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SYLVAN LYRICS 
 
SYLVAN LYRICS 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 /^ 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNH 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 MDCCCXCIII 
 
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 Copyright, 1893, by 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 
INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 MY FATHER 
 
 The heirship of your fire divine 
 Imparts these wavering sparks to mine, — 
 Frail sparks that yearn by love updrawn 
 To find thee in the deathless dawn. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SYLVAN LYRICS. 
 
 Prelude, 
 
 A Band of Bluebirds, 
 
 The Field-Sparrow, . 
 
 In a Southern Swamp, 
 
 Drought, 
 
 Amid the Corn, 
 
 The Greenhouse, 
 
 In the Summer Shade, 
 
 The Evergreens, 
 
 A Pastoral Picture, 
 
 The Wind and the Snow, 
 
 Their City, 
 
 The Red Oaks, 
 
 Revival, 
 
 Before Frost, , 
 
 Icicles at the South, 
 
 May, 
 
 From a Rock, 
 
 Through Woodland Ways 
 
 A Spectre, . 
 
 To Toccoa Fall, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 X 
 2 
 
 4 
 6 
 
 lO 
 12 
 
 14 
 IS 
 17 
 19 
 21 
 22 
 
 25 
 
 26 
 27 
 29 
 31 
 
 34 
 36 
 39 
 39 
 
CONJENTS. 
 
 In the Autumn Woods, 
 
 Crowned, 
 
 The Emigrants, 
 
 Vernal Prophecies, 
 
 To a Swallow, 
 
 The Red-Bird, 
 
 The Nighthawk, 
 
 To a Canary, 
 
 To a Rain Crow, . 
 
 To a Humming-Bird, 
 
 The Screech-Owl, 
 
 The Southern Snow-Bird, 
 
 A Meadow Song, . 
 
 I Cannot Sing with the Robins, 
 
 With Red and Gold, 
 
 Inconstant, 
 
 Nature's Songs, 
 
 To a Cherokee Rose, 
 
 In Mockery, 
 
 The Wreck, 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 On a Southern Beach, 
 The Flight of the Gulls, 
 The Sorrow of the Sea, 
 On Deck, 
 Far Out at Sea, 
 
 SEA 
 
 LOVE SONGS, AND OTHER VERSES. 
 
 PAGE 
 40 
 
 43 
 44 
 47 
 49 
 SI 
 54 
 56 
 57 
 S8 
 60 
 62 
 63 
 65 
 66 
 67 
 68 
 70 
 
 71 
 72 
 
 75 
 77 
 78 
 
 79 
 81 
 
 At Anchor, 
 Unuttered, 
 
 8S 
 86 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Serenade, .... 
 
 87 
 
 A Lover's Doubt, .... 
 
 89 
 
 The Seed of Love, .... 
 
 90 
 
 Love's Volume, ..... 
 
 91 
 
 The Difference, .... 
 
 92 
 
 The Last Knight, .... 
 
 93 
 
 Time and I, .... , 
 
 95 
 
 The Cup-Bearer, ..... 
 
 96 
 
 To Vesuvius, ..... 
 
 97 
 
 The Heart of the City, .... 
 
 98 
 
 Retrospect, ...... 
 
 99 
 
 Wisteria, ...... 
 
 . 100 
 
 The Soldier's Fate, .... 
 
 lOZ 
 
 Loneliness, ..... 
 
 102 
 
 Morbid Moods, .... 
 
 103 
 
 Nested Thoughts, .... 
 
 104 
 
 Extremes, ..... 
 
 105 
 
 The Outlook, ..... 
 
 Z06 
 
 The Dead Poets, .... 
 
 107 
 
 In Shadow-Land, ..... 
 
 109 
 
 The Angel and my Father, 
 
 no 
 
 Threnody of the Pines, .... 
 
 112 
 
 At my Father's Grave, . . . . 
 
 "3 
 
 To the Memory of Philip Bourke Marston, 
 
 114 
 
 Beyond the Bar, . . . . . 
 
 116 
 
 Sydney Lanier, ..... 
 
 117 
 
 Winfield S. Hancock, . . . . 
 
 119 
 
 One Day, ..... 
 
 121 
 
 The Happy Dead, . . . . . 
 
 . 122 
 
 The Gentle May, 
 
 123 
 
 On Easter Morn, . . 
 
 124 
 
 Literary Iconoclasm, .... 
 
 125 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 
 QUATRAINS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Head of Niobe, 
 
 . . 129 
 
 The Bust of Kronos, 
 
 129 
 
 The Bust of Neptune, 
 
 130 
 
 The Artist, .... 
 
 130 
 
 Divine Paradoxes, 
 
 130 
 
 Repentant, .... 
 
 131 
 
 Verbal Hypocrises, 
 
 131 
 
 Memory, ..... 
 
 131 
 
 To my Father, . . . * 
 
 132 
 
 Sleep and Sorrow, 
 
 132 
 
 To the Milky Way, . 
 
 132 
 
 Undiscovered, .... 
 
 133 
 
 The First Evergreen, 
 
 133 
 
 The Dying^ Woman, . 
 
 133 
 
 The Convalescent, . . . . 
 
 134 
 
 Opportunity, .... 
 
 134 
 
 Duality, . . . . , 
 
 134 
 
 Our Hearts, .... 
 
 135 
 
 A Musician's Fancy, . 
 
 135 
 
 WITH CHILDREN. 
 
 
 Child-Nature, .... 
 
 139 
 
 March and April, . , . 
 
 141 
 
 The Grasshopper, 
 
 142 
 
 The Earth's Children, 
 
 143 
 
 The Outlaw of the Air, . 
 
 144 
 
 The Locust, .... 
 
 14s 
 
 The Baby's Dimple, 
 
 . . 146 
 
 The Wind's Lullaby, 
 
 . 146 
 
 Pine-Needles, .... 
 
 147 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Woodland Wires, 
 
 The Words of Trees, 
 
 Pansies, 
 
 The Wrestlers, 
 
 The Mole, 
 
 The Snail, . 
 
 The Boatman, 
 
 Little Fred, 
 
 The New Moon, 
 
 Winter Warfare, 
 
 The Rain-Drops, 
 
 147 
 148 
 148 
 149 
 ISO 
 152 
 153 
 154 
 15s 
 156 
 156 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 Fine odors float through wood and field, 
 And to the dawn their bounty yield : 
 
 Borne from the woodbine's waxen cells, 
 The honeysuckle's soundless bells ; 
 
 The fragile foliage of the vines 
 
 "Where morning's earliest dew-drop shines ; 
 
 The moisture lingering o'er the thorn, 
 The ribbons of the ripening corn ; 
 
 The feathery ferns by lake and ledge, 
 The wild wet grass, the silvery sedge ; 
 
 The light leaves half inclined to press 
 Their bitter bark in tenderness ; 
 
 The honey of the wild bees' home 
 Shrined in the cloister of the comb. . . 
 
 All these the heart of Nature holds, 
 And to the morning wind unfolds. 
 
A BAND OF BLUEBIRDS. 
 
 (In Autumn.) 
 
 Oh, happy band of bluebirds, 
 
 Brave prophets of the Spring, 
 Amid the tall and tufted cane, 
 
 How blithesomely you sing I 
 What message haunts your music 
 
 'Mid Autumn's dusky reign ? 
 You tell us Nature stores her seeds 
 
 To give them back in grain I 
 
 Your throats are gleeful fountains. 
 Through which a song-tide flows ; 
 
 Your voices greet me in the woods, 
 On every wind that blows ! 
 
 I dream that Heaven invites you 
 To bid the Earth " good-by " ; 
 
A BAND OF BLUEBIRDS. 
 
 For in your wings you seem to hold 
 
 A portion of the sky I 
 » « « » « 
 
 Oh, happy band of bluebirds, 
 
 You could not long remain 
 To flit across the fading fields 
 
 And glorify the grain. . . . 
 You leave melodious memories, 
 
 Whose sweetness thrills me through 
 Ah, if my songs were such as yours, 
 
 They'd almost touch the Blue I 
 
THE FIELD-SPARROW. 
 
 (A Fable for Poets.) 
 
 Smallest of all small minstrels he I 
 And yet with no half-hearted glee 
 He twitters in the tall broom-grass, 
 O'er which capricious shadows pass, 
 Or, sheltered by the ripening grain, 
 Hears the cool cadence of the rain. 
 With the first shaft of morning light 
 He trims his tiny wings for flight, 
 And the frail limb that forms his bed 
 By sunrise is untenanted. . . . 
 Cloud-filtered from the bending blue. 
 He feels the dripping of the dew, — 
 The only hint of sorrow shed 
 O'er his unruffled heart and head. 
 Though his blithe breast is quickly stirred 
 By notes of thrush and mocking-bird, 
 
THE FIELD-SPA RROIV. 
 
 No envy fills his healthful heart 
 
 Because of their melodious art. 
 
 Along green boughs their music thrills, 
 
 To die amid the distant hills, 
 
 Or o'er the leaf-bound valleys sweep, 
 
 Where the low wind-songs fall asleep. 
 
 Ah ! still untouched by envy's smart, 
 
 The lowlier lyrics of the heart 
 
 In strains unstudied he may bring 
 
 With undercurrents of the spring, 
 
 And cheerful through bright days or dim 
 
 Outpour the songs that gladden him. 
 
IN A SOUTHERN SWAMP. 
 (Autumn.) 
 
 The sun that day played hide and seek, 
 
 With clouds whose shadows crossed the creek ; 
 
 And standing on the water's rim, 
 
 I watched the minnows dive and swim ; 
 
 While from a half-decaying log 
 Came the hoarse croaking of a frog ; 
 
 But when my cautious footsteps stirred. 
 Above my head a partridge whirred, 
 
 And the sly frog plunged in the creek — 
 A moment's plash ! a guttural shriek ! 
 
 Then having gained his sullen will. 
 The frog lay mute ; the air was still. 
 But suddenly within the swamp 
 A sportive wind began to romp. 
 
IN A SOUTHERN SWAMP. 
 
 Tossing dead leaves and tickling trees — 
 A wandering madcap of the seas I 
 
 Obedient to his wanton freak, 
 
 He scattered leafage o'er the creek ; 
 
 With varied color crowned the tide 
 By floating foliage glorified, 
 
 Then sped beyond my listening ear — 
 To fields of autumn dim and sear. 
 
 I turned to leave the water's edge, 
 Splitting the wide swamp like a wedge ; 
 
 With shadowy pools on either hand — 
 A dismal waste of watery land — 
 
 When from a cane-entangled brake 
 Emerged the deadly water-snake ; 
 
 Arched his short neck above the mire — 
 A moccasin with fangs of fire I 
 
 He paused but for a moment's space, 
 Then glided with demoniac grace 
 
IN A SOUTHERN SWAMP. 
 
 Down the slow current of the stream, 
 And vanished like an evil dream. 
 
 With eager haste I moved away, 
 Through the encircling woods to stray ; 
 
 Long forest vistas veiled in blue, 
 
 With fitful sunshine shimmering through. 
 
 This faint, fine haze seemed to enfold 
 The hickory's leaves of burnished gold. 
 
 Below the needles of a pine 
 
 I saw the sumach's berries shine ; 
 
 While just beyond, in contrast keen, 
 I watched the holly's emerald sheen, 
 
 Till near enough my footsteps came, 
 And, lo I a robin's breast of flame ! 
 
 On the black mud the maple's stain 
 Lay like a shower of crimson rain. 
 
 Blent with the golden leaves and brown, 
 From oaks and poplars fluttering down. 
 
IN A SOUTHERN SWAMP. 
 
 Within my view a towering pine, 
 Wreathed by the dark ropes of a vine, 
 
 A resinous odor subtly shed 
 
 From its huge trunk and tapering head. 
 
 One winged rover came in sight; 
 A woodpecker, with restless flight, 
 
 Gave the brown bark a quick, keen tap. 
 Filled his long bill with luscious sap. 
 Then darted round the stately tree — 
 A feathered tom-boy, wild with glee. 
 
 An hour elapsed, and then the fall 
 Of night was presaged by a call 
 
 Across the morass deep and still — 
 The first note of the whip-poor-will. 
 
 'Twas followed by a thick gray fog, 
 The curtaining vapors of the bog, 
 
 Through which was borne, with deep'ning thrill 
 That strange song of the whip-poor-will. 
 
DROUGHT. 
 
 The rainless clouds so warm and high, 
 Blurring the landscape of the sky, 
 
 Hang far o'er fields of corn and wheat, 
 Shot through with soundless shafts of heat. 
 
 No delicate moisture filters through 
 The stillness of the sultry blue. 
 
 Though shrunken grass and suffering grain 
 Long for the rescue of the rain. 
 
 Ah I soon insidious Drought shall kill 
 All floral favorites of the hill, 
 
 For now I watch too near its close 
 The dwindling redness of the rose, 
 
 And see its sisters wan of hue 
 
 As flowers that never felt the dew. 
 
 In forest depths the dry cocoon 
 Hides silken secrets from the noon. 
 
 Perhaps within its brittle shell 
 Some fabrics of the future dwell, 
 
DROUGHT. 
 
 If it survives all envious bloom 
 To round its life upon the loom. 
 
 A deep unnatural silence broods 
 O'er lengths of sylvan solitudes, 
 
 Save where the dreamy cattle stray 
 'Mid the dead pasturage of May 
 
 To view with mournful eyes, alas I 
 The withering of grain and grass. 
 
 The brooks are lessening as they flow 
 Participants of Nature's woe, 
 And thus they have no power to yield 
 Their failing strength to wood and field. 
 
 Upward they look in slow surmise 
 And yearning protest to the skies, 
 
 To find within yon boundless sweep 
 No rainy radiance, soft as sleep, 
 
 Until it seems, in every part, 
 
 A hollow heaven without a heart. 
 
AMID THE CORN. 
 
 Through the uprising mists of the morn 
 
 I hear the pert pipe of a quail, 
 I watch the brown plumes of the corn, 
 
 And the fog with its lengthening trail. 
 How shrill grows the partridge's whistle, 
 
 While the fog wreaths are folded from sight. 
 And I look at a wind-wafted thistle 
 
 Slow journeying up through the light ! 
 
 Like the ghost of a bird it has flown 
 
 To the wind's heart whispering, 
 Or the wraith of a blossom upblown 
 
 From some dead garden of spring. 
 Ah ! soon from the tree-tops remote. 
 
 Of curious minstrelsy born, 
 I hear the jay's jangling note 
 
 Beyond the high tassels of corn. 
 
AMID THE CORN. 13 
 
 Shy rabbits half-hid by the grain 
 
 Now bask in the beams of the sun, 
 Or where the dew glistens like rain 
 
 The shadows of morning outrun, 
 In the woods where the wind current siglis 
 
 Through the canopied green of the trees, 
 The squirrels with frolicsome eyes 
 
 Are leaping aloft in the breeze. 
 
 I could dream they were sailors at sea 
 
 'Mid a rigging of vines and of leaves, 
 But such fancies are fruitless in me, 
 
 So close to the sheltering sheaves, 
 Yet I look at the lark in his flight, 
 
 At his luminous breast, like a star, 
 Till hidden aloft in the light, 
 
 He soars through the morning afar. 
 
THE GREENHOUSE. 
 
 My inner air is sweet and warm, 
 My winter buds are growing, — 
 
 I keep their helpless lives from harm 
 When bitter winds are blowing. 
 
 My roof of glass is clear and bright, 
 
 And has a golden lining, 
 When'ere with softly sifted light. 
 
 The winter sun is shining. 
 
 When frost and snow invade the ground 
 Spring seems a tardy comer, — 
 
 But in my heart the leaves have found 
 A lilliputian summer. 
 
IN THE SUMMER SHADE. 
 
 I REST apart from the sun's fierce gleam, 
 
 And the wind flows over my cheek ; 
 Low cow-bells tinkle along the stream, 
 
 And tremulous swallows seek 
 Tall cliffs as white as the sea's soft drift ; 
 
 While here in the shadows dun 
 Long boughs their shining threads uplift. 
 
 By the woodland weavers spun. 
 
 Soon the wind is heard but scarcely felt, 
 Holding vague hints of sound, 
 
 While the brook gleams like a silver belt 
 In the meadow's heart unwound. 
 
 Green grasshoppers linger within the light 
 Where the clumsier insects pass, 
 
IN THE SUMMER SHADE. 
 
 And leap in their emerald armor bright — 
 Winged acrobats of the grass. 
 
 i^ {(:- ^ ^ « ^ 
 
 Upward the wind flows like a dream, 
 
 Soaring through infinite space, 
 While shadows deepen across the stream 
 
 Where the thick boughs interlace. 
 I wish I could follow the wind's cool track, 
 
 For the stillness girds me round, 
 As if Time for a moment had travelled back 
 
 To wait for the birth of sound. 
 
THE EVERGREENS. 
 
 We watch far lovelier lives than ours — 
 The sun-fed fruits, the brilliant flowers, 
 
 The summer grain — an affluent sight ! 
 The woodland blossoms red and white — 
 
 And when the leaves are growing old 
 Autumn's full recompense of gold ! 
 
 All growths that gladden field and wood, 
 By us are rightly understood ; 
 
 For are they not our kindred, though 
 They perish in the frost and snow ? 
 
 "We watch their fleeting joys and fears — 
 We who outlive the lapse of years, 
 
i8 THE EVERGREENS. 
 
 To front old Winter's frowning gloom, 
 With potent prophecies of bloom I 
 
 We are the allies of the Spring, 
 Whose sacred promises we bring 
 
 To make Earth's bosom less forlorn 
 Through faith in foliage yet unborn. 
 
A PASTORAL PICTURE. 
 (Night.) 
 
 Across the darkness of the night 
 I see a slender thread of light — 
 Light that approaches swift and clear, 
 The earliest firefly of the year I 
 
 A disembodied pulse he seems, 
 Lit by soft phosphorescent gleams — 
 As if beneath his restless ray 
 Some ocean wave had gone astray. 
 
 A slow breeze wafts along the rill 
 The mandate of a whip-poor-will — 
 Whose note revengeful seems to be 
 Softened by mocking fantasy. 
 
 The cricket's voice — an iterant trill, 
 Teases the silence of the hill ; 
 
A PASTORAL PICTURE. 
 
 The stars are cold and high to-night 
 As vestal virghis robed in white. 
 
 The darkness deepens ; overhead 
 Fragments of cloud are thinly spread — 
 A meteor's brief and baleful spark 
 Of hurrying fire, insults the dark — 
 
 A radiance of rare splendor born 
 Like some red miracle of morn — 
 Falling from measureless heights of sky 
 On Night's black breast, to throb and die. 
 
THE WIND AND THE SNOW. 
 
 Where dingy saffron tints combine 
 To give gray clouds a dubious shine, 
 Unheralded by wind below, 
 The earth is waiting for the snow. 
 
 Remnants of withered leaves still lie 
 Beneath the noiseless winter sky. 
 The wondering pines, by silence bound, 
 Seem to have lost all sense of sound. . 
 
 And now the stillness grows so deep 
 It seems to hold a tryst with sleep — 
 A breathless league that quickly breaks 
 With the swift fluttering of the flakes. 
 
 The branches of the pines are stirred, 
 Responsive to the wind's first word — 
 A fragile whisper fraught with woe, 
 Music half muffled in the snow. 
 
THEIR CITY. 
 
 It is a sylvan city, 
 
 This forest cool and fair, 
 "With homes in trees for birds or bees, 
 
 And houses in the air ; 
 Some of its inmates labor 
 
 With no glad gift of sound — 
 They build apart, through instinct's art, 
 
 Quaint mansions under ground I 
 
 It is a sylvan city, 
 
 And through each rustic street, 
 With gentle flow, the mild winds go, 
 
 And make the morning sweet ; 
 The humming-birds are happy, 
 
 And haunt the fragrant vines ; 
 
THEIR CITY. 23 
 
 While near the rills, the wood-birds' bills 
 Are puncturing the pines I 
 
 It is a sylvan city, 
 
 And here the spider weaves 
 His cot across the bark and moss, 
 
 Or masonry of leaves ; 
 The cat-bird's voice is trilling, 
 
 A canzonet so clear ; 
 One eager throat sends back her note— 
 
 The mocking-bird is near ! 
 
 It is a sylvan city, 
 
 With scenes of w^ork and play — 
 Sad sounds by night, dawn — music light 
 
 As madrigals in May ! 
 Half hid in summer verdure, 
 
 I hear a varied throng — 
 The dove's long moan, of plaintive tone. 
 
 Blends with the thrush's song ! 
 
24 THEIR CITY. 
 
 It is a sylvan city, 
 
 Where healthful breezes pass, 
 Where blooms renew, and blossoms blue 
 
 Are twinkling in the grass ; 
 And on this town of nature, 
 
 Its homes in dell and glade, 
 The sun looks down with smile or frown, 
 
 And brings them light and shade. 
 
THE RED OAKS. 
 
 In Southern thickets 
 
 The oaks are red, 
 Their summer beauty 
 
 Has wholly fled ! 
 The green was pilfered 
 
 By frosty eves, 
 But penitent autumn 
 
 Requites their leaves. 
 
 With crimson color 
 
 The oaks are gay, — 
 Their sylvan glory 
 
 Is great to-day ! 
 They have a respite 
 
 From winter's gloom,- 
 By autumn kissed 
 
 Into brilliant bloom ! 
 
REVIVAL. 
 
 When the ice has melted on river and rill 
 
 From the talisman touches of morn, 
 When the sap in the orchard has worked its will, 
 
 The songs of the birds are born 1 
 When the March winds vanish from meadow and 
 brake, 
 
 Rebuked by the opening bud, 
 The slumbering songs in my heart awake 
 
 To revel in brain and blood I 
 
BEFORE FROST. 
 
 The breezes of heaven come hither 
 
 To invade the vast cahn of the place, 
 And wander I cannot tell whither, 
 
 The nomads of infinite space. 
 The shadows of rocks lie before me, 
 
 And shield me from lingering heat, 
 The gold of the autumn is o'er me, 
 
 And the breath of the morning is sweet. 
 
 The pines with their burden of sighing. 
 Look down on the reddening leaves, 
 
 And to them the sad doves are replying 
 'Mid the harvested hush of the sheaves. 
 
 Afar through the sunshine so mellow, 
 I see the swarth crows as they fly, 
 
23 BEFORE FROST. 
 
 And the larks with their luminous yellow, 
 Against the blue breadth of the sky. 
 
 Apart from the world and its folly, 
 
 From toil and its terrible yoke, 
 I watch the bright head of the holly, 
 
 And the stoical trunk of the oak. 
 How slowly the poplars surrender 
 
 Their leaves to the rambling breeze, 
 Whose music grows ruthfully tender 
 
 Amid the dead bloom of the trees ! 
 
 Apart from the world and its riot, 
 
 With the spirit of Autumn abroad, 
 I gain the great guerdon of quiet. 
 
 Exhaled as a gift from the sod. 
 Yet Nature is waiting in sadness, 
 
 The first stealthy stroke of the frost, 
 When bereft of all radiant gladness, 
 
 The life of the summer is lost. 
 
ICICLES AT THE SOUTH. 
 
 The pellets of sleet have ceased to beat 
 On the snow-besprinkled ground, 
 
 Against the pane, the gathering rain 
 Taps with a sullen sound ! 
 
 Over shreds of snow no wind shall go, 
 Curbless, and strong, and fleet ! 
 
 Only the rain, with a dull refrain, 
 Follows the snow and sleet. 
 
 jj& •ll ?!' ^ «le 
 
 The rain on the trees has ceased to freeze ; 
 
 ('Twas molded with quaint device.) 
 The bent boughs lean, like cimeters keen. 
 
 In scabbards of shining ice. 
 
30 ICICLES A T THE SOUTH. 
 
 'Neath frozen cloaks the pines and oaks 
 Are stooping like Druids old, — 
 
 And the cedars stand — an arctic band — 
 Held in the clutch of cold. 
 
 Through the outer gloom the japonicas bloom, 
 "With the lustre of rubies bright, — 
 
 Like blossoms blown from a tropic zone, — 
 A marvellous land of light ! 
 
MAY. 
 
 How softly comes the breath of bloom 
 
 From quiet garden closes ! 
 And, blended in a rare perfume, 
 
 The royal scent of roses ! 
 How tender is the touch of May 
 
 While gentle winds are blowing, 
 And in a sweet, yet silent way 
 
 All sylvan things are growing ! 
 
 How brilliant is the morning dew 
 
 Amid the fields of clover ! 
 Beneath a stainless arch of blue 
 
 The mock-bird is a rover ; 
 His songs are echoed o'er the hills, — 
 
 Their boon of music bringing, — 
 
32 MA V. 
 
 Till all the land with wonder fills 
 
 To hear his rapturous singing ! 
 
 How gracious is the light that gleams 
 
 Across the dancing billows, — 
 Or with a chastened splendor beams 
 
 Above the drooping willows ! 
 How fair are May's benignant feet 
 
 O'er rugged vales and mountains, — 
 And how her magic pulses beat 
 
 Beside the brooks and fountains ! 
 
 What sudden fervor thrills her blood, — 
 
 Through grove or garden straying, — 
 To linger o'er some tardy bud, 
 
 And chide its long delaying ! 
 What pure contentment fills her breast, 
 
 Through thick-leaved forests roaming, 
 To find the peaceful birds at rest 
 
 Beneath the dews of gloaming! 
 
MA V. 33 
 
 What month so musical and bright, 
 
 So rife with vernal glory, — 
 All garmented in air and light, 
 
 Like some Arcadian story ! — 
 Oh ! fragrant is the breath of May 
 
 In tranquil garden closes, — 
 And soft yet regal is her sway 
 
 Among the spring-tide roses ! 
 
FROM A ROCK. 
 
 I CLIMBED a rugged hill slope, 
 Buttressed by rocks and trees — 
 
 The loosened leaves, with fluttering faint, 
 Plucked by the autumn breeze. 
 
 There every sullen aspect 
 
 Of Nature's sombre mood 
 Was emphasized by frowning cliffs, 
 
 Deepened by solitude. 
 
 I viewed the lonely landscape, 
 The rock-encumbered ground ; 
 
 And suddenly my searching eyes 
 One spot of verdure found. 
 
 *Twas sweet to see a grim old rock, 
 O'er which the rude winds pass, 
 
FROM A ROCK. 35 
 
 Holding within its stony heart 
 A tiny tuft of grass. 
 
 The grass still lives ; the rock remains 
 With granite firmness fraught, 
 
 Like a stern man whose stoic breast 
 Harbors one tender thought. 
 
THROUGH WOODLAND WAYS. 
 
 I WANDER afar through the forest, 
 
 In the dew-laden lustre of morn, 
 With the grace of the summer pervading 
 
 Old thickets of brier and thorn ; 
 I hear a gay medley of music, 
 
 Song-fervor unfettered by words, 
 And feel the uplifting that follows 
 
 A metrical mood of the birds. 
 
 I wander afar through the forest, 
 
 By the calm, glassy curves of the creek ; 
 Bird-houses are built in the tree-tops, 
 
 For high are the homes that they seek ; 
 I look at the gossamer glory 
 
 Of the mansions the spiders have made, 
 While the boughs that droop over the water 
 
 Cast flickering frescoes of shade. 
 
THROUGH WOODLAND WAYS. 37 
 
 I wander afar through the forest, 
 
 And flower-breaths float on the breeze 
 With odors whose sweetness should summon 
 
 A rhythmical raid of the bees ; 
 I hear a swift tap that betokens 
 
 A woodpecker busy with bark, 
 And see the bright nonpareils flitting 
 
 Far off from the haunts of the lark. 
 
 I wander alone through the forest, 
 
 Beside the green coverts of cane, 
 And watch on the edge of the water 
 
 The long, snowy neck of a crane. 
 How fleetly the minnows are gliding 
 
 Over silvery shallows of sand. 
 While the minstrels of evening are hidden 
 
 In the loneliest nooks of the land ! 
 
 I wander afar through the forest ; 
 
 With flower-breaths borne on the breeze. 
 
38 THROUGH WOODLAND WAYS. 
 
 An incense of Arcady floating 
 
 *Mid the foliaged aisles of the trees. 
 
 I ramble through sunshine and shadow, 
 With the mock-birds and thrushes in tune, 
 
 "Wild roses and woodbine about me, 
 'Till the morning is merged into noon. 
 
A SPECTRE. 
 
 Over the frozen laurel 
 The wind has ceased to blow. 
 
 And the drooping boughs are shrouded 
 In cerements of the snow. 
 
 The wind moans in the distance. 
 
 Retreating to the sea ; 
 Was it affrighted to behold 
 
 The spirit of the tree ? 
 
 TO TOCCOA FALL. 
 
 Borne swiftly from your lofty ledge, 
 Impetuous o'er the rock's rough edge, 
 You seemed, from that long gorge below, 
 A vision wrought of mist and snow. . . . 
 
 But now I hear your soft refrain 
 Of rhythmic kinship to the rain, 
 As if a summer shower had found 
 An immortality of sound. 
 
IN THE AUTUMN WOODS. 
 (Morning.) 
 I. 
 
 In the autumn weather 
 
 Are sounds like these ; — 
 The busy woodpeckers 
 
 Tattoo the trees, — 
 Quail whir and whistle, 
 
 And wild doves call, — 
 In the grasp of squirrels 
 
 The ripe nuts fall I 
 
 The sparrows are cheerful, 
 And seem quite tame, — 
 
 In the denser thickets 
 With wings of flame 
 
 The red-birds wander, 
 The wood-finch flits, 
 
IN THE A UTUMN IVOODS. 41 
 
 'Mid mellow shadows 
 The autumn knits ! 
 
 Far off in the meadows 
 
 The cow-bells clink, 
 Where thirsty cattle 
 
 Stoop down to drink, — 
 The crows are noisy, — 
 
 The hawks swoop past, — 
 Those winged banditti 
 
 Who travel fast ! 
 
 Through the tropical cane 
 
 The bluebirds fly, 
 With colors caught 
 
 From their native sky, — 
 The jackdaws chatter, — 
 
 So does the wren, 
 Those rival gossips 
 
 Of field and fen I 
 
42 IN THE A UTUMN WOODS. 
 
 On the loftiest boughs 
 
 The jays are shrill, 
 But silvery clear 
 
 Is the thrush's trill I 
 As his perfect music 
 
 Outpours to-day, 
 He forgets that summer 
 
 Has slipped away ! 
 
 II. 
 
 In the changing forest 
 
 What tints are these ? 
 An artist is Autumn 
 
 Among the trees ! 
 The hickories glimmer 
 
 With brittle gold,— 
 And lurid colors 
 
 The maples hold. 
 
 To the waiting forest 
 All hues are brought, — 
 
CROWNED. 43 
 
 On a sylvan canvas 
 In silence wrought ! 
 
 No wonder it looms 
 Like a pageant rare. 
 
 For Autumn the artist 
 Is working there I 
 
 CROWNED. 
 
 The rain retreating from the West, 
 Leaves mists around the mountain's breast; 
 
 But o'er its loftiest peak apart 
 One strange cloud holds the sunset's heart. 
 
 It lies upon the mountain's head, 
 A vaporous crown of gold and red, 
 
 And seems amid the silence grand 
 A coronation from God's hand. 
 
THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 (A Robin's Song.) 
 
 We fly far southward when the sky 
 
 Foretells the fall of snow ; 
 Or filled with arctic fretfulness 
 
 The churlish east winds blow. 
 We bid farewell to Northern farms 
 
 Where summer-time was sweet, 
 And preen our wings to leave behind 
 
 The warfare of the sleet I 
 
 Our hearts abhor the callous cold, 
 In sodden fields and drear ; 
 
 We need no compass made by man 
 To navigate the air; 
 
 And so our course is swift and free 
 O'er sullen leagues of ground, 
 
THE EMIGRANTS. 45 
 
 But always in the twilight trees 
 Brief anchorage is found ! 
 
 Our eager voyage ends at last, 
 
 And brings us joy for gloom ; 
 We find the evergreens have kept 
 
 Their brotherhood of bloom, 
 The holly boughs, in fadeless garb, 
 
 Our wandering wings invite, 
 As though their shining berries held 
 
 Warm scraps of morning light ! 
 
 The sumachs hoard their choicest wine, 
 
 The China-trees their gold — 
 They know our wish to emigrate 
 
 Before the woods are cold ! 
 To every crimson growth we lay 
 
 More than ancestral claim, 
 For God endows us at our birth 
 
 With breasts of living flame ! 
 
46 THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 We fly far southward from the clouds- 
 
 The snow-clouds wan as death, 
 Where hid in arctic stealthiness 
 
 The North Wind holds his breath ; 
 We bid farewell to summer homes, 
 
 Our small bird-pulses beat, 
 And in an ecstacy of flight 
 
 We leave the snow and sleet I 
 
VERNAL PROPHECIES. 
 
 To-day the wind has a milder range, 
 And seems to hint of a secret change ; 
 For the gossipy breezes bring to me 
 The delicate odor of buds to be 
 
 In the gardens and groves of Spring. 
 
 Those forces of nature we cannot see — 
 The procreant power in plant and tree, 
 Shall bring at last to the waiting thorn 
 The wealth of the roses yet unborn 
 
 In the gardens and groves of Spring. 
 
 The early grass in a sheltered nook, 
 Unsheathes its blades near the forest brook ; 
 In the first faint green of the elm I see 
 A gracious token of leaves to be 
 
 In the gardens and groves of Spring. 
 
43 VERNAL PROPHECIES. 
 
 The peach-trees brighten the river's brink, 
 With their dainty blossoms of white and pink, 
 And over the orchard there comes to me 
 The subtle fragrance of fruit to be 
 
 In the gardens and groves of Spring. 
 
 The rigor of winter has passed away, 
 While the earth seems yearning to meet her May, 
 And the voice of a bird in melodious glee, 
 Foretells the sweetness of songs to be 
 In the gardens and groves of Spring. 
 
TO A SWALLOW. 
 
 I SAW your kindred by the sea 
 Flit through the sunshine dreamily, — 
 I felt because the month was May 
 A little while they needs must stay, 
 Though time is always flitting. 
 
 Borne on blithe wings across the lea 
 You pause wave-tranced beside the sea, 
 When Spring with airy touch beguiles 
 The serious water into smiles, 
 
 Though time is always flitting. 
 
 When Autumn's busy shuttle weaves 
 A fatal net-work, round the leaves. 
 Your brothers preen their wings and flee 
 To sheltered cliffs beyond the sea 
 While time is softly flitting ! 
 
rO A SWALLOW, 
 
 You have a minstrel's right to roam 
 Far from the nested warmth of home, 
 And circling o'er this barren hill 
 How joyously you seem to trill 
 While time is softly flitting ! 
 
 Through your sweet notes I almost hear 
 The happy water gurgling near, — 
 And yet I feel you soon shall fly 
 Swift as a wind-song through the sky, 
 While time is softly flitting I 
 
THE RED-BIRD. 
 
 I WATCH his wings in thickets dim, 
 For sunset seems to follow him — 
 
 Sunset from some mysterious West, 
 Whose crimson glory girds his breast. 
 
 A winged ruby wrought of flame, 
 
 Whence comes his beauty ? whence his name ? 
 
 Clear as a bright awakening beam 
 Through the vague vista of a dream, 
 
 An answer comes. I seem to feel 
 The flash of armor, glint of steel, 
 
 The whir of arrows quick and keen, 
 The battle-axe's baleful sheen, 
 
 The long, relentless spear whose thrust 
 Makes the mad foeman writhe in dust ; 
 
52 THE RED-BIRD. 
 
 The din of conflict and the stress 
 Of War's incarnate angriness ; . . . 
 
 A wavering mass; ... a panic wrought 
 Swift as some stormy burst of thought ; — 
 
 Then distance hides a vanquished host, 
 And sound becomes a wandering ghost. 
 
 But soon I see, half poised in air, 
 And stricken by a nameless fear, 
 
 A small brown-breasted bird, whose eyes 
 Are clouded with a deep surprise — 
 
 The earliest bird with terror rife 
 At a wild waste of human life. 
 
 How soon his dread to wonder turns, 
 As downward where a life-stream burns 
 
 He darts and dips his quivering wings, 
 While o'er his heart the crimson clings ! 
 
 With ruthful eyes and reverent face 
 He hovers slowly o'er the place ; 
 
THE RED-BIRD. 53 
 
 And when at last his wings are spread, 
 A lurid lustre crowns his head, 
 
 And his bright body soars afar, 
 Red as autumnal sunsets are. 
 
THE NIGHTHAWK. 
 
 Gold tints of sunset fleck the sky 
 
 With western winds prevailing, — 
 I see the nighthawk soaring high 
 
 His wings wide spread for sailing. 
 He needs no pilot in his flight, 
 
 Nor heeds the jay's rude scoffing, — 
 He only waits the fall of night 
 
 Far in the heavenly offing ! 
 
 With strong and stately wings outspread. 
 
 He longs for light to perish, 
 And when the day is almost dead 
 
 The hope he loves to cherish 
 Is merged in action fierce and swift. 
 
 When through the twilight swooping 
 He darts where helpless insects drift 
 
 And dull corn-blades are drooping ! 
 
THE NIGHTHA WK. ss 
 
 Like some false strain of music sent 
 
 Discordant through the gloaming, — 
 His harsh voice fills the firmament 
 
 To emphasize his roaming ! 
 Defiance falls from his grim throat, 
 
 And sets weird dreams in motion, 
 Where through a treacherous bark afloat 
 
 Sails down a stormy ocean : — 
 
 If all our antique myths were true 
 
 I should not greatly wonder, 
 To hear athwart the darkening blue 
 
 The Battle's voice of thunder, — 
 With clashing of keen swords at sea 
 
 By which I should discover, 
 In this strange bird's identity 
 
 The soul of some dead rover. 
 
 And then in lieu of twilight trees, 
 A black flag downward bearing, — 
 
S6 TO A CANARY, 
 
 A pirate's pennon on the breeze, 
 With wild, tumultuous cheering I 
 * * * * 
 
 My fancy fades when o'er the ground 
 The hawk at lordly leisure 
 
 Sends forth a queer and quavering sound,- 
 His coarse keynote of pleasure. 
 
 TO A CANARY. 
 
 (In Winter.) 
 
 The rill of music in your throat 
 Flows outward with each faultless note, 
 To touch the wintry gloom profound 
 With tremors of ethereal sound ! 
 
 Perhaps in some miraculous way 
 You once imbibed the breath of May, 
 And in requital you are bound 
 To turn sad silence into sound. 
 
TO A RAIN CROW.* 
 
 Your song suggests a subtle pain 
 Your first forefather must have heard — 
 Granting he was the earliest bird 
 
 Who hearkened to the fall of rain. 
 
 You think that solitude is good, 
 And shun the crowded haunts of men, 
 To live in some leaf-hidden glen, 
 
 Shy-hearted recluse of the wood ! 
 
 I watched you ere the spring had flown, 
 And saw your likeness to the dove ; 
 Is there no bond of sylvan love 
 
 Between that bird's heart and your own? 
 
 Ah, who can tell ? I only know 
 There is a vocal kinship strong — 
 Some sad affinity in song, 
 
 Breathing of undiscovered woe. 
 
 The popular name for the yellow-billed cuckoo. 
 
TO A HUMMING-BIRD. 
 
 I. 
 
 When bending o'er a blossom's cup 
 To draw its liquid sweetness up, 
 
 You act as though, in honied lore, 
 You were a sylvan epicure I 
 
 And soon above its brittle stem, 
 Bright as a fairy's diadem, 
 
 To some unsullied bloom you dart, 
 And drain the nectar from its heart I 
 
 O'er lily leaves or fragrant vines 
 Your dainty body sways and shines, 
 
 Until to some rich rose it clings, 
 With kindred color in its wings ! 
 
TO A HUMMING-BIRD. 59 
 
 II. 
 
 Why are you always fleet and bright, 
 With blended attributes of light ? 
 
 Is it because in some far time 
 Your sires of an elder clime 
 
 To the young Earth were swiftly drawn 
 From the pure potencies of dawn, 
 
 And through the grace of Heaven increased 
 From the first sunrise in the East ? 
 
THE SCREECH-OWL. 
 
 I. 
 
 He loves the dark, he shuns the light, 
 His soul rejoices in the night 1 
 
 When the sun's latest glow has fled, 
 Weird as a warning from the dead, 
 
 His voice comes o'er the startled rills, 
 And the black hollows of the hills, 
 
 As though to chant, in language fell, 
 An invocation caught from Hell I 
 
 II. 
 
 He seeks the dark, he shuns the light, 
 His soul rejoices in the night ! 
 
 He loves to think man's breath must pass 
 Like a spent wind amid the grass ; 
 
THE SCREECH OWL. 6i 
 
 And oft the bitterest blows of Fate, 
 His eerie cries anticipate ! 
 
 Ah ! once he knew in realms below 
 The mysteries of Death and Woe ; 
 
 And in his sombre wings are furled 
 The secrets of the under world ! 
 
THE SOUTHERN SNOW-BIRD. 
 
 I SEE a tiny fluttering form 
 Beneath the soft snow's soundless storm 
 'Mid a strange noonlight palely shed 
 Through mocking cloud-rifts overhead. 
 
 All other birds are far from sight, — 
 They think the day has turned to night ; 
 But he is cast in hardier mould, 
 This chirping courier of the cold. 
 
 He does not come from lands forlorn, 
 Where midnight takes the place of morn ; 
 Nor did his dauntless heart, I know, 
 Beat first above Siberian snow ; 
 
 And yet an arctic bird he seems ; 
 Though nurtured near our southern streams, 
 The tip of his small tail may be 
 A snow-storm in epitome. 
 
A MEADOW SONG. 
 
 O COME to the meadow, with me, 
 
 For the lark is hovering high, 
 To bathe in the light of the sun 
 
 And the south wind wandering by ! 
 A thrush by the rivulet's rim 
 
 Grows gay from the breath of the grass, 
 And sings to his sweetheart, the brook, 
 
 That mirrors his love like a glass ! 
 
 O come to the meadow with me — 
 
 Bird-music is gleeful and good, 
 With Nature's full chorus of winds 
 
 From the wonderful heart of the wood ! 
 Forget-me-nots gleam in the grass, 
 
 For the morning is mirthful with love — 
 From robins that roam in the glen 
 
 To the palpitant wings of the dove. 
 
64 A MEADOIV SONG. 
 
 O come to the meadow with me, 
 
 To the rivulet's emerald edge, 
 And hear the low lilt of the stream 
 
 Where the dew-drops encircle the sedge ; 
 The young leaves look up to the sky, 
 
 And the red-birds come hither to roam — 
 They love the brook's lyrical flow 
 
 And its delicate fret-work of foam ! 
 
 O come to the meadow with me 
 
 While the music of morning is heard, 
 And the rapture of fetterless song 
 
 Is sent from the heart of a bird ! 
 Come hither, and wander with me, 
 
 For Nature is breathing of love. 
 From violets veiled in the grass 
 
 To the tremulous wings of the dove ! 
 
I CANNOT SING WITH THE ROBINS. 
 
 The feathered throng 
 Make soft with song 
 
 The barbed holly-trees — 
 Along the stream 
 Their red breasts gleam 
 
 Light-hearted as the breeze I 
 
 Their music floats 
 From gentle throats 
 
 Set to the self-same tune, 
 Whose joyance seems 
 Like winter dreams 
 
 Of resurrected June I 
 
 They fill with cheer 
 The new-born year 
 
 And chirp on bough and stem, — 
 
66 WITH RED AND GOLD. 
 
 My heart forlorn 
 Feels sorrow's thorn 
 And cannot sing with them I 
 
 WITH RED AND GOLD. 
 
 With red and gold, — brief sylvan show,- 
 Ere autumn waxes bleak and cold ; 
 
 How the wide woodland seems to glow 
 With red and gold I 
 
 A glimpse of green in dell and wold 
 
 The young aspiring pines bestow — 
 Those trees by autumn uncontrolled. 
 
 But every leaf that shrinks from snow 
 Must fall at last to feed the mold, — 
 
 Nature exalts them ere they go 
 With red and gold I 
 
INCONSTANT. 
 
 I. 
 
 A WARM breeze comes from the South 
 And kisses the rose's mouth, 
 Whose red leaves tremble and part 
 As if from the throb of a heart. 
 
 II. 
 
 This love,— of the wind's touch born, — 
 Wounds now like an unseen thorn ; 
 For the gay breeze onward goes, 
 And heartsore is the rose. 
 
NATURE'S SONGS. 
 
 They come unbidden 
 
 To all who sing, 
 From others hidden 
 
 In blooms of spring, 
 In foaming fountains, 
 
 In vales and hills, 
 In mists and mountains, 
 
 In trees and rills. 
 
 In sun and shower. 
 
 In leaf and root, 
 In bark and flower. 
 
 In grain and fruit. 
 Through changeful seasons, 
 
 With equal choice. 
 And rhythmic reasons 
 
 They need a voice. 
 
NA TURK'S SONGS. 69 
 
 From others hidden 
 
 To those who sing, 
 They come unbidden 
 
 As birds in spring. 
 The poet feels them 
 
 On sea and shore, 
 His verse reveals them 
 
 Forevermore. 
 
TO A CHEROKEE ROSE. 
 
 Thy one white leaf is open to the sky, 
 
 And o'er thy heart swift lights and shadows pass- 
 The wooing winds seem loth to wander by, 
 
 Jealous of sunshine and the summer grass. 
 
 Thy sylvan loveliness is pure and strong, 
 For thou art bright and yet not overbold — 
 
 Like a young maid apart from fashion's throng — 
 A virgin dowered with a heart of gold. 
 
IN MOCKERY. 
 
 The fire of sunset fading out 
 Released the languid light. 
 
 And Silence for a moment leaned 
 Against the heart of Night. 
 
 A little space . . then sound awoke, 
 
 A bird-note by a rill, 
 In mimicry of mortal rage, 
 
 The lonely whip-poor-will ! 
 
 Is there a sermon in his song, 
 
 For trivial souls or great, 
 Of half satiric sadness born, — 
 
 A travesty of hate ? 
 
THE WRECK. 
 
 Along the sky a surging wind, 
 
 How swift and loud I 
 Has cast away, in fragments gray, 
 
 An evening cloud. 
 
 It had the semblance of a ship. 
 
 And so must be 
 A broken bark, swept through the dark, 
 
 A wreck at sea ! 
 
FROM THE SEA. 
 
ON A SOUTHERN BEACH. 
 (Sullivan's Island, S. C.) 
 
 The winds, with playful motion, toss 
 The wavering waifs of surf across 
 The listening strand, which seems to be 
 Saddened by their frivolity. 
 
 The sun, as o'er the beach they fly, 
 Gilds them with glory ere they die. 
 With rare, prismatic beauty fraught, 
 And tremulous as a half-formed thought, 
 
 These radiant bubbles fade like snow 
 When the stern winds of winter blow 
 Pure, fragile flakes against the pane, 
 Blurred by cold kisses of the rain ! 
 
 On a far headland dimly seen. 
 With hillocks of hot sand between, 
 
76 ON A SOUTHERN BEACH. 
 
 An emerald fringe surrounds the lee, 
 Washed by the silver of the sea. 
 
 Where shifting lights and shadows lie — 
 Winged specks in space — the curlews fly ; 
 Tall fishing boats, through distance dim, 
 Now blot with black the horizon's rim. 
 
 Above white drifts of shimmering sand 
 A lighthouse looks across the land — 
 Sombre by day but grand at night, 
 When the wild water yearns for light. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The listening strand now waits to hear 
 The message that the high tides bear ; 
 O'er clamorous waves the moonbeams wake, 
 And the long billows shine and shake. 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE GULLS. 
 
 I WATCH the gulls as they gather 
 On the verge of their island home, 
 
 While a fleet wind blows, and their wings un- 
 close, 
 To wander with wave and foam I 
 
 How swiftly they soar and circle, 
 With the speed of a fetterless flight ! 
 
 O'er the hollow sea, from the spray-swept lee, 
 In the lustre of limitless light ! 
 
 Their wings through the distance waver, 
 
 Till under the sky's deep dome, 
 They look from the land, like a phantom band, 
 
 O'er the ghostly fields of foam I 
 
THE SORROW OF THE SEA. 
 
 I WALK by the sea and muse 
 
 On the words I have often read ; 
 
 " The former things shall have passed away 
 When the Sea gives up her dead." 
 
 And I think since Time was young 
 That the voice of the Sea in woe 
 
 Has said to the Earth : " You claim my dead, 
 But I cannot let them go." 
 
ON DECK. 
 
 (Morning.) 
 
 The wrinkled water seems so old 
 At evening time, so gray and cold, 
 But now the sun-rays glittering clear 
 Somehow have got imprisoned there ! 
 
 I watch the furrows sown with light, 
 Or softly tipped with wavering white, 
 O'er which a sea-gull soars or dips 
 Far from yon line of moveless ships, 
 
 Whose black hulls lie as if secure 
 From ocean wanderings evermore, 
 Yet wait, with slumberous sails, until 
 The autocratic winds fulfill, 
 
 The promise of the bantering breeze 
 To waft them over spacious seas 
 
ON DECK. 
 
 To Arctic shores or lands supine 
 Beyond the vague horizon's line ! 
 
 From the swift steamer's silvery track 
 I see the impetuous spray leap back, 
 Where ocean's deepening currents flow, 
 Pale as a peak of phantom snow, 
 
 A distant barque with sails unfurled. 
 Seems anchored o'er a tideless world 
 Of water widening from my view, 
 And belted with ethereal blue ! 
 
FAR OUT AT SEA. 
 
 Far out at sea unsullied breezes sweep, 
 
 For there alone the winds and waves are free 
 Nature's unchallenged minstrels of the deep 
 Far out at sea I 
 
 Old rhythmic instincts are aroused in me— 
 
 To ocean cadences my pulses leap. 
 I seem to lose the thraldom of the lea ! 
 
 My heart forgets all shoreward hours that creep, 
 
 'Mid languid yearning for dull days to flee ; 
 Song gains the dual power to laugh or weep, 
 Far out at sea I 
 
LOVE SONGS, AND OTHER 
 VERSES. 
 
AT ANCHOR. 
 
 My love was like a buoyant boat 
 O'er sunny waves at sea, 
 
 And in the voyage of my heart 
 She sailed away from me ! 
 
 I followed in her flying wake — 
 The waves grew strong and fleet ; 
 
 I passed by shoals of circumstance, 
 And quicksands of defeat ! 
 
 But little winds of coquetry 
 Still kept our lives apart, 
 
 Till in my cruise of love I reached 
 The harbor of her heart ! 
 
UNUTTERED. 
 
 No laughter comes, no gleeful mood, 
 To change her chastened quietude ; 
 And yet she needs no radiant test 
 To make her beauty manifest. 
 
 Sometimes the shadow of a smile 
 
 Flits slowly o'er her lips awhile, 
 
 As though to them it fain would bear 
 
 Wraiths of glad words that perished there. 
 
 No liberating spell can reach 
 Where memory guards the gate of speech. 
 Reserve, a heart-caught captive, lies 
 In the pure prison of her eyes. 
 
THE SERENADE. 
 
 Moonlight and music seek the room, 
 
 Their silvery sweetness bringing, — 
 To banish half the midnight gloom 
 Around her casement clinging, — 
 
 To gently touch her slumbers bland, 
 And lift the latch of sleeping, 
 
 Until like airs from fairy-land 
 Through some calm gateway creeping,- 
 
 Her spirit feels the spell of sound, 
 And thrills to each soft measure. . 
 
 By harmony her heart is bound, 
 And filled with rhythmic pleasure ! 
 
 Blithe are the songs that come and go, 
 Against her bosom beating, — 
 
88 THE SERENADE. 
 
 Those music waves that ebb and flow 
 Benignly fair and fleeting ! 
 
 But hark ! swift fingers touch the flute 
 In clear, melodious fashion, — 
 
 A lover's lips no longer mute 
 Are eloquent with passion ! 
 
 She knows he lurks in shadows dim, 
 His tuneful message bringing, — 
 
 And all her heart goes forth to him 
 hi strains of silent singing ! 
 
A LOVER'S DOUBT. 
 
 If we but knew that Love and Life were one 
 
 On heights that rise beyond the baffling blue, 
 How bravely would the heart's swift seasons run, 
 If we but knew ! 
 
 Ah, should continuance of Love be true, 
 
 How vain the webs that mystery has spun 
 In Sphinx-like silence o'er the spirit's view 1 
 
 Does Nature foster hope through sky and sun 
 On mornings bountiful with light and dew ? 
 Was Love made endless when the world begun ?— 
 If we but knew I 
 
THE SEED OF LOVE. 
 
 I HELD within my lonely heart 
 A seed of love's own sowing. 
 
 *Twas blown so gently into bloom 
 I scarcely knew 'twas growing ; 
 
 Until I felt the stainless strength 
 Of Passion's perfect dower, 
 
 And in the garden of my heart 
 The bud became a flower I 
 
LOVE'S VOLUME. 
 
 Her heart was like a precious book 
 Wherein her lover longed to look. 
 
 It had a tiny golden hasp 
 
 That slipped forever from his grasp. 
 
 He wondered with an aching brain 
 What the dear volume might contain, 
 
 But failed to gain a fleeting look 
 Within the pages of the book. 
 
THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 I. 
 
 She stood beside the summer sea 
 As radiant as the morn, — 
 
 I read in her enraptured eyes 
 That Love was born. 
 
 II. 
 
 She crouched beside the winter sea 
 As though all hope had fled, — 
 
 I saw within her haggard eyes 
 That Love was dead. 
 
THE LAST KNIGHT. 
 
 (" Amid new men, strange faces, other minds.") 
 
 My days are darkening to their close ; 
 
 I have no sword nor spear, — 
 Yet once in battle I was called 
 
 " The bold Sir Bedivcre." 
 Companionless I roam the world 
 
 Frqm dreary shore to shore, — 
 But soon my yearning eyes shall see 
 
 Brave comrades gone before I 
 
 In that last conflict on the coast 
 Our Arthur's flag was furled, — 
 
 The standard of a stainless king, 
 The wonder of the world. 
 
 It shone superbly ere it fell. 
 Without one sinful blot, — 
 
94 THE LAST KNIGH T. 
 
 Pure as the heart of Galahad, 
 The shield of Lancelot 1 
 
 Yes ! I am he the great king called 
 
 "The last of all his Knights," 
 And I have followed where he led 
 
 In half a hundred fights I 
 His marvellous sword was never made 
 
 To deal unworthy scars. 
 And just above its watery grave 
 
 Flashed like a thousand starso 
 
 A mystic hand upheld the brand. 
 
 For Arthur's end was near, — 
 And thrice the good sword gleamed above 
 
 The waters of the mere. 
 Yes I I am he who watched the barge 
 
 Fade through gray mists of morn, — 
 And on the lone edge of the lake 
 
 Stood voiceless and forlorn 1 
 
TIME AND I. 
 
 We are two travellers, Time and I, 
 Through gay or gloomy weather,— 
 
 And smce he hailed me at my birth, 
 We've always been together ! 
 
 He led me through the land of youth, 
 
 He journeys onward ever, 
 And helped my toiling footsteps climb 
 
 The hills of high endeavor. 
 
 We are two travellers, Time and I, 
 Through harsh or happy weather , . 
 
 Unsolved the secrets of his soul. 
 Though we have walked together ! 
 
 He guards the mysteries of the world, 
 Life, Death, Disease and Sorrow ; 
 
 He knows so much, so little I, 
 And we must part to-morrow. 
 
THE CUP-BEARER. 
 
 (Suggested by Canova's Hebe.) 
 
 Motion that seems in ecstacy of ease, 
 Unfettered as the movement of a breeze, — 
 With firm fair limbs in whose unrivalled grace 
 Perennial youth has found a dwelling-place. 
 
 Her hand upholds.the life-compelling draught, — 
 That clear keen nectar which the gods have quaffed, 
 While roseate tints from high Olympus meet 
 Around the curvature of faultless feet. 
 
TO VESUVIUS. 
 
 Born of the central fire of Earth, 
 
 For ages you have stood. 
 Our planet trembled at your birth 
 
 In mighty motherhood ! 
 
 Each smoke-cloud rising to your crest 
 
 May be a deep-drawn breath 
 From the lov/ heaving of your breast 
 
 Yearning to deal swift death ! 
 
 Sometimes your prisoned passion grows 
 
 'Till streams of lava start, 
 And through your fiery mouth outflows 
 
 The life-blood of your heart ! 
 
THE HEART OF THE CITY. 
 
 Can you not feel the pulse of traffic beat, 
 Here where shrewd Commerce rears the gilded 
 
 dome 
 Of her vast temple, and men's footsteps roam 
 
 Amid the bustling but inconstant street ? 
 
 Here honest barter and keen avarice meet 
 And speculative passion seeks a home, 
 Frail as the glittering and unstable foam, 
 
 Born from wan billows when the winds are fleet ! 
 In scenes like these men find no sweet repose, 
 
 Through sordid nights and long tumultuous days, 
 
 With strained nerves battling for the love of gain : 
 For them no gracious flower of slumber grows, 
 
 With restful rapture past the meed of praise, 
 
 In Thought's grim citadel — a burdened brain. 
 
RETROSPECT. 
 
 A HUSH in the heart of the valley, 
 A mist on the brow of the hill — 
 
 Not even the light of an April star 
 On the landscape lonely and chill. 
 
 The eyes of my Memory summon 
 No unshriven shadow of crime — 
 
 But the wistful ghost of an early grief, 
 That had fallen asleep with Time. 
 
WISTERIA. 
 
 Wisteria blossoms drooping down 
 Within the dust-environed town 
 
 To March their blooms have given. 
 What a pure charm their beauty brings, 
 As though these flowers had taken wings 
 
 And flown to earth from heaven ! 
 
 They felt the year's young pulses beat, 
 And grew beneath Spring's soundless feet 
 
 Untouched by pain or riot ; 
 And, ah ! I think their petals blue 
 Are fed by draughts of deathless dew 
 
 From some clear realm of quiet ! 
 
 Their name implies a "welcome "* rife 
 With the warm courtesies of life, 
 In floral candor given ; 
 
 * Wisteria means " Welcome, fair stranger." 
 
THE SOLDIER'S FA TE. 
 
 And thus their presence should impart 
 Sweet hospitalities of heart, 
 And kindness caught from heaven I 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S FATE. 
 
 Deeming that Love and Hope no more 
 Would come to him on sea or shore, 
 In some fierce fray he longed to die ; 
 But Death, disdainful, passed him by. 
 
 And when at last glad tidings came, 
 The homeward call to love and fame. 
 Close to a fen of poisonous breath 
 The soldier met an ambushed death ! 
 
LONELINESS. 
 
 In moods of transient mournfulness 
 With morbid meaning rife, 
 
 Sometimes we prate of solitude, — 
 The loneliness of life. 
 
 But could we follow silently 
 
 A single dying breath, 
 How quickly we would understand 
 
 The loneliness of death. 
 
MORBID MOODS. 
 
 Some morbid moods are tainted with despair, 
 Beyond the melting influence of a tear, — 
 And though they seem so passionless and blind, 
 Obtain a mournful mastery o'er the mind. 
 Round sensitive souls they weave a subtle snare 
 To make their mental foliage dim and sere, 
 In lonely lives they hold a potent part, — 
 The moral fungi of a famished heart. 
 
NESTED THOUGHTS. 
 
 Our hearts are nesting-places, 
 
 Good or ill — 
 With flocks of changeful fancies, 
 
 Seldom still ! 
 
 Pure thoughts, like birds ascending, 
 
 Love the light — 
 But evil thoughts are sleepless 
 
 Birds of night 1 
 
EXTREMES. 
 
 Two rival spirits roam the world 
 And turn the scales of Fate ; 
 
 One through the potency of love, 
 The other, hate. 
 
 II. 
 
 Two forces are at enmity, 
 
 Divided by a breath ; 
 The victory of one is life, 
 
 The other, death. 
 
THE OUTLOOK. 
 
 In such a complex world 
 What wondrous things we find 
 
 When'ere we pause to look, 
 Through windows of the mind ! 
 
 Then, as we outward gaze, 
 
 A curious sight we see, 
 As though this earth were but a hive 
 
 And every man a bee. 
 
 Yet all things are unlike — 
 Each plays a diverse paf t — 
 
 'Tis but the happy few who find 
 The honey of the heart. 
 
THE DEAD POETS. 
 
 'Tis strange to think that the past is old 
 
 And the future forever new ; 
 That the thoughts of the dead outlive their dust, 
 
 As the morning outlives the dew. 
 Time brings no blight to the grand old songs, 
 
 Still fresh as the buds of May, 
 Though the shrouded forms of the singers long 
 
 Have mouldered in dust away. 
 
 When the sky is dark as a perished hope, 
 And the sad wind sobs through the rain — 
 
 When Spring, with the touch of an alchemist brings 
 A girdle of green for the grain — 
 
 I think of the poets whose minds were filled 
 With the marvels of night and day, 
 
io8 THE DEAD POETS. 
 
 And I read with rapture the songs they sang, 
 Though the poets have passed away. 
 
 On earth they told us of lofty deeds, 
 
 And the noble triumphs of love, 
 So I dream they wander with fadeless feet 
 
 Through immaculate lands above ; 
 For I know that the mercy of God is great, 
 
 And of them we may surely say 
 That faith is the pulse of a deathless song. 
 
 Though the singer has passed away. 
 
IN SHADOW-LAND. 
 
 In shadow-land I wander far 
 
 Without the clasp of that dear hand, 
 Whose mother-love was like a star 
 In shadow-land. 
 
 Her soul has reached the shining strand 
 
 Where waves that roll from Death's dark bar 
 Lapse into light and music grand. 
 
 She dwells where darkness cannot mar 
 The hills of God, by glory spanned, — 
 I roam where grief's gray memories are 
 In shadow-land. 
 
THE ANGEL AND MY FATHER. 
 
 (" The angel men call Death."— Face to Face.) 
 
 The tender angel that he knew 
 Came to him from the starlit blue, 
 And, when his last life-force had sped, 
 Soft heavenly fingers touched his head. 
 
 The angel spake : " Behold in me 
 God's herald from eternity ! 
 On earth thy spirit saw in mine 
 Clear guidance to the Love Divine, 
 
 " Therefore I bless thee, ere we go 
 To realms no mortal man may know, 
 To heights beyond the utmost reach 
 Of yearning human thought and speech," 
 
THE ANGEL AND MY FA THER. 
 
 My father's voice grew clear and sweet. — 
 He knelt beside the angel's feet, — 
 " All hail I " said he. " Show me the goal 
 Where sin is lifted from the soul. 
 
 " Oh, take me through the void of space 
 To meet God's mercy ' face to face ! ' 
 Long have I heard thy sacred call, 
 Lead me to Christ : He died for all! 
 
 ** But heal, dear angel, this deep woe, 
 From wounds of parting, ere I go ; 
 Let those who love me when unseen 
 Keep in their hearts my memory green." 
 
 The angel answered : " O'er thy dust 
 True love abides and changeless trust." . , 
 Then, clad in faith's unfaltering light, 
 They journeyed upward through the night. 
 
THRENODY OF THE PINES. 
 
 (For the passing of their poet.) 
 
 The guardian pines upon the hill 
 Were strangely motionless and chill, 
 
 As if they drew his last loved breath 
 From the uplifted wings of Death. . . . 
 
 And now their mingled voices say, 
 " The passing of a soul away, — 
 
 " The tenderest of the sons of men,— 
 Our dead King Arthur of the pen I 
 
 " Oh, kindred of the sea and shore. 
 Our grief is yours for evermore ! 
 
 " His body lieth cold and still, 
 
 For Death has triumphed on the hill I " 
 
AT MY FATHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 I COME half voiceless here, and bring 
 The sorrow that I dare not sing, — 
 A grief set evermore apart 
 In the veiled chamber of my heart. 
 
 His mouldering dust can never hear 
 The gentlest footstep drawing near, 
 But far beyond our finite view 
 He sings amid the boundless blue. 
 
 And though I cannot see him stand 
 Within the soul's illumined land, 
 Yet somewhere by Faith's crystal sea 
 I know my father waits for me. 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF PHILIP BOURKE 
 MARSTON. 
 
 Repress the tears that flow — 
 
 God's love is vast — 
 The poet has been called 
 
 To light at last. 
 
 His somber years were filled 
 
 With doubt and grief ; 
 The sunshine on his path 
 
 Was strangely brief. 
 
 Ah I memory to him 
 
 Grew all-in-all, — 
 His noblest songs contain 
 
 The heart's rainfall. 
 
MEMORY OF PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 115 
 
 Because there is no bound 
 
 To heavenly love, 
 The poet's robe of rue 
 
 Is white above. 
 
 Because a loyal heart 
 
 Beat in his breast, 
 His soul has gained a boon 
 
 More sweet than rest. 
 
 From his long-famished eyes 
 
 The night has fled 
 And through God's grace we know 
 
 He is not dead ! 
 
BEYOND THE BAR. 
 
 (To the Memory of Henry W. Longfellow.) 
 
 His voyage ended ere the sunset died 
 Of song's immaculate music in his soul ; 
 Ere thought and metre passed beyond control 
 His Utmost Isle* with grace was glorified : 
 No mantling mist with somber shadows vied. 
 We could not hear the winds of welcome roll 
 O'er sails unsullied, hastening to their goal, 
 Nor view the whiteness of the gathering tide. 
 But now we know the canvas was unfurled, 
 Filled with the fire of Azrael's holy breath, 
 To guide his spirit through the opening bars : — 
 Safe in the harbor of a happier world, 
 He heard " Excelsior " from the Mount of Death, 
 And saw undimmed the sacred " Li^ht of Stars." 
 
 " Ultima Thiile. 
 
SYDNEY LANIER. 
 
 (September gth, 1881.) 
 
 Life's fragile bonds united 
 
 By fine-spun webs of breathj 
 Scarce quivered 'neath the mystic stroke- 
 
 The unsheathed sword of Death I 
 
 O poet, preen thy pinions I 
 
 Soar through Faith's radiant pass ; 
 The mists of pain fade from thy soul, 
 
 Like frost-films from a glass ! 
 
 Thy worn, white body slumbers, 
 Dreamless in Death's dark keep : — 
 
 The drawbridge crossed, thy spirit feels 
 No lethargy of sleep .... 
 
1 18 -S YDNEY LA NIER. 
 
 O Music, mother of soft sounds, 
 Let not thy tongue be mute ! 
 
 For he^ through silver lips, evoked 
 The language of the flute. 
 
 And nature, though her voice is dumb, 
 Through dew-draped blades of corn, 
 
 Shall shed, 'mid Southern fields of grain, 
 Memorial tears at morn. 
 
WINFIELD S. HANCOCK. 
 (Feb. 9th, 1886.) 
 
 How quickly o'er his couch of pain, 
 
 To the brave soldier's ear, 
 There came a mystic bugle-call 
 
 His spirit paused to hear ! 
 
 Responsive to the solemn sound 
 
 He breathed a final breath, 
 And his soul marching upward, met 
 
 The stern commander — Death ! 
 
 " Advance," said Death. " For duty done 
 
 You have a heavenly claim, 
 Obedient as a trustful child 
 
 I called you and you came I 
 
IVINFIELD S. HANCOCK. 
 
 " I am the officer of Christ 
 
 And hold a guiding rod 
 For spirits passing in review 
 
 Beneath the eyes of God ! 
 
 " Advance and take the soul's brevet ; 
 
 I'll plead for you above 
 'Till He who rules the universe 
 
 Promotes you to His love." 
 
ONE DAY. 
 
 I THINK a gentle soul 
 
 The angels knew, 
 Entered her tiny frame 
 
 Before it grew ! 
 
 Her spirit did not wrong 
 
 Its sacred birth, 
 And so the child remained 
 
 One day on earth. 
 
 She found this world of ours 
 
 An exile's sod. 
 And after a little space 
 
 Went back to God ! 
 
THE HAPPY DEAD. 
 
 " The seasons come and go, and the dead are at peace." 
 
 — Wm. Black. 
 
 The happy dead — like you and I 
 
 When all our earthly years have sped — 
 In sweet, unbroken slumber lie 
 The happy dead ! 
 
 O'er them the kindly seasons shed 
 
 The beauty born of earth and sky, 
 And peace to perfect silence wed. 
 
 They do not need a tear or sigh, — 
 
 Pain from their dreamless dust has fled,— 
 They rest beneath the Eternal Eye, 
 The happy dead ! 
 
THE GENTLE MAY. 
 
 The gentle May, when every tree 
 
 Is full of bird-notes sweet and gay, 
 It is the loveliest month to me, 
 The gentle May. 
 
 All arctic things have passed away, 
 
 And Nature filled with vernal glee 
 Revels in bloom the livelong day. 
 
 Perhaps the dead — ah, can it be ? — 
 In some divine, mysterious way 
 Through dreams of resurrection see 
 The gentle May. 
 
ON EASTER MORN. 
 
 On Easter morn the earth is bright, 
 
 For Christ has shed His crown of thorn- 
 The barbed points blossom into light 
 On Easter morn 1 
 
 To loyal souls new joy is born, 
 
 And spring in reverence for the right, 
 Confronts with bloom the skeptic's scorn. 
 
 All hearts that recognize the might 
 Of love that leaves no life forlorn 
 Are lifted to a heavenly height 
 On Easter morn ! 
 
LITERARY ICONOCLASM. 
 
 In antique years when Homer's muse was young, 
 The poet's name was passed from tongue to tongue, 
 Now his identity has grown so dim, 
 Some modern minds have lost all faith in him. 
 
 And Shakespeare, robbed of his self-centered fame, 
 Becomes the adumbration of a name, 
 When'ere in him the mental skeptics find 
 All unknown attributes of Bacon's mind ! 
 
QUATRAINS. 
 
THE HEAD OF NIOBE. 
 
 (In the Uffizi Gallery.) 
 
 Lips that withhold the anguish she had known, 
 Perpetual pathos in the voiceless stone, — 
 The eyes decreed in dead Olympian years 
 A mournful immortality of tears. 
 
 THE BUST OF KRONOS. 
 (In the Vatican Museum.) 
 
 A HALF-veiled head, a sad, unfurrowed face, 
 Titanic power and more than mortal grace ; 
 Across wan lips and eyes bereft of light 
 The awful shadow of unending night. 
 
THE BUST OF NEPTUNE. 
 
 (In the Vatican Museum.) 
 
 A HEAD that ruled the mysteries of the main, 
 Tumultuous anger or impassioned pain, — 
 Unfathomed eyes with chest and shoulders bare 
 And the salt sea-wind ambushed in his hair. 
 
 THE ARTIST. 
 
 Sleep is an artist of the night, 
 With moods of mirth or pain, — 
 
 Dreams are his pictures dark and bright 
 Etched swiftly on the brain. 
 
 DIVINE PARADOXES. 
 
 It seems impossible to understand 
 How Joy and Sorrow may be hand in hand, 
 Yet God created when the Earth was born 
 The changeless paradox of Night and Morn. 
 
REPENTANT. 
 
 This summer breeze fraught with repentant sighs, — 
 Once a fleet force no heavenly law could bind — 
 
 Now wandering earthward, in a gentler guise. 
 Is but the ghost of some fierce winter wind. 
 
 VERBAL HYPOCRISIES. 
 
 The noblest words, if falsely said or sung, 
 Are but the smooth Delilahs of the tongue. 
 With softness, deadlier than a brutal blow, 
 Truth is the Samson that they overthrow ! 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 Memory is a gleaner of the mind. 
 
 Her sheaves are harvested with smiles or tears — 
 And in the storehouse of the heart we find 
 
 What she has gathered through the fleeting years. 
 
TO MY FATHER. 
 (Written on his fifty-sixth birthday.) 
 
 It matters not that Time has shed 
 His thawless snow upon your head, — 
 For he maintains, with wondrous art, 
 Perpetual summer in your heart. 
 
 SLEEP AND SORROW. 
 
 Sleep fain would rescue me from deep distress, 
 But wan-hued Sorrow haunts my spirit's view, — 
 
 I hear through rifts of frequent wakefulness 
 The mournful rustling of her robes of rue. 
 
 TO THE MILKY WAY : AN INDIAN FANCY. 
 
 Pure league of stars from garish light withdrawn, 
 Behind celestial lace-work pale as foam, — 
 
 I think between the midnight and the dawn 
 
 Souls pass through you to their mysterious home. 
 
UNDISCOVERED. 
 
 There is a burden of recurrent pain 
 And tragic hints of heart-break in the rain, 
 Heard through the pauses of the maddened wind 
 Searching for something that it cannot find ! 
 
 THE FIRST EVERGREEN. 
 
 (A Phantasy.) 
 
 A TREE absolved from Nature's annual gloom 
 To gain the glory of perennial bloom, 
 Because a seed borne by the tropic breeze 
 Fell in the garden of Hesperides. 
 
 THE DYING WOMAN. 
 
 What reverent expectation lies 
 In her clasped hands and prayerful eyes, — 
 Because she hears, through ebbing breath, 
 The swift-approaching feet of Death ! 
 
THE CONVALESCENT. 
 
 How dreamily the sick man lies, 
 
 "With gentle wonder in his eyes, — 
 
 Like one who hears, through languid breath, 
 
 The slow-receding feet of Death ! 
 
 OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 ALL-powerful am I to make or mar, 
 
 To keep lives lowly or proclaim them great,— 
 Some find in me their soul's ascendant star, 
 
 And others but the will-o'wisp of Fate. 
 
 DUALITY. 
 
 Some hearts that seem as candid as the sky 
 Are burnished by a bland hypocrisy, — 
 While others like rude ore within the mould 
 Need but assayer's skill to prove them gold. 
 
OUR HEARTS. 
 
 Our hearts are watches, and every beat 
 Is a tick that registers Time's retreat ; 
 In the Father's mansion, with marvels rife, 
 Is the key that has wound them up for life. 
 
 A MUSICIAN'S FANCY. 
 
 Is that the tune that roamed without a wing 
 Through wearied brain, o'er lips that could not sing ? 
 Yes ; 'tis the thrush, in sweet, unconscious glee, 
 Who sends to heaven the song that baffled me. 
 
WITH CHILDREN. 
 
CHILD-NATURE. 
 
 A MAN may be noble and great, 
 
 And a woman tender and pure, 
 But their knowledge, if deeper, is less divine 
 
 Than childhood's innocent lore. 
 Ah ! why should we wonder at this ? 
 
 For God on the little ones smiled. 
 And we often lose with the lapse of years 
 
 The flawless faith of a child. 
 
 A man may be gallant and gay. 
 
 And a woman joyous and bright. 
 But they seldom keep through the waning years 
 
 The passion of pure delight. 
 Ah ! why should we wonder at this ? 
 
 For God on the little ones smiled, 
 And a harmless lightning of laughter plays 
 
 Round the guileless lips of a child. 
 
I40 CHILD-NA TURE. 
 
 Then happy are those who cherish 
 
 Youth's hopes and its fleeting tears, 
 And some clear signs of their childhood keep 
 
 Through a circle of changeful years. 
 Ah I why should we wonder at this ? 
 
 For God on the little ones smiled, 
 And the heads of the Wise Men bent above 
 
 The cradle that held a child I 
 
MARCH AND APRIL. 
 
 March is a boisterous fellow, 
 
 And undeterred by fear, 
 With many pranks proclaims himself 
 
 The tomboy of the year I 
 
 Sweet April is his sister — 
 
 Her eyes are often dim — 
 Pained by the thought that he is dead, 
 
 She sheds her tears for him. 
 
THE GRASSHOPPER. 
 
 He jumps so high in sun and shade, 
 
 I stop to see him pass, — 
 A gymnast of the glen and glade, 
 
 Whose circus is the grass 1 
 The sand is 'round him like a ring, — 
 
 He has no wish to halt, — 
 I see the supple fellow spring 
 
 To make a somersault ! 
 
 Though he is volatile and fast. 
 
 His feet are slim as pegs; 
 How can his reckless motions last 
 
 Upon such slender legs ? 
 Below him lazy beetles creep ; 
 
 He gyrates 'round and 'round,- 
 One moment vaulting in a leap, 
 
 The next upon the ground ! 
 
THE EARTH'S CHILDREN, 143 
 
 He hops amid the fallen twigs 
 
 So agile in his glee, 
 I'm sure he's danced a hundred jigs 
 
 With no one near to see ! 
 He tumbles up, he tumbles down ! 
 
 And, from his motley hue, 
 'Tis clear he is an insect clown 
 
 Beneath a tent of blue I 
 
 THE EARTH'S CHILDREN. 
 
 The flowers and the grass must be 
 
 Devoted to each other. 
 For they can claim with equal love 
 
 The old Earth for a mother. 
 
 I fancy when the Earth was young 
 She told the birds and bees : 
 
 " My children are the grass and flowers, 
 My grown folks are the trees." 
 
THE OUTLAW OF THE AIR. 
 
 I KNOW an outlaw of the air 
 
 In wait for every cry, 
 But too impalpable I fear 
 
 For any one to spy. 
 
 He loves a lusty howl or shout, 
 Lung-power in dog or man, — 
 
 And cunningly he lurks about 
 To steal it if he can. 
 
 By moral law he is not bound 
 And Christians should not blame 
 
 So swift a plagiarist of sound, — 
 For Echo is his name ! 
 
THE LOCUST. 
 
 Amid the noonday drowsiness 
 
 His voice is strangely shrill — 
 He has a sturdy pair of lungs, 
 
 And self-asserting will ! 
 To modest minstrels of the grass 
 
 He does a grievous wrong, 
 As though he would exterminate 
 
 Their music in his song. 
 
 He emigrates from place to place, 
 His mode of life is rude ; 
 
 He's something of a vagabond 
 In gormandizing food ! 
 
 And yet this insect egotist, 
 Disdaining bee and bird. 
 
 Is like some noisy folks we know- 
 Determined to be heard. 
 
THE BABY'S DIMPLE. 
 
 A SOUTH wind sought the baby's cheek, 
 Fresh from a laughing billow, 
 
 And blew in elfish glee against 
 The small face on the pillow. 
 
 What did the wind leave as a gift, 
 Bewitching, coy, yet simple ? 
 
 Surely his warm kiss must have made 
 That wee, attractive dimple I 
 
 THE WIND'S LULLABY. 
 
 The nest contains a baby brood ; 
 Mother has gone to bring them food — 
 Four fragile birds too young to be 
 Left all alone on this big tree. 
 
 The wind comes gently from the west 
 And lingers round the cozy nest. 
 With tender tunes that need no words 
 It rocks the cradle of the birds I 
 
PINE-NEEDLES. 
 
 If Mother Nature patches 
 The leaves of trees and vines, 
 
 I'm sure she does her darnmg 
 With needles of the pines I 
 
 They are so long and slender ; 
 
 And sometimes, in full view, 
 They have their thread of cobwebs, 
 
 And thimbles made of dew I 
 
 WOODLAND WIRES. 
 
 The wires of cobweb that I see 
 Stretched cunningly from tree to tree, 
 For sylvan citizens are rife 
 With all the news of woodland life. 
 
 Along the wires in shade or^sun 
 
 The insect operators run, — 
 
 And send, through signals swift and good. 
 
 The telegrams of field and wood. 
 
THE WORDS OF TREES. 
 
 If the wind has an alphabet 
 
 And the trees know it well 
 Then it is natural to suppose 
 
 That they can read and spell. 
 And when their boughs are swaying, 
 
 Full of green leaves or bare, 
 They still are practising the art 
 
 Of writing in the air ! 
 
 PANSIES. 
 
 Soft as silk or satin, 
 And lovelier to behold 
 In their blended beauty 
 Of purple and of gold I 
 
 'Mid the gentle moonlight 
 With no mortal near, 
 
 They may be the dresses 
 That the fairies wear ! 
 
THE WRESTLERS. 
 
 Their shape is like the letter X, 
 
 As they together stand, 
 But all unlike our human kind, 
 
 Without a foot or hand. 
 They need assistance from the wind 
 
 Before they bend in fight ; 
 Encouraged by a sportive breeze, 
 
 They hold each other tight. 
 
 Are they in jest or earnest ? 
 
 I'm sure 'tis hard to tell. 
 Each tongueless little combatant 
 
 Can neither speak nor spell. 
 It is a curious contest 
 
 Where both are deaf and blind — 
 Two champions of twisted grass 
 
 That wrestle in the wind. 
 
THE MOLE. 
 
 His skin is gray as though he were 
 
 A curious kind of mouse ; 
 Yet his ancestors never were 
 
 The inmates of a house. 
 
 He loves the darkness of the soil, 
 Where, safe from sight and sound, 
 
 He burrows at his ease, and builds 
 A tunnel through the ground. 
 
 If insect armies travel there, 
 
 Perhaps he gathers toll ; 
 For if no cunning he possessed. 
 
 How could he be a mole ? 
 
 He is a skilful architect ; 
 
 At work he does not nod. 
 And with miraculous swiftness makes 
 
 A fortress of the sod. 
 
THE MOLE. xji 
 
 And yet if he believes in war 
 
 I have not found it out ; 
 And of his courage in the field 
 
 I have a serious doubt. 
 
 He'd rather delve within the dirt 
 
 Than gaze upon the sky, 
 It takes no old philosopher 
 
 To state the reason why. 
 
 He could not dwell above the earth ; 
 
 His labors would be missed ; 
 He needs the science of the soil — 
 
 This dumb geologist. 
 
THE SNAIL. 
 
 He is not sociable, and so 
 
 He loves to live alone, 
 And, like an anchorite, he has 
 
 A cloister of his own. 
 
 He travels slowly o'er the ground, 
 And needs but little food ; 
 
 No noisy insect need attempt 
 To share his solitude. 
 
 The tiny cell in which he lives 
 Is somewhat moist and dim ; 
 
 On every journey he's compelled 
 To take his home with him. 
 
THE BOATMAN. 
 
 There is an unseen boatman 
 Who makes the white clouds fly 
 
 Just like a fleet of fairy skiffs 
 Across the summer sky. 
 
 And all the tiny vessels 
 Seem sailing on in sport, 
 
 The blithe wind for a boatman 
 To waft them into port. 
 
LITTLE FRED. 
 
 I HAVE a frisky little friend, 
 He's six months old to-day ! 
 
 Why does he shake his head and whine 
 In such a serious way ? 
 
 Because he is a dog and feels 
 That fleas are torturing things, 
 
 And often wishes he could fly 
 Far from their teasing stings. 
 
 Fred's eyes are black as berries, 
 
 His hair is soft and fine ; 
 In spite of naughty insects, 
 
 He loves to sup and dine I 
 
 He knows the happy hour, 
 The time of bones and bread ! 
 
 Oh 1 he is nimble on his feet. 
 Quick-witted in his headl 
 
THE NEW MOON. 155 
 
 He barks at my old tom-cat 
 
 To interrupt his meal, 
 But Thomas slaps him in the face, 
 
 And makes poor Freddie squeal I 
 
 I'd put Fred in the primer, if 
 
 'Twas not against the rule 
 For dogs to learn their A, B, C's, 
 
 And go, like boys, to school ! 
 
 THE NEW MOON. 
 
 Little Mary stood by the window 
 And saw the new moon in the sky, 
 
 " It looks like a slice of melon," said she, 
 " And I wish you would tell me why." 
 
 But I never told her the reason 
 For she settled the question soon : 
 
 " The big blue sky got hungry. 
 And ate up most of the moon I " 
 
WINTER WARFARE. 
 
 The bullets of the sleet 
 
 Attacking roof and pane 
 Are arctic transformations 
 
 Of melodious rain. 
 
 Against the leafless trees 
 They wage a warfare rude, — 
 
 Winter must have molded them 
 In an angry mood ! 
 
 THE RAIN-DROPS. 
 
 The big and little rain-drops 
 Are all of heavenly birth, 
 
 But though their home is in the sky 
 They fall upon the earth ! 
 
 When they begin to frolic 
 
 Within a world so blue, 
 They tear the curtains of the clouds 
 
 And tumble swiftly through I 
 
 H 488 85 ^ 
 

 
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