h. i'' ■ Circled with leaves like emeralds all ablaze, Caught ye that day the sunshine's changeful rays, In sensitive joy her snowy bodice clasping ? Where were ye culled, oh, daintiest milk-white bells. When wild bees kissed your fragrant breath away. And the fleet-footed deer, bearing his death- wound, lay Mute, where j& fringed the cool, deep forest wells, Crushing in unshared agony your honeyed cells? And did ye flowers, like pearls in whiteness rare, Wreathe the long tresses of her ebon hair? Whisper, give back the sounds, the scents, the glow Of glorious summer life one hundred years ago! Tell where the fragrant greensward, dark and deep, Dead Floivers. 69 Hath heavil}' pressed, unshcru, above her sleep; How long after she slept iu earth's dark mold On the white folded arms glittered the crusted gold; The helpless, upward clasping of the rosy palms, That gathered from your leaves ambrosial balms ; And did they deck her robes, and crown her head AVith your sweet forest mates, when she was dead ? Oh, pale, dumb flowers, your mournful record keeping. Waken no more sad thoughts of her lone sleeping ! Of the betrothal, mystical, magical flowers. Of which ye were the type in those bright summer hours. Ye shut the vision out, the sounds, the scents, the glow Of that sweet summer morn, one hundred years ago. I only see the footpath worn through forest glades Down to the place of sepulture iu deepest shades, Where, year by year, her buried grace and youth Were crowned with tender constancy and loyal truth ; I only gather from the sweetness of your breath The sorrowful history of life and love and death, And tearfully ask. Who for my sake will keep Memorials sweet like these when I shall sleep ? 70 Thanksgiving. THANKSGIVING. Dedicated to the "Herald and Presbyter." "Serve the Lord with gladness : come before his presence with singing." "Because thy loving-kindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee." "Thus will I bless thee while I live." "And my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips." — Psalms of David. SePvVE the Lord with gladness ! All our tribute bring, Heart and voice accordant With each quivering string. Dulcimer and psaltery, Harp and timbrel bring ; All the loving-kindness Of our God we sing. Praise our God ! sing praises For existence sweet ; Sing, for praise is pleasant. And an offering meet. Praise for light of morning, For its breath of balm ; Thanksgiving. 71 Praise for shade of evening, For its holy calm. Praise for noontide golden, When the sun's bright rays Crown the earth with gladness. For her Maker's praise. Praise for night's deep silence ; For the light of stars ; For the moon's white shining Through her cloudy bars. Praise for sound of waters ; Praise for song of birds ; Praise for tender grasses ; Praise for sweet-breathed herds. Praise for summer flowers ; Praise for summer rain ; Praise for summer fruitage ; Praise for ripened grain. Praise for precious pardon, Through his wondrous love, Making earth an Eden, Like the heaven above. 72 TJianhsgiving. Praise for light and darkness ; Praise for gain and loss ; Praise — if counted worthy — We may bear his cross ! He is our Creator ! He our God and Lord ; He is our Redeemer, Be his name adored ! Serve our God with gladness ! Take a psalm, and bring Joy and praise accordant. With each quivering string ! Courtland Prentice. 73 COURTLAND PRENTICE. Ah! Courtland Preutice ! Like a rippliug measure Of falling waters, sounds thy name to me ; Retinting pictures rare, of summer pleasure. Bright haunts of singing bird and humming bee. All that is rare and classic, curious places, That art hath made divine, or nature claims, Draped with her fair, occult, enchanting graces. All romance clinging to historic names ; Snatches of song, caught from the bard's rapt vision. With deeds of gallant daring, wild and free, Half of the earth, and half of the elysian. My tenderest memories, are linked with thee. Ah, me ! to know that thou wert faint and bleeding, Thfi crimson tide staining thy pallid lips ; Unto love's passionate appeal unheeding, Thy glorious eyes darkening in death's eclipse ! To know thee dead! Thou, like an eagle soaring. Unto empyreal founts of love and light ; Exultantly all hidden haunts exploring, Thou wast for this dark fate too brave, too bright. 74 Courtland Prentice. Not dead ! not dead ! oh ! be the word unspoken ; Proud spirit of the morn, alas for thee: AVould God thy blossomed beauty were unbroken, Left for ripe fruit on thine ancestral tree. Would God the Stars and Sti'ipes had waved above thee, Thy star of worship on the battle plain ; Yet not the less my heart shall mourn and love thee, — I only know Kentucky's son is slain ! God send sweet comfort to thy gentle mother. And the young brother who doth share thy name ; A Nation seeks thy father's grief to smother ; Its tear-drops gem his laureled crown of fame. Ui^on thy name, my tears drop fast and faster. They mingle with that fatal crimson tide ; My heart faints for that pitiless disaster, My only utterance, " Would he had not died." Ah! Courtland Prentice, other hearts may hold thee Lightly or sadly, as their love may be ; Until the deep death-silence shall enfold me. My heart's full chords shall thrill with grief for thee. November in Kentmikij. 75 NOVEMBER IN KENTUCKY. Hail, fairest month! Wlio called thee dull and cold? They have not seen thee in my own sweet laud, With the resplendence of the bright midsummer, With all the freshness of the early spring. They have not seen the red November sun, Like a great ruby, grandly set beneath Thy blue hills, Licking ! Have not seen her moon. Like a pearl shallop, float through purple de})ths. While in meadows of ethereal roses, Hesperus led his shining flock of stars ! O saintly Indian summer ! Nature's Sabbath ! The golden light that fills this forest old, And flecks these russet trunks and kindling leaves, Is like the golden light we see in dreams, And wakes a thought of that eternal temple. Where they shall need earth sunshine never more. Thy breath is sweeter than " Sabean odors;" The rich flowers thou claspest in thy hands Wear the perfumes and the tints of Eden. Thy amethystine kirtle, softly blown. In gentle dalliance, by the sweet south wind. Is looped with gentian buds, of teuderest blue. 76 November in Kentucky. And wlieresoe'er thy charmed footsteps pass, The helianthus opes her golden eye, And turns to meet the glances of the sun. Regal trees, kings of a century's growth. Scatter their gorgeous robes on common earth, For thy light footstejis ; as a knight of old Doffed his gemmed mantle for the maiden queen. Clearly now, the cool, blue, tranquil waters Do mirror this fair light, thy floating robes, The beauty of the w'hite-limbed sycamores. And thy resplendent skies, purple and gold ! The mosses in the dells do take a tinge Of vernal green from thy pervading presence. The sprouting grasses, and the tender herbs Are fresh and fragrant, where the cattle graze ; Thou hast thy own bright train of singing birds, And radiant insects glancing in the sun. On the brown trunk of this old apple tree They shine like gems; among the bending boughs. Laden with rosy fruitage, I can hear The murmurous hum of bees; in the grass Beneath, chirpeth the cricket cheerily ; And where the golden-hearted daisies wave, Enameled butterflies flit to and fro. These sounds and sights so beautiful, thou bring'st To all. Me, thou showest a fair picture, Unseen by any other eyes, save mine — A beautiful young child, of two sweet summers, November in Kentuchj. 77 The winsome playmate of my infant years. I do remember well the day she died ; It is the first clear memory of my life, I being then only in my fifth year. When the nurse held me in her arms, to see The dear, dead face, I said, " She is asleep!" Death w^ore a semblance then so beautiful. The sweet south sighed. ftiintly through the lattice; The mocking-bird's bright mate, the sweet-brier, Crept in to touch her cheek. I saw thee then ; Th}' purple robes were floating on the breeze. And thy sweet breath perfumed these grand old woods. When I first knew^ thee, loved Indian summer ! And ever hath she lain upon my heart. Through silent years, our lost cradle darling. Spotless are her delicate robes of snow. By soft winds blown away from the small ffeet. Upon her breast, like unto nestling doves, The tiny dimpled hands cross-folded lie. Ui^on the dainty bloom of her young cheek The earth-worm hath not rioted. And still On the low brow cluster the rings of gold. Still doth she sleep ; thou dost not waken her : Yet to her lip a dewy sweetness clings ; And underneath the broad and fringed lid I discern a glimmering of sweet light. So, come thou still to beautify the earth. 78 November in Kentucky. With thy deep purple skies, like blossomed heath ; Fairer than lioiieyed May, with roses crowned ; Sweeter than April, bright with rainbow showers ; In her fair arras birdlings and violets ! So come, when from the pleasant haunts of men My memory shall long have passed away ; And by the love that I have borne to thee. When thou and I in this Arcadia dwelt, Fleck my low, grassy couch with drops of gold ; Whisper to me, with thy sweet, subtle airs; And from gentian flowers, that loop thy kirtle. Strew thou on me buds of teuderest blue. Hail to the Oberon. 79 HAIL TO THE OBERON. Dedicated to a bevy of Bourbon Girls. Hail to the Oberon ! Fairy craft ! Lavender streamers floating aft ! Spider-web awnings fine and fair, Dimpling and crimpling to kiss the air. Crystal waves flash white before, In the path to the old Arcadian shore. A fire-fly perched on the prow for light Will guide the bark at the dead of night. Deftly spread on deck for good luck Is blue-grass matting from "Old Ken tuck." And a grasshopper graye, with wond'rous eyes, Is the sentinel guard against surprise. Who sails the Oberon ? Bourbon girls. Sweet as roses and fair as pearls ! 80 Hail to the Oberon. They speed to the Isles of old Romance, To find the ring where the Fairies dance. Freight they have gathered of precious things, Humming-birds' claws and butterflies' wings ; Nightingales' tongues and peacocks' brains. And shells for dishes, with Tyrian stains ; And ojial bottles, slender and fine. To hold the elder-flower wine ; And acorn cups of brownest sheen. To drink the health of the Fairy Queen. Never were rowers so fair to see As the rowers who row o'er that crystal sea. Never a bark such freightage bore As they bear to the old Arcadian shore. Would they might take me on board to-day. Lest the Elfin craft might sail astray. I Avas a pilot long ago, Down where the Elfin rivers flow ; And straight to the court of the Fairy King I have steered the craft and found the ring. Hail to the Oheron. 81 O, fleet rowers, Bourbon girls, Rare as roses, and pure as i^earls, Take me on board where the spider weaves, And give me a hammock of poppy leaves ; And let me swing while the rowers row To the Elfiu Isles of Long Ago, And straight to the court of the Fairy King I will steer the bark, and find the ring. 82 Three Pictures. THREE PICTURES. nEDICATED TO DR. A. E. JONES, OF CINCINNATI, OHIO. From blue-grass meadows down to Belle Riviere, A swift, bright journey thro' the autumn rain, The Licking river singing a refraiu, And tiny brooklets dropping tear on tear, For woodlands bare that wail the dying year. The lithe young oaks blaze out beside the way Like scarlet torches — as old legends say — When none may breathe the words of tender cheer, They light the lonely pathway for the dead ! Like summer, Licking river's low refrain, Like summer sounds, the sobbing autumn rain ; I reck not if the " kindling leaves" are shed; In the l>lue distance all the old regrets Are sweet to me as April violets ! An "upper chamber" decked by maiden hands. The golden autumn sunshine drapes the wall. Near the broad window sparrows flit and call In salutations brought from foreign lands. Yet fettered fast by fever's fiery bands, Three Pictures. 83 I list a ringing step upon the stair — They press upon my lips elixirs rare, And Jave with tender touch my restless hands. And then: the man of God with reverent speech Bestows the consecrated bread and wine — " For the remission of thy sins a sign Of suffering thy trembling heart to teach." And, as my Lord upon the Cross was slain, So I accept the ministry of Pain. Unbound and free, rested from head to feet. Of all glad sights and sounds I drink my fill. And all my heart's fine fibers wake and thrill. To Clerodendron blossoms white and sweet ; The Indian summer comes with footstep fleet, In robes of amber and of amethyst, By winds as sweet as winds of summer kiss'd, And lulls me to an ecstasy complete. And now the moon goes sailing up the sky, A shy, white moon, guarded by watchful stars, She sails close-vailed and crossed by fleecy bars That shut her in the concave blue and high, Until the dawn, when golden as the sun, Her crowning with the "aerial rose" is won ! 84 Not far from Home. NOT FAR FROM HOME. Suggested by a Sermon from Rev. E. P. Humphrey, D. D. Louisville, Ky. Wildly the winds tbeir wailing sent, Swiftly the circling snow-flakes fell, While with the watch-dog's bark was blent The rushing torrent's gathering swell ; And through the dim and shrouding night The cotter hastes to cross its foam ; He almost hails the beacon light, — Yet dies, and dies not far from home. The weary one from foreign land. Seeking the charmer health in vain, Hasteth to where the household baud May soothe with love the parting pain ; And while the sun's resplendent fires Glitter across the ocean's foam, She sees her native city's spires, — Yet dies, and dies not far from home. The prodigal, who long hath been A wanderer from his father's hearth, Pines for each dear, familiar scene That sanctifies his place of birth ; Not far from Home. 85 Across the deep and treacherous seas He comes, from peace no more to roam ; He hails the fresh and scented breeze, — Yet dies, and dies not far from home. And so the soul, that long hath striven Against each stern and warning word By which the still, small voice from heaven Often the inmost heart hath stirred — Can almost see the angel band, — Upon his ear their anthems come, — Earth touches with defiling hand, — He dies, and dies not far from home. 86 In the still Easter-Even. IN THE STILL EASTER-EVEN. Dedicated to the memory of Mr. Edward O. Fothergill "Worth shall look purer, and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them." Thomas Moore. Softly — speak softly, the fair April sky Is flecked with white clouds, sailing out to the West ; He is sleeping — his comrades have whispered good-bye ; Red and white April flowers are heaped on his breast ; In the still Easter-even they bade him good-bye ! Bravely he lived, a true Knight of the Cross, Signed with the sign of his crucified Lord ; Through death and the grave he shall suffer no loss, For his deeds, with his faith, were in fullest ac- cord ; The faith that gives entrance to life through the Cross. In the still Easter-Even. 87 Hearts that have loved him are filled with regret ; What soldier as loyal shall stand in his place AVhen his name shall be called where his comrades are met, And reply " He lies dead in his beauty and grace, But his true stainless life we can never forget?" Lives like his are held priceless, they freshen the sod. They brighten the pathway that leads to the grave ; Give hope when the stricken " pass under the rod," With the one gift of healing the desolate crave. They are stamj)ed with the grandeur and glory of God. 88 Kentuchienne. KENTUCKIENNE. To Miss Sarah Shanks, of New York. Kentuckienne, Kentuckienne, The sweet name lingers on the h'p, As fine and subtle as the dew, That bees from hearts of roses sip. Sometimes alone in dreamy mood, Almost unconsciously, my pen Traces as I would trace a flower, In tender lines, Kentuckienne. And stronger grows the nameless charm ;- Were I an artist I would paint The face I fancy pure and still, AVith golden halo like a saint. Were I a poet I would write Her heart's fair history, and then, — Tear the light leaves and say, ah ! me,— Not worthy of Kentuckienne ! The secret charm is in the name, Kentucky, our sweet mother land. Kentuckienne. 89 Aud so alike her fame is ours, From ocean strand to ocean strand. Were we not nurtured on her soil ? She holds our dead within her heart : From things we treasure not, — our home Aud native land are shrined apart. In a fair country, far away, Shall I not greet Kentuckienne ? Our names indelibly engraved By the Recording Angel's pen ? And there our hands, with lovelinks filled, We shall remember that on earth. On old Kentucky's storied soil, AVe had our matchless j^lace of birth. 90 A Fennel Leaf. A FENNEL LEAF. To Florence. A FRAIL, fair, feathery fennel leaf. Linked with the sumac red. And you say, " Ah, Avould that my loving gift Might be summer flowers instead ! " And yet no graceful gift of flowers From palace gardens rare, Could ever bring to my inward sight A vision half so fair ! You see in my hand but a slender leaf, Linked with the sumac red : I look on a garden flushed with bloom, And of long-lost friends instead! . Fair women grouped in the sunset walk, And men with their proud heads bare, And happy children that cling to robes In their texture passing fair. Clear as an emerald the fennel stalk, With its sweetness the air besprent ! A Fennel Leaf. 91 While happy laughter of happy friends With the breath of the flower is blent. And I, but a shy and dreaming girl, From the bright throng stand apart, While a wish like a blossom tints and warms My eager, expectant heart. A wish unbidden, and still and sweet, Yet like a torrent strong. That away all other ambition sweeps. For the glorious gift of song. And I say of coniiug days — how sweet If, in the sunset walk, Some blossomed thought of mine be blent With laughter and hapjDy talk! O fair young artist, your fhiry hand Restores me the picture fair ; The friends long lost, and the flowers sweet breath Once more in the summer air ! And the eager wish of the dreaming girl Is still as sweet and strong ; For sorrow has swept all else away. Save the glorious gift of song. 92 Peace, she Sleeps at last. PEACE, SHE SLEEPS AT LAST. To C. E. Babb, D.D. Peace ! she sleejis at last, The fitful dream of life is ended, Death is with the past, — Brightly hath her soul ascended. Dark the waves, but winged angels waft her o'er, Vainly we deplore ; time will ne'er restore, Softly now her white feet press the shining shore, Blessed now forever more. Peace! she sleeps at last, The fitful dream of life is ended ; Death is with the past, Brightly hath her soul ascended. All her grief is stilled, The weary watch, the faint endeavor ; All her hopes fulfilled. Perfect joy is won forever. Ah ! tho' broken be the golden bowl to-day. Hence, with tears away, dim not the beauteous clay; Tho' on earth the silver cord be loosed for aye, The spirit wakes in endless day. Peace, she Sleeps at last. 93 All her grief is stilled, The weary watch, the faint endeavor ; All her hopes fulfilled, Perfect joy is won forever. Crowned with light ahove, Where no teuder ties are breaking ; In the land of love, Seraphs are her welcome waking. Now her lips have caught that glorious anthem swell. Sweeter far it fell than mortal words may tell ; Angels, in the home of beauty, where ye dwell, Guard what we have loved so well ! Crowned with light above, Where no tender ties are breaking; In the laud of love, Seraphs are her welcome waking. 94 Sonnet. SONNET. To Mrs. Martha Beckner MfKEE. " Go thou to Cheritli," rang the clear comiDaud, While I sat drinking balm from summer flowers, The moonlight tessellating all my bowers, And waves of moonlight flooding all the land. I turned, and lo! the nail-prints in his hand ! " To Cherith ! Hide thyself beside the brook. And drink thereof;" — I met his steadfast look. And, trembling, laid my face U2:>on his hand. "Ravens shall bring thee meat at my command. Then I arose, and ran with quick accord. According to the good word of the Lord, And looked not back upon the pleasant land ; And since that time, Cherith has been to me All light, and bloom, and summer ecstasy ! J The President — Dead at Elberon. 95 THE PRESIDENT— DEAD AT ELBERON. "Trust ye in the Lord forever; for in tlie Lord Jehovah is everlastiug strength."— Bible: 2Gtli chap. Isaiah, 4tl'i verse. For the President — dead at Elberou, A million hearts are crushed as one ! The wires flash out at dead of night The tidings: and lowered at morning light The flag of the Nation, on laud and sea, And the world cries out in sympathy ! The old sea thunders along the beach With a power no mortal tongue may teach ; " God is the strength of Church and State ; Fear Him, for only God is Great! " While the tide of sorrow goes surging ou For the President, dead at Elberon ! O pines of the North, bend low — bend low. For a Nation stricken in wordless woe ; For the old flag draped and lowered half-mast, And hopes that fall like leaves in the blast ; For the last lone watch, so vain, so vain. Only the tears that fall like rain. But the old sea thunders along the beach With a power no mortal tongue may teach, From the unseen depths to the snow-crowned crest, Obedient in storm or in sunshine rest ; 96 The President — Dead at Elberon. Yet the tide of sorrow goes surging on, For the President, dead at Elberon. O palms of the South, bend low— bend low, For the aged mother he reverenced so ; For the wife in her heart of loyal truth. Who weeps for the lover of her youth ; For the children who pine for his fond caress — To-day they are lonely and fatherless ; And the brave old friends who stood by his side When war stained the land with its crimson tide ; While the great Northwest in its boundless sweep, A guard for his silent rest shall keep. And the old sea thunders along the beach With a power no mortal tongue may teach. For the President — dead at Elberon, The tide of sorrow goes surging on ! As once for the martyred Lincoln swept A sea of tears, from a world that wept ! The White House chambers are dim and lone. While deft hands fashion the burial stone, To tell, as the years go on and on, Of the President — dead at Elberon ! And the old sea thunders along the beach With a power no mortal tongue may teach. " God is the strength of Church and State, Trust Him, for only God is Great." Welcome to the Nexo Year. 97 WELCOME TO THE NEW YEAR. Welcome New Year ! Give me thy clasping hand ; While underneath this temple dome, star-crowned, We muse upon the Old Year's death together. And gather ripe experience from the past. For twelve sweet moons perchance we shall be friends, Thou showing me the beauty of the seasons. The regal garniture of vale and hill ; The glow of setting suns ; the rosy dawn : Fair pictures tinted by our Father's touch. And flowers, fresh gifts from our Father's hand. And thou wilt fill my ear with charmed sounds Of laughing waters, and of singing winds. And clear-voiced birds that chant their summer idyls ; The tinkling rain drops, and the deep-toned thun- der. That wakes the full heart like the voice of God ! And I must walk with thee serene and true. Giving for all thy lavish gifts to me The ptire endeavor of an earnest heart. That stamps minutest work with lofty purpose, Transmuting all the sands of time to gold. 98 Welcome to the Neio Year. For twelve sweet moons perchance we shall be friends, For I may first come to the sepulcher; And if so be that I shall pass away Before thy days of light and bloom are ended, — May I depart like thy resplendent sun, That fairer shines, as he doth near his setting ; And like thy streams that spring rejoicing forth, To mingle witli the bright and boundless ocean. A Song for the Old Year. 99 A SONG FOR THE OLD YEAR. A PiEAN for the grandest of the years ! A psean for the goldeiiest of years ! — The "Star of all the Goodlie Comjxauie" — The year that never had its peer in song! The dark year, heralded by storm and tears, And the wild surging of an angry sea ; The bright year, parting like the setting sun, Flushed with the gathered grandeur of his Avay ; The hushed sea, lapsing in the sunny light, The dark shore bright with wealth of gathered pearls. Washed to their whiteness by the waves of strife. The solemn year, baptized by blood and fire ; The stricken year, scarred by the conflict dire, Yet girdled by the golden ring of peace ! — So fairest day is born from darkest night; From deepest sorrow springs the purest joy ; " Tears make the harvest of the heart to groAv ;" And the red gold, that holds no base alloy, Is tested in the fierce flame's hottest glow. A psean for the goldenest of years ! The nations of the earth do chant for him ; 100 A Song for the Old Year. The islands of the sea lift uj) their voice, And, immemorial echoes, wild and sweet. Shall iterate and reiterate his name. Embalm him only in his golden light, In his own light, oh centuries august! Crowned with the gathered rainbows of the storm He passeth out into the light of God. Fair like a Floiver, and shining like a Star. 101 FAIR LIKE A FLOWER, AND SHINING LIKE A STAR. To Leila Cunningham, Glen Echo, Paris, Kentucky. SuEROUNDED by a thronging multitude, My heart's fine fibers felt the dissonance, And quivered with a weariness intense, For some still, shaded moss-grown solitude, Where never harsher voices might intrude. Than tender winds, that summer balms dispense. From summer flowers, that charm the inner sense. Or wild bird crooning to her sylvan brood. Or if I might but see thy soul -lit face : When lo ! at once, expectant, from afar, Fair like a flower, and shining like a star, I saw thee, matchless, in thy maiden grace ; Nor knew thy smile of trembling ecstasy Its sweetness gathered from a thought of me. 102 Sonnet. SONNET. To Hon. George W. Williams, Pakis, Ky. Peace to thy silent, sleepiog, faithful friend : Green grasses, brightly nursed by sun and showers, Curtain thy couch through all the coming hours; And singing birds their happy anthems blend, For joy that thou hast reached thy journey's end ; Serene and fearless, cheered by unseen powers, Clear to thy vision, dark, alas, to ours. Dim with regretful tears, oh sainted friend ! "Loving his own, he loved them to the end ; " Infinite words of blessiug : it was meet. Waiting in meekness at the Master's feet. That they should light and crown thy journey's end. No more we seek to know : "The pure in heart" Alone "see God," and where He is thou art. Blanche. 103 BLANCHE. Angel wardens! Ye who stand at the pearl portal, Saw ye Blanche when she became immortal ? Doth she walk where living waters flow ? Whisper, angels, whisper soft and low. Tell with what a shining band, Far in the blessed land, Blanche, the earth-born, doth abide ; Who Avalketh nearest at her side ? Who loveth her as we have loved her here ? Who charmeth her sweet heart with words of cheer ? How wooed and won ye so her maiden brightness ? Whisper, angels, whisper soft and low. Tell with what shining band, Far in the blessed land, Blanche, the earth-born, doth abide, Who walketh nearest at her side. Where the living waters flow? Only her sweet dust is left for earth's fond keep- ing, Only her sweet dust, embalmed with weeping. Ye have won the spirit bright and rare. 104 Blanche. God hatli fashioned nauglit more pure and fair, None of the shining band, Far in the blessed land, Where Blanche, the earth-born, doth abide ! The earth is darker since she died ; Heaven more bright since she hath entered there. Ye know her by her braids of shiniug hair. Tresses that mocked the ripened filbert's bright- ness; Ye know her, angels, by her vestal whiteness, Know her by her fair cheek's fadeless glow. Tell with what shining band. Far in the blessed land, Blanche, the earth-born, doth abide. Who listens nearest at her side. To her sweet voice, soft and low? Angel wardens, ye who stand at the pearl portal. Love our Blanche since she is made immortal ; Love her deeply, lest our full hearts break. We besought the heavens for her sweet sake, Tiiat with the shining band, Far in the blessed land, Blanche, the earth-born, might abide. Angels walking nearest at her side. All our tenderest wishes are fulfilled. Ere a blight of earth her life had chilled. In your jeweled walls guard her maiden bright- ness. Blanche. 105 111 serenest air guard her vestal whiteness, Ouly whisper, whisper soft and low. Tell with what shining baud, Far in the blessed laud, Blanche, the earth-born doth abide ; AVho walketh nearest at her side, Where the living waters flow ? 106 Siioiv in October. SNOW IN OCTOBER. Snow in October ! Lo ! the sparkling wonder ! Daintily, deftly, floating here and there ; Weirdly dancing, balancing in the air; Draping blossomed boughs, and stealing under ; Sifting, with powdered pearls, the upturned faces Of small, bright flowers, that tremble all aglow. At this rare crowning of the stainless snow, — This unsought charm, that so completes tlieir graces Snow in October ! Crimson with the stain Caught from the crown of thorns that woeful day, A redbird — on the tree that moans alway. Conscious of the rude cross — prolongs his strain ; While wings and crest of crimson, (quivering brightness. Receives the stainless snow, the mystic whiteness. To Kittle. 107 TO KITTIE. The stars are out, the moon is ridiug high — Come thou, dear love, aud sit beneath the vines, And gaze with me upon the glorious sky, As, up the vault, the crescent higher shines. Our evening haunt each flexile wreath entwines, With all its fragrant wealth of snowy flowers. lam alone ; my spirit inly pines To meet thy tender glance, in these sweet hours, To clasp thy hand in mine. Ah ! hasten here, Beloved of my heart ! I pine for thee ; And let me dream, that, from a holier sphere, A spirit blest comes to commune with me ; Vain is the witchery of this weird hour. If thou dost meet me not, my missing flower. 108 3Iy Garden ishright with Poppies to-dmj. MY GARDEN IS BRIGHT WITH POP- PIES TO-DAY. To Mrs. W. F. Torrenie, Montreal. My garden is bright with poppies to-day, Ebon and crimson, in regal state. The tint of the dawn with a Tyrian dye, Imperial purple, they well can mate. Some are ablaze with mystical marks; Some like blood sprinkled on mountain snow. Spotted and streaked with rainbow dyes. In the dew of the dawning, all aglow. Some are shred like a sorrowful heart ; And some are fashioned like elfin sails, With silken awnings for honey-bees. That rise and fall with the summer gales. With a subtle perfume, like ripened fruit, They soothe my senses and charm my heart, When I clasp the precious capsules that hold The magical amulets, shrined apart. Some are tinted like urns of amber light, That deck the altars of sacred shrines. And the sunshine fair through the trembling leaves With a weird and mystical meaning shines. My Garden Is brhjht irith Poppies fo-day. 109 O l)eautifiil mates of the tasseled corn, No precious odors are gathered up In jeweled chalice more charmed and rare, Thau the sweetness held in your emerald cup ! The rose is gathered for festal halls, The violet worn for love's sweet sake, But the fragile poppy blossoms and falls, — Few hearts to its magical beauty wake. But the subtle spirit that art hath shrined, We bear to the chamber of grief and pain. And the charmed odors avail us well, When the spells of passionate love are vain. For there comes a time when the regal rose And the violet's breath can naught avail ; Wlien we pray and pine for the poppies fair, That floated unculled in the summer's gale. The noteless flower that we scorned to wear, Yet the crowned queen of the summer time. Holds the nameless charm for the heart's despair. Sweeter than summer, or poet's rhyme. The subtle spirit distilled by art, Entrances and lulls the weary brain ; Only the beautiful greets the gaze, And the ear is charmed with a dulcet strain. 110 My Garden is bright with Poppies to-day. The ear is charmed with the reaper's song, The eye with visions of tasseled corn, Where brightly, by dew and sunshine nurst, The poppies float out on a summer morn. I remember a chamber, dim and lone, Whence bird and blossom were borne away. Only the poppies, with subtle breath. Marked the mournful hours of that stormy day They gave back strength to the nerveless hand, They gave back light to the languid eye, And the faces of dear familiar friends. In visions of golden light, swept by. O roses regal, I own your charms, And violets dear, for love's sweet sake, But the subtle breath of the poppies rare. Only the depths of my heart awake. They charmed ray ear with a dulcet strain. They gave me a vision of tasseled corn. They lulled my heart to an infinite rest. Those elfin sails of a summer morn. Ida Hamilton. Ill IDA HAMILTON. Kentucky. Sweet Ida Hamilton ! Tlie dewy dawn Seems a fit setting for a gem so rare. Like rippled lengths of lustrous gold her hair ; Brown eyes that mock the startled forest fawn, Its shy, wild beauty to the shade withdrawn ; Her lightsome limbs, draped in a fabric fair, She seems a gladsome creature of the air. Standing expectant on the blossomed lawn. Of what her maiden dreams ? O child of light. Drink in the magic sweetness of the hour. Nature is gifted with a wondrous power To guard the spirit's inner life from blight, Her silent wakening countless charms unfold, Fair as thy tresses rippled lengths of gold. 112 A Picture. A PICTURE. A poem written for Mrs. John W. Bishop, of New York city, after receiving from her a copy of the celebrated picture of our Lord and Savior, by Gabriel Max, from the "Legend of the Napkin." I HOLD in my hand the priceless gift Of thy loving heart to mine, The pallid face of the dying Christ, The wonderfnl face divine ! The jagged thorns on His temples press, He is faint — for the crimson tide Is sloAvly dropping from hands and feet, And the wound of the spear in His side. Oh ! hearts insensate, of mortal mold. That have not in His anguish wept, When even the Napkin's trembling fold The face of our God hath kept ! The marvelous eyes are piercing me And my heart in its passionate pain. Fiber by fiber is breaking, lest He Vainly for me be slain. I kneel and kiss His nail-pierced hands. For the uncrowned God I see A Picture. 113 In the " Mau of Sorrows," who stilled the storm For Peter ou Galilee. In the tear-wet eyes of infinite love, That open and shut for me, The uuvailed splendors of Paradise, With the peniteut thief I see. No more the unavailing words, I count of gain or loss ; I look on the pitying face of Christ, I clina: to His blood-stained cross. 114 Willie Ford Davie. WILLIE FORD DAVIE. Two Years OLD To-Day. I MEASURE his life by the sun-lit years ; I measure his life through no mist of tears ; I measure his life by the sun-lit years ! There are beautiful words that he can say ; To our Father's throne he has learned the way ; At morning and evening he kneels to pray. And if silence falls on our happy talk, In a moment he turns in his gleeful walk, With the question, " Mamma does you hear God talk?" He knows Christ the words of blessing said. For children — who watches his cradle bed — By whose hands the little birds are fed. In his forehead he bears a Kingly Name, To guard him forever from sin and shame ; And if God shall bless him, who then shall blame? O mothers whose hope unto Heaven aspires, We feed with the angels the altar fires, We sing the song with the seraph choirs. Willie Ford Davie. 115 For Christ; the crucified, oil the cross, In the midst of the uttermost shame aud loss, Remembered the mother love ou the cross. Aud with blessings for children from blessed lands, An angel forever beside us stands, Bearing the blood-stained cross in his hands. IIG Mornimj on fJie Hllh of Kenhiehj River. MORNING ON THE HILLS OF THE KENTUCKY RIVER. Morning upon the liills ! The free, wild hills, Crowned witli the forest's unshorn raajesty, And by unfettered streams made musical ! Morning upon the hills ! The saffron tints That drape the eastern heavens momently Are deepening. Tlie lustrous living Hue Between is tremulous with ecstasy. And consciously doth palpitate, while beams The God of Day in goldenest glory, At the horizon's verge. His altar fires Quiver and flash, till the empyreal depths Glow in the kindling light. The priestly sun, Who ofl^ereth uj) the morning incense — Far down the luminous east, trail the deep Fringes of his sacrificial robes, purple And gold. Far and wide floats the broad splendor, And pours in lambent streams the rich libation. Even the shining drops of last night's rain. That trembling hang upon the swaying boughs. Are all transmuted into burning gems. The deepest recess in this ancient forest Is all bedropt with gold. And yon hoar cliff" MornUuj on the Hills of Kentucky River. 117 Doth clasp ou its gray front a jeweled crowu. Earth wakeueth and greets the early light With all her myriad voices. Every tree Gives grandly out a different note to swell The diapason. Birds chaut interludes, And rippling waters breathe a soft contralto ; Through these green arcades waken eth the hum Of myriad insect life : and butterfly And bee glance in the air like winged gems. A*thousand flowers yield their fresh young hearts To deck the sun's bright altar ; and the air Is freighted with the ambrosial incense. In the distance thy blue waves, Kentncky, Flash in the glittering sunshine jubilant ! Even the patient oxen in the vale, With their nplifted eyes offer mu-te thanks; But the sobbing winds, a miserere Chant for the pale, dead night, and strew npon Her noteless grave dewy and odorous leaves. Morning upon the hills ! Wake tho_u, my heart ! If these insensate things such homage yield. What offering hast thou for purer light! For thy fair birthright of immortal hope, That brighter grows, though the great sun be dark- ened, And all this beauty perish like the moth ? Waken, my heart, and consecrate thy powers. Thy asjjirations, and thy deep affections. 118 Morning on the Hills of Kentucky River. In tlie pure freshness of this early light. Offer glad praise like the exultant waters ; Like the flowers, that offer their full hearts. Offer thine inward life, as thy best iucense. And, if so be, that, like the wailing winds, On hopes that faded in their starry promise Thou sti'ew the leaves of passionate regret, Yet offer praise, that like yon hoary cliff, Thy life is brightened with supernal glory ; And the dark lone chambers of thy sorrow. Like the recesses of this ancient forest. Are every-where bedropt with most fine gold. Belh Hart Brent 119 BELLE HART BRENT. 1845. Will you have a sweet i)icture to keep in your heart, AVhence the sunshine and beauty may never de- part ? Then I'll give you a sketeli of an infantine sprite, As she plays by my hearth, in her childish delight. Like the humming bird flitting from flower to flower, She brings music and mirth to each dark wintry hour ; For her voice has the tone of the dove's dulcet lay, When she moans in the forest the long summer day. Her brow, where the blue veins are wandering through, Is as fair as the delicate lily-cup's hue ; And the soft flaxen curls, o'er the white temples shine. Like the tendrils that cling to the blossoming vine; 120 Belle Hart Brent. Her eye, like a violet, all trembling and wet, Speaks an eloquent language you ne'er can forget. As she timidly glances the long lashes through, I can not withstand their sweet pleadings — can you? Her lips are like rosebuds, at morn's dewy hour, A.nd her cheek wears the hue of the unfolded floAver, With her small dimpled hands, folded close on my breast. Thus nightl}^ she sinks to her innocent rest. As falleth the snowflake, when storm winds are mute, So falleth the tread of her fairy-like foot; Yet sometimes the warm tears unconsciously start. As I watch thy bright coming, my bonnie Belle Hart. For I know not what pathways my darling may tread, Nor the storms that may bow down her beautiful head ; Perchance she may bear to the islands afar, The life-giving tidings of Bethlehem's Star ; And the turbulent waters of error may cease As she tells to the heathen the story of peace ; Belle Hart Brent. 121 And their minds will forget the dark mazes they trod While she guides to the pure, perfect worship of God. How bright, or how saddened, her fortunes maybe, The dim, distant future reveals not to me; Whether early or late, the frail nursling of love Shall be gently transplanted to gardens above ; But as dew freshens daily the flower's pure cup, Be her spirit kept stainless till called to go up, And if first she ascends to that fair clime of bliss, It will solace thy fond heart to look upon this. 122 Kennedy's Creek. KENNEDY'S CREEK. Dedicated to Rev. R. W. Cleland. SMALL, bright stream, I name thee Meadow- Sweet! Througli blue-grass meadows in thy lightsome play. Singing thy happy song by night and day, While woodland echoes the glad notes repeat ! — As pilgrims haste some Mecca haunt to greet. And gather amulets to charm the way, And light with sunshine, many a stormy day, 1 seek thy spells to make my life complete. I do recall a time when, prison bound, I pined for violets, with such passionate pain. That in thy clefts had caught their purple stain. The heart-sick longing, shut out sight and sound, — The heart-sick longing felt by wounded things, When they have vainly sought for hidden springs. Horace. 123 HORACE. Mother's heart iuditiug, Only poet's pen is writing, Noting, as you do, a flower Leaves unfolding, hour by hour ; All his pretty gifts and graces, Warming hearts and brightening faces, All his winsome, half-formed words, Sweeter than the song of birds. Countless coins of red gold shining. Countless white pearls intertwining — Flashing rubies without measure. Pale beside this household treasure ! AVondrous questions and replies Show his kindred with the skies ; Morning bright, and evening dim, Some sweet angel teaches him ; Who his Savior doth behold. In the city paved with gold. Even in sleep his tender dreams Ripple with the heavenly streams — And in light to us denied. He is borne upon their tide. Fairest child, Avhen davs are long. 124 Horace. Thou to me art flower and song. In thy beauty I can trace Likeness to a baby-face, In its love-light all aglow, Very precious — long ago ! Soft brown eyes, and rings of gold, On a broad brow, manifold ; Therefore, when the days are long, Thou to me art Flower and Song ' Memorial. 125 MEMORIAL Of Mrs. Kate Spears Alexander, wife of Mr. George B. Alexander, of Paris, Kentucky. "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." . . . "Jesus said unto her, lam the resurrection and the life. He that believetli in me, tliougli he were dead, yet shall he live."— Bible. I CANNOT bring rare flowers to strew The couch where slie lies sleeping ; I only weave a tender song For hearts that break with weeping ; For little children, motherless, Who look in silent wonder, That such sweet ties of earthly love Could so be rent asunder. Yet are " the sparrows" day by day Our Father's love attesting ? And shall not we, His children dear, Be on His promise resting ? Is not our Father's love as true In taking as in giving? Are we not " precious in His sight," When dying, as when living ? 126 Memorial. So bright and evenly she walked Life's daily path of duty, She decked the smallest tasks of love With coronals of beauty. So lightly, gently held her hand, Joy's overbrimming chalice ; The angels came and bore her up Into the King's own palace. And still upon the crumbling brink, Where she became immortal, She entered like a little child Within the open portal. To me she was like summer dawn, So clear, so true, so tender. And I shall see her face once more In God's own heaven of splendor. Oh ! once within my open door To see her gladly enter, The little children by her side, Of love, their shining center! Oh ! sometime, angels, in our dreams, Sometime when we lie sleeping. Bring back that vision of delight To hearts that break with weeping. J To JAnnet. - 127 TO LINNET. A CRUSH of diamonds ! Diamonds every-where ! Shattered and sown, like seed beside the way, The sparkle of their splendor mocks the day ! A thousand rainbows, rent from summer air. Imprisoned, drape the brown earth cold and bare ; The diamonds flash from every barren spray The grpsses, sheathed in diamonds, mark the w^ay, And moss-grown eaves imjierial diamonds wear. Broideries of seed-pearl, finely wrought and rare, Ethereal as the flounces of a fay, Wreathe vines, that like great coils of diamonds sway ; While perched upon my Indian arrov/ fair, A robin red-breast crooning to his mate, — '' For us, dear love, for us this royal state ! " 128 In Years gone by. IN YEARS GONE BY. A Memory of Mrs. Amelia Hite, Paris, Ky. In years gone by — the time is long, Since thou and I stood side by side, And watched the river deep and strong. Whose waves from deathless life divide. A maiden fair, with sunny braids. Passed down with joy to meet the tide ; She hailed the light beyond the shades. With Jesus walking l)y her side. She said, " Old friends with joy I greet! They kiss my lips, they clasp my hand ! " And full of love, with willing feet. She passed into the unknown land. And next a mother, purified With sorrow's swift, consuming fire. Passed out from where the maiden died, By faith's stern ordeal lifted higher, Into the heaven of light and song, — And much Ave questioned then with tears. In Years gone by. 129 Watching the river deep and strong, While Jesus vanquished all her fears. Dost thou remember, on the shore. How yearned our hearts to know that day ? And yet in tears while we deplore, As silent, thou hast passed away ! Enough for us, enough for thee, Our firm, obedient Christian faith : " No ear hath heard, no eye hath seen," These are tlie words the Master saith. We need no rash, irreverent hand. Unreal visions to create Of heaven, where vailed the angels stand, Angels who kept their first estate. The way by which God's lieaven we win, The " blood of sprinkling" hath revealed ; No more we need to enter in The joy to spirits blest unsealed ! 130 The Lost Flower oj Cliaitfaiiqua. THE LOST FLOWER OF CHAUTAUQUA. To Miss Mary How, Walnut Hills, Ohio. "One of the legends of the Lake asserts that growing low in the velvet glades, under the highest hills of the shore, the enlightened eye of the Indian medicine-man could discern a tiny plant of such healing virtue and miraculous restorative power, that the sick came from distant regions to taste and live. There is no one now to tell which was the plant of mar- velous power."— Letter from Mary Cecil Harwood. A QUAINT old legend doth the history hold Of a lost Indian flower, That hid within its tiny heart of dew A pure and priceless dower. Where wild Chautauqua's waters kiss the shore, The wondrous flower was nurst. And Indian maidens in their ehon hair Braided its blossoms first. And through the pathways of the tangled glades Weird hunters of lost Art Came with fleet, eager footsteps, seeking long This wild flower's honeyed heart. The Lod Flower of Chautauqua. 131 Still pressed by pilgrim feet Chautauqua's shore, Though questioned hour by hour, The waves, the Avinds, the lone crypts of the hills, Xone name the missing flower. Whether it wore a tiny crest of blue. Signed with a cross and star, The stainless color of the summer tide, The sunshine's golden bar ! Whether it wore a royal purple stain. Pranked with a golden shower ; Whether the flush of dawning, faint and fair, That deepened with the hour! Whether their crimson lights on distant hills Like flashiug bonfires glow ; Or w^hether sprinkled by the lake's lone marge, Whiter than mountain snow ! They name no more the perished Indian flower ; Echoes that once could thrill, Like unreplying voices by the dead, The echoes all are still ! And still by pilgrim feet the wild lake shore — Chautauqua's shore — is prest. 132 Tlie Lost Flower of Chautauqua. And gems and gold are paltry if they find This wild flower's hidden crest ! Only a quaint old legend, heeding not The heart thirst for the flower, Tells only that it lived, was loved, is lost, Filled with a priceless dower ! Lines. 133 LINES, SUfifiESTED BY A WAT.K TO THE CEMETERY AT FRANKFORT, Kenktucky, before Sunrise. Late I sought the cepieteiy, by the winding river- Aviiy, While the hills were fresh and dewy, in the prime of early day ; Groups of trees, in the sweet silence, spread their boughs on every height, Waiting, like the ancient Incas, for their sun- god's golden light. O'er the shaded, slumbrous valleys faintly gleamed the purple dawn, And like wing of ministering angel, slowly, lin- geringly withdrawn. Were the wreaths of mist uprising from the guarded night's repose. And their parting whiteness mingled with the morn's aerial rose. Over leafless trees the tendrils of the fragile vine were flung, And like gems from base to summit were the odorous blossoms hung ; 134 Lines. Emblems meet of the fair mantle, charity so softly flings, Full of her own grace and beauty over mean, in- ferior things. Far below me swept the river, like a belt of silver sheen, And the birds their matins chanted in the temples vailed between ; Here and there the busy spider wove her meshes in the breeze. And ray spirit inly murmured, " Types of human hopes are these!" jNIidway up the sylvan pathway, gushed a spring whose limpid Avave To the mosses on its margin pure and gentle bap- tism gave. And the delicate white flowers, in their young hearts incense held. Such as Oberon and Titania offered in the days of eld. There were myriad winged insects, brightly glanc- ing through the air. For the time was full of life, and beauty manifold and rare; And I said, " If such the sunshine and the myriad fflories here, Lines. 135 Wlio can tell the marvelous beaut}' of that far diviner sphere ?" Near the entrance to the city — silent City of the Dead- Drooped a fair young tree, with vine-leaves shrouding all its graceful head, Nun-like in its mournful meekness, at its still de- votions bent. And the greensward all around it was with peni- tent tears bes2:)reut. 'Twas an hour for thought most holy, and my spirit turned to thee. As the needle, true yet trembling, turueth to the star at sea ; And I thought of happier summers, when thy heart its influence lent. And with hill, and rock, and river was thy gentle converse blent. Beautiful yet fragile fancies wove we in those trustful days. When earth wore a crown of brightness like the rainbow's changeful rays, Then we reveled in the sunshine, saw not thorns among the flowers, Half forgot the curse had fallen on this beautiful world of ours. 136 Lines. But the fancies fair have faded, like the dew be- fore the day, Aud our paths long since were parted, thou, sweet, friend, art far away; Mournfully the waters glided, aud a moan Avas on the air, As the echo to my question mocking answered, "Where — oh! where!" Sadly I retraced my footsteps, down the winding river-way. And my eyes were dim and tearful in the golden light of day ; And I said, "Though Nature wooes me with her glorious pageantry, Redolent of bloom aud beauty, it is nought, bereft of thee." Mother, come back from thy Heaven of light. 1 37 OH! MOTHER, COME BACK FROM THY HEAVEN OF LIGHT. Oh ! mother, come back from thy heaveu of light, Come back from the joy and the song. And hold me agam to thy loving heart. When the tide of my grief grows strong. When, like the Apostle of old, I sail. By tempests exceedingly tossed ; When neither sun nor stars appear, And the hopes of my life seem lost ! Bring me a branch from the tree of life, To bind upon my breast, That the wondrous balm of its healing leaves May soothe this wild unrest. Oh ! mother, bring me a vision of light — Of the beauty of the King — Of the blood-washed throng, who walk in white, Teach me the song they sing. Bring me a draught from the river of life ; It will cool this fever thirst ; 138 Mother, mine hack from the Heaven of light. Until freed from sorrow with thee I stand, Where the crystal Avaters burst. And tell me, mother — speak low in my dreams, — Where, — near to the nndefiled, They have placed my boy, — and the new name, — That He has given my child ! Yet not for the sake of an earthly love Would I do my Savior wrong ; I kuow that His face makes the light of heaveu, His name the joy of the song. And sweeter if Christ shall walk with me In the seven-fold furnace fires. Than the inner Heaven without my Lord, To which my soul aspires. Yet, mother! come back from thy heaven of light. Come back from the joy and the song. And hold me again to thy loving heart. When the tide of my grief grows strong ! Wliat is the Charm. 139 WHAT IS THE CHAKM? To Miss Dora Bridgeford, op Louisville, Kv. What is the charm, the nameless charm. That rests like a crown on her shining hair, That shimmers and floats in her delicate robes, Like the charm of the summer air ? What is the charm in her dainty hand, In the rippling soimd of her gentle words, That thrill the heart with a sense of joy, Like the songs of summer birds ? What is the charm of her maiden grace. That sparkles through blossom-scented hours, And glows in the changing glow of her face. Like the light on summer flowers? I can not tell, but she holds my heart By a power I know she will not break. And I yield to the charm, the subtle charm. That binds me for her sweet sake. She tinted with gold the summer-time. But now the beautiful day is done, And I turn toward the glow of her soul-lit face, As the sun-flower turns to the sun. 140 Passijlora. PASSIFLORA. I WEAVE for thee a wreath of passion flower, The mystic, consecrated flower of earth That through the dying Savior's blood had birth — The Wossomed testimonial of that hour When hosts of hell asserted short-lived power, Crushed by the Godhead's might on Calvary — The atoning sacrifice for thee and me, The pledge and purchase of the Christian's dower. This flower doth ever wear the Tyrian dye Of the mock robe, the emblem nails, the spear ; The crown, the Cross, that marked his sufferings here. With mute appeal, salute the gazer's eye; O Christian hearts, do we with oue accord Thus bear the death-marks of our risen Lord ? Sonnet. 141 SONNET. Oh, comfort me, my Savior, comfort me ! The jiath is dreary, and the way is loug ; I can not cheer these silent heights with song, If thy blest presence go not up with me. Oh, in the day of my calamity, Hold thou my hand, and make ray spirit strong, Lest I should faint and fail, and do tliee wrong; Cover my head, and crown Avith vict!)ry ! I worship thee, Christ of Nazareth, As the great God, who made the heaven and earth ; By whose almighty word the stars had birth. Who only holds my soul in life and death, Whose priceless blood alone avails for me ; O give me through thy death the victory. 142 Wallace. WALLACE. In pictured beauty he will always stand Brightly before me iu his boyish grace ; A white magnolia blossom in his hand, The light of youth and hope upon his face ! The radiant tints all sorrow shall withstand, — No crush of age nor care the light displace, Forever held by memory's magic band, Beyond the power of death to leave a trace. I did not see his young life ebb away ; And, when they brought him straight and silent hid, With lilies heaped above his treasured clay, I could not look upon the coffin lid ; In boyish grace before me he will stand, A white magnolia blossom in his hand. The Kemhle Inspiration. 143 THE KEMBLE INSPIRATION. To S. E. B. It was a dark and stormy day — The clouds were wildly drifting, Like bands of a beleaguered host Their brave resistance shifting ; And steadily the snow-flakes fell, The bare, brown earth to cover, While winds a miserere sobbed For buried frieud and lover. Alone within my silent home, Fearing the sad to-morrow. With tear-wet face I sat and ate The ashen crust of sorrow : AVhen, lo ! a step upon the stair ! A hand the latch uplifted — My chamber caught the golden glow. Like cloud by sunshine rifted. My heart leaped up to greet the light, To welcome the sweet comer ; Genius and Love stood hand in hand Surrounding me with summer! 144 The Kemble Inspiration. They brought the flush to lip aud cheek By charm of their caresses ; With apple and acacia bloom They looped my fallen tresses. Through many a laud of old romance, Spell-bound in light, I floated ; Like the quaint dial of Italy, Only bright hours I noted ; The matchless voice of English song My heart and brain enthralling — Sweeter than breath of summer flowers, Sweeter than spring birds calling. If, in the stormy outer world. The winds were wildly drifting. Like bands of a beleaguered host. Their brave resistance shifting ; If steadily the snow came down The bare, brown earth to cover ; If winds a miserere sobbed For buried friend and lover : I know not. Love and Genius held Me close in their caresses ; With apple and acacia blooms They looped my fallen tresses ; The Kemble Inspiration. 145 Old idyls of enchautment sang 111 thought's diviuest raeasui'e, While, in a light elysian craft, I sailed a sea of pleasure. I only know the goldeu glow My heart and horae is filling ; The breath, the sounds of summer-time, My inner senses thrilling ; And memory shall hold for me This dainty delectation. Linked with the tender love that sent The Kemble inspiration. 146 Somiet. SONNET. Psalm xl. 17. " Poor, needy," " yet He thiuketli upon me." Then name ray poverty magnificence ! Since it hath won me such blest recompense, Thoughts of my risen Lord in heaven for me. No deeper joy through all eternity Can thrill my heart ! Dim grow the jasper walls To the full SAveetuess that my heart enthralls, In the one thought, my Savior thinks on me. O Shepherd Poet, how thy tender thought Through centuries doth blossom and bear fruit; When days are dark and loving lips are mute, For all, the healing bahn is dropped unbought. O heaven of heavens, on earth ! O heaven to be. Beyond the grave, my Savior thinks on me. Louise Parrish — 3fy Child Friend. 147 LOUISE PARRISH— MY CHILD FRIEND. "And if any painter knew her, lie would draw her unaware, With a halo 'round her hair! " —Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I PiAYE a wee child f'rieud, fair as a faerie ; Sweet as the heart of a Damascus rose ; Pure as the dew drop in a lily's cup — Sparkling as Phosphor, herald of the dawn, Yet shy and timid as a little fawn. Sometimes of her sweet favors she is chary. And speeds away from me with light, swift steps, That I may woo her with sweet coaxing words. My baby-bird, my winsome lady love. Then springs into my arms, and takes my kisses ! She walks the chambers of my heart at will. And by her touch wakes many a hidden spring. Her intuitions are like inspirations. So clear, so delicate, so marvelous ; She seems to shame the culture of long years ; The queens of art and song would envy her. She is embodied music, fine and rare ! No treasures costly I withhold from her ; But fearlessly I place in her small palm 148 Louise Parrish — My Child Friend. Keepsakes most precious, for her pastime sweet ; Then she restores them to me daintily! Pictures and shells and marvels of lost art Receive an added beauty from her touch ! She can not know, sweet child of infant years, Bright baby-bird, that 1 have loved her so. Yet if I thought my name she would forget, When in my chamber I sleep silently. With blue-grass draperied and curtained close, My heart's deep springs would overflow with tears. Sonnet. 149 SONNET. Dedicated to JIrs. Alice Brannin Gaylord, of Louisville, Kentucky. A SOVEREIGN lady in her own sweet right ; God gave her beauty for her matchless dower, As He doth give the fair and stately flower, That wakens dew-geniuied to the morning light. I pray God earth may bring her charms no blight. For beauty holds the priceless innate power To brighten with its light the darkest hour ; To jewel sorrow as stars gem the night; Her beauty is her crown, to light the way For pilgrims weary in the desert sands ; While tenderly she guides with loving hands Faint footsteps that perchance had gone astray. For beauty, God's fair gift, holds potent power, To charm waste places, like the stately flower. 150 Ficciola. PICCIOLA. Dedicated to Miss Florence Andekson, of Paris, Ky. God gave the minstrel's art for her sweet dower, And dextrously she wove, with willing hands Lays of the heart, and lays of many lands ; Tracked to their magic source with Avond'rous power The streams of song, and brought a honeyed shower Of blossomed thought, sweet as the sw^eet refrain Of wood-birds chanting wdth the April rain. The violets' birthday in the spring-tide hour. To deck the prison walls where April shower. Nor bird, nor violet cheers the silent time. Brighter than spring-tide beamed her blossomed rhyme ; She brought heart sunshine by her subtle power. And the lone prisoner blessed her priceless dower, And named her Picciola, Prison-Flower. Emma Hickman. 151 EMMA HICKMAN. Emma Corbett ! sweet old English fiction, So receive ray tender benediction ; Near niy heart I hold thee like a lover, Softly kiss thy time-worn, antique cover ; Stand where first thy sweet, pathetic story Crowned with April mists ray girlhood glory ; With the glamour, sorrow's cords are broken, Priceless words of love again are spoken ; Lilac blossoms fill the air with sweetness, Life is prodigal of fair completeness. While I wonder if some vailed to-morrow, Will make mine, thy tender love and sorrow, Still through tears, thrice sweet old English fiction, So receive my tender benediction. Emma Hickman ! No unreal fiction. So receive ray tender benediction ; Near my heart I hold thee like a lover. And again thy face with kisses cover. Queenly art thou in thy simple duty. Crowned with motherhood and wifehood beauty; 152 Emma Hickman. Still arouud thee shines the f)virple glory, Caught ill girlhood, from love's magic story ; In thy blossomed, fair midsummer beauty, Fairer still for simple love and duty. So I turn, to bring from dej^ths of sorrow Something shining for thy blight to-morrow, Emma Hickman ! No unreal fiction, So receive my tender benediction. New Forest. 153 NEW FOREST. to THE Mother of Mrs. Ann Maria Shackelford. Ah ! weep not at leaving thiue earthly home, All beautiful tho' it be, Wherever thy parted feet may roam, It is fadeless for aye to thee. Is it not mapped in thiue inmost heart — Each pathway and shaded dell ! Its blossoming sweetness, all hived apart. In memory's treasure-cell ! The floral children, that 'neath thy hand, 'Mid sunshine and dew have sprung O'er the fragrant sward, by the breezes bland. Like shreds of the rainbow flung. Will float on the waters of thy heart, Undimmed by the touch of time. For memory's flowers are shrined apart. As they bloomed in their early prime. The mist-tree will wave in that charmed air Its amber and purple plumes, And the delicate blush-rose will be there With its matin gift of blooms. 154 New Forest. And the jasmine, the nightly bloomhig flower, AVill offer its incense up, AVhen the angel who guardeth the dewy hour Shall sprinkle its emerald cup. The larch will its graceful tassels fling To the caressing wind ; And the broom, at the touch of the dainty spring, Will its golden locks unbind ; The lily, that hideth in lowly guise Her censers of perfume, And the iris, whose robe of Tyrian dyes Was wrought in a fairy's loom. The tuberose white, like a pearl that gleams, In the autumn's kindling leaves. The pure crown-jewel that chastely beams. In the shrine of her golden sheaves — They are thine, all thine, from the tiniest flower Gemming the glades below. To the rose, the proud, aerial flower, That maketh the sunset glow. The oriole's pendent nest will swing On the trembling aspen tree. And thy heart's chambers will softly ring With their gushing minstrelsy. New Forest. 155 The birds that build in the ivy green, Ghmeing like jewels rare, They are thine, thro' every changing scene, Unharmed in that charmed air. And the human flowers thy heart hath nurst. Each dear, familiar tone Will fall on thy ear, as they fell at first, Soft as the sea-shell's moan. Ea«h lineament dear, of form and face. O'er these Time hath no power. They will glow for thee, in their winsome grace, As they glowed in life's vernal hour. They are thine, all thine, they are charmed things. All free from the spoiler's power ; They have won their life from thy heart's pure springs : These are thy priceless dower. Then weep not at leaving thine earthly home, All beautiful though it be, New Forest, wherever thy feet may roam, Is a spirit-haunt for thee. 156 Look not thou upon the Wine. " LOOK NOT THOU UPON THE WINE." Look not thou upon tlie wine, when it is red in the cup ! When, like a flashiug ruby, it shall move itself aright ; Though like beaded diamonds the bright drops bubble up, There is madness in the chalice ! there is iufamy and blight ! Though a gentle hand mayprofier, with inimitable grace ; Though a rosy lip before thee touch the brim thine own would press ; Better lose the tender friendship, lose thy envied pride of place; When the brain with wine is poisoned, love hath lost its i^ower to bless. Can thy lofty manhood baffle the enchantment it shall bring? Saith the Word of inspiration : " Like a serpeut it shall bite, Look not thou upon the Wine. 157 At the last, with the poison of the adder it shall sting ; " It will sap thy strength of manhood, it will cloud thy sense of right. It hath turned the tide of battle to dishonor and to shame; It hath crushed the wing of genius, in the zenith of its flight ; It 'hath dimmed the fairest j^rospects ; it hath stained the purest name ; There is madness in the chalice ! there is infamy and blight ! Ah! look not on the wine, when it is red in the cup, When the many shall entice thee with its tempt- ing, mocking light ; Though like beaded diamonds the bright drops bubble up. It will sap thy strength of manhood, it will cloud thy sense of right. 158 Seventy Years. SEVENTY YEARS. For Mrs. Emmeline Basye Flannigan. Seventy years ! And the pathway seems Draped in the atmosphere of dreams, Blossomed arches, and glancing streams. Daintiest flowers, of tenderest blue. That in darkness, and tempest, had lost their hue, Are freshly bathed in the morning dew. Softly the old songs rise and fall. Friends we have lost are just within call. And the summer heavens bend over all. Where are the fever and fret of strife. That sometimes blighted the joy of life? For the very air with peace is rife. Little children, who climbed my knee. Cling with their dimpled hands to me ; I can see them, as fair as fair can be. The guide who walked in the path Avith me, Who loved me, and cheered me, and cherished me, How clearly his footsteps I can see. Seventy Fears. 159 Like a fair vision the path appears ; Why should we dim, with regretful tears, The gifts of our God, these vanished years? For the perilous journey is almost done ; Through the Cross we conquer; Ijfe's setting sun Shines in its parting on victory won. 160 What nextf WHAT NEXT? To Annette De Guerke. What next ? My life is, a fairy tale, A summer sea, with a favoring gale ; Summer skies that are soft and fair And a thousand perfumes charm the air. Every voice has a tender tone, And gentle the hands that clasp my own ; Home and kindred and friends to-night Make earth a place of rare delight. What next ? What next? The pathway I can not trace ; 1 see not ray guardian angel's face ; So dark, so silent, the hidden land, I only know God holds my hand. I only know He has given to me This time for my blissful eternity. To blossom my heart, and fashion me fair ; And, if in His footsteps I walk with care. What next ? What next? A life so white in the sun, The watching angels shall say "Well done!'' Wiat nextf 161 Lifting so high the blood-stained cross, That deathless souls shall not suffer loss. Patiently waiting, day by day, In desert places to watch and pray ; The weariest waiting will not be long, For the inner Heaven and the victor's song- Come next ! 162 Hehe. HEBE. Hebe ! upon my threshold — like a bird That lights a crumbling temple, with its wings Waking the silent echoes, while it sings Arcadian melodies, so long unheard — By the sweet music of her lightest word. In the soft purple Indian Summer air The golden sunbeams braided in her hair, The silent waters of my heart she stirred. Lighting the lonely places like a bird, Retiuting memories that long had slept In the deep, hidden crypt, where tears are kept ! Wakening old harmonies so long unheard ; Old hapj^y memories of the mountain brakes Where Hemans sung her songs among the lakes ! Hebe! upon my threshold, bearing high Hearts of flowers dissolved in sapphire chalice ! The Elf-King's crown, pilfered from faery palace. Fairer than dream of poet to the eye ! And these for me ! I need no longer sigh Hebe. 163 For lost enchantments. So, I drain the chalice, Ami win foreverraore my faery palace ! The crystal dew quickens the inward eye — Hearts of flowers in dainty distillation ! Only for me, these priceless Elf-land gems ! Olympus never held such diadems ! Nor chronicled Olympus such ovation ! Corinne was proudly crowned at classic Rome — I hold it worthier to be crowned at home. 164 Owen Meredith's Fair Lucile. OWEN MEREDITH'S FAIll LUCILE. To E. H. O. Edwardia. OwfiN Meredith's fair Lucile ! — Owen Meredith's rare Lucile ! — The daiuty book I hold in my haod, The leaves by the winds of April fanned ; Daintily bound, in blue and gold, And the leaves, the Lilies of France enfold! — Sweet, and stainless, and manifold. Not more clear could a wizard's glass reveal, The Duke de Luvois, and the Countess Lucile; Than these fair flowers, reveal at a glance ; — These emblem Lilies of La Belle France ! — Owen Meredith's fair Lucile ! — Owen Meredith's rare Lucile ! — Never held book such fair completeness ; Never held book such honeyed sweetness ; Sweeter than songs, of the forest birds, Are the musical, magical, marvelous words ; Rich as the hue of the purple gloaming ; Light and bright as the wild waves foaming ; Trenchant and swift as the shining steel, That flashed from the scabbard for fair Lucile ; Oiven 3Ieredith's Fair Lucile. 1 65 When Luvois awoke from his sorrowful truuce, To the old, heroic Knighthood of France ; And the camp was with angel grace besprent, While Steur Seraphine watched, in the soldier's tent !— Never held book such magical words, Sweeter than songs of the forest birds; They fall on ray heart in ambrosial showers, Sweet with the breath of a thousand flowers! — Oh ! beautiful sjiells, that genius hath wrought, From the pure and passionate depths of thought ! The hand of genius, that deftly hath caught And wreathed the divinest blossoms of thought. Yet the dainty book reveals at a glance, A breath more sweet than the Lilies of France ; My heart alone, owns the mystic spell, The undertone from the Fairy's Well ! — And the fairy haunts of Point Genevieve, Where the clouds, their crimson draperies weave ; And a sweeter face, the tones reveal, Than Owen Mei*edith's fair Lucile ; Only my heart, can own the spell. The voice of love from the Fairy's Well. 166 Sally. SALLY. To Mr. and Mrs. A. W. Whelpley, of Clifton, Cincinnati. You will laugh when I tell yoli that the silken cars of my dog Dash are far more beautiful and precious to me than the coveted ears of the tiger, sent in a silver box to Miss Weston- haugh by Mr. Isaacs.— M. R. M. Ah, yes ! you say, why let such trifles fret us, As though it were an oriole's golden crest ; I tell you, beds of thyme from old Hymettus, Would fairly fail to soothe our heart's unrest. The saucy silken ears of Sally, shining For after dinner napping, near my own. Were far more suited to my homely habits, Than cold, unansweriug jewels near a throne. She loved me with a passionate devotion. Guarded my slumbers with such jealous care. Not favorite friend, gliding with teuderest motion, To break the coveted repose would dare. A dog will love you, as brave men love honor, And seal his fealty, if need be in death, Sally. 167 "While sometimes human friendship faHs and fal- ters, In sorest need, with but a passing breath. I miss her bright-eyed, eager glance of welcome. Her watchful care of all she knew was mine ; And turn, uncousciously, for her glad greeting, Upon the homeward path at day's decline. She was more fleet than any Alpine chamois, More graceful than a brown thrush on the wing, And I confess to you, of all my treasures, I valued Sally, more than any thing. And I would give you all my regal roses. And books of eld, that geuius so endears. If I, for comfort of my noonday napping. Could lay my hand on Sally's silken ears. 168 Sonnet. SONNET. "Shakespeare, the greatest and most original writer of any age, lays the scenes of several of his plays in Italian soil, and derives the plots of them from Italian sources. Shakespeare's sonnets consist invariably of three quatrains and a couplet, and onQ.can not but regret that he should have given the sanction of his great name to the least artistic form in whicli the sonnet can be written."— Article on the English Sonnet, from the "Cornhill Msigazine." —Eclectic, August, 1872. When Shakespeare would transplant from Italy, The dainty sonnet, intricate and sweet; What marvel if in English soil should meet, A depth of light and shade, more fair to see, Than graced the flower in native purity ? What marvel if the slender stem should greet, From such rare training, stature more complete, Than sonnet blossomed first in Italy? Does not each gardener give the cultured flower. Unconsciously, a tint from heart and brain, More regal than the rarest wild-wood stain. That nature gives in her supremest hour ? The grand old master of our English verse Lived to originate, not to rehearse. A Song for this beautiful Christmas-tivie. 169 A SONG FOR THIS BEAUTIFUL CHRIST- MAS-TIME. Written for Mrs. Mary Hope Carroll, of Cincinnati, after hearing her sing the exquisite song—" only to see her Face again." A SONG for this beautiful Christmas-time, The fairest of all the years, With never a mark of carking care. With never a stain of tears. Only a tender, low refrain, A matchless minor chord, Only to hear her voice again. Only her parting word. A songstress fair, with golden hair, Sings the old songs to-night ; The holly-berries above her shine Like rubies, red and bright. Surely we heard her footsteps then Along the oaken floor ; We saw the trail of her silken robes. As she entered the open door ! Inspired the fair-haired songstress seemed, The small white hands I pressed, 170 A Soncj for this beautiful Christvias-time. The face of the dead restored to me, Nestled upon my breast. For while she saug that low refrain, And touched the minor chord, I saw the face of the dead again, I heard her partiug word. The Grownimj of the Rose. 171 THE CROWNING OF THE ROSE. Dedicated to Annie Chambers Ketchuji, Floiuda. I SIT alone all sileutly, At evening's dewy close, And pine to share with thee, sweet love, The crowning of the rose ! Her I'oyal beauty never seemed So perfect as to-day, Her inmost heart resplendent With the sunset's ruby ray. Her breath of sweetness charms the air. Like knights, the belted bees Outvie in knightly chivalry. The summer's minstrel breeze That kisses and caresses her From dawn till evening's close, Perfecting all her dainty charms, 'Till she is crowned the rose ! The rose ! the rose ! the royal rose ! As wondrous fair to view, As when the angels saw her first, Im pearled in Eden's dew ; 172 The Croivning oj the Rose. For God baptized her trembling leaves In that first dawn's repose, And sinless eyes in love looked on The crowning of the rose ! Perchance, perchance, regretful thoughts Thy trembling heart may brim, Until the falling tears like rain, Thy loving eyes shall dim, Of lone "Dunrobin's" silent walls. Where Southern roses blow ; Redder than sunset's ruby ray. Whiter than Alpine snow. And still I hold thee to my heart. And kiss thee in the mouth; And bring the " Old Kentucky" rose, Fair as thine own " Sweet South ! " In blue-grass meadows all unshorn. The queen of roses grew. By shower and sunshine brightly nursed. And crowned with twilight dew ! Then take the dainty wu'eaths I bring, They breathe a mystic balm ; Ring out the olden minstrelsy, Of Eden's crowning Psalm ! The Qrowning of the Rose. 173 Despite, despite the siu that mars Earth's beautiful repose, Our love shall make an Eden for The crown in o- of the rose ! 174 MattU' Givens. MATTIE GIVENS. Dedicated to Col. John G. Craddock, Editor of the "True Kentuckian," Paris, Ky. Dead in the blossoming April time ! And the low-voiced winds like a poet's rhyme, Embalm her with idyls, wild and sweet, — They strew her with, blossoms from head to feet : The winds are calling the livelong day. She hears them not — she is far away ; Dead, in her womanhood's golden prime ' Dead, in the blossoming April time! We say she is dead ! But they say not so. In the land where the Heavenly roses blow ; From the fever-fret and the soil of strife. She hath passed to the beautiful land of life ! To the land unshadowed by doubts and fears. To the land undimmed by the mist of tears ; And they sing as they welcome her on the shore, She lives forever, forever more ! Was not her life, in its golden grain, Fair as the joy of the angel strain ? Was there not stamped on her gain and loss, Through her joy and sorrow, the holy Cross? Mattie Givem. 175 She measured the worth of life aright, Walking by faith, and not by sight, Did she not day by day abide In tlie uncrowned God — the Crucified ? How short the time since she wandered down, A tender child, thro' this quaint old town ; The liglitsome sound of her bounding feet AVakening the echoes in the street ! Be comforted ; Heaven is worth the tears. And denial of self through a thousand years ! For, freedom from death, and freedom from sin, Is the meed of all who enter in ! 176 A Prayer. A PRAYER. Dedicated to Mks. Nannie Kenney. Give me an atmosphere of love and light, I prayed, led by the instincts of my heart; Lead me through classic paths, to fanes of art, I can not bear the darkness nor the blight ! Not where the dead are buried out of sight. Lead my faint trembling steps ; give me no part, With suffering or with sin ; but lead apart, In paths of beauty, gemmed with flowers, and bright ! Yet were ray footsteps led through deepest night, And all my company made desolate ! So that I couut all joy this solemn fate, That leads through crush of sorrow up to light ; That shuts my footsteps in from all beside, To walk the pathway with the Crucified.