^6 ^^^^ 
 
 \ 
 
 > 
 
PS 3515 
 E845 
 D4 
 1914 
 Copy 1 
 
 r 
 
 1,/Vw* ' ' i 
 
 /-"> 
 
 A B^r0ratt0ti iag ffiffrmg 
 
 To 
 'Those WeVe Loved Long Since and Lost Awhile' 
 
^ 
 

 i^btrattnn 
 
 <1[ To my 
 
 Father, George W. Hess, 
 
 and to my Mother, H. Druzilla | 
 
 Whitlock 
 
 Hess, the noblest, most 
 
 unselfish 
 
 man and woman my life 
 
 has known, lovingly I dedicate these | 
 
 lines. 
 
 
 
 -The Author. 
 
 Copyright. ) 9 14, by 
 
 WHITLOCK PUBLISHING CO. 
 CHICAGO ,. 
 
 Price 25 cents 
 
 e)Cl,A3T6119 
 
 JUN-I 1914 
 
Baby eyes with light so mystic, 
 
 Hands and voice and lips that thrilled — 
 O Love! the song's forever stilled. 
 
 See page ten. 
 
Prrfarf ilttnoratton 
 
 May He, Who yields His highest expressions to the world 
 
 Through the thoughts of His children. 
 And Whose noblest manifestation is given to 
 
 And through the personality of Man, 
 Grant to us all a Divine patience 
 
 And an all-pervading understanding, 
 Making us ONE in love, sympathy, and Charity, 
 
 As once again we seek to honor our Nation's dead 
 In the North, the South, the East, and the West 
 
 Wherever they paid the Patriot's price 
 For what they deemed was Truth and Right, 
 
 "Greater love hath no man than this, 
 "That he lay down his life for his friends. " 
 
Nathan l^alp'a IGaat ^Mtn to ?4ts iintl|f r 
 
 For a moment, they have left me, Mother, 
 
 Here within the tent alone; 
 Whilst without, swift hands are busy 
 
 To give back the Earth its owti; 
 And I pray whilst waiting. Mother : 
 
 "Father, still thy will be done." 
 
 The Bible that you gave me. Mother, 
 Rude with oaths from me they've torn, 
 
 Pen nor paper will they give me 
 That to you it might be borne 
 
 In my own last writing. Mother, 
 How I've loved you to the tomb. 
 
 How I loved my Country, Mother, 
 Loved her with my latest breath. 
 
 Life's the test of love, dear Mother, 
 And I serve her in my death 
 
 As I could not in my living. 
 Mother, bless me in my death. 
 
 On the 'kerchief that you gave me, 
 
 White, the emblem of thy soul. 
 Swift in blood thy son's last message 
 
 Till he meet thee soul to soul. 
 I'll be near thee soon, dear Mother, 
 
 Though Time's stream between us roll. 
 
 Be thy own sweet self, dear Mother, 
 
 Weep not for the death I die, 
 For I'll linger near thee. Mother, 
 
 You will feel that I am nigh. 
 In the patriot's death, dear Mother, 
 
 Patriotism does not die. 
 
IGtbprtg. a Utainn 
 
 I dreamt a dream of the Spirit, grand. 
 
 That men call "Liberty." 
 And the passion that thrills 
 Through a patriot land. 
 
 At that vision thrilled through me. 
 
 You have heard her sung as the "Mountain Maid, 
 As the Nymph, "Sweet Liberty." 
 
 She's too earnest and grand 
 
 For a Nymph. In our land 
 She's a woman of high degree. 
 
 •7^ ^ *> n^ 
 
 And out of the darkness 
 Came boldly a voice: 
 
 "Halt, Tyranny! Harken and flee. 
 For I love her! I love 
 This high born maid ! 
 
 I dare to love Liberty ! 
 
 "She's the Spirit that dwells 
 In our sky-bound lake. 
 
 She's the roamer of meadow and lea. 
 She's the earnest heart 
 Of our prairies wide ; 
 
 She's the soul of our bordering sea, 
 
 "She's the voice that comes 
 Out of our mountains ! 
 
 She's our light rushing straight from the sun; 
 She rides the dun cloud 
 Of the thunderer god. 
 
 And hurls his keen lightnings home. 
 
 "She's the rustle that's heard 
 In our forests! 
 
 The murmur of waters is she ! 
 Her footprints are seen 
 By each river and stream 
 
 From our mountain tops down to the sea. 
 
"She's the growth of our growth! 
 She's our love until death ! 
 
 And we'll die for her if it need be. 
 She's the gift of our God, 
 Hear it, tyrants abroad; 
 
 Or tyrants at home that would be." 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 ^prgpant Jaaprr'a Mtfp 
 
 A Story of the Revolution. Arnold's Expedition to Quebec 
 
 From the height of the twentieth century 
 
 We gaze o'er the years gone by ; 
 On the acts of love, and thoughts of truth 
 
 On deeds that can not die. 
 And the heart wells up with honest pride ! 
 
 We are glad so much is true 
 To be placed to the love of the Nazarene, 
 
 To the Hebrew strange and new. 
 
 The Masters old, and grand, have told 
 
 Of deeds the heart doth thrill 
 But I'll sing you one, of this land, our own. 
 
 That I feel is grander, still. 
 
 'Tis a tale of War ! What a strange, strange theme 
 
 To choose on a Christmastide. 
 But wait — the divine gleams forth sometime 
 
 In Man, by the purple tide. 
 
 Come back with me for a century. 
 
 Look there ! 'Cross the fields of snow ! 
 As up the streams and 'round the falls 
 
 Through the Maine woods grand, there go 
 A hero band, that falters not. 
 
 Though famine and death be nigh! 
 The "North", they are asking to join with them 
 
 That a Nation may not die. 
 
They suffer, they starve, they freeze ! 
 
 "On to the North, we can but die!" 
 But Canada sat with folded hands. 
 
 And heard not the Patriot's cry. 
 
 See ! back on the trail of the struggling band 
 
 The forms in the drifting snow! 
 They are only forms of soldiers, grim, 
 
 By hunger and cold laid low. 
 Each said as he fell: "Move on, move on! 
 
 "I'll come by and by, you know!" 
 Then turned to rest, near Christmastide, 
 
 Alone in the fields of snow. 
 
 And one for days had borne him up. 
 
 Though life's current was ebbing low. 
 Yet he cried to the line as he fell: 
 
 "Move on!" Then sank on a bed of snow. 
 And all alone? No, not this one! 
 
 Though he urged her from him to go. 
 There stood, by his side, his faithful wife, 
 
 To die or to aid him through. 
 
 " '1 will soon be Christmas time," she said. 
 
 And smiled, as he urged her to go. 
 "We'll share it together, sweet Love," 
 
 She said. Then hurried to and fro 
 To make for him a place of rest. 
 
 Aye, Love makes a home, you know. 
 Though it be on a desert waste of sand 
 
 Or out on a field of snow. 
 
 And there 'neath a rugged dark old pine 
 
 With three square walls of snow. 
 All lined with boughs, a fire in the fourth, 
 
 And a bed made down below; 
 A bed of the arbor-vitae leaf 
 
 And her wraps on the bed below — 
 "I'm warm at my work," she smiling said; 
 
 "There now, you are safe from the snow." 
 
And then she looked for the troops. All gone ! 
 
 And the winds filled the trail with snow. 
 Alone! No food, brave woman's heart! 
 
 And a sob rose soft and low. 
 'Twas checked. And some bread, 'twas all she had 
 
 Save, that a week or so ago, 
 A morsel of beef — her portion — she'd saved; 
 
 She had feared it would soon be so. 
 A broth from this she deftly made 
 
 And gave him to drink. And though 
 It was held to her own, no morsel passed 
 
 Those loving lips, we know. 
 
 Night came and went; and morning came. 
 
 It was Christmas morn, you know. 
 And a halo shone o'er that dark old pine 
 
 And the scene of love below. 
 Day came and went, and with it life. 
 
 The soldier in death lay low. 
 And desolate sat the weeping wife 
 
 In a desert of ice and snow. 
 
 And the golden haired babe, for whom he plead. 
 
 When he urged her from him to go. 
 Asleep in his Hampshire bed so warm. 
 
 Knew naught of the fields of snow. 
 
 And yet in her grief, her heart looked up. 
 
 And she smiled in her deepest woe : 
 "He's safe with Christ, this Christmas night. 
 
 From trouble, and cold, and snow." 
 
 And then of her babe, of herself, she thought 
 
 And her heavy weight of woe. 
 Alone! alone, ah, so alone! 
 
 Alone on the figelds of snow. 
 
 Did she reach Quebec? Or Hampshire's Hills? 
 
 What matters it now to know? 
 For she left her love, a woman's life. 
 
 Alone on the fields of snow. 
 
Our Soldiers — Yea, These Were Patient, Loving, True, 
 Tender and Brave 
 
 A Patience as large as the hills that endure. 
 
 A Sympathy broad as yon river. 
 A Charity sweet as its waters, and pure, 
 
 God's highest, best type of a Giver. 
 
 A SONG 
 
 In Memory of My Daughter, Tina Druzilla 
 
 Broken Harp, O Broken Harp! 
 
 How thy sad, thy plaintive tone, 
 Sighing like a broken heart. 
 
 Sobs and sighs through all our home, — 
 Home so desolate and lone. 
 
 Thrilling to thy ceaseless moan, — 
 Broken Harp, ah, cease to moan. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Home in Heaven, home, sweet Heaven, 
 There we'll meet our darling one. 
 
 There we'll sing sweet songs together, 
 There no Broken Harp shall moan. 
 
 Sweet, I can not catch the music. 
 That my life so lately filled, — 
 
 Baby eyes with light so mystic. 
 
 Hands and voice and lips that thrilled; 
 
 Folded hands so white and still. 
 Lips that ours no more shall thrill. 
 
 O Love ! the song's forever stilled. 
 
SONG 
 
 The Dying Soldier, an Old Ballad 
 
 ®n tl|^ 3'uih of lattlp 
 
 'On the field of battle, Mother, 
 All the night alone I lay. 
 
 Angels watching o'er me. Mother, 
 From the eve till dawn of day." — * 
 
 I've been dreaming of you. Mother, 
 
 As I dozed awhile away. 
 Thought you came to cheer. Mother, 
 
 But I woke and here I lay. 
 
 I have written to you. Mother, 
 Pinned my letter on my breast. 
 
 They will send it to you. Mother, 
 When they lay me down to rest. 
 
 Two days long we've fought them. Mother, 
 
 Fast around my comrades fell. 
 Oh, to hear the moaning. Mother, 
 
 Caused by flying shot and shell. 
 
 On the field the dead lay bloating. 
 And the wounded cry with pain. 
 
 But our banner's proudly floatmg. 
 O'er old Nashville once agam. 
 
 * First stanza from an old war ballad. 
 
Tell dear Elsie for me. Mother, 
 That I've missed her gentle care. 
 
 That I hope to meet her. Mother, 
 In a land that's bright and fair. 
 
 Tell her that the little locket. 
 
 That contained her golden hair. 
 
 To my lips I ofttimes pressed it. 
 As I pressed her hand so fair. 
 
 Oh, for strength to hold out. Mother, 
 For I have so much to tell. 
 
 But I'm bleeding, dying. Mother, 
 Elsie, Mother, fare you w^ell. 
 
all|0 Httkttnmn i>al^trr 
 
 A boy, but seventeen, 
 The youngest of our home. 
 
 Father and Mother lowly plead 
 "Not to be left alone," 
 
 They loved him so. 
 
 Sad did he importune. 
 His young friends all were gone. 
 
 How could he bear this sense of shame 
 And thus remain at home? 
 
 He needs must go. 
 
 True did he love his home. 
 But here how could he rest 
 
 And hear his Country's earnest tone 
 Call : "Come, my brave, my best" — 
 
 Was he not one ? 
 
 Persistence wrung consent, 
 At last our boy is gone. 
 
 To the front and thick of war he went 
 Through hail, wind, rain and storm 
 
 Our soldier's gone. 
 
 Full oft his letters came. 
 Brave were the words and tone. 
 
 Of hunger, cold and hardship drear. 
 He never wrote us home; 
 
 He loved us well. 
 
 Yet we from others heard. 
 How often death was near. 
 
 From bulletin and soldier's word — 
 How death he faced without a fear — 
 
 And one dear friend. 
 
Four long years thus he fought, 
 The fearful war was done. 
 
 The letters now so often brought 
 Showed how he longed for home, 
 
 And that dear friend. 
 
 Not relative but friend. 
 The playmate of his youth 
 
 In whom the angel seemed to blend 
 With maidenhood and truth. 
 
 Such was his friend. 
 
 And eagerly they count 
 The days to intervene; 
 
 On winged hope the soul doth mount. 
 Though constant danger lie between 
 
 Hope and its goal. 
 
 God willed we know not why. 
 Work done and then the call. 
 
 A sharp, quick cry of agony 
 Pierced by a rifle ball — 
 
 The shadows backward roll. 
 
 With patriotic faith in God 
 
 He looked above. 
 "It's for the flag, it's for the best. 
 
 God bless my home and love," 
 And he was gone ; and rests 
 
 We know not where. 
 One heart breaks in despair. 
 
 With dry-eyed sorrow dumb 
 One still is waiting here 
 
 The summons: "Come. " 
 
L'Envoi — By My Sister, Druzilla Hess 
 
 Sleeping life's prime away, 
 
 Youth and its hopes in the tomb; 
 
 Even their names for aye 
 Sacrificed, lost all in gloom. 
 
 Love's gift complete. 
 
 Then one best tribute give 
 The unknown soldier's tomb. 
 
 The heart's deep loving prayer 
 With fair May's fairest bloom. 
 
 As low they sleep. 
 
To Tina, Ida and John, "Whom I Have Loved Long Since and Lost Awhile. 
 
 'Tis midnight on the lake-front, and alone, 
 There are those in other days 
 Were ever near. 
 A weary waste of waters made my own, 
 By the waste withm my soul. 
 
 Death made and drear. 
 
 I have tuned the Broken Harp, that long was still. 
 And it thrills as when my songs 
 In sorrow died. 
 Sorrow's songs my aching heart to bursting fill — 
 Harking, thrice the Angels heard 
 Those songs and sighed. 
 
 Printed by 
 W. P. DUNN CO. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 973 818 8 
 
 3 
 
LIBRPRY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 973 818 8 % 
 
 Conservation Resources 
 Lig-Free® Type I