theirs the weariness and burning noon, 
 
 Yet theirs the rich reward, the workman's boon. 
 
 For little children dead I would not mourn. 
 
 For my theology foi^bids to think 
 That they in dying any loss have borne 
 
 Whose innocence is the endearing link 
 That binds us to the angels. Each here lies, 
 And waits the wondrous day when all shall rise. 
 
 That day perchance is not far distant now 
 
 Which shall the wayward tribes of earth appall, 
 Compelling them in trembling fear to bow 
 
76 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 To Him whose voice shall unto judgment call, 
 And whose loud trump shall bring from sea and land 
 The dead before his glorious throne to stand. 
 
 The books shall show unto the startled gaze 
 Of conscience every deed of good or ill 
 
 Done in the body, in those earthly days 
 When man was left to wander forth at will. 
 
 And his own way or God's to freely choose, 
 
 And life eternal seize or else refuse. 
 
 On their dread pages secrets of the heart 
 In large and flaming type will be revealed; 
 
 The motives that to character impart 
 Its hue and texture will, though long concealed. 
 
 Be known to all, and judgment will be passed 
 
 On every human action first and last. 
 
 Ah! who will pass the ordeal when the claim 
 Of justice and the curses of the law are known? 
 
 When every evil impulse, every deed of shame 
 Demands a life before the great, white Throne? 
 
 The soul that sinneth it shall surely die 
 
 Will be the verdict of both earth and sky. 
 
 The book of life will then be opened too. 
 Disclosing names of those that shelter sought 
 
 Beneath the banner of the conquering Jew, 
 Who for the humble great deliverance wrought. 
 
 And o'er the powers of darkness victory won, 
 
 Showing himself God's well beloved Son. 
 
 But now I stand beside another grave; 
 
 The crumbling form within it once I knew, — 
 My favorite pupil, E. S. P. — I gave 
 
 Her lessons daily, and her young mind grew 
 Under my teaching, and her gentle ways 
 And purity of heart I loved to praise. 
 
 Alas! that she should perish in her youth 
 Just blooming into grace and womanhood 
 
•AUTUMNAL, MUSINGS. 77 
 
 I cannot realize the bitter truth 
 
 That she is gone forever, and I would, 
 If possible, it were a gloomy thought 
 That fancy in some troubled dream had brought. 
 
 Oh! sweetly, sweetly sleep, dear E. S. P., 
 No common tributes to thy worth belong, 
 
 The fragrance of thy saintly memory 
 Gives value even to my humble song. 
 
 Yes, sleep, but not for aye — thine eyes at last 
 
 Shall greet the dawn with joy that night is past. 
 
 Yes, sweetly, sweetly sleep, dear E. S. P., 
 Till breaks the morning of eternal day. 
 
 The Christ thou loved and worshiped sent for thee. 
 For his own angels bore thy soul away. 
 
 Yes, sleep, and when the night of death is o'er, 
 
 Thou'lt wake immortal on the sinless shore. 
 
 They sleep, these buried forms, but do they dream? 
 
 Do visions trouble them where they are laid? 
 The phantoms of the brain — the things that seem 
 
 So real, yet are but a flitting shade, — 
 Come these to bless or mar their slumbers deep. 
 Or lie the dead unconsciously asleep? 
 
 Or can it be, as scientists have taught. 
 All is mere matter and persistent force, 
 
 The last producing motion, life and thought, 
 And urging forward in relentless course. 
 
 Makes to unmake, nor leaves a trace behind 
 
 Of all that formed the structure of the mind? 
 
 O problems that so vex the darkened soul! 
 
 I bowed before you once in silent awe; 
 But faith has opened wide your mystic scroll, 
 
 Revealing life through God's unchanging law: 
 To live and reign forever is for man 
 Attainable by His most gracious plan. 
 
78 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 XVn. THE WORLD UNSEEN. 
 
 We look upon the mansions of the dead, 
 And think how little is the joy of earth, 
 
 How dreary is the pilgrimage we've led^ 
 A tearful journey from the hour of birth, — 
 
 And thinking thus, we feel what sweet relief 
 
 To lay life's burden down, and end our grief. 
 
 The tomb to mortal eyes shuts out all pain 
 And sorrow, stops the long and bitter strife 
 
 Of man with man in which our hatreds reign 
 Over our good emotions, and of life 
 
 Ends every struggle: O what glad release 
 
 To enter death that promises such peace! 
 
 But is it such? and is the unseen world 
 
 To which the spirit flies a quiet spot? 
 Are all the banners of contention furled, 
 
 And gains the inner man a happier lot 
 When drops the fleshly robe? Ah, who can solve 
 These questions which our destinies involve? 
 
 How strange that with the Bible in their hands. 
 Believers have false notions of the dead. 
 
 Or that the foolish whims of pagan lands 
 
 Should find a lodgment in the Christian's head. 
 
 Yet few on this great theme, and more as well. 
 
 The doctrine taught in Holy Writ can tell. 
 
 Some say the good when dead to heaven hie, 
 There to remain till judgment calls them thence, 
 
 The wicked likewise to their torment fly 
 
 When they from earthly scenes depart, and hence 
 
 They would consign each soul to bliss or woe 
 
 Before the judgment comes its fate to show. 
 
 Again, of purgatory we are told. 
 
 Where tainted souls by searching flames are tried, 
 And tickets of release on earth are sold 
 
AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 79 
 
 For those from sin thus fully purified : 
 A few who here their penance underwent 
 Escape the fire, and straight to heaven are sent. 
 
 Others, who've borrowed largely from the Greeks, 
 Talk wildly of an unseen world of spheres, 
 
 Where every disembodied spirit seeks 
 Its like, and, with a last adieu to fears. 
 
 Starts upward on a grand progressive race. 
 
 Still reaching higher scenes and richer grace. 
 
 We hide the body underneath the sod, 
 For "dust to dust" is still the stern decree. 
 
 The spirit goes unto its Maker, God, 
 To learn of him its final destiny; 
 
 But God is everywhere; in deepest space. 
 
 As in the highest heaven, he has his place. 
 
 Deprived of instruments for working ill, 
 The spirit can transgress the law no more, 
 
 Nor show the workings of perverted will. 
 And pleasure find in evil as of yore; 
 
 Thus dead to sin it may be truly called. 
 
 Yet in its dire results remain enthralled. 
 
 Men talk much of the body's bent for sin. 
 And to its charge they lay our every ill. 
 
 And hold that when they leave it they shall win 
 Eternal joy, and drink their constant fill. 
 
 But stop, vain babblers, you should know 
 
 It is the spirit not the clay that makes our woe. 
 
 Whose are the appetites, the lust, the pride, 
 The vanity, the hatred, and the wrath, 
 
 The fell ambition that o'er all would ride, 
 Crushing the bleeding millions in its path? 
 
 Say, whose are these? They must, 'tis plain, 
 
 To spirit, not to matter, all pertain. 
 
 Now when the former leaves its earthly frame, 
 Does it divest itself of every taint 
 
80 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 And wayward motion? Can we rightly claim 
 
 A sudden transformation and restraint 
 From evil, that the soul may take her flight 
 And with the angels dwell in pure delight? 
 
 Upon the negative and asking proof, 
 I take my stand. Such sudden change, I hold, 
 
 Has no analogy in warp or woof 
 Of universal nature. 'Tis a bold 
 
 Assumption that would give perpetual lease 
 
 To wickedness, and bid repentance cease. 
 
 The growth of character is slow through years 
 Of watchful care and rigid discipline, 
 
 And trials oft and many bitter tears 
 Are needed to complete the cure of sin. 
 
 And patience too, must have her work expressed 
 
 Before the saint is fit to enter rest. 
 
 The facts show plainly that a sudden change 
 Of moral nature is unknown to man, 
 
 That all transforming done within the range 
 Of this life goes upon the gradual plan. 
 
 Think you that for the soul there intervenes 
 
 A miracle to fit for heavenly scenes? 
 
 But of such miracle what proof have we 
 In reason or in revelation? None! 
 
 When from the clay the spirit struggles free. 
 The impress deep of every action done 
 
 Remains upon it, gives it form, and sets 
 
 It in its place in spite of all regrets. 
 
 So when it passes to the vast Unseen, 
 Gehenna called and Paradise as well. 
 
 Or Hades, with the gulf that lies between, 
 In comfort it abides, or else in hell. 
 
 Just as it chose on earth its fate will be 
 
 By judgment fixed for all eternity. 
 
 Upon the basis, then, of character 
 Is placed the destiny of every soul; 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 81 
 
 This solemn thought from evil should deter, 
 
 And bring our passions under strict control. 
 All sin results in wretchedness, and well 
 We know how wicked souls can make a hell. 
 
 Freed from the body and from every law 
 That man binds on his fellows, closely brought 
 
 From different climes and ages, with no awe 
 Of virtue, it would baffle all our thought 
 
 To show the misery of such a mass: 
 
 Hyperbole the scene could scarce surpass. 
 
 A truce to argument, for nought we know, 
 Save what the One Book tells us, of the land 
 
 Of night and silence towards which we go; 
 And when the bark of life lies on its strand. 
 
 We there await the dawning, and the hour 
 
 When Christ, descending, re-asserts his power. 
 
 In vain we seek to pierce the mystic gloom 
 That hides from mortal sight the spirit land, 
 
 Or summon from the cloisters of the tomb 
 A single soul of all that countless band 
 
 Of earthly pilgrims who unwilling sped 
 
 To seek the shadowy kingdom of the dead. 
 
 XVIII. M. J. B. 
 
 I turn to yonder tombstone where a cross 
 Sculptured upon the snowy marble shows 
 
 The symbol of a hope linked with a loss. 
 The form that lies beneath it, like a rose 
 
 Cut down by frost untimely, once did live, 
 
 And proofs abundant of rich thought did give. 
 
 The best endowed of Radnor's daughters, shoj 
 In mind and heart, and in the skill to tell 
 
 In prose or rhyme the things we wish to be; 
 I loved her fondly, for I knew her well, 
 
 And first discerned in her young, ardent soul 
 
 The buds of genius and of self-control. 
 
82 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 She was my pupil, and became my friend, 
 Confiding to me what she hoped and feared, 
 
 Till with our plans romance began to blend, 
 And made us each to each the more endeared. 
 
 While ere we knew it Love had bound us fast 
 
 With silken ties that often life outlast. 
 
 Still, friends we deemed each other, and we thought 
 The hours were heavenly, as in converse sweet, 
 
 We found the pleasure that, so often sought. 
 Comes not, and then we wondered why so fleet 
 
 Time was when we would have him lag behind. 
 
 And never to his flight were we resigned. 
 
 We wandered oft together, and the way 
 Seemed strewn with fairest flowers of spring; 
 
 Beneath was beauty, overhead, the day 
 Shone brightly, and each living, moving thing 
 
 Seemed to partake of that pure happiness 
 
 Which came our hearts in unison to bless. 
 
 Her girlish innocence and simple trust. 
 
 Conjoined with courage, and a clear, strong mind 
 First won my confidence, as ever must 
 
 Such precious traits the honest-hearted bind. 
 We nearer grew, until there came a day 
 When one from other naught could tear away. 
 
 I've sung the meadow and the lonely wood. 
 The scene of early rambles when my heart 
 
 Loved nature more and her deep solitude. 
 And I have pictured with my feeble art 
 
 The beauties that I there so oft beheld 
 
 Admiringly in palmy days of eld. 
 
 In later years I wandered there again, 
 With her who had become my light and joy. 
 
 In Summer, and in dreamy Autumn, when 
 Life seemed a cup of bliss without alloy, 
 
 And hand in hand beside the stream and wood, 
 
 We aimless roved, rejoicing in our good. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 83 
 
 A penciled paper with a flower enclosed, 
 A spray of goldenrod now pale and dry, 
 
 I lately found. The few faint words disclosed 
 A world of meaning as they met mine eye. 
 
 They were but "From our Meadow," and recalled 
 
 The golden hours when Love our hearts enthralled. 
 
 And she who plucked the flower and wrote the phrase 
 No longer lives. The faded blossom soon became 
 
 An emblem of her few and fleeting days. 
 For she too, drooped, nor could resist the claim 
 
 Of fell decay upon her, and she died, 
 
 So closely was she to the flowers allied. 
 
 Alas! O Rose of Radnor, loved and lost! 
 
 Soon wast thou borne into the Silent Land, 
 While I am still upon the billows tossed, 
 
 Beneath dark clouds that hide the sunny strand 
 Of that sweet Isle for which our spirits yearned, 
 As from the cold, dull Now they weary turned. 
 
 I would that thou wert here beside me now. 
 This day of sunshine and of perfect peace; 
 
 I fain would gaze upon thy spotless brow. 
 And into thy brown eyes in their release 
 
 From sorrow's tears and from the chilling frown 
 
 Of adverse fortune that soon cast thee down. 
 
 Oft times when I am sad, I take the store 
 Of thy dear letters, which I sacred keep, 
 
 And, opening the packets, read them o'er; 
 Then the long buried years awake from sleep. 
 
 And I am young again, and thou art mine, 
 
 And love and hope once more our lives entwine. 
 
 How precious are these relics of the past, 
 Written in all the glow of youthfulness, 
 
 Full of a zeal we dreamed would ever last, 
 And of a faith that would not fail to bless 
 
 Our lives with full fruition void of change, 
 
 As in the golden future we should range. 
 
84 AUTUMNAL, MUSINGS. 
 
 We thought to make a paradise below, 
 And of rough stone a fairy palace build, 
 
 On earth's dry sands Edenic flowers to grow, 
 And mold life's ideal with our hands unskilled. 
 
 Thus by our dreams deceived, we took our way 
 
 Towards the portals of the setting day. 
 
 Alas! we thought not of the toil and cares 
 That lay before us, and the world's contempt 
 
 For all our aspirations, and the snares 
 That oft beset our pathway; nor exempt 
 
 Were we from selfishness, sweet love's dire foe, 
 
 That chills its founts and stops its generous flow. 
 
 We stood together in the market places where 
 All worth is measured by the coin it brings. 
 
 And faith and conscience, soiled by traffic, share 
 The price and fate of gross and common things. 
 
 The wares we had to sell were not of gold. 
 
 Nor even gilt, so they remained unsold. 
 
 But all is over now, and thou, dear one. 
 Art resting from the weariness of earth. 
 
 God grant that when the long, long night is done, 
 Thou'lt waken joyous to immortal birth. 
 
 And see the golden age and happy Isle 
 
 We longed for when we loved and dreamed the while. 
 
 XIX. TRUTH. 
 
 I turn from grief and tears, and climb the hill 
 Once more, to feast upon the light and air 
 
 Of this rare day in Autumn, and to fill 
 My mind with flowers of memory ever fair. 
 
 And redolent with odors of life's spring. 
 
 When hope and fancy roved with tireless wing. 
 
 In childhood's years how many sports were mine, 
 Whose harmless pleasure never seemed to pall; 
 
 The jealous rival ready to malign, 
 The vengeful bigot with his heart of gall, 
 
AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 85 
 
 The false companion eager to betray, 
 
 Were then unknown — would that they were to-day ! 
 
 And yet the ways of Providence, not ours, are best, 
 Unwilling though we are to walk therein; 
 
 Through trials and reverses we are blest. 
 And through defeats life's battle we must win. 
 
 Hard lot I the unbelieving heart replies. 
 
 Yes, hard to him who not on Christ relies. 
 
 We ne'er achieve the poems we have planned, 
 Nor frame in deeds the pictures of the mind; 
 
 Our best performances imperfect stand. 
 And often woi^thless, as we sadly find; 
 
 Yet not for this should we a moment dare 
 
 To murmur, or of better things despair. 
 
 For confident am I that Truth will win. 
 In the great outcome of the world's affairs. 
 
 The victory over ignorance and sin, 
 And give to him who in reverses dares 
 
 To stand beside her the unfading crown 
 
 Of righteousness and heaven's bright renown. 
 
 The best philosophy of life, I think. 
 Is that which turns us to the present good. 
 
 Gives us the cup of blessing now to drink, 
 Leads us to grasp the known and understood. 
 
 The past is fixed, the future is not ours. 
 
 Our life is now; let this employ our powers. 
 
 Upon the rock of Truth unchanging build 
 A lasting hope for all your future joys, 
 
 Conform your life to what the Loi'd has willed. 
 Avoid the petty strife and learned noise 
 
 Of wranglers, and the speculations vain 
 
 Of mystics who by dreams would heaven gain. 
 
 But what is Truth? This question was proposed 
 By Pilate to the Man Divine who wore 
 
 Our crown of sorrows, and sweet heaven unclosed 
 To mortals. He the query then forbore 
 
86 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 To answer: Pilate asked it with a sneer, 
 And Truth is worthless to the insincere. 
 
 But to his own the Wondrous One declared, 
 I am the Truth, and all must come to me 
 
 That would her lessons learn; and none have dared 
 To call in question or deny what he 
 
 Has said, or, daring, pointed out a trait 
 
 In Christ our Lord where Truth dwells not in state. 
 
 It is a fact that Christ is everywhere. 
 In the broad country and the crowded street, 
 
 Wherever is a heart that loves him, there 
 He comes to dwell with every blessing meet 
 
 For life and holiness and perfect peace, 
 
 And gives from care and fear a sweet release. 
 
 The revelation of his righteous will, 
 Made by the promised Paraclete that came 
 
 Forever to abide, is with us still, 
 Through all the centuries it is the same 
 
 Unchanging Truth that points the only way 
 
 To Joy's bright home and Heaven's eternal day. 
 
 And all our life is waste that is not spent 
 In knowing Him, the Christ who all things knew, 
 
 And showing in ourselves the knowledge lent 
 To teach our fellows by the works we do. 
 
 Of all ambitions this is surely best — 
 
 To have in word and deed our Christ confessed. 
 
 And in this hour of retrospection, glad, 
 Right glad am I that Truth has ever been 
 
 My chief delight, that I have never bade 
 To her known foes a welcome, nor within 
 
 My inner heart a dwelling place allowed 
 
 For one of Falsehood's coarse and motley crowd. 
 
 Yet little have I learned and less have done, 
 
 Nor would I dare to play the Pharisee, 
 And boast as if the crown of life were won, 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 87 
 
 And mine the honor of the victory. 
 "We nothing have save what the Lord bestows, 
 As every child of his with gladness knows. 
 
 The heart that now remembers Him in love, 
 The soul that joys in this unclouded day, 
 
 The wish that grasps the precious things above. 
 The grace and mercy of my God display; 
 
 For all are his own workmanship, not mine, 
 
 Wroughtthroughhis Christ, the Source of Truthdivine. 
 
 XX. MOUNT PLEASANT. 
 
 As here I muse this morn, I seem again 
 A pupil of the old Mount Pleasant school, 
 
 I sit before my desk with book and pen, 
 I yield once more to Aiken's gentle rule. 
 
 O what familiar faces gather round, 
 
 What well-known voices through the room resound. 
 
 The desks are hacked and carved with Barlow knives 
 In hands of budding Bewicks deftly plied. 
 
 To win a humble place in Fame's archives 
 For bold initials, each its owner's pride. 
 
 While on the benches, walls, and paintless door 
 
 Is many a name remembered now no more. 
 
 Again I open Pike to do his "sums," 
 And solve the mysteries of "Rule of Three;" 
 
 Again I read in Frost, and hear the drums 
 From battle fields urge on to victory; 
 
 While all around, by work or idleness 
 
 The boys and girls their characters express. 
 
 There sits pale Alice conning o'er a page 
 Of Comly's Speller with a weary look. 
 
 The definitions every thought engage, 
 Her eyes alternate rest on wall and book; 
 
 Beside me is her brother slate in hand, 
 
 The leading spirit of our playful band. 
 
88 AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 
 
 There, too, is Buzby, whom in cruel jest, 
 
 I likened to a greedy bird of prey: 
 Of righteous indignation full possessed, 
 
 He vowed most dire revenge the coming day: 
 But on the morrow other thoughts engaged. 
 And so the threatened war was never waged. 
 
 And there is Emily the beautiful and wild. 
 Who many a young heart to romance allured: 
 
 Her books unnoticed lie before the child, 
 For when was study patiently endured 
 
 By her who gloried in the prettiest face, 
 
 And reigned acknowledged belle in any place? 
 
 And young Achilles, who with me had sought 
 For buried treasure which we fancied hid 
 
 By some freebooter who his gold had brought 
 When he from far had sailed with Captain Kidd, 
 
 We toiled two hours or more, but nothing found. 
 
 Save blistered hands, in turning up the ground. 
 
 And Barbara, whom I would stop to praise: 
 Artless, with kindness beaming in thine eyes. 
 
 And goodness showing forth in all thy ways. 
 How few there were who knew thy worth to prize; 
 
 Yet these have held thee in remembrance dear 
 
 And blessed thee, child, throughmanyacheckered year 
 
 Our teacher, too, whom we "The Master" call 
 Is now beside me on the platform seat; 
 
 Upon his desk he lets his ferule fall. 
 To make impressive what his lips repeat; 
 
 And now he turns to me with accents kind. 
 
 The honest trainer of my growing mind. 
 
 The time slips by — we read and write and spell, 
 With interruptions made by naughty boys, 
 
 Whose punishment with rod, inflicted well. 
 Fills all the room with penitential noise. 
 
 For in those days of strength no birchless grace 
 
 Of Solomon's advice usurped the place. 
 
AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 89. 
 
 Yes, there they are! and I'm a boy once more, 
 With all that boyish hopefulness can bring. 
 
 Recess comes on, we struggle through the door, 
 We run, we shout till hill and valley ring; 
 
 Then, choosing plays, in separate groups we go, 
 
 With bounding steps, and bosoms all aglow. 
 
 The vision fades — these young and agile forms, 
 Alas! have vanished far beyond recall; 
 
 Some, safe from later life's i-elentless storms, 
 Sleep in the quiet grave, which waits us all; 
 
 A.nd some still live, yet changed in all but name, 
 
 They and their former selves ai^e not the same. 
 
 Where Alice is I know not; but I learned 
 
 In after years her brother early wed 
 A stranger, and his daring footsteps turned 
 
 With her to the Great West where sunset red, 
 Dyes the Pacific wave that breaks upon 
 The verdant shores of wood-crowned Oregon. 
 
 And Emily? To her with woman's years 
 Came woman's cares and all the weary moil 
 
 Of household duties, not unmixed with tears. 
 Within a home upon a sterile soil. 
 
 Her beauty, which a palace would have graced, 
 
 By anxious labor early was effaced. 
 
 They had their dreams no doubt, and painted bright 
 The scenes before them, restless for the time 
 
 When they should leave behind and out of sight 
 All discontentment, and should joyous climb 
 
 The flowery slopes that to their childish eyes 
 
 Seemed ever near in loveliness to rise. 
 
 XXI. CONCLUSION. 
 
 Ah, change has troubled thee, my natal ground, 
 And marred thy rustic beauty to my view, 
 
 Large mansions of the Queen Anne type are found 
 Where elderberry and sweetbrier grew. 
 
90 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 
 
 And city fashions banish rural ways 
 And simple customs of our early days. 
 
 The school-house, though, like this old church survives, 
 For time allows to men's achievements many a year 
 
 Beyond the measure of their own frail lives, 
 And gives to walls renown when disappear 
 
 The names the builders vainly hoped would stand 
 
 Upon the scroll of Fame in many a land. 
 
 The sun is higher as the hours have sped. 
 
 And I reluctant turn my steps away 
 From old St. David's, Radnor and the dead. 
 
 And end my musings and my homely lay; 
 Yet a few words of parting are but meet, 
 Ere busy scenes of life again I greet. 
 
 O woods and fields, where I in childhood played, 
 
 I bid you now perhaps a last farewell; 
 Ye well known spots, where oft my footsteps strayed 
 
 Upon the hill or in the shady dell. 
 Linked with bright days and to my heart endeared, 
 I'll see you still as you of old appeared. 
 
 And in that wondrous realm which hidden lies 
 Beyond life's sunset in the unknown west 
 
 Are fairer landscapes under lovelier skies. 
 Where cloud and tempest never more molest, 
 
 And where at last Hope's wildest, sweetest dreams, 
 
 Will come to pass by Eden's flowery streams. 
 
LILLY. 91 
 
 LILLY. 
 
 Thou Lilly of my early years, 
 
 Sweet maiden loved when I was young, 
 I see thee now through mem'ry's tears, 
 
 And speak thy name with falt'ring tongue. 
 
 I know how greatly thou art changed, 
 How strangely time has dealt with thee, 
 
 Since thou and I together ranged 
 The fields of youth and poesy. 
 
 I know our sweet romance has fled 
 To seek the shades of Nevermore, 
 
 I know the flowers of love are dead, 
 And all our cherished dreams are o'er. 
 
 I know that thou hast ceased to be 
 My Lilly gay and young and fair. 
 
 With voice of richest melody, 
 And eye of light beyond compare. 
 
 No, thou to me art nothing now 
 More than the scores I daily meet, 
 
 Whom with a word or smile or bow, 
 In kindly courtesy I greet. 
 
 Yet I for this no longer care. 
 
 For in the bygone lives my joy. 
 And my accustomed heart can bear 
 
 Each pang that does not quite destroy. 
 
 My joy is in the golden hours 
 
 That brought our paths of life so near. 
 My grief has wasted all its powers, 
 
 And left me nothing more to fear. 
 
 O never was a love more pure, 
 
 Than that which linked our souls in one; 
 Alas! that it could not endure 
 
 Until the course of life was run. 
 
92 TREDYFFRIN. 
 
 From stain of passion was it free, 
 Or gold, or fame, or pride of birth; 
 
 It lived in its own ecstasy, 
 A thing of beauty not of earth. 
 
 I still behold thee as of old, 
 Unrivalled in thy virgin grace, 
 
 In reverie thy hand I hold, 
 And gaze into thy love-lit face. 
 
 It is the Lilly of the past 
 
 That comes to cheer each lonely hour, 
 And seems again her spell to cast 
 
 Around me with its ancient power. 
 
 And as the Lilly of the past, 
 I evermore would think of thee. 
 
 Bright reminiscence that shall last 
 Till life itself shall cease to be! 
 
 TREDYFFRIN. 
 
 Tredyffrin, O Tredyflfrin, 
 
 How oft I think of thee ! 
 Thy hills and glens romantic 
 
 I long again to see. 
 The sunny years of boyhood 
 
 That like a dream have flown. 
 Were passed beside thy valley 
 
 So dear to Memory grown. 
 
 The thoughts that brightly cluster 
 
 Around my early days 
 Demand for thee, Tredyffrin, 
 
 The tribute of my praise. 
 
TREDYFFRIN. 93 
 
 There is no place so lovely 
 
 As that where we were reared, 
 And all revere the humblest 
 
 Their childhood has endeared. 
 
 Its scenes however lowly 
 
 Our heart-strings twine around 
 And, by remembrance hallowed, 
 
 Each spot is sacred ground; 
 Portrayed in Fancy's colors 
 
 They're with us everywhere 
 And nothing else of beauty 
 
 Seems to us half so fair. 
 
 But thee I need not flatter 
 
 With Fancy's gaudy dyes, 
 For thousands know what beauties 
 
 Are found beneath thy skies, — 
 The beauties of thy summers. 
 
 The glories of thy springs, 
 The visions of enchantment 
 
 Which dreamy autumn brings. 
 
 No days were e'er so happy 
 
 As those when I, a boy, 
 Upon thy hill-tops lingered 
 
 Thy landscapes to enjoy. 
 With book and busy pencil 
 
 I whiled the hours away, 
 Until the dewy twilight 
 
 Had closed the halcyon day. 
 
 Thy groves of oak and chestnut 
 
 Were ever my delight 
 In spring, or gloomy winter, 
 
 Or in the summer bright; 
 Thy shady dells and streamlets. 
 
 Thy rocky slopes so wild. 
 To me became familiar 
 
 When I was but a child. 
 
M TREDYFFRIN. 
 
 Upon thy hills I cherished 
 
 Sweet dreams which still remain 
 Like stars amid the darkness 
 
 When gloomy thoughts enchain; 
 Sweet dreams which Time's reverses 
 
 Seek vainly to destroy 
 But which reviving ever 
 
 Bring back my hope and joy. 
 
 And I drank in thy spirit, 
 
 Thy spirit wild and free, 
 Until my own with longing 
 
 Grew restless as the sea; 
 Then, leaving thee, I wandered, 
 
 Yet everywhere I roam 
 My heart in fondness lingers 
 
 Within my early home. 
 
 Tredyffrin, O Tredyflfrin, 
 
 When life shall reach its close 
 I'd rest within thy bosom 
 
 In undisturbed repose — 
 Rest in thy ancient valley 
 
 Wherein my kindred lie, 
 Till Joy's eternal morning 
 
 Illumes our darkened sky! 
 
 QUERIES. 
 
 Say, shall I leave unsung 
 What dreary years have flown, 
 How sad my life has grown, 
 
 Since thou and I were young? 
 
 Our paths, just then begun, — 
 How very near they came! 
 Say, was our wish the same. 
 
 That ever thus they'd run? 
 
QUERIES. 95 
 
 I never knew thy heart, 
 
 Yet sometimes dared to think 
 
 That love our lives would link 
 So fast we'd never part. 
 
 For often in thine eye, 
 
 That hazel eye so bright, 
 
 A softer, sweeter light 
 Appeared when I was by. 
 
 It was a foolish thought, 
 
 Yet gave a greater joy 
 
 To me, a timid boy, 
 Than later years have brought. 
 
 Did memory hold me dear 
 
 When no more side by side. 
 
 But separating wide 
 We sought the world so drear? 
 
 And on thy lonely way, 
 
 Like mine, was thy young breast 
 
 Filled with a strange unrest 
 Through many a weary day? 
 
 Alas! thou'lt ne'er reply 
 
 'Till in the angels' land 
 
 I take thee by the hand 
 Where love shall never die. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 I've met thee day by day. 
 And known thy gentle ways. 
 
 And seen thy blushes play 
 At times beneath my gaze. 
 
 My heart I cannot trust 
 To linger with thee more. 
 
96 TOO LATE. 
 
 But leave thee now I must, — 
 Why did I not before? 
 
 Too late, alas, we've met 
 To wear love's gilded chain, 
 
 And only vain regret 
 Can in our bosoms reign. 
 
 Had we each other known 
 In the dim long ago. 
 
 We might perchance have grown 
 Too fond of earth below. 
 
 This world was never made 
 The home of happiness, 
 
 Its day-dreams quickly fade. 
 And sorrows all oppress. 
 
 We seize the cup of joy — 
 How soon 'tis snatched away ! 
 
 Our gold is but alloy, 
 Our life is but decay. 
 
 Together oft we strayed 
 Through summer's leafy vales, 
 
 But now her blossoms fade 
 In autumn's chilling gales. 
 
 Together oft we.heard 
 The robin pour his lay, 
 
 But now each tuneful bird 
 In silence flies away. 
 
 No fitter time we'll find 
 Our final leave to take; 
 
 Delays but stronger bind 
 The ties that we must break. 
 
 'Twill be a moment's pain — 
 Why should it longer last? 
 
 And firmly we'll refrain 
 From dwelling on the past. 
 
DEATH. 97 
 
 Then, dear one, fare thee well, 
 
 I should have gone before. 
 These tears my sorrow tell. 
 
 But we must meet no more. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Now from the autumn sky. 
 Now from the fading year, 
 
 Looks forth the mystery 
 Our souls so greatly fear. 
 
 It whisi^ers in the breeze. 
 
 It murmurs in the rill. 
 It rustles in the leaves. 
 
 And echoes from the hill. 
 
 Oh, Death! thou wondrous power, 
 
 Transforming all below. 
 Why should we di-ead the hour 
 
 That will thy secrets show. 
 
 Thou art the angel sent 
 To save, and not destroy, 
 
 To free the captives pent. 
 And lift the gates of joy. 
 
 Through thee our Christ has passed 
 To mount his priestly throne, 
 
 To reign until at last 
 He comes to call his own. 
 
 Then from thine icy reign, 
 Out of thy loathsome tomb^ 
 
 His loved ones shall regain 
 Primeval Eden's bloom. 
 
GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 She came to me so softly, 
 Her blue eyes beaming bright, 
 
 She took my hand so gently, 
 And sweetly said, "Good night." 
 
 She seemed as I beheld her. 
 And clasped her little hand, 
 
 A vision of the beauty 
 Found in the angels' land. 
 
 As softly then she left me. 
 And soon was lost to sight. 
 
 But in my memory lingered 
 That gently -breathed "Good night. 
 
 When next I saw my darling, 
 Her cheek had lost its bloom. 
 
 And she was slowly sinking 
 Down to the silent tomb. 
 
 Her eyes were sunk and mournful, 
 They beamed no longer bright, 
 
 Yet sweetly then as ever 
 She bade her last "Good night." 
 
 Ah! many a bitter tear-drop 
 
 I shed at parting then: 
 I knew that I would never 
 
 Behold her face again. 
 
 My Heavenly Father gives me bread 
 Through toil which he has daily blessed. 
 
 Why should I covet gold instead, 
 Or with ambition break my rest? 
 
JUNE. 99 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 O June, rare June, 
 Thou fairest daughter of the year. 
 
 Thou comest with the summer moon, 
 And bringest beauty for the eye and ear. 
 
 Long, long ago 
 I thought of thee with tenderness 
 
 Greater than lovers fond bestow. 
 Or maidens to their chosen ones confess. 
 
 And in thy smile 
 My youthful heart was ever gay, 
 
 And days sped swift as moments, while 
 Thy reign of one sweet month seemed but a day. 
 
 And why not now? 
 Thy deep blue eyes are just as bright 
 
 As lovely thine unwrinkled brow 
 As when they charmed my childhood 's eager sight. 
 
 Thou hast not changed. 
 But I, alas! am not the same: 
 
 Life's cares have so my heart estranged 
 That thou, O June, seemst but an empty name. 
 
 And yet I know 
 Thou shouldst be still a welcome guest: 
 
 Thou art a visitant below 
 From that unclouded realm where dwell the blest. 
 
 And when I come 
 To that fair land, O let me share 
 
 The pleasures of thy blissful home. 
 And on my brow thy fadeless roses wear! 
 
 LefC.J 
 
100 ENLIGHTENED. 
 
 ENLIGHTENED. 
 
 I ask not wealth, T ask not fame: 
 An envied heap of yellow earth, 
 
 The tiresome echo of a name,— 
 Such things to me are nothing worth. 
 
 To live a life of poverty, 
 
 To perish, to the world unknown, 
 Were one time dreary thoughts to me. 
 
 Not now, for I have wiser grown. 
 
 The spirit of the Nazarene 
 
 Has filled me with its wondrous light, 
 And things long hidden I have seen: 
 
 I walk no longer in the night. 
 
 This perishable life must fly, 
 The life beyond it will endure, 
 
 As clouds evanish from the sky. 
 And leave the heavens serene and pure. 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 O Blessed One, whose voice divine 
 Comes through the ages to mine ear, 
 
 Assuring me that I am Thine, 
 And freeing me from every fear, — 
 
 Transformed by truth and love I'd be 
 And made in mind and life like Thee. 
 
 Within my heai't O condescend 
 To enter, Lord, and there abide, 
 
 That all my thoughts with thine may blend, 
 
 . And seek no fellowship beside; 
 
 For Thou art endless joy to those 
 Whose faith and hope in Thee repose. 
 
DAYDREAMS. 101 
 
 DAYDREAMS. 
 
 I would not dream this precious life away, 
 Delightful as my idle musings are, 
 
 But rouse me to the labor of the day. 
 And follow duty as my guiding star. 
 
 These reveries in which our fancy soars, 
 
 And builds her palaces upon the clouds, 
 Make us disdainful of these lower shores 
 
 Where humble toilers move in weary crowds. 
 I would not lose my sympathy for man, 
 
 Nor love him less for all the faults he shows, 
 But cherish all the tenderness I can 
 
 For them in whom life's common current flows. 
 
 I would not dream, but work till day has fled. 
 And He who hires and watches calls me home; 
 
 Then in the mansions of the blessed dead. 
 Far sweeter rest and brighter dreams will come. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 When Cynthia o'er the folded flowers. 
 Has spread her vail of silver light, 
 
 And sleep enchains the silent hours 
 That cluster round the noon of night, 
 
 My fancy seeks the mystic streams 
 
 That murmur through the land of dreams. 
 
 'Tis there I meet the loved and lost, 
 Whose forms are seen on earth no more. 
 
 But who the sombre waves have crossed. 
 And gained the farther, better shore; 
 
102 MARY. 
 
 Where pleasure is a constant guest, 
 And weary pilgrims are at rest. 
 
 And thee, dear Mary, there I meet. 
 Whom by Owasco's stream I knew. 
 
 With sunny face and smile so sweet, 
 And eyes that beamed with friendship true, 
 
 Now brighter grown, escaped the shades 
 
 Where sorrow reigns, and beauty fades. 
 
 Thy gentle form is now arrayed 
 la robes like those the angels wear, 
 
 Far richer than the garments made 
 For that June day with loving care. 
 
 When orange blossoms graced thy brow, 
 
 Meet emblems of thy marriage vow. 
 
 Sometimes a look of sadness comes, 
 And dims the glory round thy head; 
 
 Thou thinkest of the darkened homes. 
 Where bitter tears for thee are shed, — 
 
 Where husband, mother, sisters, weep. 
 
 And memory's sacred vigil keep. 
 
 Oh! Mary, though our hearts must bleed. 
 To know that thou art here no more. 
 
 We would not wish thee back, indeed. 
 From that unfading, sinless shore: 
 
 No, let us sad but patient wait. 
 
 Till we, too, pass through heaven's gate. 
 
 AT EVEN. 
 
 At even when the twilight steals 
 
 Adown the western sky. 
 And night with trailing robe conceals 
 
 The landscape from the eye, 
 
AT EVEN. 103 
 
 I set me down within my room, 
 
 A lonely, saddened man, 
 I set me down within the gloom, 
 
 To muse and idly plan. 
 
 Then comes to me from out the past 
 
 A voice that's sweet and low, 
 "Whose gentle tones still o'er me cast 
 
 The spell of long ago: 
 It is the voice of one now dead 
 
 Whose presence was my joy 
 When girlhood's ringlets graced her head, 
 
 And I was but a boy. 
 
 It tells me of the golden years 
 
 That rolled so swiftly by. 
 When our young eyes were free from tears, 
 
 And our young hearts beat high, 
 When over all our coming days 
 
 Hope set a radiant bow. 
 And every scene that met our gaze 
 
 Appeared in beauty's glow. 
 
 voice! whose echoes faintly sound 
 From out the realm of shade, 
 
 1 weep to think of that green mound 
 Which over her was made, 
 
 Whose dear lips formed thee all thou art, 
 
 O voice so sweet and low. 
 And filled with melody my heart 
 
 In evenings long ago. 
 
 The wintry winds now wildly sweep 
 
 Around her lonely tomb. 
 And I who live to think and weep, 
 
 Could wish to share its gloom 1 
 O voice, sweet voice, thou bid'st me come 
 
 Where teardrops fall no more, 
 Where weary pilgrims find a home 
 
 On God's eternal shore. 
 
104 THE GLASS OF FAITH. 
 
 THE GLASS OP FAITH. 
 
 Why waitest thou, O Soul, 
 
 Beside this sea unknown? 
 I watch the billows roll, 
 
 And hear the breakers moan. 
 
 Dost thou no objects see, 
 
 No distant land descry? 
 Nothing appears to me 
 
 Except the waste and sky. 
 
 No voices reach thine ear. 
 No whispers from the deep? 
 
 Nothing at all I hear: 
 The loved are all asleep. 
 
 Asleep? Then in the morn 
 
 Thou'lt greet them when they wake. 
 Alas! men say in scorn, 
 
 "The morn will never break." 
 
 Hast thou forgot thy glass, 
 As thou dost here despond? 
 
 Ah, now the shadows pass! 
 I see the shore beyond; 
 
 I see the dead arise. 
 
 My cherished dead, and thine: 
 They meet Him in the skies. 
 
 The Christ of Palestine. 
 
WHEN I AM GONE. 105 
 
 WHEN I AM GONE. 
 
 The flowers in spring will bloom anew, 
 
 And birds will trill their song, 
 And groves put on their vernal hue, 
 
 And brooks will dance along; 
 The sun his burning rays will send 
 
 From out the summer sky, 
 And weary ones in toil will bend. 
 
 When I in death shall lie. 
 
 Yes, seasons still will come and go. 
 
 When I am passed away, 
 And bosoms still with joy will glow, 
 
 Or shrink from sorrow's sway; 
 The restless world will hurry on 
 
 As eager as before. 
 Nor stop to think of him that's gone, 
 
 Nor miss the life that's o'er. 
 
 What am I to the countless race? 
 
 A bubble on the main! 
 Another soon will take my place, 
 
 And what the loss or gain? — 
 I would not think in foolish pride 
 
 The world depends on me. 
 For I must sink beneath the tide 
 
 That swells oblivion's sea. 
 
 ACROSS THE STREAM. 
 
 The boatman crosses the waveless stream, 
 I hear the dip of his muffled oar, 
 
 And through the twilight there faintly gleam 
 The spectral lights on the farther shore. 
 
106 ACROSS THE STREAM. 
 
 I watch the rower whose strength and skill 
 Inspire the oars in their rapid play, 
 
 I see the waters so deep and chill, 
 Part right and left as the boat makes way. 
 
 This time he crosses, I know for me. 
 As he has done for the myriads gone; 
 
 The darkness deepens, and soon I'll be 
 Within the gloom that precedes the dawn. 
 
 The boat I enter, my lips are dumb, — 
 Oh, heart, lone heart, in thy silence pray! — 
 
 Over at last! — and the morn has come 
 That ushers in the unfading day. 
 
 A city builded of crystal gold, 
 
 Makes glad my sight in the morning beam, 
 An endless life with its joys untold. 
 
 Is now my portion across the stream. 
 
 THE ARBUTUS. 
 
 O beauteous child of the forest, 
 
 Thou lovest the wild, rocky hills, 
 Avoiding the low, grassy meadows, 
 
 And babble of fountains and rills; 
 Yet vainly for hours have I wandered. 
 
 On slopes where I formerly found 
 Thy clusters of snow-white and crimson 
 
 Abundantly scattered around. 
 
 Oft ere the last snow of the winter 
 
 Had melted within the ravine. 
 Or squirrel had peeped from his covert, 
 
 Thy petals unfolding I've seen; 
 But now though the sun is resplendent. 
 
 And March is as meek as a lamb, 
 Thy buds are still locked in the calyx 
 
 In spite of the sunshine and calm. 
 
SEMPER OR A, 107 
 
 I wonder not, though disappointed, 
 
 For often our friends do we see, 
 When we in Hope's spring would be joyous 
 
 Retiring and selfish like thee. 
 No doubt in the garland of April 
 
 Thy blossoming spray will be twined, 
 And then if I seek thee, Arbutus, 
 
 Thy blushes of shame I shall find. 
 
 SEMPER ORA. 
 
 When Aurora's glories bright 
 
 Cover all the eastern skies. 
 And her robe of golden light 
 
 O'er the wakened landscape lies. 
 Cast away each earthly feeling. 
 
 Bid thy thoughts to heaven ascend, 
 And, in secret lowly kneeling. 
 
 Let thy prayers and praises blend. 
 
 Through the cares and toil of day, 
 Still forget not God is nigh, 
 
 Let thy heart in silence pray. 
 As thy moments onward fly. 
 
 And when evening's quiet hours. 
 
 Stealing past with sombre mien. 
 Scatter o'er the sleeping flowers 
 
 Countless drops of dewy sheen. 
 Cast away each earthly feeling, 
 
 Bid thy thoughts to heaven ascend, 
 And, in secret humbly kneeling. 
 
 Let thy prayers and praises blend. 
 
108 THE ANGELS. 
 
 THE ANGELS. 
 
 [The following verses wore suggested by the words of G. Anna 
 Bhaw, who, a few minutes before her death, exclaimed, "Look, 
 father, seethe angclsr'-L. F, B,J 
 
 Look, dear father, see the angels. 
 
 As around me now they glide! 
 They have come, I know, to guide me 
 
 Through the Jordan's rolling tide. 
 See you not their golden tresses, 
 
 And their trailing robes of snow? 
 Hear you not their rustling pinions 
 
 And their voices sweet and low? 
 
 O the angels, blessed angels. 
 Lovely as the morning star! 
 
 They have come, I know, to lead me 
 To the land that lies afar. 
 
 I can see them bending o'er me. 
 
 Feel them touch my pallid brow, 
 As the border land I enter, 
 
 And at Jordan's brink I bow. 
 Soon they'll lead me to my Savior, 
 
 Soon I'li clasp His loving hand, 
 Then from every care and sorrow 
 
 Safe, I'll rest in Canaan's land. 
 
 O the angels, blessed angels, 
 Lovely as the morning star! 
 
 They have come, I know, to lead me 
 To the rest that lies afar. 
 
 Fare ye well, dear father, mother! 
 
 When I reach the sinless shore, 
 I will watch beside the river. 
 
 Till the angels bring you o'er; 
 
TO J. H. B. 109 
 
 L will be the first to greet you, 
 When you touch the blooming strand, 
 
 I will be the first to welcome. 
 When you roach the heavenly land. 
 
 O the angels, blessed angels, 
 Lovely as the morning starl 
 
 They will come, I know, to lead you, 
 To the land that lies afar. 
 
 TO J. H. B. 
 
 Dear Dingle, friend of younger days, 
 Whom always I delight to praise. 
 Be kindly patient while I write, 
 A letter short in verses trite. 
 
 Though oft the music of my lyre 
 Be void of all poetic fire, 
 Indulgent think a friend sincere 
 Has placed each line in order here. 
 
 How many years from us have flown. 
 How many changes we have known. 
 Since first by Susquehanna's stream. 
 We met in April's summer dreami 
 
 Then Spring had chased the snows away, 
 That o'er the land had held their sway. 
 And Flora in her playful mood, 
 Strewed blossoms over field and wood. 
 
 Then merry birds on every tree, 
 Moved all the air with minstrelsy. 
 Till every heart with music thrilled 
 And every soul with joy was filled. 
 
 In fair Lock Haven first we met, 
 That on the river's bank is set, 
 
110 TO M. P. D. 
 
 Like pensive maiden come to dream 
 The hours away beside the stream. 
 
 But that bright morn I little thought 
 How soon by thee I should be brought 
 To know the Wondrous One whose love 
 Allures to brighter scenes above. 
 
 Yet so it proved and often now 
 
 In solitude I humbly bow, 
 
 And praise the grace that turned our feet, 
 
 And caused our paths of life to meet. 
 
 O, may that grace still with us be, 
 And deepen still our sympathy. 
 Till we shall reach the rest above. 
 Where friendship ends in perfect love! 
 
 TO M. P. D. 
 
 (For a Bouquet.) 
 
 Pretty blossoms, pretty blossoms. 
 Fashioned by the dimpled SpringI 
 
 Tints of yellow, snow and purple. 
 Bright as rubies glistening. 
 
 Like these gentle blooms of Flora, 
 
 Lovely in their purity, 
 Source of joy to all around thee, 
 
 May thy words and actions be. 
 
TO B. C. Ill 
 
 TO B. C. 
 
 I saw thy dear face bathed in tears, 
 
 The time thy sainted mother died, 
 When o'er the path of thy young years. 
 
 Came sorrow's overwhelming tide; 
 I saw thee, but said nothing then, 
 
 Nor tried to soothe thy rending grief, 
 For how, alas, could tongue or pen 
 
 To pain like thine have brought relief? 
 
 Yet deeply did I pity thee. 
 
 And often in my heart I prayed. 
 That Heaven's more potent sympathy 
 
 Would lift the burden on thee laid. 
 And to thee grant the peace of Him 
 
 Who gave his life for all in tears 
 That raise their eyes with sorrow dim. 
 
 And consecrate to him their years. 
 
 I knew not thou hadst never turned 
 
 In sweet obedience to His word. 
 Nor felt the love that oft has burned, 
 
 Since thou the voice of mercy heard; 
 I knew not, — but the answer came. 
 
 For thou wast led to His dear cross, 
 To take upon thee His high name. 
 
 Without which all is hopeless loss. 
 
 O let the memory of the dead 
 
 Incite thee to a holy life. 
 And cheerful light around thee shed, 
 
 Amid the world's unceasing strife. 
 And lead thee upward in the way 
 
 That all the good and true have gone. 
 Till thou shalt greet the brighter day 
 
 That shines the domes of heaven upon! 
 
112 TO B. B. 
 
 TO B. B. 
 
 Oft have I read thy dreamy lays, 
 And ever have they called to mind 
 
 The summer brooks that gently flow, 
 
 And sweetly murmur as they go 
 Their course to wind 
 
 Amid the meadow's blooming maze. 
 
 And fancy's pencil draws for me, 
 As now I write these homely lines, 
 
 Some sylph that loves o'er meads to rove. 
 
 Or wander through the leafy grove, 
 'Mid tangled vines. 
 
 And cull the blossoms, wild and free. 
 
 If such thou be, then may there bloom 
 For thee an endless moon of flowers, 
 
 So that for us thou mayest prolong 
 
 The pleasing measure of thy song. 
 In summer bowers, 
 
 All safe from icy winter's gloom. 
 
 THE RICHMONDS' HOME. 
 
 Awake, my Muse, and breathe a fervent strain 
 Of distant scenes I may not view again, 
 And distant friends who in my absence share 
 My kindest thoughts, as once did I their care. 
 
 The Richmonds! at that name how quickly flies 
 Imagination to their home which lies 
 Where Midway's hills frown o'er the smiling vale, 
 And rear their crests to thwart the northern gale, 
 And where the Brandywine so stately glides 
 To mingle with the Delaware's blue tides. 
 
THE RICHMONDS' HOME. 113 
 
 And at that word how pleasure wakes, and pain, 
 
 Within my soul an uncongenial train. 
 
 Pain at the thought that we no more can meet, 
 
 And speed the hours with social converse sweet; 
 
 And pleasure that the past can still impart 
 
 Remembrances delightful to the heart. 
 
 Thus grief will ever mingle with our joy, 
 
 And fond regrets our happiness alloy, 
 
 And thus upon the changeful path of years, 
 
 The clouds enshroud us or the sunshine cheers. 
 
 But to me now sweet recollections come, 
 And fancy's pencil paints the Richmonds' home. 
 The fields of clover and the meadow green. 
 Where flowed the murmuring brook in pearly sheen, 
 The shady orchard and, beyond, the grove, 
 Where lost in dreamy thought I loved to rove. 
 When Autumn's dyes had decked the lordly trees. 
 Whose giant boughs swayed to the sighing breeze, 
 When the blythe squirrel garnered up his store 
 Of frost-browned nuts against the Winter hoar, 
 And the lone robin chirped a plaintive lay 
 O'er the sad ruins of the Summer gay; 
 The dark gray mansion with its pointed walls, 
 O'er which the poplar's morning shadow falls; 
 The porch round which the trellised roses bloom, 
 And load the summer gale with sweet perfume;—' 
 Of these how oft I think! for in that spot 
 Of rural beauty it was once my lot 
 There to sojourn a few brief months, and know 
 The joys which kindness only can bestow. 
 
 O ne'er shall I forget those happy hours. 
 Which came to me as sunshine to the flowers; 
 And as I haste adown life's rapid stream. 
 Like blooming islands in the past they seem, 
 And ever will their pleasing memories come 
 To cheer my heart wherever I shall roam. 
 
114 THE EARLY DEAD. 
 
 THE EARLY DEAD. 
 
 How sweet they sleep who pass away 
 In life's fair morn when all is gay! 
 Like blighted flowers they gently fade, 
 And in their narrow beds are laid 
 By weeping Love who lingers round, 
 And wets with tears each sacred mound. 
 Like pleasant dreams they pass from sight, 
 When life is pure, and all is bright; 
 And though death seals each sunny eye. 
 Though in the cold earth deep they lie, 
 The fairest tints of vernal bloom 
 In rich profusion deck the tomb; 
 Affection strews fresh roses there, 
 Which breathe their fragrance on the air, 
 And on each grassy knoll are seen 
 Meek violets peering through the green. 
 
 Yes, sweetly in oblivion blest. 
 Nor grief nor pain disturbs their rest. 
 While angels o'er their slumbers keep 
 A watch to guard their dreamless sleep, 
 And Memory through many a year, 
 To view the spot she holds most dear, 
 Will sadly come from day to day. 
 Till she too fades from earth away. 
 
 But not for e'er their sleep will last, — 
 O no, the dark hours vanish fast, 
 And time will come when night shall flee, 
 And fadeless light insteaxi shall be; 
 And in that long-expected hour, 
 When death shall know a Savior's power, 
 When hope triumphant o'er the tomb. 
 Shall issue from its midnight gloom, 
 Then they, the early dead of earth. 
 Shall waken to a purer birth: 
 Each bud that here unopened dies. 
 Shall fadeless bloom beyond the skies. 
 
 Oct. 8, 1S57. 
 
LINES ON THE FUNERAL OF W. R. 115 
 
 LINES ON THE FUNERAL OP W. R. 
 
 Little we thought when our dear friend was leaving 
 Radnor and home for the land of the foe, 
 
 Little we thought of so early receiving 
 Dust for the manly young form we saw go. 
 
 When the last roses of summer were glowing, 
 Hoping though grieving he went on his way; 
 
 Little, alas! did we dream then of strewing 
 Over his tomb the first blossoms of May. 
 
 One unto whom his young faith had been plighted, 
 Crushing on her the bereavement must fall, 
 
 Quenching the beacon that hope had just lighted 
 Over life's pathway, now desolate all! 
 
 Who shall describe, too, a fond mother's sorrow, — 
 Paint in its blackness affection's despair! 
 
 But the long night ever ends in the morrow; 
 Faith its horizon sees cloudless and clear. 
 
 Wrapped in the flag which he died in defending. 
 Him we now bear to a patriot's grave; 
 
 Heart-rending sobs with soft, martial notes blending, 
 Form a fit dirge for the loyal and brave. 
 
 Calmer he'll rest in the bed we have made him. 
 Close to the spot where in childhood he played, 
 
 Than where the foe's bloody hands would have laid 
 him, 
 Far, far away in the Palmetto shade. 
 
 May, 1862. 
 
116 THE SMITHY. 
 
 THE SMITHY. 
 
 (A Fragment.) 
 
 The praises of the Smithy let me sing, 
 
 While all around the busy anvils ring. 
 
 Too long have martial heroes filled the place 
 
 Of highest honor with the human race; 
 
 Be mine to win the poets of our land 
 
 To chant the merits of a noble band, 
 
 Be mine to change the spirit of their lays, 
 
 And crown the Blacksmith with immortal bays. 
 
 A distant friend whom highly I esteem, 
 
 Has given me for verse this simple theme. 
 
 And when I think what gentle Cowper did. 
 
 When of the humble sofa, at the bid 
 
 Of lady fair, he wrote his matchless Task, 
 
 The kindly muse that aided him I ask 
 
 To lend my short and feeble pinions force, 
 
 And buoy me gently upward in my course, 
 
 While I of common things unsung before, 
 
 Attempt a pleasing melody to pour. 
 
 Beyond the reign of empires stretching far, 
 Beyond the birth of chiefs and horrid war. 
 Beyond the rushing waters of the flood 
 That cleansed our planet from polluting blood, 
 From Tubal-cain the sons of iron date 
 Their origin and handicraft so great, 
 He was the ancient founder of this school 
 Whose precepts now enable man to rule 
 Undoubted monarch of the land and sea. 
 As God designed him from the first to be. 
 
 The early workmanship of course was rude. 
 And little profit at the first accrued 
 To them who plied the blacksmith's useful trade, 
 And wares uncouth of brass and iron made. 
 The anvil was a, flinty rock or stone, 
 
A PROEM. in 
 
 The use of windy bellows was unknown, 
 
 A heavy lump of iron firmly bound 
 
 Upon a shorten'd staff was used to pound 
 
 The pliant metal which the furnace bright 
 
 Had changed from blackness to a glowing white 
 
 Invention then had but a feeble mind, 
 
 And few and simple were the things designed; 
 
 A hatchet, knife, a pointed arrow-head, 
 
 A flat and clumsy plowshare, it is said 
 
 By them whose views are sound beyond a doubt, 
 
 Were first in Tubal 's Smithy hammered out. 
 
 A PROEM. 
 
 To thee my muse her humble gift would bring. 
 And timidly would place it at thy feet. 
 
 Ashamed that with so poor an offering. 
 So fair and dear a presence she should greet. 
 
 I know thou wilt not turn thy face away. 
 Nor scorn to listen to her homely song, 
 
 For kindness in thy heart holds constant sway. 
 And tender sympathies to thee belong. 
 
 And thou hast smiled upon her, and approved, 
 Beyond her hope, her unskilled melodies, 
 
 And gladdened by thy favor she is moved 
 To try once more thy graciousness to please. 
 
 There is sweet pleasure in beholding them 
 Whose souls we feel are nobler than our own, 
 
 Whose generous lives our selfish ways condemn, 
 And fill us with high thoughts before unknown. 
 
 Such is the feeling that my muse has borne. 
 Making her seek thee still with timid eye 
 
 Since first she saw thee on that sunny morn, 
 
 When Autumn's glories filled both earth and sky, 
 
118 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Perhaps the glowing wonders of the scene 
 That ever comes to veil the fading year, 
 
 Forced her to find for all a fitting queen, 
 That Autumn's splendor might not vain appear. 
 
 But since she met thee, she has only used 
 To see thee at a distance, and admire. 
 
 Fearing to have the privilege refused, 
 If she to friendship's nearness should aspire. 
 
 Her wreath of song she brings with heart sincere; 
 
 It is the best that she can gather now; 
 Were it of jewels rare, it would appear 
 
 Too plain to rest upon so fair a brow. 
 
 And as the Greeks imagined it no wrong 
 
 To crown Athena ruler of the air. 
 So would my muse enthrone thee with her song, 
 
 And robes of regal beauty bid thee wear. 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Who shall be Queen of May? 
 
 The laughing children said, 
 And wear on this fair day 
 
 The garland round her head? 
 For in their childish glee. 
 
 They'd met upon the green 
 With happy hearts and free, 
 
 To choose their May-day Queen. 
 
 The sun in splendor glowed 
 
 From out a cloudless sky, 
 Near them, a brooklet flowed 
 
 With murmuring music by; 
 The bird songs echoing rung 
 
 Each field and woodland through. 
 And on the grass and leaves there hung 
 
 Bright drops of pearly dew. 
 
THE MAY QUEEN. 119 
 
 "Who shall be qneen? said they: 
 
 An answer soon was found; 
 Minna shall be the Queen of May, 
 
 Was heard from all around; 
 In all the village none 
 
 With Minna can compare; 
 The May-crown she has fairly won, 
 
 And worthily will wear. 
 
 A gentle, modest maid 
 
 With eyes of sweetest blue, 
 Blushed at the words they said. 
 
 Nor deemed the honor due. 
 Queen she was chosen there, 
 
 And on her brow they bound 
 The spring flowers bright and fair, 
 
 In wood and meadow found. 
 
 Another year has past, 
 
 A long and changeful year. 
 Each day is gone at last. 
 
 And May again is here. 
 A pretty scene we see, 
 
 And all is bright and gay. 
 And birds are singing merrily 
 
 To greet the sunny day. 
 
 But she who wore the wreath 
 
 Upon her forehead bound? 
 Alasl her youthful form in death 
 
 Lies silent, neath the ground. 
 All summer long she played 
 
 Unconscious of her doom. 
 The Autumn saw her quickly fade. 
 
 And sink into the tomb. 
 
 And her companions meet to-day 
 
 Upon the favorite green, 
 They meet again but not to play. 
 Nor choose their May-day queen. 
 
120 NOT DEATH BUT SLEEP. 
 
 Oh no ! the flowers that they have found, 
 They take with tearful eyes, 
 
 And scatter on the little mound 
 Where darling Minna lies. 
 
 "NOT DEATH BUT SLEEP." 
 
 O, say not death — 'tis only sleep! 
 There angels o'er her slumbers keep 
 A silent watch, and on her tomb 
 The early rose will spread its bloom. 
 
 The wintry blasts may fiercely blow 
 And wrap her bed with ice and snow, 
 But heedless of the raging storm. 
 Will still repose that youthful form. 
 
 Within the home where once she smiled. 
 Her parents mourn their absent child, 
 But all the tears that mothers weep, 
 Can never wake her from her sleep. 
 
 The Voice once heard at Bethany, 
 Alone can set the sleeper free, — 
 And from beneath the grassy mound. 
 Bring her with life eternal crowned. 
 
LOVE. 121 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 The human heart was made for love, 
 And though enjoying all beside, 
 
 Its cherished wish, its fond desire 
 Remains unsatisfied. 
 
 Shame on the wretch who idly sneers 
 
 At this the brightest, best 
 Of all with which the Hand Divine 
 
 Our needy race has blest. 
 
 But pity them whom truth compels 
 To say, I never yet have known 
 
 One gentle, sympathizing heart 
 That beat responsive to my own. 
 
 For only they who all their lives 
 
 Companionless have roved 
 Can feel how drear it is to be 
 
 Unloving and unloved. 
 
 And if there be, as some believe, 
 Men without souls who live and die 
 
 Just like the brute, 'tis surely those 
 Whom less than love can satisfy. 
 
 Within the angels' far off land, 
 Was born this mystic power, 
 
 Thence to our earth it early came 
 The light of Eden's bower. 
 
 And even now though sin has marred 
 Each pleasing scene beneath the skies, 
 
 The good and true can ever find 
 With love an earthly Paradise. 
 
12^: TO M. J. B. 
 
 O give me, then, this priceless boon, 
 
 To keep till life is o'er: 
 If I have love and love's return, 
 
 What can I wish for more? 
 
 TO M. J. B. 
 
 The lines you wrote when in the mood 
 Which often springs from solitude, 
 And seldom ends in any good. 
 
 And which I call heart-sadness, 
 
 Have come; and now in my own way, 
 In humble verse I will essay 
 To turn your twilight into day 
 
 And touch the chords of gladness. 
 
 That still are strung within your heart, 
 Though Sorrow may with subtle art. 
 Try to persuade that every part 
 Of earthly joy has vanished. 
 
 Do not believe the syren's tale! 
 Looking from out the mourner's veil, 
 With wrinkled brow and visage pale, 
 Whence every thing is banished, 
 
 Save that which savors of dull care, 
 Of gloominess, and fell despair, 
 She bids you her own aspect wear. 
 And utter her repining. 
 
 Turn from her to our golden dreams, 
 Turn to that autumn sun whose beams, 
 Turn to that wintry moon whose gleams, 
 
 Like those bright dreams, were shining,- 
 
TO M. J. B. 123 
 
 Did they behold a single joy 
 That was not full of much alloy 
 Which did its value all destroy, 
 And keep us ever longing 
 
 For that bright day when happy we 
 An island bower in some lone sea 
 Should find, to which we'd quickly flee, 
 And each to each belonging, 
 
 We'd taste within our Ellemwold 
 The bliss which kindred hearts unfold, 
 The bliss which sweet Romance oft told 
 Our constancy would bring us, 
 
 If we could only be away 
 From those that crossed our selfish way, 
 And marred the music of the lay 
 That darling Love did sing us? 
 
 ' 'The best laid schemes of mice and men 
 Oft gang aglee;" no wonder, then. 
 That Love's blind eyes should fail to ken 
 The future's adverse changes. 
 
 Distance it is, remember too. 
 That lends enchantment to the view, 
 And decks the scenes with fairy hue. 
 Wherever Fancy ranges. 
 
 The buds of hope may swell and bloom, — 
 'Tis oft to deck Fruition's tomb: 
 Such was, it seems, the early doom 
 Of many we selected. 
 
 The joys of earth can never last; 
 Like autumn leaflets in the blast, 
 They're scattered from us far and fast, 
 And leave us all neglected. 
 
 Fame is a phantom that allures 
 
 With some bright vision which endures 
 
124 TO M. J. B. 
 
 A fleeting hour. She all secures 
 Of which she can deprive us, 
 
 Then leaves us to lament our lot, 
 Leaves us by flatterers forgot, 
 Leaves us alone, but leaves us not 
 A name that will survive us. 
 
 And Love — Alas! what has he done 
 To millions who have madly run 
 To grasp his shadow, and begun 
 To think success is certain. 
 
 How fiercely has the fickle god 
 Laid on his dupes the chastening rod 
 Till many a tear has wet the sod, — 
 But Pity drops the curtain 1 
 
 As here we wander to and fro, 
 'Tis always well for us to know 
 The founts from which our pleasures flow 
 Are sometimes foul or baneful; 
 
 And often in our wanderings 
 A difference in progress brings 
 To those who 're joined with silken strings, 
 A pressure that is painful. 
 
 Those thus united two by two 
 Too oft forget what they should do 
 A pleasant journey to pursue. 
 And fail to step together. 
 
 Lest this fault should be ours, my dear, 
 Both head and heart we must keep near, 
 Or else for hope and joy, I fear 
 We may have sorrow rather. 
 
 To you the past may seem more bright, 
 To me the future's richer light 
 Enraptures my inquiring sight 
 Whene'er I turn to view it. 
 
TO M. J. B. 125 
 
 It must, however, be confessed 
 The present is by far the best, 
 The very time in which we're blest, 
 If we, dear one, but knew it. 
 
 "We now are blessed beyond our thought, 
 Although the beauteous isle we sought 
 Is yet unfound; for all unbought 
 We have what's always better, 
 
 A host of friends whose Christian love 
 And artless sympathies oft prove 
 A foretaste of the joys above 
 
 When we shall cast the fetter. 
 
 We have "the Way, the Truth, the Life." 
 Though ours the labor and the strife. 
 Ours is the victory too, sweet wife, 
 If we but strive to win it. 
 
 A cloud of witnesses around. 
 The blood of martyrs from the ground. 
 The notes that from high heaven resound 
 Of white-robed choirs within it. 
 
 All urge us on to faith's emprise, 
 That in the morning we may rise 
 To meet our Leader in the skies, 
 And drink of bliss supernal. 
 
 Why then lament for garlands past. 
 Why weep for blooms that never last, 
 But wither at the first chill blast? 
 Sow seed for flowers eternal, — 
 
 Flowers that thou'lt wear with ecstasy 
 In wreaths of immortality, 
 When thou shalt join the minstrelsy 
 Around the Throne of Glory. 
 
 What wouldst thou more? — The days of old, 
 The stolen looks, the dreams that told 
 
126 THE HUNTERS. 
 
 A tale of life and Ellemwold, 
 
 As dreams will tell the story? 
 
 Alas! they're gone! — but many a throng 
 Of choral memories all day long, 
 Still sing for us that dear old song, 
 "Indeed, I fondly love thee!" 
 
 As in the By-gone, may we yet 
 
 Still cling to hope's sure anchor, pet, 
 
 Till all desires are fully met 
 
 Far in the heavens above thee! 
 
 THE HUNTERS. 
 
 The leaves are off in Greenwood, 
 
 The snow is on the ground; 
 A prettier sight than Greenwood, 
 
 Is nowhere to be found. 
 
 We live in Greenwood's merry dell, 
 
 And hunters keen are we. 
 In Greenwood too we mean to dwell. 
 
 And hunters we mean to be. 
 
 At dawn of day when first the light 
 Covers the east with ruddy sheen. 
 
 None ever saw a fairer sight 
 Than our hunter band I ween. 
 
 Our dogs are like the game they chase. 
 
 As fleet as Autumn's gale; 
 Our prancing steeds to win the race 
 
 Were never known to fail. 
 
 The livelong day we track the deer 
 With horse, and gun, and faithful hound; 
 
 We fearless ride, and loud and clear, 
 We wake the mountain echoes round. 
 
A WISH. li;7 
 
 And when at eve we homeward hie, 
 Fatigued by weight of slaughtered deer, 
 
 Our hunters' cabin greets our eye, 
 Our board is spread with hunters' cheer. 
 
 When the leaves are off in Greenwood, 
 
 And the snow is on the ground. 
 Such merry feasts as Greenwood's 
 
 Can nowhere else be found. 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 O give me some green, sunny isle, 
 Far, far on the deep-sounding ocean, 
 
 Where Spring ever dwells with her smile, 
 And life is all free from commotion. 
 
 My spirit is vexed with the strife, 
 With the toil and the struggle is weary, 
 
 As in the stern conflict of life, 
 
 She faces a world cold and dreary. 
 
 She hates every thought of the proud. 
 The selfish, the vain, and the mulish, 
 
 Whose language so boastful and loud. 
 Betrays a mind little and foolish. 
 
 The multitudes giddy and wild. 
 Chase daily the phantom of pleasure, 
 
 And daily with sin are defiled. 
 Till crime is increased beyond measure. 
 
 The worst are like demons below. 
 The best are suspicious and chilling. 
 
 While slanders incessantly grow. 
 The innocent seizing and killing. 
 
 From all I turn sickened away, — 
 From noise, and contention, and riot, 
 
128 FORTUNE. 
 
 From evils that secretly play, 
 I turn with a yearning for quiet. 
 
 I long for a sweet, quiet home 
 Far, far from the steps of intrusion, 
 
 Where follies and strife never come. 
 Nor aught that engenders confusion. 
 
 There happy with Nature I'd dwell, 
 And gather fresh courage for duty ; 
 
 My bosom with rapture would swell, 
 As daily I gazed on her beauty. 
 
 Then give me some green, sunny isle, 
 Far, far on the deep-sounding ocean. 
 
 Where Spring ever dwells with her smile, 
 And life is all free from commotion! 
 
 FORTUNE. 
 
 Our path shall be strown with the sweetest 
 of blossoms. 
 Our sky shall be tinged with the brightest 
 of blue. 
 On us shall be lavished the favors of For- 
 tune, 
 Who fickle with others, to us shall be 
 true I 
 
TO M. B. B. 129 
 
 TO M. B. B. 
 
 I met thee in the land of dreams last night, 
 
 As Fancy led me to Owasco 's shore; 
 Thy sweet face shone with heaven's unfading light, 
 
 Yet thou wast fond and playful as of yore. 
 
 what surprise that on this lower plain, 
 Where life is but a sorrow and a tear, 
 
 And hope the only solace of our pain. 
 Thou whom our God has taken should 'st appear! 
 
 Yet all seemed real, and the silver tone 
 Of thy dear voice is with me even now, 
 
 1 felt thee place thy hand within my own, 
 
 And pressed the kiss of friendship on thy brow. 
 
 And long we talked together of the days 
 We spent beside Owasco 's sunny stream. 
 
 Where first I learned to love thy childish ways. 
 And our acquaintance grew to fond esteem. 
 
 And strangely I forgot that thou art dead, 
 Or deemed the story but an idle tale, — 
 
 Forgot the bitter tears that sorrow shed 
 On thy poor, coffined face so chill and pale. 
 
 I may believe it was not all a dream: 
 Thy spirit may have come at that lone hour, 
 
 And whispered thoughts that to us mortals seem 
 The fleeting work of sleep's mysterious power. 
 
 For what are dreams of beauty and of joy, 
 But the bright pictures that the angels trace 
 
 Within our hearts of sadness, to destroy 
 Our vain repining, and sweet Hope replace? 
 
130 THE RAIN. 
 
 THE RAIN. 
 
 I lie upon my bed, 
 
 My hand beneath my head, 
 
 And listen to the rain, 
 
 The ever falling rain, 
 The patter and the dropping of the rain. 
 
 Across the sombre sky 
 The leaden vapors lie, 
 
 Chill fountains of the rain. 
 
 The swift-descending rain 
 That coldly beats against the window pane. 
 
 Now to myself I seem 
 To wander in a dream, 
 
 But still I hear the rain, 
 
 The wildly dashing rain, 
 The patter and the dropping of the rain. 
 
 Sweet pictures of the Past 
 Appear before me fast, 
 
 But vanish while the rain. 
 
 The sorrow-laden rain 
 Recalls me quickly to myself again. 
 
 What sadness fills my heart. 
 As my visions all depart, 
 
 And leave me but the rain, 
 
 The idle, mocking rain, 
 The patter and the dropping of the rain. 
 
 Ah, why was I e'er born, 
 To lie here all forlorn, 
 
 And hear the gloomy rain, 
 
 The hope-deriding rain. 
 Whose cruel echoes fill my heart with pain. 
 
AN EPIGRAM. 131 
 
 'Twill beat upon my tomb, 
 From skies of wintry gloom: 
 Shall I then hear the rain, 
 The grieving, sobbing rain, 
 The patter and the dropping of the rain? 
 
 AN EPIGRAM. 
 
 Give thy thoughts to what is true, 
 Useful things be prompt to do. 
 Love the beautiful and good, 
 In the world be understood 
 Ever as the friend of right, 
 Loyal to the King of light. 
 More than gold and rubies be 
 Unto thee, O friend, these three 
 Sacred faith, hope, charity. 
 Gulielmus-William. 
 
 CHRIST TRIUMPHANT. 
 
 Be glory, honor, power, to him our King, 
 Who sits enthroned above the crystal sphere; 
 
 Let angels now their grandest anthems sing. 
 And all the universe his praises hear. 
 
 No more he lives in scenes of sin and woe, 
 The Lamb of God among the beasts of prey, 
 
 No more he daily feels his sorrows grow, 
 As through a hostile world he takes his way. 
 
 No more his bitter tears bedew the sod. 
 No more he wears the robe and thorny crown, 
 
 No more forsaken by his friends and God, 
 With breaking heart he lays life's burden down. 
 
132 CONTENT, 
 
 Exalted now above the heavens high, 
 He wears the crown of joy upon his brow; 
 
 O'erwhelmed and crushed the powers of darkness lie, 
 While at his feet the hosts seraphic bow. 
 
 Come forth, astonished heavens and rescued earth, 
 Your mighty King Jehovah's Son adore! 
 
 And conquered hell, proclaim thy Victor's worth, 
 Whose glorious reign endures forevermore. 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 I cannot change my mode of life, 
 To suit the fashions of the hour, 
 
 Or stop to join the noisy strife 
 Of man with man for wealth or power. 
 
 The simple dress, the frugal meal, 
 The humble cottage by the stream. 
 
 Our outward penury reveal, — 
 I let them pass for what they seem. 
 
 Yet I am rich, I dwell in state, 
 The best of all things are my own; 
 
 I envy none, however great. 
 My campstool is an empire's throne. 
 
BRANDYWINE. 133 
 
 BRANDYWINE. 
 
 O Brandywine, romantic stream, 
 
 Who has not heard thy name! 
 Thy banks where lovers rove and dream 
 
 Are linked with deathless fame; 
 Thy startled waters once beheld 
 
 War's bloody standard reared, 
 When helm and plume in days of eld 
 
 Upon thy marge appeared. 
 
 Ere yet the frost had decked the corn 
 
 With Autumn's yellow dye, 
 The battle trump awoke the morn 
 
 Beneath September's- sky; 
 And Washington beside thy ford 
 
 The day was forced to yield. 
 And Lord Cornwallis waved his sword 
 
 In triumph o'er the field. 
 
 Oh! dark the hour for Liberty, 
 
 When bursting through thy flood, 
 Rushed England's dauntless chivalry 
 
 Athirst for fame and blood! 
 Wayne, fierce as tiger on the spring. 
 
 Closed with them hand to hand, 
 The Britons battling for their king, 
 
 Wayne for his native land. 
 
 Thy hills then trembled at the sound, 
 And crimson flowed thy tide. 
 
 As doubtful conflict o'er the ground 
 Swept fierce from side to side. 
 
 But Victory with partial scale 
 To British banners fled, 
 
134 FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 And Liberty was left to wail 
 Heart-broken o'er her dead. 
 
 Far other scene, O Brandywine, 
 
 Thy stream presents to-day, 
 For peace and freedom now are thine 
 
 Beneath the sky of May; 
 Now crystal flows thy rippling tide 
 
 Thy flowery banks between, 
 And spring's delighted warblers glide 
 
 Among thy willows green. 
 
 So when the strife of life is past, 
 
 Though Death the victor be, 
 May I, triumphant at the last. 
 
 The reign of beauty see; 
 Where more refreshing waters flow, 
 
 May fadeless joys be mine. 
 And brighter scenes around me glow 
 
 Than thine, O Brandywine! 
 
 FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 To thee my Muse her humble gift would bring, 
 And timidly would lay it at thy feet. 
 
 Ashamed that with so poor an offering 
 So fair and dear a presence she should greet. 
 
 \ know thou wilt not turn thy face away, 
 Nor scorn to listen to her humble song. 
 
 For kindness in thy heart holds constant sway, 
 And tender sympathies to thee belong. 
 
 Yea, thou hast smiled upon her, and approved, 
 Beyond her hope, her unskilled melodies. 
 
 And gladdened by thy favor she is moved 
 To try once more thy graciousness to please. 
 
FOR AN ALBUM. 135 
 
 If, then, regardless of the rules of art. 
 She follows whither vagrant Fancy flies, 
 
 No need has she to act the fawner's part. 
 Nor for her simple thoughts apologize. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the sight of them 
 Whose lives we feel are nobler than our own, 
 
 Whose generous deeds our selfish ways condemn 
 And lead to higher aims before unknown. 
 
 To such we love submissively to bow. 
 Forgetful of the cold and sneering crowd, 
 
 With such in childlike artlessness allow 
 Our lips to speak our secret thoughts aloud. 
 
 Such is the feeling that my Muse has borne. 
 Making her seek thee still with timid eye, 
 
 Since first she saw thee on the sunny morn 
 When autumn's glory filled both earth and sky. 
 
 Perhaps the glowing wonders of the scene 
 That ever comes to veil the fading year. 
 
 Forced her to find for all a fitting queen. 
 That autumn's splendor might not vain appear. 
 
 But since she met thee she has only used 
 To see thee at a distance, and admire, 
 
 Fearing to have the privilege refused. 
 If she to friendship's nearness should aspire. 
 
 Her wreath of song she brings with heart sincere; 
 
 It is the best that she can gather now; 
 Were it of jewels rare it would appear 
 
 Too plain to rest upon so fair a brow. 
 
 And as the Greeks imagined it no wrong 
 
 To crown Athena ruler of the air, 
 So would my Muse enthrone thee with her song, 
 
 And robes of regal beauty bid thee wear. 
 
136 MILLIE. 
 
 MILLIE. 
 
 Dear Millie, the golden-haired, 
 
 I think I see her still. 
 As in the days of our childish plays 
 
 At the school-house on the hill. 
 
 Mount Pleasant the place was called, 
 
 Of learning's plain abode, 
 That lonely stood by the chestnut wood. 
 
 Beside the old Gulf Road. 
 
 She was but a country child, 
 
 Unskilled in Fashion's lore, 
 Yet a fairer face with a sweeter grace 
 
 No city maiden wore. 
 
 With music her soul was filled. 
 
 And gladsome songs she sung. 
 Which many a bird with envy heard, 
 
 Tredyffrin's groves among. 
 
 Her future she thought would be 
 
 All free from toil and care; 
 Her hopes would live, and each year would give 
 
 Of joy an untold share. 
 
 And who has not thought the same? 
 
 We are dreamers, one and all, 
 And the visions sweet mislead our feet. 
 
 Till in the grave we fall. 
 
 And thus with Millie it proved, 
 
 For Fortune turned unkind. 
 And gave her alloy for the golden joy 
 
 She fondly hoped to find. 
 
MILLIE. 137 
 
 She married a heartless wight — 
 
 A slave to pipe and bowl, — 
 And labor and tears filled up the years, 
 
 And the music left her soul. 
 
 Her cheeks all their bloom then lost, 
 
 Her hair its golden sheen, 
 And a care-worn dame with a homely name, 
 
 The household drudge, was seen. 
 
 Thus beauty and love depart, 
 
 And men forget their sway, 
 Thus the bright Ideal in the gloomy Real 
 
 All sadly fades away. 
 
 The vale our young Fancy roved 
 
 Along its flowery streams, 
 In later years a valley of tears 
 
 And desolate ruins seems. 
 
 Yet well for us all if hope 
 
 Still lingers in the soul, 
 That the tempest-tossed and the travel-lost 
 
 Will reach at last their goal. 
 
 And well if the glorious land 
 
 Our youthful dreams foretold, 
 With its fadeless flowers shall then be ours 
 
 When we its King behold. 
 
138 HOPE. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Oh! long delayed have been the sunny days 
 Of the loved springtime, and the sprightly lays 
 Of bluebird and of robin; but, at last. 
 The snows of winter vanish, and the blast 
 Gives place to soothing breezes, nor in vain 
 Upon the bleak earth falls the gentle rain. 
 
 Once more from out the South the melting air 
 Moves soft o'er field and woodland, and the fair 
 Young flowers, awakened from their wintry sleep, 
 Come forth, and our glad eyes now daily reap 
 Harvests of beauty, as we wander slow, 
 Where violets and sweet arbutus grow. 
 
 In all this wondrous change may we not find 
 
 Some token that the Future will be kind? 
 
 That time no longer envious will bring 
 
 To our sad hearts the brightness of the spring? 
 
 Then let us cherish hope: if we do well. 
 
 Our coming years shall all our past excel. 
 
CENTENNIAL HYMN. 130 
 
 CENTENNIAL HYMN. 
 
 Amid these ancient mountains, 
 
 Within the forest shade, 
 Beside the crystal fountains 
 
 That God himself has made, 
 We meet to hear the story 
 
 Of Liberty so grand, 
 And praise the Lord of glory 
 
 Whose bounty fills our land. 
 
 All nature here rejoices 
 
 Beneath the summer sky; 
 Come then, with happy voices 
 
 And raise our anthem high, 
 Come, praise the God of blessing 
 
 Whose throne is fixed above, 
 Come all His Christ confessing. 
 
 And sing his wondrous love. 
 
 Let all these woodlands airy 
 
 Re-echo with our lay, 
 While Freedom's Centenary 
 
 We celebrate to-day; 
 Let Love and adoration 
 
 To Him the Lord of all. 
 Fill us and all our nation, 
 
 While on His name we call. 
 
 His words of life we'll cherish. 
 Inscribed in every heart. 
 
 Lest we forever perish 
 When we from earth depart; 
 
 Our spirits with the beauty 
 Of holiness we'll fill, 
 
140 CENTENNIAL. POEM. 
 
 Intent on every duty, 
 Avoiding every ill. 
 
 May blessings still attend us 
 
 Through all the years to come, 
 And God's right arm defend us 
 
 Until we reach our home, 
 Where we shall sing the story 
 
 Of everlasting grace. 
 And in the realms of glory 
 
 Behold our Father's face. 
 
 CENTENNIAL. POEM. 
 
 July 4, 1876. 
 
 A hundred years, a hundred years. 
 With all their smiles, with all their tears, 
 Have vanished since our native land 
 In Freedom's cause first raised her hand, 
 And struck those blows whose echoes still 
 All hearts with joy and wonder thrill. 
 
 And now we come with grateful lay, 
 
 To celebrate the golden day 
 
 On which our fathers pledged their all, 
 
 Life, fortune, honor, at the call 
 
 Of Liberty whose morning star 
 
 Shone faintly through the clouds afar. 
 
 O muse, that erst on Hellas' shore 
 To Homer taught thy sacred lore, 
 And who in Freedom's after days 
 Crowned Milton with immortal bays, 
 Inspire us, and our souls expand 
 With mem'ries of our heroes grand! 
 
 O noble men were they who stood 
 Rock-like against the swelling flood 
 
TO HYGEIA. 14J 
 
 Of tyranny that swept our strand, 
 And threatened to engulf our land; 
 Aye, noble men whose every name 
 Is worthy of eternal fame! 
 
 Our nation in a day was born, 
 While they became her hope forlorn, 
 And never faltered, never feared, 
 Until this land, to us endeared, 
 With peace was crowned, and Liberty 
 Her scepter waved from sea to sea. 
 
 'Twere long to tell what they performed, 
 V/hile love of home their bosoms warmed 
 To finish all they had begun, 
 And leave for us the land they won; 
 Through cold and hunger, toil and pain. 
 Did they the boon of freedom gain. 
 
 No common strife did they begin. 
 
 No common triumph did they win; 
 
 It was a deed of grand emprise 
 
 They dared beneath these western skies. 
 
 When leagued Oppression back they hurled 
 
 All shattered to the olden world. 
 
 TO HYGEIA. 
 
 Hygeia, sprightly blooming maid, 
 In strength and gracefulness arrayed, 
 I fain would know the reason why 
 With me of late thou art so shy. 
 So painfully reserved and cold. 
 And not the candid friend of old. 
 
 In years agone thou wast not coy. 
 For thou didst guard me when a boy. 
 
142 TO HYGEIA. 
 
 With me didst play from morn till night, 
 And ever watch me through the night. 
 I prized thee highly, and thy smile 
 Afforded gladness all the while. 
 Encouraged by thy cheering eye, 
 On distant journeys I would fly, 
 Climb trees the tallest of the wood, 
 Or fearless breast the rolling flood. 
 No sport or labor then to me 
 Seemed hard if countenanced by thee. 
 But since thou art no longer nigh. 
 In helpless solitude I sigh; 
 The buoyancy of youth is fled, 
 And I am like one almost dead; 
 No longer rugged as of old, 
 I needs must guard against the cold; 
 Avoiding winds at which I laughed, 
 I must e'en shun the slightest draft, 
 Watch all the changes of the air. 
 And guard against them with all care; 
 Don overshoes and overcoat. 
 And muffle up my tender throat, 
 If I would venture out of doors 
 When Boreas our land explores; 
 Be careful, too, of all my food. 
 Lest I offend my squeamish blood. 
 And what with whims and real wants, 
 My life of small enjoyment vaunts. 
 
 Not so when thou wast ever by. 
 Inspiring me with thy bright eye. 
 Until I felt so brave and strong. 
 That I could labor all day long. 
 And confident that I with thee 
 Could compass every land and sea. 
 
 Hygeia, why art thou so cold? 
 Why not regard me as of old? 
 I know thou dost on others smile. 
 But this does not my temper rile, 
 
TO HYGEIA. 143 
 
 For I am not of that poor make 
 
 Offence at other's gain to take; 
 
 So when I plead, not jealousy, 
 
 But pining want I urge with thee. 
 
 Without thee all seems desolate, 
 
 And I, consigned to cruel fate, 
 
 Am pestered night and day with ills, 
 
 In spite of doctors and of pills, 
 
 Or rather, I should truly write, 
 
 My ills were formerly in spite 
 
 Of all belonging to the trade 
 
 Of quackery, of which, afraid, 
 
 I finally discarded all 
 
 That smells of Galen's nauseous stall; 
 
 All drugs and potions I forswore, 
 
 For they but made my trouble more. 
 
 But then my troubles do not leave. 
 
 Although my choice affords reprieve 
 
 From nasty doses made to cure 
 
 Not invalids, but leanness sure 
 
 Of doctor's purse and druggist's till, 
 
 Which credulous we strive to fill. 
 
 I drove Hippocrates away. 
 Why didst thou not return, I pray, 
 Hygeia, once kind-hearted maid, 
 And grant me thy unfailing aid? 
 I tried, thou knowest, each device 
 And tempted thee with all things nice, 
 Cool water from the mountain springs. 
 And Graham gems, delicious things, 
 Ripe fruits of every luscious kind. 
 That I thought suited to thy mind; 
 These baits I offered and far more, 
 Too tedious to be counted o'er, 
 But all in vain; thou dost not come. 
 To all my urging deaf and dumb. 
 Thou wilt not hear, thou wilt not tell 
 What I must do that would be well 
 Designed to win thy love again. 
 
144 AT mother's grave. 
 
 And make me now as glad as when 
 I I'oved with thee o'er hill and dale, 
 And thought thy love would never fail* 
 I know I often used thee ill, 
 When I was miffed, as lovers will. 
 But thou dost know I ne'er designed 
 To treat thee in a way unkind, 
 I thought to show a little spite, 
 And thus to bring the matter right. 
 But now, Hygeia, do forgive. 
 Return with me again to live; 
 I love thee more than books or wealth 
 Or babbling fame, Hygeia, Health! 
 
 AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 Oh! mother, my mother! 
 
 Asleep in the valley at last! 
 Earth's joys and its sorrows 
 
 For thee, my poor mother, are past. 
 
 I stand in the fullness 
 
 Of Spring and her glory to-day. 
 All desolate, mother, 
 
 Though Nature is sunny and gay. 
 
 I care not, poor mother. 
 
 That roses are blooming around; 
 They bring me no pleasure 
 
 Since thou art laid under the ground. 
 
 In sweet early childhood. 
 
 When life's sky was azure and gold, 
 I never dreamed, mother. 
 
 Thou here wouldst lie silent and cold. 
 
 I recollect, mother, 
 Those days now evanished so long. 
 
AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. 145 
 
 "When hither thou leddest 
 Me feeble, thou sprightly and strong. 
 
 But changeful years, mother, 
 To me strength and hopefulness lent, 
 
 While thee, my poor mother. 
 With age and with sickness they bent^ 
 
 Alas! at the longest, 
 
 Our earthly existence how brief! 
 In life's chilling autumn 
 
 We fade and we fall as a leaf. 
 
 All past is the winter. 
 
 Here again are the blossom and bee. 
 In garments of beauty 
 
 Spring trips through the forest and lea. 
 
 Has Death, too, a springtime, 
 
 When our cherished blossoms revive? 
 
 Does Night bring a Morning 
 When loved ones again are alive? 
 
 Yes, answers the prayer 
 Thou early didst teach me to say: 
 
 "Thy Kingdom come, Father," 
 And hasten, O Christ, the glad day. 
 
 My bruised heart, as thine did. 
 Believes in the crowned Nazarene, 
 
 Assured He'll let nothing 
 Between us and Him intervene. 
 
 O joyful the meeting 
 
 Of father, and thee, and the rest 
 Of us, thy sad household, — 
 
 Then rescued, immortalized, blestl 
 Great Valley, Pa., 1874. 
 
146 THE GLORY OP THE LORD. 
 
 THE GLORY OP THE LORD. 
 
 I stand upon the mount where stood of old, 
 Transfigured once, the Christ of Galilee; 
 
 And faith recalls the vision: I behold 
 The glory of his kingdom, and I see. 
 
 With Peter, James and John the wondrous cloud, 
 
 And with them hear God's voice so clear and loud. 
 
 In the beginning first that voice was heard 
 Startling the reign of Chaos and old Night: 
 
 And all the depths of gloom and silence stirred 
 With the divine command, "Let there be light!" 
 
 And light there is, and in it all rejoice 
 
 Who list attentive to that heavenly voice. 
 
 And in it I rejoice, as now I view 
 
 The splendor of his kingdom and his throne. 
 By valor won, by conduct pure and true. 
 
 Christ sought God's will, and making that alone 
 The measure of all duty, he became 
 Our Captain, crowned with everlasting fame. 
 
 Obedience was the path which upward led 
 Our Christ to conquest matchless and complete, 
 
 In which he bruised the lying Serpent's head, 
 And crushed the powers of darkness under feet, 
 
 A victory like his can now be won. 
 
 If we but heed the voice, Hear ye mv Son. 
 
 I stand upon the mount — around me shines 
 The brightness of an everlasting morn. 
 
 The stars sing sweet, my soul no more repines, 
 But into life anew and hope is born, 
 
 And in its peerless beauty now I see 
 
 The place in Paradise reserved for me. 
 
SPRING. 147 
 
 In Christ I trust, I look for his return, 
 
 I patient wait the advent of the day [burn, 
 
 When through the heavens his chariot wheels shall 
 
 And every nation yield unto his sway, 
 And when in rich profusion shall be poured 
 Millennial blessings on the earth restored. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 lovely Spring, I've waited long, 
 With anxious heart, to meet thee. 
 
 And now accept the humble song 
 With which I come to greet thee. 
 
 Not mine to summon to mine aid 
 From Tempe's vale the muses. 
 
 For to my verse each heavenly maid 
 Her kindly aid refuses. 
 
 Yet shall I from my song refrain, 
 Though trite the thought and measure? 
 
 1 know that naught will give thee pain 
 That gives to me but pleasure. 
 
 Spring, how often in the days 
 Of winter stern and dreary, 
 
 1 thought of thee, and longed to gaze 
 On scenes that never weary. 
 
 Such are the scenes where oft my feet 
 
 Amid thy blossoms wander, 
 And where my soul in musings sweet 
 
 Upon thy beauties ponder. 
 
 O Spring, when I was but a boy, 
 I gave my heart in keeping 
 
148 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 To thee whose pleasures never cloy, 
 Nor end in bitter weeping. 
 
 I've loved thee more than miser loves 
 His heaps of golden treasure; 
 
 And Time, the Changer, only proves 
 My love increased in measure. 
 
 And though my heart has often bled, 
 And Hope forgot the morrow, 
 
 Thy hand has ever raised my head, 
 And given joy for sorrow. 
 
 Then ever with thee let me rove, 
 O Spring, my cheery maiden. 
 
 While all the air in field and grove 
 With sweet perfume is laden! 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 No careless thought nor language cold 
 
 Should on the page appear, 
 When we address the friends we hold 
 
 Beyond all others dear; 
 Some pleasing subject we should take 
 
 And words of winning tone, 
 That as they read them we may make 
 
 Their feelings like our own. 
 
 But where, alas, such pleasing theme, 
 
 Or where such words to find, 
 I cannot tell, so feeble seem 
 
 The efforts of my mind. 
 Then what remains but here to say, 
 
 I leave you to surmise 
 What matchless verse I would display 
 
 Before your wondering eyes ! 
 
TO THE WOODTHRUSH. 149 
 
 TO THE WOODTHRUSH. 
 
 Pretty warbler of the spring, 
 Welcome to thy native home, 
 
 Here shall rest thy weary wing, 
 Nothing tempted now to roam. 
 
 While on winter's icy bands 
 Glanced the sun's retiring beams, 
 
 Thou in distant summer lands 
 Warbledst by the flowery streams. 
 
 Oft the dark-eyed Indian maids, 
 Lured by thy enchanting lay. 
 
 Sought the sombre forest shades, 
 As the sunlight died away. 
 
 Their enraptured spirits heard, 
 Floating on the zephyrs bland. 
 
 Echoes in thy music, bird, 
 From the wondrous sunset land. 
 
 And the swarthy chieftain, too, 
 
 Listened often to thy song, 
 As he steered his frail canoe 
 
 Orellana's marge along. 
 
 Visions of the warrior's home 
 
 In the isles bey6nd the sea. 
 Where the brave forever roam. 
 
 Filled his soul with ecstasy. 
 
 Now sweet May with gentle showers. 
 And the balmy southern breeze, 
 
 Spreads our northern land with flowers, 
 Robes in green our leafless trees. 
 
150 TO THE WOODTHRUSH. 
 
 But the brightest vernal dawn 
 Would but gild a solitude, 
 
 Were thy flute-like music gone, 
 Peerless songster of the wood. 
 
 At the opening of the day, 
 Just as Sol begins his reign, 
 
 Often in the woodlands gray, 
 Have I listened to thy strain. 
 
 And at evening's quiet hour, 
 When the sun had vanished long, 
 
 And the night begun to lower. 
 Have I heard thy plaintive song. 
 
 Like the power of magic art. 
 Or some fairy's potent spell, 
 
 Stole thy music o'er my heart. 
 Waking thoughts I could not tell. 
 
 Warmest welcomes to thee, bird, 
 Loved companion of the spring, 
 
 May thy music long be heard 
 Making all our woodlands ringl 
 
A MORNING CONCERT. 151 
 
 A MORNING CONCERT. 
 
 The darkness is flying-, the daylight appears, 
 And the song of a robin falls sweet on my ears. 
 
 His red-breasted fellows soon join in the strain, 
 And far-ringing echoes take up the refrain. 
 
 A score of musicians are now in my sight, 
 Swinging high on the tree-tops inmorning'sfaintlight. 
 
 No flutist can equal the rich, varied notes 
 
 That gush, like a fountain, so clear from their throats. 
 
 They sing as if sorrows to them were unknown, 
 And purest of pleasures were ever their own. 
 
 O, thus do they worship their Maker on high, 
 With incense of music that floats to the sky ! 
 
 If so, let the angels repeat the wild strains, 
 
 Till the chorus resounds o'er the heavenly plains! 
 
 Could I, like the robins, glide swift through the air, 
 I'd join in their carol, and banish all care. 
 
 From earth then departing, I'd seek the bright land, 
 Where Eternity's ocean is washing the strand. 
 
 I'd join the great Concert where Shining Ones raise. 
 With voices celestial, the anthem of praise. 
 
152 EXPECTATION. 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 Our souls are often yearning for the bright 
 And beautiful that shall not pass away, 
 
 And look impatient for the fadeless light 
 Whose dawn shall turn our darkness into day. 
 
 And we have painted what our lives might be, 
 With brilliant tints from Fancy's choicest store. 
 
 But all our pictures day by day we see 
 Fade into gloom, to cheer us nevermore. 
 
 Then, turning from the earth our tearful eyes, 
 We dream of pleasure in some world unseen, 
 
 Of rapture in some land beyond the skies, 
 Whose bowers of beauty are forever green. 
 
 Oh! can it be that all our dreams are vain? 
 
 That madly we the tales of hope believe? 
 That on the shores of time lies all our gain? 
 
 And Faith's enchanting visions but deceive? 
 
 O no! the stormy main will yet be passed, 
 The land of joy and beauty we shall see, 
 
 Each sweet ideal will arise at last 
 Clad in the robes of immortality. 
 
SUNSHINE. 153 
 
 SUNSHINE. 
 
 O Sunshine of the joyous morn, 
 Out of the cloudless ether born, 
 Pouring thy gold upon my study floor, 
 I bless thee o'er and o'er. 
 
 Last eve the sky was dark with cloud 
 And tempest, lowering fierce and loud, 
 Upon the drenched and hope-forgetting earth, ' 
 Now full of light and mirth. 
 
 Deep from the chalice of delight, 
 Thrice happy to escape the night. 
 All creatures drink, and lift the voice of praise, 
 Inspired by thy sweet rays. 
 
 Shall I to whom more hopes belong 
 Seek less to raise my feeble song 
 Than these which only sensuous blessings share. 
 Thy light with food and air? 
 
 Swifter than thy bewildering flight, 
 My faith flies up thy path so bright, 
 Enraptured, Sunshine, to His brighter throne, 
 Thy Maker's and my own. 
 
154 A REPROOF. 
 
 A REPROOF. 
 
 I praise thee not, O giddy, fickle Maiden! 
 
 Thy heart and conscience all perverse have grown. 
 And thou art so with worldly burdens laden, 
 
 That I thy friendship can no longer own. 
 
 Are there for girlhood's days no field of duty? 
 
 No thoughts beyond deceitful pleasure's sway? 
 No light but that of vain, external beauty, 
 
 Which like the dew of morning flies away? 
 
 "With dress and caller, promenade and party. 
 Thou wasteth all thy youth's sweet, precious years 
 
 For fools' applause, and rivals' hatred hearty. 
 Thy own disgust, and Pity's useless tears. 
 
 Awaken out of Folly's low delusion. 
 Come forth into the light of Wisdom's morn, 
 
 Leave Vanity, and Fashion's coarse profusion. 
 False Pride's ignoble aims and fate forlorn. 
 
 So shall thy life rise into joys transcendent. 
 And golden fruitage all thy cares repay, 
 
 And thou shalt reign in spotless robes resplendent, 
 The queen of pleasures that shall ne'er decay. 
 
MEMORY'S BELLS. 155 
 
 MEMORY'S BELLS. 
 
 Still floating' on, and floating- on, 
 Adown the stream of time, 
 
 How often as the day is gone, 
 We hear at eve the chime 
 
 Of Memory's mystic bells. 
 
 Still floating on, and floating on, 
 E'en from the earliest hour, 
 
 When life and hope are in the dawn, 
 The soul can feel the power 
 Of Memory's fairy bells. 
 
 Still floating on, and floating on, 
 'Neath childhood's rosy sky. 
 
 Their mystic tones will steal upon 
 The heart, and wake a sigh, — 
 The tones of Memory's bells. 
 
 Still floating on, and floating on. 
 
 Within each later year, 
 For each bright scene forever gone, 
 
 We oft in sadness hear 
 
 The chime of Memory's bells. 
 
 Still floating on, and floating on. 
 
 And nearing still the sea, 
 They toll for all of earth that's gone. 
 
 Till we from earth are free. 
 
 Sweet Memory's mystic bells. 
 
156 AUTUMN. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 How sad to rove 
 
 Withia the grove 
 When autumn clouds the sky, 
 
 And all around 
 
 Upon the ground 
 The withered blossoms lie. 
 
 Loosed by the breeze, 
 
 From oflf the trees 
 The leaves are falling slow, 
 
 And far and wide 
 
 The forest's pride 
 Lies on the cold earth low. 
 
 The bird of song 
 
 Has vanished long, 
 And sought a milder home 
 
 In southern vales, 
 
 Where chilling gales 
 And frosts can never come. 
 
 Stern ruin reigns 
 
 O'er all the plains 
 Where summer held her sway, 
 
 And in my mind 
 
 But gloom I find 
 Throughout the dreary day. 
 
 Yet in these woods 
 
 And solitudes 
 Who would not rather be 
 
 Than in the loud 
 
 And giddy crowd 
 That surges like the sea! 
 
LIFE. 157 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 I stand upon the shore: the sea of life 
 Before me lies in turbulence and mystery; 
 
 And sadly I behold the constant strife 
 Between man's wishes and his destiny. 
 
 From nothingness we enter into time 
 Controlled by laws we made not, but obey 
 
 As slaves their masters. Filled with thoughts sublime 
 We crawl in dust, and perish in a day. 
 
 Why are we? and for what strange purpose come 
 To earth, whose powers oppress us and destroy? 
 
 We die, but do we live again? What home 
 Awaits us? — one of grief or endless joy? 
 
 O Mystery ! thou scornest all our thought 
 To solve thee; helpless at thy feet we fall: 
 
 Something from nothing, wondrous life from nought, 
 This may we know, but this, alas! is all. 
 
 Where Reason stumbles helpless and undone, 
 Faith soars beyond the darkness into light; 
 
 She hears, she sees, till what she seeks is won. 
 And with the sun of Truth dispels our night. 
 
 We are because God made us, and we live 
 To taste his goodness, and return him praise; 
 
 We hope what his enduring love will give 
 To them who trust in him in all their ways. 
 
 O Nazarene, whose brief existence here 
 
 The mystery of mysteries reveals, 
 We cling to thee, and never more have fear: 
 
 Thy word our happiness forever seals. 
 
158 DECEIVED. 
 
 DECEIVED. 
 
 I thought her innocent and strong, 
 A being of angelic mold, 
 Whose life in beauty would unfold, 
 
 Nor dreamed that she could do me wrong. 
 
 Those purifying aims that raise 
 The soul above ignoble things, 
 And lend it Hope's aspiring wings, 
 
 I missed indeed in all her ways. 
 
 But I was blinded, and I thought 
 That I could teach her what I knew. 
 And time would show the good and true 
 
 That in her life I fondly sought. 
 
 And all I asked for she professed. 
 And spoke of love and sympathy. 
 And vowed them solemnly for me. 
 
 But knew them not, much less possessed. 
 
 I gave her all I had — ^my trust. 
 My confidence amid the strife, 
 The bitter struggles of my life, — 
 
 But found her made of vulgar dust. 
 
 Seduced by selfishness she fled, 
 But backward like the Parthian hurled 
 At me, before the jeering world, 
 
 Her darts envenomed, as she sped. 
 
2MEETING AND PARTING. 159 
 
 MEETING AND PARTING. 
 
 We met in the russet autumn, 
 By the banks of Vernon river, 
 
 While on the trees the wayward breeze 
 Made every sear leaf quiver. 
 
 We met in the dreamy autumn. 
 When the heart is filled with sadness, 
 
 And a strange unrest in every breast 
 Dispels all thought of gladness. 
 
 We met in the tearful autumn, 
 When the lonely year was sighing 
 
 For pleasures fled and children dead 
 And for herself now dying. 
 
 We met in the boding autumn, 
 
 But met, alas, to sever. 
 And like a knell our last farewell 
 
 Sounds in our hearts forever! 
 
160 IN VAIN. 
 
 IN VAIN. 
 
 It may be she is good and true 
 When in her sober, second thought, 
 
 But what can late repentance do 
 To mend the mischief she has wrought? 
 
 She broke the precious vase of love. 
 
 And cast its ottar all away; 
 My prayers her anger failed to move, 
 
 My tears her ruthless hand to stay. 
 
 Now she has lost her wonted power 
 To change the purpose of my heart; 
 
 I leave her only sorrow's dower. 
 As free and gladsome I depart. 
 
 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 It was the first day of the week, 
 A day when thoughtful Christians seek 
 To meditate upon the ways 
 Of Deity, and render praise. 
 I wandered forth. 'Twas afternoon; 
 Above, the cloudless sky of June. 
 
 With careless steps I sauntered on, 
 Till suddenly I came upon 
 A group of people gathered near 
 A stream of water deep and clear. 
 A man — a preacher as I found- 
 Stood by them on a rise of ground. 
 I learned that they had come to see 
 
THE BAPTISM. 161 
 
 A sight unusual then to me — 
 To see the pious preacher lave 
 Some converts in the limpid wave. 
 
 The rite already was performed, 
 But he, with kindling fervor warmed, 
 Was preaching to the listening crowd, 
 With accents earnest but not loud, 
 Exhorting them to heed the word, 
 And yield obedience to the Lord. 
 When he had ended silence reigned; 
 His zeal, I thought, had nothing gained. 
 
 I wrongly thought, for one was moved 
 To act as her belief behooved. 
 A maiden stepped from out the throng, 
 Whose face I shall remember long; 
 A maiden with a brow serene, 
 On which faith, hope, and love were seen. 
 Enrobed in white she meekly came 
 To make confession of the name 
 Of Him whom now and evermore 
 Both saints and seraphim adore. 
 "Dost thou believe with all thy heart, " 
 The preacher said, as she apart 
 Stood from the rest and raised her head, 
 "In Jesus, First Born from the dead?" 
 The maiden answered with a nod, 
 "He is the Christ, the Son of God; 
 In Him my confidence I rest. 
 In Him alone can I be blest; 
 God helping me I will to-day 
 The Gospel of my Lord obey. 
 All earthly things I count as loss 
 That I may glory in His cross. " 
 
 The good man took her by the hand, 
 And down they walked upon the sand; 
 Before their steps the waves divide 
 Clear as the Jordan's sacred tide; 
 
162 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 And as they go a holy song 
 
 Resounds the shady banks along. 
 
 Now silent yi the stream they stand; 
 
 The preacher slowly lifts his hand: 
 
 "Into the name of Father, Son, 
 
 And Holy Spirit, three in one, 
 
 I now baptize thee in the name 
 
 Of Jesus who to save thee came; 
 
 Buried within the yielding wave. 
 
 Like Christ within the rocky grave, 
 
 Thy sins, through his most precious blood. 
 
 Are all remitted in this flood; 
 
 Arising then to life renewed, 
 
 Attest to him thy gratitude. 
 
 By holy faith and works of love. 
 
 Till hope is realized above." 
 
 He said, and then with tender care 
 Immersed the maiden young and fair. 
 A moment hidden from our sight. 
 Again she rises to the light; 
 Calm as the summer's dewy morn 
 Out of the water she is born, 
 And fairer far she seemed to be 
 Than Venus rising from the sea; 
 Serene as summer's brightest day. 
 She shone, rejoicing in that way 
 Long sought, but now in Jesus found, 
 Where pardon, peace, and love abound. 
 
CROTON POND. 163 
 
 CROTON POND. 
 
 Surrounded by wood-covered hills, 
 
 Except on the northerly side, 
 And fed by the swift flowing rills, 
 
 The millpond extends itself wide. 
 It mirrors the changeable skies, 
 
 Which gaze there eternally down, 
 Now bright as a maiden's blue eyes. 
 
 Now dark with the storm-demon's frown. 
 
 How often, when I was a boy, 
 
 I came in the hot summer days. 
 In its cool, limpid depths to enjoy 
 
 Relief from the sun's burning rays. 
 Here with my companions I played, 
 
 Diving deep to the gravelly floor, 
 Or proof of rash bravery made 
 
 By venturing far from the shore. 
 
 O crystalline waters, one morn 
 
 Ye witnessed a sorrowful sight, 
 When out of your depths was upborno 
 
 Poor Hiram again to the light 1 
 He was missing, and search being made, 
 
 His cap was picked up by the shore. 
 Where often with us he had played 
 
 So gaily the summer before. 
 
 Men dragged the deep bottom, and found 
 
 His body all lifeless and cold: 
 A funeral train and a mound. 
 
 And Hiram's sad story is told. 
 O waters that mirror the skies 
 
 And picture the trees on your breast. 
 May he in the grave where he lies 
 
 Sleep calmly as you in your rest! 
 
164 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Put aside that volume, and come, I pray. 
 
 For I would, dear one, have a stroll to-day. 
 
 While the autumn sun on the landscape fair 
 
 Is pouring his light through the cloudless air. 
 
 Too intent, I fear, do our minds run o'er 
 
 The commonplace language of human loi^e; 
 
 Let us read awhile upon earth and sky 
 
 The words there imprinted for every eye. 
 
 The heavens declare the glory of God, 
 
 And ,the tiniest flower that springs from the sod 
 
 Bespeaks for its author a matchless skill. 
 
 Consummate wisdom, and infinite will. 
 
 But concerning the home where man shall abide 
 
 And his fate after crossing the mystical tide 
 
 Which flows between Time's and Eternity's strand, 
 
 Not a word is there written on sky, sea, or land. 
 
 Though some may imagine they truly can scan 
 
 By searching their spirits the future of man, 
 
 And pierce through the shadows of death that conceal, 
 
 A land which none but a God can reveal. 
 
 Proud dreamers are we if we question our souls 
 
 For that knowledge which He the Highest controls. 
 
 We ask — we listen — no answer can come, — 
 
 Both our souls and our bodies like Nature ai-e dumb. 
 
GREAT VALLEY CHURCH. 165 
 
 GREAT VALLEY CHURCH. 
 
 What changes astonish as hither I come 
 
 Once more to this sacred retreat, 
 Where often I came from my childhood's loved home, 
 
 With the worshiping people to meet. 
 The walls are the same, but the woodwork is changed — 
 
 A doubtful improvement, I ween — 
 The furniture fashion has deftly arranged, 
 
 And nothing antique can be seen. 
 
 I enter the door and sit down in a pew, 
 
 And notice the people around; 
 Their dresses are modish, their faces are new, 
 
 Among them a stranger I'm found. 
 No doubt as they cast a stray glance upon me, 
 
 They wonder that I should be here. 
 And think for a moment, perchance. Who is he? 
 
 And note the plain garments I wear. 
 
 I sit here and muse in this house of our God, 
 
 And think of the long-vanished days. 
 When they who are sleeping beneath the green sod 
 
 Assembled here weekly to praise, — 
 When Fletcher stood forth, an Apollos in might, 
 
 Proclaiming with fervor the word. 
 And multitudes turning from darkness to light, 
 
 Confessed their once crucified Lord. 
 
 I like not the ancient because it is old. 
 
 Despising the things that are new, 
 I value the good which the ages unfold. 
 
 And love all that's holy and true; 
 But Fancy, contrasting the Then and the Now, 
 
 Contends for the old-fashioned ways, 
 And old-time devotion, we all must allow, 
 
 Was better than our stilted praise. 
 
166 GREAT VALLEY CHURCH. 
 
 The people, though simple, were truthful and just, 
 
 Religion was more than a name. 
 The mantle of virtue trailed not in the dust, 
 
 And folly aspired not to f ame. 
 The country aped not the pert ways of the town, 
 
 Submissive to Vanity's thrall. 
 The rich were not up and the poor were not down, 
 
 And Pride was disfavored by all. 
 
 We're sadly devoid of the unction and grace 
 
 That marked the disciples of old, 
 Instead of the Spirit gross matter has place, 
 
 And evil is rampant and bold. 
 We worship by proxy, and tickets procure — 
 
 Broad-guage — for the regions above, 
 We doubt the old Book, and of nothing are sure. 
 
 And selfishness banishes love. 
 
 No longer, O Church, is the zealousness found 
 
 That once in thy people appeared. 
 Thy earnestness lies with thy dead under ground, 
 
 By Satan no more thou art feared; 
 The warning that once unto Sardis was sent 
 
 Full well unto thee might be said: 
 Be watchful, and strengthen, hold fast and repent, 
 
 Thou livest, and yet thou art dead! 
 
 O Church, from thy slumbers awake and arise! 
 
 Christ's garments of beauty put on, 
 Let holy commandments enlighten thine eyes. 
 
 And days of rejoicing will dawn; 
 Discard all traditions, and walk in the truth. 
 
 The form of sound words holding fast. 
 Renew, like the eagle, the strength of thy youth, 
 
 And mount to the heavens at last! 
 
 Treddyffrin, Pa. 
 
LINN^A. 167 
 
 LINN^A. 
 
 With trivial name or common-place 
 Shall we thy presence greet? 
 
 Thv June-like eyes and sunny face 
 Demand a word that's meet. 
 
 Of all we know what shall it be? 
 
 One musical and good, 
 To please thine ear in infancy 
 
 And grace thy maidenhood. 
 
 Linnsea may it be, my child. 
 
 Reminding us of streams. 
 And vernal woods, and nature wild, 
 
 And hope's prophetic dreams. 
 
 For thou art here in light and love, 
 
 A fair, perennial flower, 
 And brightest stars in Heaven above 
 
 Smiled on thy natal hour. 
 
Igg MY BABY. 
 
 MY BABY. 
 
 This is my prayer, O Sweet, 
 
 Repeated day by day: 
 God grant thy little feet 
 
 May never learn to stray. 
 
 His ever constant care 
 
 May He around thee throw, 
 
 And guard from every snare. 
 And save from every woe. 
 
 And may the choice be thine 
 Of unseen things above, 
 
 Through power of truth divine 
 And His attracting love. 
 
 Thus will the better part 
 
 Be with thee all life long, 
 
 And Christ within thy heart 
 
 Shall make thee wise and strong.