• >$* A^ ♦cC^SgA'' ^ .<^^ ♦SSI®* ^ ^ ♦tCCVS^ iS>^. ^"-^K •^o ■^.^^ V ♦ .^^.*. 'TT.*' ^0 V^ ^ .\ 1 •p. 30^ 31\ i5'h ^ BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. VIOLET LEE AND OTHER POEMS. 150 pages. 12mo. Price, $1.25. "These poems are the first published productions of one who evinces poetic talent of no ordinary degree. They show a delicacy of fancy, a tenderness of sentiment, a beauty of conception, and a sweetness of expression worthy of the masters of poetic art." — Nor^ mat Monthly (Pa.). " I have read some of the poems with pleasure." — jfohn G. Whittier. " There are bright and sparkling verses among these of Mrs. Ober- holtzer, and pleasant thoughts are scattered through the book." — Waichman and Reflector (Boston). " The poems have the merit of a natural delight in the objects and emotions that form the staple of poetic composition." — New York Evening Post. " A neat and interesting volume for the parlor library. The typo- graphical part of the work is executed in Lippincott's best style." — New Orleans Times. " Many of the poems are delightful. The poet deserves a niche in the Westminster Abbey of America's living writers." — Evening jfournal (Chicago). " It is simple, unpretending, and homelike. The moral and re- ligious tone is unexceptionable." — Baltimore Gazette,'' " The volume contains some beautiful thoughts." — Herald and Free Press (Pa.). " It is a rare book, and should be found on every parlor table." — Smith's Bazaar (N, Y.). " The author has the divine gift of poesy." — Village Record (Pa.), "The book is well fitted to be the companion of a long and beauti- ful summer day in the country when the mind is attuned to peace and beauty." — The Journal (Phila.). J. B. LIPPINCOTT «& CO., Publishers, Philadelphia. ^ "> r, -'^ ^.4^. COME FOR ARBUTUS, AND OTHER WILD BLOOM. BY MRS. S. L. OBERHOLTZER. PHILADELPHI A : J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1882. T'3 2.4-8^ .04-C4 Copyright, 1881, by MRS. S. L. Oberholtzer. TO MY TENDERLY BELOVED AND REVERENCED FRIEND, JOHN G. WHITTIER, WHO HAS KINDLY STOOPED TO LIFT AN OCCASIONAL WILD BLOOM, I HUMBLY AND AFFECTIONATELY OFFER THIS PALE TOKEN OF SPRINGTIME. Cambria Station, Pa., 1881. CONTENTS, PAGE Come for Arbutus ........ 9 Lines lo A Burial Ode . 12 Lucretia Mott . . . . . . . . > ^3 Heni-y W. Longfellow . . . . . • • ^5 An October Prayer . . . . . . . .16 In Memory of the Brooklyn Burned . . . . .18 William W. Fell .19 The Ville-de- Havre 20 A Christmas Hymn ........ 22 The Old and New Year 24 Sue 27 A Birthday Tribute ........ 28 In Memory of Henry Wilson . . . . . • 31 Emily Hambleton . . . . . . . -32 The Dove's Memoriam . . . . . . '33 1776— 1876 36 An Acorn Cup ......... 38 CONTENTS, It is I . The Cup of Life . Under the Flowers Broken Consolation Oh, No ! . A Worm at the Root Sing to the Seam The Snow Veil . Thirty-Eight In Vain Once Again Brown and White The Silver Milestone The Solution Over the Sea Constancy . Ute Pass The Beautiful Harvest A Twilight Fragment The Hawthorn Bloom Thee . The Feeder of Swan Waiting at the Nest A Sufferer's Impromptu Througli the Fissures A Lay of Passage CONTENTS. Mine Own with Usury The Death-Bell Invocation . Disappointment Weariness . Daffodil The Willow Our Helplessness The Snow Path . Time's Unfinished Volume The Under-Ground Railroad The Station-House The Station-Master The Pilot . An Instance Golden-Wedding Lines The World's Law A Memory Ballad Life's April Day . Compassionate Alone . Dead Drunk The Vernal Dawn Miriam In the Wood The Color of Fire 8 CONTENTS. PAGE Niagara . . .120 A Changeless Picture 122 Periwinkle . . . . . . . . . .124 The Donkey's Playmates 124 The Chopping-Block . . . . . . . .126 Thanksgiving , . . . . . . . .128 The Harvest Kiss • .129 The American Tourist's Lesson . , , . . .130 Lost Music .......... 132 The Strawberry Tryst . . . . . . . -133 The Empty Swing . . . . . . . .134 In the Meadow • . . 135 Autumn Color . . , . . . . . .137 The Rain of Separation and the Bow ..... 138 A Mid-Day Battle Note 140 Exultation .......... 141 The Sunshine ......... 142 The New-Year's Ride ... . . . . , 143 A National Dirge 146 COME FOR ARBUTUS. Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear ; The pink waxen blossoms are waking, I hear ; We'll gather an armful of fragrant wild cheer. Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear, Come for arbutus, my dear. Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear ; Come through the gray meadow, and pass the black weir. To brown-margined forest, and part the leaves sere. Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear. Come for arbutus, my dear. Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear ; We'll gather the first virgin bloom of the year, The blush of spring kisses with coral lips near. Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear, Come for arbutus, my dear. LINES ADDRESSED TO JOHN G. WHITTIER ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND CHARLES SUMNER. The tree of liberty hath blossomed, borne, and shed its fruit. Long waxed the time to thee and thy colaborer ere 'twould root. Unto your earnest, tender lives our land deep debtor is, That it survived to blossom-time and fruitage, thine and his. Together did you labor, yet apart, with single strength, Upholding, nurturing, and fostering it a weary length Of years, until it grew to fulness, and the fruit was ripe. The nation clashed, and in a conflict dire shook it ; the type Was good, and freedom-apples, blood-laved, lay about our feet. Rich to the harvest, juicy with justice, in perfect seed replete. 'Twas not the way thou hadst preferred, or he, to strip the tree. But for the gatherers' sins they needs must suffering feel, and see The thorns upon the boughs of liberty, ere they could strow And recognize the freedom-fruit. 'Twas not for all to know lO LINES TO yOim G. WHITTIER. n Its mellow fulness as thou didst, and he ; athrough dull air The blindfold, striving populace near harvests unaware, And count them valueless, until a clearer sight discerns And estimates their worth. Our seers are rare. To sorrow turns Our pride, as man and Nature whisper, with a bated breath, *'In the mid-afternoon of labor Sumner's kissed of death." Dear friend, compatriot of thine, colaborer in the cause Of right, scarred by the enemy of tree and fruit and laws In '56, he pauseth now; the timepiece fails to run ; Stilled is the great heart's ticking, hearkening to the Lord's "well done." The sweets of recompense and light to him ; to us the pall. Tear-veiled is our submission, but we see God's love through all. O'ershadowed by the blessing of your grand and earnest lives. The incense of a nation's peace with thanks perfumes the skies, And, parting from him, clasp we thee closer, — ah, closer still! Our rarely pure interpreter, song-servant of Christ's will ! Fondly we kiss thy folded wings, and prayerful is our touch. Linger for aye, our best beloved ! sore is our need of such. March 17, 1874. A BURIAL ODE* FOR BAYARD TAYLOR. Sung as a part of his funeral services at Longwood Cemetery, March 15, 1879. Empty the casket, the caged bird outflown ; Back again, back again, earth, take thy own ! Thou who didst give it thy fairest of clay, Clasp thy arms tenderly, fold it away. Fold it away; for the loved one has fled. Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. Carried most lovingly over the sea, Bring we our offering, Longwood, to thee; Wanderings over, and full garlands won, Reverently bring we the dust of thy son. Fold it away ; for the great soul has fled. Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. Leave as our treasures his life and his songs ; Take in thy keeping what to thee belongs ; Take the wayfarer's inn, God has taken the guest, Ours are the memories, — thine is the rest. Fold it away ; for the singer has fled. Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. * Set to music by J. R. Sweney, M.B. LUCRETIA MOTT. ' 13 Back again, back again, earth unto earth ! Cradle his slumbers who cradled his birth ; Take the form tenderly close to thy breast, Gather it lovingly home to its rest. Fold it away ; for the tenant has fled. Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. LUCRETIA MOTT. And she is dead whose life was rich In labor and in years : She lays her earthly clothing off, We fold it by with tears 1 An early laborer in the field, She labored long and late With hand unsparing to increase Freedom and Truth's estate. She chose no paths of summer ease. Where velvet poppies sway. And soft winds blow, and leaf and flower Shut out the heat of day. Hers was the strait and narrow way, The furrow of the Lord, Wherein in helping weaker ones She found her sweet reward. 2* 14 LUCRETIA MOTT. She sowed and tilled and harvested God's fields in sun and rain ; Of freedom, temperance, and peace She reaped the perfect grain. On Duty's way are ever thorns, That pierce when pushed aside ; But souls like hers have conscience' balm To heal the wounds they hide. So true, so strong, such souls as hers In numbers are denied : The world is richer that she lived, And poorer that she died. And now her garment, needed not, With autumn's leaves we fold, And through the Indian summer's mist Her risen self behold. The memory of her worth shall live Through ages yet unspent ; The grateful love of human hearts Shall be her monument ! HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Sweet and wonderful singer, Musical singer and free, Sultan of song, retaining Parizaday's bird and tree. Sweet and wonderful singer. Wonderful singer of ours ! *' Singing leaves" sweep thy dial. The signs of thy years are flowers. Sweet and wonderful singer. Wonderful singer and sweet. The notes we faintly whisper Thy full voice rounds complete. Sweet and wonderful singer. Beautiful singer and fair. Angels have laid white lilies Upon thy beard and hair. Sweet and wonderful singer, Wonderful singer and great. The world with rose and pansy Garlands thy Cambridge gate. 15 1 6 OCTOBER. Sweet and wonderful singer, Faultless singer and rare, To thee our wild-flower's tendrils Reach out the New Year's prayer. Sweet and wonderful singer. Wonderful singer and sweet ! O most our wind-blown blossoms Are a carpet for thy feet. January, 1880. OCTOBER. A PRAYER FOR THE RETURN OF THE STOLEN ROSS CHILD. Bright blush the flowers of October, Banners aloft wax red, The full-blown hopes of summer Are strung on crimson thread. The white and the pink of daylight Have caught the sunset hue. And the evening of the season Weeps gold instead of dew. Bearer of beauty, October, Clad in radiant bloom ! Summer's sunset gate-keeper ! Light by thy smile our gloom. OCTOBER. Day bath been crowded with sorrow ; The country's heart beats sad ; By thy mellowing light, October, Lead back the infant lad ! The arms are weary with waiting The parents fond outreach, And their anxious souls are aching For Charlie's touch and speech. The nation with love maternal Longs fain to clasp the child And ring from her bells heart-gladness Through all the autumn mild. Our prayers we t^hread, October, Amid thy beads of gold, — Prayers that the fair-haired darling Return to love's stronghold. Our prayers we rest, October, About thy nut-brown feet. And float them to thy flag-staffs, That they may angels meet. Dear Lord, and omnipresent, Sinking the summer sun. Who gavest the scarlet October The banner, " Day is done," Bend closer Thy ear, we pray thee, And hear our burdened song : Return through the bright October The child we have waited long ! ^7 October i, 1874. IN MEMORY OF THE TWO HUN- DRED AND SEVENTY-ONE. BURNED IN BROOKLYN THEATRE, DECEMBER 5, 1876. Up from the flames and smoke, Up rose a trembling wail ; The cords of bondage broke ; Courage was no avail. Fire, the unappeased king, Made a mighty offering. Crash ! and the blazing pit Caught, clasped the empty dust, Hurriedly buried it, Blind to the precious trust. Fire, the unloosed rebel king. Made a midnight offering. Where rose the trembling wail, Hushed at a single breath, Stoutest of stout hearts quail. Nameless the chars of death. Fire, the unrelenting king, Near three hundred offering. Sightless beyond recall — Freed souls, the incense grand 18 . WILLIAM W. FELL. Burst from the hellish thrall, Curled from the blackening brand. Fire, the terror-smiting king, Made a mighty offering. Up from the flames and smoke. Up rose the incense pure ; An angel sentry spoke, " High air is more secure." God, the great, eternal King, Took the fire-king's offering. 19 WILLIAM W. FELL, DIED AT BUCKINGHAM, PENNSYLVANIA, JANUARY 4, 1874. An echo ne^v is on the stair, A halo fresh pervades the air ; The golden trail that angels trod Our friend has followed up to God. His laurels starred with morning dew, Green laurels as are worn by few. The cherubs lifted from his head, And fairer crowning gave instead. We hush our hearts that we may hear His distant footfall firm and clear! We near the stairway's lowest round. And sweetest memory flowers abound ! THE VILLE-DE-HAVRE. Baptized in truth is every bloom, And earnestness is their perfume ; Our frailty dare not garhmd them, Or touch the angel's garment-hem. To those who loved him, God alone Can make His great compassion known! The darkest clouds of sorrow's hour Have amber linings of His power. He paints the rainbow through the rain. And purifies our souls with pain ! He calms the Winter into Spring, And gives the humblest prayer a wing. He loves us all, and soon or late Will grief and partings terminate. Enfold us in the mantle free That Christ outspread on Galilee. THE VILLE-DE-HAVRE. When the Ville-de-Havre sailed out from port. She sailed right merrily ; Little she thought to meet Loch Earn In the wintry waste of sea. But the ashen mists of night came down. And no head-lights saw she. When a vessel crashed against her side And sped on the foaming sea. THE VILLE-DE-HAVRE. 2i 'Twas the dash of death, for the waters leaped Through her broken starboard wild : The strong men sprang from soft warm berths; The mother clasped her child. The passengers, crew, and stowaways Upon the deck were piled : To the hopelessness of such a fate They could not be reconciled. The air was heavy with prayers and shrieks, But the hungry sea heard not ; A gurgling gulp, and the Ville-de- Havre Slept in a pearly grot. Of forms, two hundred and more went down : Ah ! who has e'er forgot The fearful night and the darker days That followed the dread allot ? — The days when the ocean voice came home Into the hearts of men, And hushed them dumb with its thundering tones; Gloomy the air was then. The land that was sunny and bright before Seemed only a dismal fen. And the lingering knell of the cruel sea Its only denizen. Cruel and cold is the ocean depth Where coral blossoms blow ; Cruel and cold was your stern, Loch Earn, To gore the vessel so ! Cruel and cold was the winter night To let the life-blood flow ; 3 22 A CHRISTMAS HYMN. And, Ville-de-Havre, so cruel and cold Were the waves to shroud you so ! Oh, cruel and cold is the great salt sea ! And full of nameless graves, Of forms in its depth, and hearts on land, O'er which the water laves ; Cruel its columns of frosted foam, Cruel its thundering waves. Cruel the open, gulping space Under its architraves. Sleep, Ville-de-Havre, a dreamless sleep ! Your freight is in the skies ; A thousand deaths and a thousand seas The strength of God defies. The mermaids trail a wreath for you As the billows fall and rise ; The angels stretched their saving rope. Your crew's in Paradise. A CHRISTMAS HYMN.* Christmas ! Christmas ! Christ was born in Bethlehem. Christmas ! Christmas ! Time's outshining diadem. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Christ was born in Bethlehem. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Sin's eternal requiem. » Set to music by Prof. Thos. O'Neil. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 23 Christmas ! Christmas ! Banquet-time of love and prayer. Christmas ! Christmas ! God prevaileth everywhere. Rejoice ! rejoice 1 rejoice ! Christ was born in Bethlehem. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Sin's eternal requiem. Christmas ! Christmas ! Swell our praise-notes louder, higher. Christmas ! Christmas ! Till they reach the angel choir. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Christ was born in Bethlehem. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Sin's eternal requiem. Christmas ! Christmas ! Lord, our notes would reach to Thee! Christmas ! Christmas ! Christ was sent to set us free. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Christ was born in Bethlehem. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Sin's eternal requiem. Christmas ! Christmas ! Golden milestone of the years. Christmas ! Christmas ! Gratitude, and joy, and tears. 24 THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Christ was born in Betlilehem. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! Sin's eternal requiem. THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. THE OLD YEAR. The old year is dying. The night-winds are sighing And chanting farewell ; Sweet psalms of their singing are lingeringly clinging To mountain and dell ; They mournfully echo a bated farewell, — Farewell, farewell. Chill moonlight is falling round his couch, appalling The watchers with fear ; Afar the stars glimmer, grow fainter and dimmer, As slow breathes the year ; Clouds pitiful veil them while shedding a tear. Farewell, farewell. The sun's face is hidden, his great palms unbidden Uprise with his grief; It is dark, it is cold ; there's no flower on the wold To whisper relief; The ragged fringed grass sighs, in half unbelief, Farewell, farewell. THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. 25 I'he birds have forsaken the north-land, and taken The warmth on their wings, The song and the gladness ; left silence and sadness That voiceless night brings. A dirge on the pine-tree's a^olian strings, — Farewell, farewell. His friends all departed, he dies broken-hearted, The year we have blessed ; No warmth to restore him, no bloom to strew o'er him, He pants for his rest ; A fluttering struggle ! there's peace in his breast, — Farewell, farewell. Farewell, moans the ocean, with trembling emotion. Forever farewell. Fond human caresses cling to his white tresses As low tolls the knell. Tired, lost friend of mankind, we weep thy farewell. Farewell, farewell. THE NEW YEAR. The new, new year is born, is born ! The midnight lea breaks into morn. Joy, with her train of downy glow, Spreads the reception-room with snow; Carpet of ermine, soft and fair, Mystical sprites have fitted there. The new, new year is born, is born ! His castle-walls with pearl adorn ! 3* 26 THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. Each niche uncouth obscure from sight By imagery of chrysolite. Call him a choir of warblers free, That he may give of song the key. The new, new year is born, is born ! Waken, daffodil, blow your horn ! Waken, hyacinth, blushing sweet ! Blue-bell, come from your brown retreat, To ring and ring the gladsome news Into the heart of rosy dews. The new, new year is born, is born To goodly heritage this morn ! The amber land, translucent seas. The fierce north wind, the velvet breeze, The silver mist, the spangled sky, Their full obeisance signify. The new, new year is born, is born ! The regal king of vine and corn. He wakes in realm of eider-down ; The sun will drop a golden crown On to his floating, crinkled hair ; Crown him monarch of everywhere. SUE. Friend of mine with raven tresses ! Friend, whom fifteen years' sod presses, Yet friend whom fifteen times fifteen Cannot press from my soul, I ween, To-day the purple harebells swing, Vines to the river's moss-edge cling. The oak and the maple interlace. The shadows dance with a winsome grace Across the rock, as they used to do When its brown height was crowned by two. Raven tresses and soul of snow. Memory ever enshrines you so. How we wandered, a blinded band. To the border of the death-land. Forty and more we numbered o'er On the verge of the mist-clad shore. Pitiful cries and tender care Drew some back as we halted there ; 27 28 A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. Lingeringly I returned, while you Passed the shadowy river through. Parted, and yet not parted, we Journey still half in company. Raven tress in my hand I hold, Fashioned a brooch and bound with gold,- A link that binds the pure white soul Close unto mine while ages roll. Rivers may flow, and harebells swing, Forests their verdure lose and bring. Here, on the brown rock kissed of sun, Sit I, forgetting what Time has done, Sue and I, together, — apart, — The love of soul for the love of heart. A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. A PURE white lily adorns the land, Unsoiled its petals as though God's hand Brushed tenderly off the dust of years And bathed its heart in rainbow tears. Arrows of gold on its stamens lay. Arrows of gold, as though 'twas May. A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. The pollen falls from the stamens' tips Softly down on the violets' lips ; Violets old and violets new Rejoicing are that the lily grew. Arrows of gold so lightly sway, Arrows of gold the darkest day. Proud of the lily we violets be That under its shadow crowd the lea, — Proud of its height and its strength of stem. And proud of its perfume-bordered hem. Arrows of gold we pride in too. Arrows of gold impearled in dew. Full eighty cycles of time are past Since the lily's leaves were upward cast ; Full eighty cycles of time are dead. The world's the lily's violet-bed. Arrows of gold its stamens hold. Arrows of gold in spotless fold. Our lowly hearts and our eyes of blue O'erflow with gratitude warm and true ; Our fleeting breath ascends, a prayer. Lord, make the lily Thy fondest care ! Arrows of gold keep in the air. Arrows of gold seen everywhere. A seraph of light from Thy opal bower Commission supporter to the flower ! For the winter comes, and its blasts of snow Must kiss the lily and downward blow. 29 30 A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. Arrows of gold, frosted, not cold, Arrows of gold over the wold. If heavier flakes than frosting soft Should touch the petals that swing aloft, The breath of Thy watching angel there Would melt them into the azure air. Arrows of gold are pointing up, Arrows of gold in calla cup. Long be the time ere the arrows fly Up, up, from the petals to the sky ! All waste would lie the violet-bed If the pure white lily drooped its head. Arrows of gold, oh, lightly sway Over the violet-bed for aye ! November 3, 1874. Darkness and gloom for the violet-bed ; The pure white lily has drooped, — is dead. Ripe with the beauty and wealth of time, The leaves waft down as a finished chime. Arrows of gold an angel's palm Bear aloft to a holy calm. Christ prizes blossoms of purest mould ; For Him the lilies of life unfold ; For Him they're gathered, and bloom and sway Eternal in God's eternal day. Arrows of gold that rest above. Arrows of gold, we grieve, we love. IN MEMORY OF HENRY WILSON Darkness and gloom for the violet-bed, Light and rejoicing for overhead ; For us an indelible memory fair, That fills with lily the violet air. Arrows of gold over us still, Higher by our Creator's will. June, 1878. 31 IN MEMORY OF HENRY WILSON, VICE-rRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, WHO DIED NOVEMBER 22, 1875. Earth's arms again are opened. And she to her bosom takes Her offspring, — clasps him fondly. As the winter wind awakes. The Abolition laborers Sink to rest as autumn leaves, Ripe with filled purpose, while the Air chants freedom's symphonies. The notes of gratitude are hushed Full oft by breaks of tears, That we the standard-bearers Lose of anti-slavery years. • Brave Wilson's early struggles Made his after-life more sweet. His work for the down-trodden ]\Iore effective and complete. 32 EMILY HA MB LE TON. The past is not forgotten, When the anti-slavery men Were but a meagre handful, He stood firm amid them then. There comes a time for labor, And there comes a time for rest The never-slumbering Father Well knoweth when each is best. EMILY HAMBLETON, WHO FOUND A HOME AMONG THE ANGELS, 7TH MO. 2, 1876. In the sunny long ago, Emily, How I loved thy soul of snow, Emily, I a child, a woman thou ! Sweet the memory lingers now, Sweet and sad together blend, Emily, Joy and sorrow God doth send, Emily. Woman thou of finest cast, Emily, Spirit power to far outlast, Emily, The bruised casket of the flesh ; Lives like thine do ours refresh. Energy and justice thine, Emily, Live in force and round us shine, Emily. All the good that thou hast wrought, Emily, All the precious lessons taught, Emily, THE DOVE'S ME MORI AM. Blossom out and glorify Memory, and sanctify Present fruitage good to thee, Emily, And the fairer yet to be, Emily. Truth immortal cannot die, Emily, Though thy pure soul floated high, Emily, Still will linger ages through Impress of thy teachings true. The dear life that now seems done, Emily, Crowns of heaven and earth hath won, Emily. Til THE DOVE'S MEMORIAM.* Waneth the light on the still, still river; Waketh the moon on her fringed crest, Becking the stars with the golden quiver To spread them out on the blue to rest. Browning gray are the river's tresses, And weirdly over her brow they toss ; Her dampened brush or her fond caresses Instil them not with the summer's gloss. * During the ravages of yellow fever in Memphis, in October, 1873, Mattie Stevenson, a sweet little lUinoisian, aged eighteen, went from New England to the rescue of the suffering and dying. After nursing several families with unswerving tenderness, she fell a victim to the contagion, and died, leaving a gloom and a halo over Memi^liis. 4 34 THE DOVE'S MEMORIAM. Back from the marge the white, white clover Sleeps in its nest and dreams of bees, Flecked the sun the heather over With drops of bloom in the daisied breeze. Stooped the lily to hem the mosses, Thread of gold on a veil of green, Wild rose blushed in its backward tosses, A kiss, a tear, and a breath between. A kiss, a breath, and the broad -browed river Dasheth her stillness into gloom ; A breath, a tear, and her arms deliver Us only the shadow of lost perfume. Laid the river her fair child, Memphis, Close to her feet on the thirsting strand ; Wandered she down where the Orient's kiss is Long and sweet, ere she oped her hand, Put she it down where the sun's bulrushes Danced to the music of birds and waves, — Down where the fragrance never hushes Into the still of snowy graves. A serpent came with his saffron breathing, Dappled and dank, with the hue of death, Came where the child was beauty wreathing, Grappled its form to drink its breath. Into its heart the fangs were sinking. Deep with venom and scorpion dust ; A White Dove flew from the north-land, linking Her strength with the child's to still the thrust. THE DOVE'S MEMORIAM. Memphis smiled, took the sympathy tender; Hugged the serpent still close his prey ; His baneful hold refused surrender, The Dove must foil him another way. Lifting her feet from the marge of river, Pluming her wings for swiftest flight, Upward she swung, with her song, '' Deliver," Fanning it into the gates of light. Fanning it in through the crevice golden. Wider ajar at touch of her wing, A prayer, a song by the air upholden, " Dear Lord, deliver the child, I sing." I think, I think the good Lord heard her, The jaws of the serpent asunder fell ; He slunk away from his half-done murder, The river whispers, '' The child is well." Resteth the light on the still, still river ; Breaketh the morn on the lily land ; The stars stoop down in their restless quiver. The Dove's transfigured at God's right hand. 35 1776. From the North-land to the South-land, From the Eastward to the West, Stretched the forests, chained by mountains, And the gleams of silver pressed Through the rocky, moss-clad gorges, Finding in the lowlands rest. Fringed with grasses, ocean-bordered, Lay a strip of eastern shore, Sprinkled o'er with humble cabins. Human birds' -nests, — nothing more. Nature held her wilds all silent ; Freedom tapped without the door. Backward fell the stalwart Indians With a slow reluctant tread. And the Jand grew broad and golden As the forest shadows fled ; Then it blushed from gold to scarlet While its heroes' blood was shed. There were battles, tears, and trials. Ere the victory was won ; There were storms and self-denials Ere the fullest blaze of sun ; But our ancestors were patriots. And their work was nobly done. 36 1876. From the North-land to the South-land, From the Eastward to the West, Ring the voices, echoing music, " Rock the century to rest. Tenderly in regal glory Clasp it to the nation's breast." Gone are the primeval forests, The rude cabins closer shore Long since blossomed into castles. Quite unlike the buds of yore. Cities stretch along the rivers Where the Indian stood before. Through the tall indigenous grasses Man has trailed an iron thread ; Bound the continent together, And it wakes beneath his tread ; Yields its fullest life and treasure. Yields him gold and peace and bread. From the North-land to the South-land, From the rise to set of sun. Throng the millions brave, exultant. While their proud hearts beat as one. The great nation rocks and blesses, — Hush ! the Century's course is run. 4* 37 AN ACORN-CUP FROM OAK KNOLL, MASSACHUSETTS. A DELICATE acorn-cup and fiiir, Overflowing with nectar rare ; Warm with the Poet's touch, it still Bubbles over as by his will. What am I, that I dare to lift Drops that fall from the cup, his gift ? What am I, that the cup's frail stem I humbly hold to taste of them ? Only the feeblest child of song, To whom the table crumbs belong : Only a singer in undertone Chanting for ears of love alone. Dear, perfect Poet ! a week ago I walked beside thee where to and fro The Oak Knoll breezes, swift or slow, Chase the November glow and snow. Thy pets the lowing kine and sheep, Meek-eyed horses from mangers deep, Roger, the guard, Dick, Carlo small, Rip Van Winkle, the birds, and all, 3S AN ACORN- CUP. I'll long remember their love for thee, And thine for every graceful tree On the gently rising rounded ground Where thy late home has anchor found. I see thee reach the oak's high hand And take the cup by wild winds fanned ; I hear thy pure, strong voice explain The wee brown chalice of later rain. Thy cups are many. The nymphs design Thy broad oak tables, and Graces dine. This small one, that has home with me. They will scarcely miss in their jubilee ; But if there should, when storms have crossed The Christmas tide, be any lost. On wings of a dream I'll send to thee Intact the cup thou gavest me. A delicate acorn-cup and fair. Overflowing with nectar rare. Cherished because it late was thine. Only the falling drops are mine. November 28, 1880, 39 *'IT IS I." Still he walks upon the wave, Jesus, he alone can save. Still to faith he would persuade : '* It is I ; be not afraid." We are troubled, tempest-tossed. Without anchor, almost lost. Jesus comes with cheer to aid : " It is I; be not afraid." Blinded are we, weeping sore ; Hear we the sweet voice once more That would from all sin dissuade : *'It is I; be not afraid." Still he walks upon the wave, Jesus, he alone can save. Still to faith he would persuade: '' It is I; be not afraid." 40 THE CUP OF LIFE. When the Lord divided His children, He gave me barely three. I prayed, " O Lord, let me keep them, and This is enough for me !" When the Lord gathered in His children, He gathered alike my three ; And I cried, *' O Father in heaven ! Is there not room for me?" UNDER THE FLOWERS.* A DECORATION ODE. Green is the spring-time and blushing with bloom ; Bring we an offering to each soldier's tomb, — Offering of blossoms,, of song, and of tears ; Gratitude's outburst, the flower-mark of years. Love for the memories, bloom for the graves ; Slumber on, slumber on, dust of the braves. Under the flowers, under the flowers, Under the flowers, dear dust of the braves. Music by J. R. Sweney, M.B. 41 42 BROKEN CONSOLATION. Dark were tlie days wlien the farewells were breathed, Armies went marching where battle-smoke wreathed, Darkness and sorrow at home and abroad, Broken lives, broken hearts sank 'neath the sod. Love for the memories, bloom for the j^raves ; Slumber on, slumber on, dust of the braves, Under the flowers, under the flowers. Under the flowers, dear dust of the braves. Rich with peace-perfume our thoughts rise to-day; God-granted tribute we thankfully pay Unto our heroes who crossed on war's tide ; Watching, they wait us on Time's golden side. Love for the memories, bloom for the graves ; Slumber on, slumber on, dust of the braves. Under the flowers, under the flowers, Under the flowers, dear dust of the braves. BROKEN CONSOLATION. There is a balm, be comforted : The mists that pitying kiss Our low-bowed heads an earnest are The Lord withholds no bliss That better were on us bestowed. He rounds and domes the mounds, And, while He chastens with His hand, The greatest love abounds : BROKEN CONSOLATION. He loves us all, though dim may seem That love amid our grief; He loves us, to His sheltering wings We creep for our relief. These narrow mounds of buried hopes, The graves of children dear, Are stepping-stones that lead to Him Through clouded days and clear. The tears we shed from aching hearts But sanctify our souls ; The prayer we utter in our strait An angel upward rolls. The sad, sad season when the sun Weaves shrouds instead of gold, — When the embrace of star-clad night Is passionless and cold, — When chanting birds forget to hush. And flowers to check their bloom. When life fades into death to us, And leaves a darkened room, Has still the glory of His smile. He wounds that He may heal. And through the gloaming shadow-path His deepest love reveal. These opening blossoms of that love Apportioned to our hold Are scarcely ours till gathered up Where petals fair unfold. 43 44 BROKEN CONSOLATION. Ay, gathered up ! and empty bands We wring and supplicate, Because we cannot still our hearts To patience while we wait. The walk is brief, we span the graves, And we are almost there : 'Twere better God should take the blooms Unto His early care. 'Twere better, though we feebly say It in our heart of hearts, While all so dreary seems the world From whence our child departs. We speak with ripening tongue of faith, And pray the years may bring Us closer to the Lord we love. E'en though through suffering. His love ineffable surrounds Us, as the atmosphere, — The breath of an eternal life That lingers with us here. Unfathomable to mortal mind In durance, depth, and scope. Love of all loves, the powerful stay Of each immortal hope. OH, NO! A REPLY TO AN AGED SUFFERER'S REMARK, " PERHAPS THE LORD HAS FORGOTTEN ME." Oh, no ! He has not forgotten thee ; He never forgets His own ; His arm in love upholds thee, He hears thy feeblest moan. Oh, no ! He has not forgotten thee ; Embroidering the hem of day, Behold the golden stitches Set in thy soft array. No, no, He has not forgotten thee ; He marks well the twilight's fall. And wraps in the buds of slumber A fragrance of dreams for all. Oh, no, He has not forgotten thee ; Our memories with seasons dim, But God is God eternal, And we can rest in Him. 45 A WORM AT THE ROOT. I SAW by the roadside a pin oak Garlanded o'er with green, A gloss on its leaves like the laurel The shadow and sun between. We drew up our steed by the pin oak, To rest in the cooling shade The arms of its statelier neighbor Threw over the golden glade. The breeze whispered soft to the pin oak Her music and light refrain, And the leaves in their satin raiment Danced out in a fairy train. " Reflection of grace is tlie pin oak," I breathe, but a nearer gaze Discloses the green brown mottled Leaves flecked into sombre phase. *' What is it that aileth the pin oak And turneth its emerald brown?" " A worm at the root," is the answer : I muse as the words float down. 46 A WORM AT THE ROOT. 47 A worm at the root of the pin oak, 'I'hat painteth its every leaf. Who e'er with the lens of distance Had entered this sad belief! Are mortals akin to the pin oak, Their worm at the root dire sin ? Will the beautiful angel of judgment Say, '^Mottled one, come not in" ? We may seem as fair as the pin oak To the careless passer-by, But the spots on the soul God seeth With His all-searching eye. We have strength that hath not the pin oak To cleanse from cankerous gnaw Life's root, and the great worm evil To throw where it cannot flaw. Let us bear in image the pin oak, And dig at the worm of sin. Lest its blight unaware fall on us And mottle what clear had been. SING TO THE SEAM. The girl who sits in the porchway low- Sings to her needle as to and fro It weaves the seam with its glittering glow, Close in the garment she holds to sew. Sing to the seam ; Sing it your dream ; Lodge in each stitch Part of its gleam. No " Song of the Shirt" sings she, — oh, no, Her words are gleeful, happy, and low ; While the shining needle, fast or slow, Tosses the thread that it shorter grow. Sing to the seam ; Sing it your dream ; Lodge in each stitch Part of its gleam. A song's good company while you sew ; It helps the needle to onward go And trace its work in a dainty row O'er the downy, drifted, cambric snow. Sing to the seam ; Sing it your dream ; Lodge in each stitch Part of its gleam. 48 THE SNOW VEIL. A simple song with no work below Is lost on the empty air, you know; But tune and labor, together aglow. The richest blessings of time bestow. Sing to the seam ; Sing it your dream ; Lodge in each stitch Part of its gleam. 49 THE SNOW VEIL. Where the daises used to nestle, God has spread a fleecy snow ; Where the rocks were rough and jagged Winter's crystal blossoms blow. All the gnarled, uncouth, unseemly Objects that obscured the way Have grown beautiful and perfect In their softly pure array. Wonderful the transformation ! Everything is white, so white ; . Darkness finds no place to settle ; Crippled are the wings of night. Sweet must be dear Nature's slumbers Underneath the veil of God. Can it be she dreams of waking. And of spring-time's pulsing sod? 5* 5° THIRTY-EIGHT. Hush we all our words to whispers, Lest she, stirring, ope her eyes, And the veil that God has loaned her Be caught up again by skies. THIRTY-EIGHT. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight. How birthdays accumulate ! Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Lilac springs to celebrate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Birds of passage, breaths of fate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Kingdoms of the world's estate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Thrones that I must abdicate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Crowns that fall, a feather's weight. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Blossom-pictures delicate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Steps through mazes intricate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Steps that doubts assassinate. THIRTY-EIGHT. Thirty, thirty, thirty- eight Failures to commemorate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Tangled visions to translate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Half-wrought labors congregate. Thirty, thirty, thirty- eight Purposes to concentrate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Glimmering lights illuminate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Songs with love reverberate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Sounds on one cord alternate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Memories sweet to consecrate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight Years that fade and terminate. Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight, On the verge I hesitate. — Thirty, thirty, thirty-eight, Gone ! and Time has closed the gate. 51 IN VAIN. I've told my heart, and I've told my pen, To rest, be patient and still. I've told my brain, and I've told my soul, But they work against my will. Full half the pictures they sketch to life My hand refuses to frame, Being tethered to some more needful toil ; But they paint them all the same. My frames unpolished, of uncouth words, O'ershadovv instead of show The opal tints that my waking soul Felt over the pictures glow. The paintings unframed the fairest are ; And so with the books unbound, That hum their tunes to the amber air With a sweet and siren sound. Man fails forever to cage his dreams, A will-o'-the-wisp they fly. Enticing still, but eluding him, Till lost in the distant sky. The birds on the leafy bowers will sing To the listening moss and fern. And the flowers, their mute interpreters, Will a smiling upward turn. 52 IN VAIN. But all the sweet of a warbler's song Fades into a plaintive lay If we clasp the bird and hedge it in, And it pines the livelong day. The song that we fain had made our own Is lost on the freedom air ; The notes that we vainly sought to cage Are vanishing everywhere. 'Tis thus with the pictures our fancy sees Aglow with the pearly dew, The water-falls, the leaves, and the trees. With the sunshine sifting through ; No more can we frame than song of birds Our visions' slightest part, Though the loveliest forms fair Nature made Be mirrored on brain and heart. It is just as well, I sometimes think. If our hands be labor-tied. For the picture- dreams that illume my brain Are brighter than all beside ; And if they were framed, their light would fade, Their delicate tints be lost, Their sunlit groves that golden float Be dark and shadow-crossed. So, hush ! I say, to my soul and pen, For the hundredth time again ; My judgment urges the stern command. But they will obey it — when? 53 54 ONCE AGAIN. Not, liot, I fear, till the stars come down That the azure sky upholds ; Not till the brown arms of the earth The dust her own enfolds. ONCE AGAIN. Once again earth's breast is throbbing With the quickening pulse of spring ; Once again the wild wind's sobbing Hushes, and the robins sing. Once again the leaves are peeping From their sombre hiding-place ; Once again the flowers late-sleeping Waken, each with smiling face. Once again our footfalls meeting Lies the velvet carpet green ; Once again we pause repeating, '* Fairest pattern ever seen." Once again the violet catches On its lip the kiss of sky ; Once again some blossom matches Each rare color set on high. Once again the breezes linger. Cradling soft the odorous air ; Once again writ by God's finger Is His evidence of care. BROWN AND WHITE. Once again He proves immortal All His power doth create; And this footstool by the portal Seems a blessed place to wait. 55 BROWN AND WHITE. Faded are the pink and purple that o'erfringed the summer day ; Brown and white are all the hangings with which frosty breezes play. Brown and white, and yet the roses bloom as fresh on lovers' cheeks, And my Nellie's lips of coral glow as brightly when she speaks. Brown and white ; yes, I remember in a winter long ago How we trod one bright December until lost amid the snow ; Blinded were we by its fleeces, for the sun was growing pale. And we scarce could see each other, or the bars we had to scale. Late the school had held that evening, for we had a spelling-match. And I spelled you down, my darling, on the simple word of '' thatch." 56 BROWN AND WHITE. How you hurried on before me all the long and weary- way ! — When I smiled and sued forgiveness, you had not a word to say. But the drifts grew deeper, deeper, till I caught you at the bars, When I gave a puff and whistle like the steaming of the cars ; And your laugh, a merry tinkle, like an unbound water- fall, Dashed the landscape full of music, and there seemed no snow at all. But the flakes, or something warmer, blinded then and there my sight. And I saw but you, my darling, in your hood all mot- tled white. O'er the bars I sprang before you, and I turned to meet your face ; Rose of scarlet it rebuked me as I snatched a quick embrace. Brown and white, transformed to golden, lingers still that winter day, And its memory, like you, darling, turneth every month to May. Brown and white, you softly answer, are the lines- within my hair. Smiling that I think your coral ne'er by age has bleached fair. THE SILVER MILESTONE. ^7 Brown and white ! The old love-blindness that fell on me at the bars Tarries yet, and my one vision Time in touching never mars. THE SILVER MILESTONE. AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBI-.D TO R. B. AND E. B. LAMBORN, 5TH MO. I, 1880. While yet in love's fresh morning the higher noon- tide sun Falls warm, with softening shadows, upon a milestone won, A silver, silver milestone of life's sweet sacred vow, We pause with you translating its clear inscription now. '•True love is love forever, and years that ebb and flow But broaden its expansion and purify its glow." To-day we hush all sorrow our hearts have felt for yours ; (God bless the gathered blossoms He keeps where bloom endures !) We linger round the milestone with our affection wreath. And beckon richest blessings to hide the cross be- neath. 58 THE SOLUTION. Dear kin, and generous-hearted, the trifling meed we bring Is but a spray returning unto its own with spring. The flowers of kindness scattered with free and loving hands Waft back their fringe of perfume to where their prompter stands ; We fail, we cannot gather the sweets of memory fair, Although they cluster round us and impregnate the air. We garland you with prayers as you the milestone pass, Your generous acts and efforts our words cannot amass. Together, O beloved ! the Master round you fold His mantle of protection to reach the milestone gold. THE SOLUTION. I SEE a face in the glass. And I wonder if it can be The face of the merry lass That used to laugh back at me, I note the braids and coils Of a silvered chestnut hue. And I ask. Are they the spoils Of a golden ringlet crew? OVER THE SEA. I linger pitying o'er The lips that were scarlet flame, And roses that come no more On cheeks that lilies claim. The eyes, — ah, the secret's caught ! It is gray, not azure, I trace. The change of vision has wrought This marvellous change of face. The lass would laugh at her ease. And the crinkled threads of gold Would tangle the rose and breeze, If blue was color to hold. 59 OVER THE SEA. Last night I was over the sea, the sea. Over the salt blue sea. My hair is damp with the breath of the deep, My treasury full of trophies I keep. Last night I was over the sea, the sea. Over the salt blue sea. Last night I was over the sea, the sea. Over the salt blue sea. The ancient, beautiful, storied, and grand Were mine for an hour at a dream's command. Last night I was over the sea, the sea. Over the salt blue sea. CONSTANCY. Not for one hour, not for one day, Not for one year, love I thee ; But for all time, and through all space, And for all eternity. UTE PASS. In her silver gown descending, Laughs forever Fountain Run ; Singing, shouting, leaping chasms. Till the Pass of Ute is done. Singing, freedom from the mountains. Dancing on to meet the sun. Dancing on to clothe the river In the crystal robe she spun. In their livery of labor. Climbing up the canon gray. Go the dust-veiled teams and teamsters All along the Leadville way. Weary, hopeful, heavy-laden. With their journey just begun, And a narrow ledge to plod on. How they wish the Ute Pass done ! 60 THE BEAUTIFUL HARVEST 6 1 Meeting, greeting teams and streamlet, Little heed ye grandeur free, Or that God has cleft the mountain Just as Moses did the sea ! That He walls the Pass with glory As you move with your supplies Down to river, up to mankind In a gay and labor guise. THE BEAUTIFUL HARVEST. Out in tlie field the bees are singing Love to the clover, and fondly clinging. Timothy blossoms and purple fringes Sway where odor the gold air tinges ; Tiie wheat has grown, her hair is browning; Acres of oats have tinted crowning It is the harvest. The beautiful, bountiful harvest. Wonder we half with disbelieving, While earth's liberal wealth receiving, Whether the land with full life breathing E'er was silent beneath snow's wreathing, Whether the days by summer lengthened Ever were dwarfed, or cold winds strengthened, • For we have harvest. The beautiful, bountiful harvest. 02 A TWILIGHT FRAGMENT. Sing on, bee, to the blush-bloom clover. Wing away, birds, each to your lover. Fan us, breeze, with your odorous kisses, Toss to us blossoms no spray misses. Rest on us, sun, your golden glory. Till hearts within chorus the story. We have the harvest, The beautiful, bountiful harvest. A TWILIGHT FRAGMENT. The daisies nodded at my feet. Which careless crushed the pasture sweet. I strode along but half content. And little heeding where I went. At last I paused ; the day had fled. And left, as do the noble dead, The grand reflection of its light To halo the dim rim of night. Tis thus, I said, with every bliss ; I only catch its parting kiss. They come, they go, whom I hold dear, And leave but crimson memories here. I lean dejected 'gainst the hedge Which borders close the pasture's edge. I see the brow of yonder hill. Bound with corn's wealth of chlorophyl. THE HAWTHORN BLOOM. 63 I see the tassels white and pink. I see — but 'tis a dream, I think — A maid who gathers ears of gold Within an apron's snow-white fold. I see — tlie dream grows real now — Adown the corn -path comes a cow, Sauntering before the maiden fair Who waves a corn-bloom in the air. "Hey ! Cherry, out !" The sound is near ; My own heart beating too I hear. As o'er the hedge I quickly spring And Cherry to the pasture bring. That curious cow ! I wonder why She turns on me her placid eye ; She cannot know the corn-m.iid's cheek And mine grow pink whene'er we speak. THE HAWTHORN BLOOM. 'TwAS a dingy, smoky, railway-car. But he saw not the fume As he strode along with a lordly air And gazed at his hawthorn bloom. The hawthorn smiled in his button-hole, And whispered of fingers fair That plucked the cluster with merry grace. And, blushing, bound it there. 64 ' THEE. '^ Ah, she is as pure as a hawtliorn bloom !" He mused, as be sougbt a seat (Wbicb be found beside a market dame), "And tbe country life is sweet." Tbe dust and tbe din were naugbt to bim, Witb tbe bawtborn blossom wbite : Tbe past, tbe present, tbe future, and sbe Were bis, and tbe world was brigbt. THEE. A WEALTH of words tbe world contains Thrown out from tbe forge of tbougbt. Coined and bammered by workmen, brains. But tbey all might go for nought If tbe little one, tbe silvery thee, Was not amid tbe wealth for me. Millions of hearts tbe pulse of time By its beat to being throbs; Life and death is its blended chime. And its echo smiles and sobs. Softly tbe echo falls on me, Early and late, the silvery ihee. Rivers that rise in mountain springs Are lost in tbe foaming seas ; THEE. Still to the crested wave each sings Of its native flowers and trees. Were I a stream, the song for me Would be the rippling, silvery thee. The word was sweet when earth began, And God in His mercy great Let all its sweetness follow man Outside of the Eden gate. It holy memories holds for me, The little word, the silvery thee. The Son of God in transient stay Amid the sons of men The loving word used day by day. It is now as sweet as when It fell, the pure and silvery thee, From His dear lips on Galilee. Immortal word beyond the rest, Thou lingerer in my soul ! For aye I'll hold thee first and best. When the portals backward roll, Angels, I know, in calling me, Will whisper low the silvery thee. 65 THE FEEDER OF SWAN. The trailing robe of Summer, looped With autumn bur and aster, Swept softly near the pond where stooped White swan and unknown master. The baby hands with verdure filled Outstretched the swan were feeding ; Above the breeze and wood bird trilled A lay of faith exceeding. We missed our darling as we gazed Upon a strange, wild river, And turned our hungry eyes amazed To greet him bounty giver. As floating snow about him grouped The swan with beaks of amber, Drift to meet drift, he smiled and stooped .Where water-lichens clamber. 66 WAITING AT THE NEST. I STOOPED at the edge of a graceful wood Where the mossiest nest had bird-full stood : I parted the veil of moss that threw Its filmy shadows of greening blue Over the nest, and found but rest. The brood had lifted their wings and flown Gladly away from the nest outgrown ; The mother-bird chirping softly there Told me a song of her joyful care Over the nest her wings had pressed. '' We builded the nest, ah me, ah me ! Early and bright did spring flowers be ; Gladness was bannered on tree and turf; Blossoms wind-gathered in snowy surf Over us tossed, our nest embossed. " The transient billow to stillness crept, A stillness, too, on our nest had slept, And love's warm labor more fondly woke As into being our life -dream broke ; Our wings caressed the brood we blessed. ''Rearing a brood is no idler's work, A parent heart is never a shirk, 67 68 WAITING AT THE NEST. And day by day the widening bills Spurred to action our feet and wills ; The worms were brought, the flying taught. *' Nights that were weariest seemed the best, Songs the sweetest that hushed them to rest. The care was laden with love's perfume. Affectionate labor had its resume. Ever so small be birdlings all, ^' They pay their way witli the love they bring ; A heart expands with an outstretched wing: Each little head has its nook for rest Under the shelter, close to the breast, A nook its own and its alone. *' A shadow into our sunlight fell. Death's angel passed, and said, ' 'Tis well, The Father needeth young birds to sing.' She lifted two from under my wing, Nor asked, nor told. Oh, Death is bold ! '* But sadder still was the day and dark A birdling flew into nature's park ; The sprightliest one we had was she ; She chirped her song from the highest tree, Chirped merrily her notes of glee. " So slight, but she could not tread on air, She stepped amiss, and her form lay there. An angel lifted her up and flew Noiselessly on through the ether blue, And sorrow left with us bereft. A SUFFERER'S IMPROMPTU. 69 " Followed my mate in the angel's wake To guide back the bird she'd stooped to take; — He must have stopped in heaven to rest, For he came not back to the mossy nest, Nor yet to sing at the call of spring. '' Our other birdlings, oh, six are they In scattered nests of their own to-day, While I still cling to mine in the wood With a restful patience half understood, And wait my mate, though he be late." A SUFFERER'S IMPROMPTU. My aches and ails could I shake Away as dust from my feet, Be dead to the pangs of flesh. And to pain's unceasing beat, Methinks I should tread on air And rival a care-free bird. That my unbound voice should thrill Forever one grateful word. A life of ills and comi)laint Is a selfish one at best : A soul in an unsound house Continually finds unrest. 7 70 A SUFFERER'S IMPROMPTU. There's sometimes a half desire To leave the tenement worn, And a wondering discontent With burdens that must be borne. Life to the stanch and strong A glorious boon must be, For it seems the smile of God Full often to ailing me. And if I were well just once For a whole, a livelong day, I might go wild with the joy ; So patience, not health, I pray. Patience, to bear all the pains. To dwarf not the growing soul ; Patience, to tenant the flesh Nor murmur it is not whole. Patience and most hopeful faith Towards all that remains undone ; Patience to watch and to wait Till the sands of life are run. 'Tis only a little time, How little we may not know. Till the house will crumble down, The tenant be free to go Where the sounds are not walled in, Where there are no pains of breath. In peace will the soul forget It passed the valley of death. THROUGH THE FISSURES. And the peace will be no less The valley was dark and long: So I only ask for power To suffer and yet be strong. 71 THROUGH THE FISSURES. The joys of years, the snows of years, Are piling into drifts; And yet how oft a breath of spring Divides the past in rifts ! We pause, and through the fissures see The visions long, long past ; Ourselves as children on some knee Where love has bound us fiist. We take the feelings, are a pet Within the loving arms: The gladness and protection come Of being safe from harms. We journey to expanding youth. That half-developed state Where restless upon childhood's rim We dawning manhood wait. A LAY OF PASSAGE. The friends of then, the plans of then. We hold and have them still ; Some blossom sweetly, some are dead. According to God's will. But they are ours as clear as then, Within our memory sight: We softly through the fissures glide And dwell with them to-night. We fain would lay our cares aside, Our growth and years discard. And be again a child as then. With loving arms to guard. We fain, but years drift on and on Nor ever backward turn ; 'Tis only in our heart of hearts These lights of memory burn. A LAY OF PASSAGE. In the floating purple mist, Close to us and yet so far. Is the beacon we have missed, Shining, flashing like a star. As we near it, it recedes, Distance by the air disguised ; When we reach the longed-for place, Hopes are still unrealized. MINE OWN WITH USURY. Perfect comfort and content Are not clasped by mortals here, But we chant tlieir threnodies From the cradle to the bier. Chant and half forget the joy- That within the present lies, Asking for the thorn less crowns That belong but to the skies. Restless and impatient, we Deem our lot the lot of pain, And earth-blinded cannot see Crosses are God's scores of gain. Let us feel no discontent, Though our hopes should blossom slow ; Beacons that elude us here For the faithful heavenward glow. 73 MINE OWN WITH USURY. Luke xix 23. 'Tjs not enough that we receive And hold the nucleus of power A nursling in our quiet souls; 'Tis not enough. There dawns an hour When the beneficent Bestower With usury demands His own : When we must stand beside His gate Returning to Him His great loan. 74 THE DEATH-BELL. Each life a possibility Contains, which care and nurturing fair Ripens to perfect usefulness. Within its sphere, and working there With patience, oft some grand design Of the All-wise Designer glows From a talent lethargy would rust. Soul-brightness much to action owes. The dormant brain lies dark and dead, Unconscious of existence true, Its innate power all lost through lack Of energy to dare and do. Not evenly apportioned are The talents. Should our share be one, Let us enjoy while we improve It, till uncertain time be done. Then, when the Powerful Voice repeats, "Give me with usury mine own," We can relinquish cheerfully The required portion at His throne. THE DEATH-BELL. I HEAR the reverberate bell of death, The bell that has rung since time began ; Since Cain in anger took Abel's breath The bell has swung in a tower o'er man. Relentless beat, witli swift repeat, Never late, and ever complete. THE DEATH-BELL. This morn, I hear as the clock strikes three A lingering chime, while the house is still ; I hear, and I know it is God's decree That some of my blood obey death's will. Relentless beat, with swift repeat, Never late, and ever complete. The bells that ring with the music of earth Ring glad and free for the bridal train, Ring out for revelry, joy, and mirth ; But the bells of death are full of pain. Relentless beat, with swift repeat, Never late, and ever complete. The bells that ring to the church below Chime out at intervals solemn, clear; And whether we heed, or whether we go. Lies with our conscience, whether it hear. Relentless beat, with swift repeat. Never late, and ever complete. But the bells that ring to the church on high Ring full forever, nor cease to rest. And the congregation in the sky Continually gathers at their behest. Relentless beat, with swift repeat. Never late, and ever complete. My mind's eye sees through the looming mist The tower, the dome, and the bell of gold : And I see the doors of amethyst At each clear chime of the bell unfold. 75 76 THE DEATH-BELL. Relentless beat, with swift repeat, Never late, and ever complete. I see my beloved who sit within The beautiful temple aglow with light, And, seeing, forget I the world and sin — The day eternal transforms the night. Relentless beat, with swift repeat, Never late, and ever complete. The hour is three, the clock out-calls ; The hour is three ! screams the chanticleer The hour is three, from the death-bell falls, And it falls to summon my kindred dear. Relentless beat, with swift repeat, Never late, and ever complete. It makes no tremor to tell me who. No change as the sweet Moravian bell ; But I know by the way it thrills me through That one, a near one, obeyed the knell. Relentless beat, with swift repeat, Never late, and ever complete. Death is all life in the realm above, While life is all death as we listen low. Lord, teach us all by thy boun(iless love To bow as the bell rings to and fro. Relentless beat, with swift repeat, Never late, and ever complete. INVOCATION. Thou, God ! who art omniscient, Tliy children calm and bless ! Pour thou upon our stricken hearts Thy balm of peacefulness ! We are grieved and sore afflicted ; We mourn ; we cannot see Through all these thickening damps of earth Into futurity. The river of death is narrow ; A bridge the angels swung. And beckoned our loved one over The ransomed host among. He crossed at a moment's warning, — The bridge was swept away ; We sit by the river weeping ; Comfort us, Lord, we pray ! Our parent was fond and tender, Steadfastly just and true ; The earth seems nearer to heaven When he has passed it through. 77 78 DISAPPOINTMENT. Thou who art ever a Father Unto the fatherless ! Oh, reach thy loving arms toward us In compassionateness ! December 17, 1875. DISAPPOINTMENT. White from the downy mountain The north wind sweeps and swells, Weaving a fringe for the fountain. Headed with funeral bells. Closer the brown-haired grasses Cling to the friendly breast That shelters while north wind passes, And hushes them down to rest. The delicate bloom and graces That swung on perfumed spray Have startled, hid their faces, And vanished quite away. Only the overslept aster. Shivering, pale and blue. Lingers to share disaster And frozen drausrhts of dew. WEARINESS. 79 Instead of incense fragrant Sweet in wood and wild, Are frowning burs and vagrant Where late the mosses smiled. The north wind wails and trembles A forest of broken notes ; The leaden sky dissembles, Or as a nun devotes Her thoughts to rituals ancient. The songs of love and yore Have fallen as blossoms transient, And gladness is no more. The buds of young hopes blasted Lie withered on the soul Where fair tints once contrasted, — And north wind claims the whole. WEARINESS. I AM tired, so tired, and dulled with pain. My courage flags from endless strain. I wonder if 'mid life's clouds and rain The sun and blossoms will break again. 3o DAFFODIL. I am half dissatisfied and distressed, Worn with anxiety, starved for rest. I wonder if God when time seems best Will fold my wings with His happiest. My burden is often heavy to bear. If duty has respite, I know not where. I wonder if in a desert of care There lies an oasis shady, fair. I am tired of hand, and tired of heart; I pity myself, and the tear-drops start. I wonder if close to this busy mart The angels glide and their peace impart. Weary, discouraged, I bow my head, Wishing my weakness were strength instead. I wonder if yet in the blue outspread There are ravens such as Elijah fed. DAFFODIL. Not the blossoming daffodil That sways her golden bell, And rings the spring to fill With summer every dell ; THE WILLOW. 3 1 Not the bride-bloom daffodil With fair camellia face, That balms the air to trill The sweetness of her grace ; Just canary Daffodil, Restless without her cage, Employing winning skill An entrance to engage. Dear chirping Daffodil ! How like to human kind ! You beat the bars, and still When freed are not resigned. THE WILLOW. The willow sways to the windward Her drooping graceful wands, Touching the waking clover, And the clover understands. The willow unfurls her banners Of green and tinted gold, And the birds choose sites for castles Where banners toss and fold. 8 82 THE WILLOW. The willow smiles her blossoms Sweetening the downy air, And the bees, a musical army, Are gathering honey there. The willow fans the grasses With trailing bough and wreath. And at "hide-and-seek" with sunshine Are children underneath. The willow, the weeping willow, Stoops low and softly sighs O'er the mounds the living grieve for. Mute sympathy supplies. The willow has many voices. Ah ! who can comprehend A tithe of the power mysterious God to a tree doth lend ? Unto me the budding willow Whispers with breath of si)ring, *'The Lord of summer and winter Careth for everything." OUR HELPLESSNESS. Nothing of ourselves we do ! Angels stoop to help us through All the caverns dark and wide Where the o'erwhelming ocean tide In reaches. And their footprints we may see Bending towards eternity, All along the open land And upon the shining sand Of beaches. Nothing of ourselves we own ! Even life is but a loan ; Earth will want the dust again, God above the immortal grain Of spirit. Nothing of ourselves we are ! Mendicants of time afar, Struggling 'gainst the wave of death. Praying with a bated breath To clear it. 83 THE SNOW PATH. There's a lesson for every day in life, If we would but pause and read ; Volumes and volumes of lore unbound, Exponents of nature's creed. Just here, on the crisp and ice-bound snow. Were letters I did not know. Till a child, a precious interpreter. Said, ''Mamma, 'tis here we go ! *' Here where the great men their tracks have made, When the snow was nice and soft ; The footmarks are large, and liard as rock ; In them we may cross the croft." " But tlie way is crooked, my cliild, my child. And the strides are all too long. The first man trod with a careless gait. And marked the pathway wrong. " We will break a new one, thou and I, With our feet across the wold ; Follow, my little one, closely now, My footprints over the cold." 84 TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. 85 By a straighter line we reached the point, Turned backward the path to see ; But the snow, all innocent of our walk. Lay billowed most peacefully. *^ We are too light for the ice-clad snow, So we cannot dent it through ; Let us go back by the crooked tracks. As the other people do." *' Oh, not in that way, my child, my child ! Though we leave no print or trace. Let us still go home by the nearest way, If the dear Lord grant us grace." TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. HEAD AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE NORMAL LITERARY SOCIETY, MILLERSVILLE, PA., JANUARY 30, 1880. Blushing springs dance on and onward In the fulness of unrest. Finding peace and comfort only When asleep on summer's breast. Golden summers sway their sceptres, And the rainbows in the air Stoop and kiss their seals of color On the blossoms everywhere. 8- 86 TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. Shadows chase and catch the sunbeams, Wealth is prisoned in the leaves, While each glad succeeding summer Binds for autumn all her sheaves. Early autumns, glad receivers, Open garners of the years, Treasure fondly, as their whim is, Summer's bloom for winter's shears. Later autumns — coats of Joseph Every one ye seem to be ! Many-colored, blood-dyed, empty, While like Jacob grieved are we ; For the winters follow, follow. And the life we love seems lost. All the verdure seared and blighted. And the white land famine-crossed. Cold and lonely fall the winters ; Bird and glow-worm, fire-fly, all. Frighted and benumbed with silence. Wait till, Egypt-like, springs' call. Oft we gather falling petals From the seasons in their round. Vaguely read with awe the compact 'Twixt the firmament and ground,— Vaguely read, with little learning. Gleaning scarce the alphabet. Till with film of snow we're blinded, Like the rose and violet. TIME'S UNFINISHED VOIUME. 87 Time, the scrivener of the ages, Slowly writes, indelibly, Turns immutably the pages Of the planet's history; Writing with the pen of centuries Words for ages yet to be ; Writing slowly, ever surely. On the earth her destiny ; Writing, folding down the pages Close and closer to her heart, Sealing each leaf on the other, That frail fingers may not part. Deep and numerous are the pages Of the volume vast, untold ; We pass on, but Time, unceasing. Writes, and seasons stoop to fold. Curious mankind sometimes cho(?ses Treasures from the volume deep ; Reaching in among the antiques, Takes some relic Time would keep — Takes and uses, little heeding What of age is writ thereon, Or the great baptismal changes What he claims has undergone ; Takes and uses, soon returning Gold and coal and finer clay To the bosom of the volume Whence he borrowed it away. ^S TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. Notliing keeping, nothing owning, We but gaze the briefest span On the leaf that Time is turning In the Grand Composer's plan. Little learning, less discerning, When our fragile forms will stand Quaintly pictured in the volume That is folding on the land. We possess naught but the present And the moments that are past ; All the future is a vision. Brilliant, of uncertain cast. In the volume we but figure Like the small immortal blooms That have budded, blown, and slumbered For the decking of the tombs. Still within us is an incense That the volume cannot cage; Winged, exultant it uprises At the touch of time and age. Half in wonder, half in sorrow, Mark we the swift flight of years, Note the care-lines on our faces, On our hearts the scars of tears. We have known and grown and suffered ; We have loved, been loved again ; We have held life's cup of pleasure ; We have tasted of its pain. TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. We have crossed 'mid flowers and brambles, Caught the dew upon our feet, Plucked the bloom and thorn together, Found the bitter and the sweet. We have roamed o'er plain and mountain, Have been far in canyon deeps; We have poised upon the billows That the murmuring ocean keeps. We have been in wild abysses, Climbed the peaks to reach the sun, Touched the clouds, and found, descending, Visions fade as heights are won. We have built our Spanish castles. Rich with columns, tall with tow^ers ; We have watched them sway and struggle To withstand the stormy hours. We have seen the flames surround them With an eager hungry haste. And have memory-vaults of ashes Gathered from the whitened waste. We have joy-swards green and tufted Growing at each vaulted door. That the fallen Spanish castles Crush or blacken never more. Twenty blushing springs have nestled Fast asleep in summer's arms, Twenty bright, uncertain autumns Fled at winter's gray alarms, go TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. Since, upon a Normal birthday, I in Normal chapel stood, Breathing feeble words of welcome To the literary food. Gazed I then on fond familiars. Precious friends of ^' truth and right ;" While the Normal home-cords bound me, Just as you are bound to-night. Twenty years are scarce a heart-beat In the motion of the past, And they seem to flee like shadows From the sunshine they've amassed. Scattered wide are those familiars, — Wider that the war was here ; For the price of Afric's freedom Cost our country sadly dear. Still the noble lives and loving We can trace on earth to-day, Give us courage, and the friendships Never, never fade away. Other thoughts than mine turn fondly As they stem the laborer's tide. To the early hopes they gathered. From the watchword* now your pride. All around, about, above you, To the halo of their dreams. And they call with me, "1 love you," Till the distance present seems. «- " Fight for Truth and Right." TIME'S UNFINISHED VOLUME. Twenty years, a myth departed, I can scarcely own their flight, As I see the same instructors* Here, that then were my delight, — See them quite unchanged, save only Silver lines have nearer crept To their brains, as though, else lonely, Seeking rest where gems are kept ; See them quite unchanged, but richer For the knowledge they have sown. With their eyes and lips reflecting All the sunshine they have thrown. Grateful blessings cling like mosses To their sandals as they pass Down the sessions, through the freshness Of the fairest floral mass. Gathering ever, while they scatter; For the wind-blown blossoms there Pause a moment, touch the waters, Then are drifted on in air; Stronger of the touch, yet leaving Often waves of fragrance sweet. Like the moss that swings and tangles Round a lake and streamlet's feet. Twenty years ! 'Tis w^ell that birthdays Stand as milestones on the way. To remind us how the present Gains upon the future gay. 91 Dr. Edward Brooks and Prof. J. W. Westlake. 92 TIME'S UNFINISHED VOIUME. How the past recedes and leaves us For the sunny long ago, While it seems to linger round us With its phosphorescent glow. Time, the great unwearied scrivener, Traces miracles of light In the volume he's preparing For the Master's oversight. Blending gold and shade together, Pencillings delicate and grand, That, inviolate, each impress Be preserved upon the land. Wonderful, unfinished volume. Leaves on leaves of manuscript. Written on forever, ever. With a pen in ages dipped ! Press some laurel green mementoes Of the Normal and the Page* In your ponderous book, that later May exalted thoughts engage. Press and keep them till, completed. By the Master's just decree, You are lifted to His book-shelves. And they fall, that He may see. *■ Rival literary societies. THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. Here, in our own America, A railroad under ground, Before the freedom bud had swelled, Most active service found. The narrow, narrow, prayer-laid track On abolition ties, The tunnels black, with silence arched. And walled with sacrifice. Were through the States to Canada. Brave men of strength and might Existed then, and women too. Who ran the trains at night. The motion slow and toilsome was, The engine peril-shod. The crew and dark- faced passengers Together trusted God, Their only beacon His north star, Their acme liberty. Their fear the coiling serpent's length That reached persistently. 9 93 94 THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. The darkness stilled, the light succeeds: The tunnels, rent in twain By rifts of sunshine on their walls, Will never close again. The slavery serpent, where it basked, Has hushed its breath, to feel Its hydra head and body crushed Beneath a Nation's heel. The under-ground has memories left. And some that linger here I'll pause to lift : the track's old friends Perchance may hold them dear. THE STATION-HOUSE. Still close beneath the forest trees. And at the highway's cross. The old house sits, its antique hat Half hid by clinging moss. Its empty arms akimbo rest Upon its useless form, For long ago the dark men passed Whom it gave shelter warm. The watchful care it freely gave Is now a Nation's trust ; And it, with mission well fulfilled, Bows down to kiss the dust. THE UNDER-GROUND RaJlROAD. 95 The seal of silence that was set Upon its long, low brow Has fallen off: who whispered then May raise their voices now. Uncounted fugitives who paused Within the station free All made the train-connections clear, And passed to liberty. The forest shadows lingering guard The empty station-house, And stoop as close as when within Hearts sank at stir of mouse, — As close as quarterly meeting days, When gifted Friends and dear Had their long after-dinner talks. Love-harvests, four a year. The leaves chant rituals of repose. The house must understand That sweet communion of sounds That sanctifies the land. THE STATION-MASTER. Ah, well-a-day ! the Lord is good. He makes some model men For every need, that, when it fades, We cannot see again. ge THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. They follow out His purpose sure; From duty never swerve, Receiving not through us, but Him, The meed which they deserve. The station-master staid, erect, Unbending will and form. Was truth's disciple, with a heart By tenderness made warm. I see him now, as when a child I played about his feet. Go in and out, then quietly Take his high meeting seat. I hear his voice, as steadily He reads each afternoon The ''Anti-Slavery Standard" wide, "The Freeman," the "Tribune," And the earnest "Liberator," Whose pictured heading then AVas more to me than fugitives And anti-slavery men. I feel again the weariness Of unschooled limb and tongue From trying to be good and still The older folk among. I hear the runaways, that come As passing clouds, full oft. To hover round his open fire. Exchange their whispers soft. THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. I look with wonder that the clouds Gather and flee at night, And see the panorama dark That foreran freedom's light. The station-master, e'er alert. Glad welcomed every train That held the banner liberty. And cheered it on again. Weary, exotic passengers Along the under-ground Had not upon the peril track A fuller friendship found. He never broke his freedom faith, And never broke his word ; He lived an upright, steadfast life, And quietude preferred. I only was his grandchild small. But children see and hear; For even now I seem to breathe The cautious atmosphere, And, gazing warily around From singing grove to sky, I question if my older words Will stillness crucify. The wild azaleas blush and blow, The spice-wood buds its gold. But they and the sweet poplar lips The secrets stoutly hold. 9* 97 gS THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. THE PILOT. The pilot stanch was Dave Couiitee As turtle brown and slow, A powerful man, whose great face shone Out with a prescient glow. A ponderous man, who knew the worth Of being a self-bought slave, — Who spent his days delivering ware. And could look wise or grave. Who spent his nights, whene'er it chanced, In forwarding with care The fugitives from Station V To the next haven, where The bright north star seemed closer. The chance of capture less, And the holy breath of freedom Nearer with peacefulness. He had his books, his pottery-room, Freedom of form and mind ; He loved the abolition cause And his long-suffering kind- He loved his ease, and often sat The quiet day of rest Amid the nnburned earthenware, Grand in his Sunday vest. THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. Deaf unto all around him, save The paper wide outspread Beneath his broad-bowed spectacles And kerchief-shaded head ; Or strode he back to Robinson's, Across the slumberous wood. To tell of perfect fruit in store For their crushed brotherhood. The station-master's pilot stanch Sleeps long since on the lea, And he, we trust, from bondage all Is absolutely free. The ruins gray of Robinson's hut Recall, as they withdraw, The half-run nineteenth century, The Christiana flaw, — The restless, reckless passengers Who broke the safety code And drove in Southern vehicles Along the peril road. AN INSTANCE. The Sabbath sun his veil of gold Threw up to meet the day And gladden the autumnal tints Where orchard shadows play. 99 THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. He smiled to find an antique chaise Swept by the orchard boughs, And at the station stable door A horse beneath the mows. When he had hid his week-day face A dozen hours before, The self-same team was farther south A good five leagues or more. The long low kitchen's brow he wreathed, And kissed the rose and vine. Until the fugitives aroused To breathe the air divine. Waked by the flowers and wood-birds, Little indeed dreamed they Their master slept at the Lion, Not half a mile away. Weary with chase, it was later When night for him was done, And he walked with the tavern-keeper Under the Uwchlan sun. Haughtily flaunted his slave-whip, Tangling the Sabbath breeze, As he crossed our laughing threshold Close to the station trees ; And firmly its owner held it. Taking the broad arm-chair My mother, with wondering welcome, Set for his comfort there. THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. loi " Run, children, and call your father ! He's just stepped out," she said. Then apples fresh from the orchard Before the guests she spread. Half relish and half impatience Flavored the fruit they ate, Till father, with easy motion, Came through the open gate With leisurely courteous greeting. He never appeared in haste, Though he'd cleared the back door swiftly When they the front had faced, To signal the low-browed station Danger was on the wing. His soul was as fair as noonday, With soft words blossoming. The slave-holder told his grievance In terms unpicked and few ; It was not leisure or pleasure, But recovery he'd in view. '' We'll look around," said my father. '' My kind and aged sire Does sometimes shelter travellers Who food and rest require." They found the chaise in the sunshine, And horse at the stable door : The slaves from their angry master Were hidden evermore. THE UNDER GROUND RAILROAD. While he aloud the station stormed With voice and footstep bold, Denouncing Abolitionists Unto the keeper old, The slaves to Joshua Robinson's Crept after Dave Countee, And crouched beneath his kitchen floor In listening misery. The station searched, the slaves were gone, And whither none there knew. The bliss of ignorance was fresh With prayer's protective dew. The master tarried in pursuit — The game he reckoned near — Until the evening shadows striped The sky of golden clear. Then, saying, "I will watch the ground," He drove with horse and chaise. Slave-whip, and tavern-keeper bland. Into the gathering haze. With reinforcements loud and strong He came with dawning day. To make a full, exacting search And drive his own away. He'd have redress, he had the law x\nd justice on his side : The quaint old buildings' innocence In words he oft denied. THE UNDER-GROUND RAILROAD. 103 But they were still, and gave no sign Of what had been within. *'0n !" cried the crowd, ''to Robinson's," With ill-concealed chagrin. With reckless haste to Joshua's cot The angry men withdrew : They tore the loose boards from his floor, And peered each crevice through. The master stamped, irate, delayed. His patience put to flight. The four slaves crouched with trembling fear 'Neath corn-shocks in full sight. They parted there, who met not then. He going South, they North, And Station V was quite content To lose them both henceforth. The field that joins the woodland still Is sweet with psalms of spring. And even when the corn-leaves crisp I hear peace whispering. GOLDEN-WEDDING LINES. 6th mo. i6, 1881. Just half a century has sped Since you, dear relatives, were wed, Since heart in heart laid trust away For this great golden-wedding day. The peace of love and calm content Have been your happy complement ; The richest store that mortals claim, Unsullied conscience, soul, and name, Is yours, and Heaven's own dews descend Upon you as you near life's end. In looking forward, fifty years Seem a long line of hopes and fears ; While, gazing backward, doubtless they Are but a fallen flower-spray. Time counts by blessings and by breaks; The heart forgets the years, and takes To itself rewards and crosses, Numbering but its gifts and losses. Life is the shortest, sweetest, best, To those whose years are happiest, And it is grandest unto those Whose days are full, until the close, 104 GOLDEN-WEDDING LINES. Of philanthropic, pure desire To crush and trample error's fire. God notes our each supreme endeavor, And counts as gain our efforts ever. Whatever good we think or do Exists; and distant ages through Its impress falls as mellowing lines On fruit whose ripeness Time divines. Life at its longest day is brief: The most we garner a slight sheaf. To you, dear friends, the sunset hours Are full of pleasant thoughts and flowers. Your children and their children come Laden with blessings to your home, While distant relatives resound Echoes of love, and joys abound. This marriage-day's bright band of gold We trust may yet a diamond hold. The Lord who grants these settings rare Protect you with His fondest care ! 105 THE WORLD'S LAW. Is he gifted, is he famous? Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. Has he talents? be blasphemous; 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. Never give full due to honor, Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. Have an "if" and "but" for counsellor; 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. Be his soul as snow untinted, Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. And have it by slander dinted ; 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. Be the life above reproaches, Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. Drag it down where ill encroaches ; 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. Be the man in power beyond us. Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. His uprising would despond us, 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. io6 A MEMORY BALI, AD. 107 Pull him down, and down forever; Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. Let him stand erect, no, never ! 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. All the years he is depending, Pick a flaw, pick a flaw. Only laud his soul ascending ; 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. When no more it matters to him, Rest a flaw, rest a flaw. And pile up the honor due him ; 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. O'er his grave fan fame to blazes ; Rest a flaw, rest a flaw. Heap to monument his praises ; 'Tis the law, 'tis the law. A MEMORY BALLAD. She passed a beggar on the street Most wretched, halt, and blind ; She gathered up her silken skirts And left him soon behind. Again she passed, another day; He asked for money, food ; She closed her heart and closed her purse, And scarcely understood. ,o8 A MEMORY BALLAD. And still again he crossed her way, Or rather she crossed his : He said, '' O lady ! can you tell Where any water is?" So proud she tossed her little head. And answered not a word. The beggar sighed, and thought her deaf; But angels knew she heard. That night, when after opera The carriage bore her home To her palatial residence In midnight glare and gloam. She saw upon the marble steps A haggard form and white; A glance, — it was the beggar, dead ; She screamed in her affright. "Oh, how can I get in ? get in ?" She wrung her hands in vain. " Step over me!" a voice replied. And silence fell like pain. *'Step over me! step over me !" She hears the echo still. As though the form forever laid Before her by God's will. LIFE'S APRIL DAY. All smiles and tears, and hopes and fears, Are anchored close together ; The mortal heart seems but a part Of April's captious weather. Hours come and go of joy and woe ; Our smiles and tears are blended ; Our wildest fears at last hope nears, And keeps them well attended. While dreary clouds the world enshroud, The sunshine hovers over ; And oft the rain, though dark with pain, Doth some new bloom discover, — Some blossom sweet the gold and heat Had failed to give perfection, — Some grace of mind relieved to find. Though late, its true direction. Speed smiles and tears, speed hopes and fears. Expand our best emotions. Dissolve all doubt, and blossom out To Heaven our soul's devotion. 109 COMPASSIONATE. The mother died, and the father lifted His two-year daughter up To kiss the lips that had been to them Affection's fullest cup. The cup was empty, and cold its edge As marble's snowy brim ; The wreath of roses that bound it once Was pale as lilies dim. The child stooped down for her loving draught With hungry, trustful heart, Then wondering eyes to her father turned : *' Mamma don't kiss her part !" Strong and warm were the arms that pressed The startled child within ; Dire was the anguish that filled the breast Beneath the quivering chin. Some cup is every moment drained By hands invisible, Some lily for the rose exchanged By the omniscient will. We each grieve over an empty cup With thirsting lip and soul. Who loses the draught of mother-love Loses more than the whole. ALONE. The lights are out, and the darkness Creeps over the wooded hill, Pausing to rest in the valley, Where I am alone and still. It nestles closer and closer, Filling my empty arms, As though it would fain be gathered Safe from its own alarms. Lullaby, hush thee, darkness ! Close on my bosom here ; Rest till thy wings be strengthened For flight when day appear ! Lullaby, hush thee, darkness ! Close with me thine eyes, For sight is blind, and stillness Falls from the dewless skies. Alone ! hush, hush thee, darkness ! The air grows warm with sound ; Some sweet mysterious presence Our refuge here has found. 12 DEAD DRUNK. Lullaby, wakening darkness ! What are the stars to thee? Turning thou disturbest the spell Thy presence brought to me. Are they thy bright-eyed daughters, Touching with smiles thy rest? Winning with golden glances Thee from my longing breast? Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby! Ah ! but thou wilt not stay : I gathered thee in from the hill-side, Now thou hast flown away. 'Tis thus we hush and lullaby Forms that we may not hold : Til us even darkness has lovers : We are alone on the wold. DEAD DRUNK. I HEARD the words and a jeering laugh ; I looked, and a youthful form Across my pathway lay stretched and still. Its life-pulse beating warm. DEAD DRUNK. 113 And this was a man ! I paused to think, Ah, where was the manhood then ? It was warped with lethargy, strangled With rum, which numbs the souls of men. He had a mother, a wife, a child ; Unto him was Fortune kind ; Rich blessings trailed about his steps And fain had round him twined. His heart was good, but his courage weak. And strong drink bore him down. Inch by inch, till it laid him low At the feet of the busy town. And should we pass this drunken sleep With only a careless word. Deaf to the groan of a chained-down soul The living God has heard? Should we let the poison-cup pass round A land that is ours in trust, Till it blights and drags dear human-kind Grovelling into the dust ? Shall we, when God in His own good time Asks our brother at our hand ; Reply, "I am not his keeper. Lord, He is dead drunk on the sand" ? THE VERNAL DAWN. The air is full of hopes And presages of bloom. The supplicating hands Which through the winter's gloom, The forest grim and gaunt, Stretched, asking raiment, droop Laden with promises. All beauty seems to group And strew earth's lap and brow With wreaths of prophecy. MIRIAM. All the evenings long and chilly, Wliere the fire-light crept so stilly, Miriam's waxen fingers knitted, And the poor were benefited. Click, click, click, the needles said, Bright warm yarn their motion fed. Miriam fair. Everywhere Poor need care ! 114 MIRIAM. 1 1 Knitting, knitting, silent measure, Miriam with demure pleasure Watched the mittens shapely growing, Thoughts benevolent bestowing. Click, click, click, the needles said, While she bent her graceful head. Miriam fair. Everywhere Poor need care. Poverty my life encumbered While the maid her stitches numbered. Poverty my heart was aching, Restless, and to weird fears waking. Click, click, click, the needles said. Fast, yet slow, the winter sped. Miriam fair, Everywhere Poor need care. Earth hath donned her robes of splendor. Snows to bloom make glad surrender. Miriam's mittens all are finished And my dread of them diminished. Click, click, click, the needles said, Now she softly speaks, instead. Miriam's care Everywhere I now share. IN THE WOOD. Nature, I partake your mood, Dream amid the solitude Of the white-capped summer wood. Take me in your lap awhile. Mother Nature, and beguile All my burdens to a smile. Fan the tresses from my face ; Rest me in your soft embrace, Creature I of unknown space. Sing me for the sultry day Your most winsome virelay, Olden, sweet, and care estray. Respite give, and perfect ease, Till I feel, alike these trees, Only God is mine to please. Let me dream the builder's dream, - Grow my castles by the stream, Amethyst from sill to beam. [6 IN THE WOOD. 117 Reach their spires to purple skies ; Let those foam-clad clouds disguise Stairways by which angels rise. Foot-sore am I, early worn, Closely of all blessings shorn, Bearing ills that must be borne. Weary am I of the way, Yet with perfect faith I pray, Mother Nature, lest I stray. Lead me by your teachings grand. Counsel that I understand. How to reach the Lord's right hand. Can I climb my stair of dreams Up to where the amber gleams And the love of Christ redeems ? Rock me. Nature, let me be Resting with you peacefully, Yearning babe upon your knee. I have failed to stand alone ; Let humility atone For the pride I may have shown. Lullabies are tender sweet. Mother Nature, you repeat. And my pulses slower beat, — Il8 THE COLOR OF FIRE. Slower, till I think I hear, Echoing through the wood and weir, Choruses of angel cheer. How they rest me ! — let me rise ! Earth is near, so near the skies. And my pathway clearer lies. THE COLOR OF FIRE. Beside the grate two bachelors Sat, toasting gouty toes. They groaned and laughed in concert notes, Till this dispute arose : *^The flame laps with her yellow tongue The air. How soft it grows !" Said Number One. " I feel relieved To have it kiss my toes." *' Humph! Yellow tongue ! Poetical, For gouty man, you seem. The fire is red, dear Michael, red : You have a color dream." " Oh, fudge and fume !" quoth Number One "You're wrong in the extreme. Why, all the yellow saffron dyes Among these heaped coals gleam. THE COLOR OF FIRE. " The lady fire snaps yellow eyes And tosses yellow hair, Her breath is golden, and her smile Is yellow : so beware !" ^' Ha ! ha ! Michael, your color dream Doth your good sight impair; The widow binds with yellow braids Your fancy in a snare, *' And yellow, yellow everything Looks to your gilded eyes. There ! there ! you need not open them In such well feigned surprise." " Fudge ! folly ! Peter, how you talk. And all truth stigmatize ! You call the widow yellow, — humph ! I'd land you in the skies, ''But for this gouty, gouty foot. Oh, dear, what shall I do To prove the measure of contempt I entertain for you?" ''Hold easy, easy, Michael, man, Nor take distorted view : I saw your foot move half an inch To put that sentence through. "The fire is red, — of course it is ! The widow's locks — why, they Were yellow ; but, my dear old friend, They will be — now are — gray." 119 I20 . NIAGARA. Poor Number One ! his passion-height The limbs could not obey : What should be understandings were But helpless pets of clay. He groaned, '' I do not care a whit For color of the fire ; But when you drag the widow in I recompense require. My arms are stronger than your words, And you their strength inspire." Thwark ! '' How you writhe ! Ay, gout is sore, And should not waken ire." NIAGARA. Purest, wildest, greenest river, Flashing onward to deliver Silver wealth from lake to lake, Leaping with impatient motion, — Do you dream the mother ocean Wants you, or her heart will break? Restless, dashing. Sunbeam-splashing, Nation's pet, Niagara. Wild your waters toss and tumble ; Over crags you laugh and stumble Miles and miles above the Fall, NIAGARA. 121 While your arms encircling gather Lovely islands, choosing rather Hasty kiss than none at all. Gleeful, dashing, Splashing, flashing, Nation's pride, Niagara. Rushing, flushing, roaring, singing, Then adown the abyss swinging. Glory, fulness, mist and shine. Witching, wilful, wondrous river, Toast of Nature to the Giver Of subhmity divine. Dashing, pouring. Tumbling, roaring, Nation's grand Niagara. Laden with the dew of gladness. Quickened breath of gleeful madness. To the peaceful boundary air ; Then more quietly you rumble. As you catch your breath and mumble Rippling snatch of thanks and prayer. Leaping, dancing, Tossing, prancing, Nation's pet, Niagara. Skipping, slipping, gliding, sliding, To the rocky heights dividing Like a canyon shore and shore ; 122 A CHANGELESS PICTURE. Here your wildest laughter spending, Whirlpool Rapids, bending, blending Spray and music evermore. Tossing, foaming, Playful, roaming. Nation's pet, Niagara. Fluttering, rushing, singing, roaring, Chlorophyl and silver pouring Down the wayward, rugged steep, Liberated grandeur dancing. And for evermore advancing To the silence of the deep. Unique, glorious, Sprite victorious. Nation's pride, Niagara. A CHANGELESS PICTURE. Eighteen times the satin chestnuts From their velvet coaches sprung ; Eighteen times the red October Hid them her bright folds among ; Eighteen times, — and yet the picture Bright on memory's wall has hung. A CHANGELESS PICTURE. It was painted in gay school days On the canvas of my heart ; And the faces best beloved On the foreground sit apart. All the freshness of the coloring Is preserved with unique art. Eighteen times the snows have blossomed Since my picture perfect grew ; Eighteen times, and some stray petals May have fallen, friends, on you ; But you're changeless in my picture, And the old school vows are true. Some of you, I hear, are famous : Take my blessing as you go. Some have early lain to slumber, For the good Lord willed it so ; Some are plying oars unceasing. Some with currents drifting slow; Still you're mine within the picture, — Faces dear and faces fair; Halos of eternal freshness Gathered are about you there. Power of living, loving, dying. Keep the souls within thy care ! 123 PERIWINKLE. Nestling matted leaves among, Periwinkle, Making beautiful the ground. Periwinkle, How thy glossy leaves are found, Periwinkle, Shining in the lawn and wild, Periwinkle. Creeping, an enchanted vine. Periwinkle, In thy unaffected pride, Periwinkle, Gaining lovers far and wide. Periwinkle, For thy fairy groups of bloom, Periwinkle. Nestle, creep, and never climb. Periwinkle, Fond companion of the moss, Periwinkle, As we pass our skirts emboss, Periwinkle, With humility's content, Periwinkle. THE DONKEY'S PLAYMATES. Up and down a Denver street. With solemn pace and slow. The children rode a donkey gray. Only a month ago. 124 777^ DONKEY'S PLAYAfATES. 125 They rode by turns. The troop who walked Shared all the rider's glee. The donkey they thought the dearest thing That ever a donk' could be. They petted, caressed him, kissed his face, And honored his least desire ; Until he paused and tossed them off As signal to retire. The donkey rests, the children rest, For night comes on alway. The breath of evening scattered those Who had the happy day. Our dreamers on Atlantic coast Toss in their sleep and smile, And whisper, ''Donkey, donkey dear, Let Georgie ride awhile." Ah, day, return ! Ah, future, hush The motion of thy wings ! Two Denver playmates, Georgies both, Have gone from earthly things. THE CHOPPING-BLOCK. ''Just move the block this morning, dear; 'Twill more convenient be To have it here beside the gate, Beneath the apple-tree. ''I tire of carrying wood so far, There from the distant end ; Full half the steps we take 'twould save If moved, you may depend !" No move or answer gained the wife To this her free advice ; The thudding chop went on the same, As though she spoke not twice. "Say, don't you think, my dear, 'twould be Better to cut wood here Than there, a half a mile away ? — What makes you be so queer?" The axe rose higher, heavier fell. The frown crept lower down ; " The block's best here !" he grunted out ; "Your voice would storm a town." 126 THE CHOrriNG-BLOCK. ''I'd storm not what I could not take," She inwardly resolved. ''If I spoke quick, I still was right. And that my haste absolved. "But I forgot, most sad for me. The lesson early learned. That only by a honeyed wand Can stubborn men be turned." Then to the house the strategist Came, and a winsome lay Fell from her lips, dashed through the air. And brushed his frown away. With careful skill she rolled the dough. And turned it into pies. Crimped near the edge, to keep within The fruit that gratifies. " HoAv many pies, my dearest dear, Had I best make this morn ? And would you like some custards, love. While working in the corn?" A voice more sweet could scarcely be Than spoke these inquiries ; Almost as sweet the one replied, ** Make, dear, just what you please." *'0h, no, I have no will at all. But that which is your own ; You know, my dear, I live for you. And simply you, alone." 127 128 THANKSGIVING. A kiss somehow lodged on the breeze ; The chopping-block moved place ; The little wife resumed her toil, And brighter was her face. And brighter too the face of him, Who, later, 'mid the corn, With harrow turns out noisome weeds Before they seed have borne. ''Man is the power within, without," He muses as he walks ; ''The rightful head of house and farm. Naught his dominion balks." There's blessed bliss in ignorance, Controlling or controlled ; For he who thinks he ruleth most Is oftenest cajoled. A honeyed wand is ever best For driving whom you will : The head of house is driven not. Indeed, I know, — but still — THANKSGIVING. Summer has fled, her flowers are dead. The winter waits at autumn's gates. With snowy pall to shroud them all. 129 THE HARVEST KISS. Brief are the days of November haze ; The sun sleeps long, for there's no bird-song His rest to break with its sweet " awake !" Brown is the grass that we crush and pass, Brown are the leaves that drop from the eaves Of gold-roofed trees at touch of the breeze. Where frost stepped down there are footprints brown That the sun and rain will wash in vain, — But the spring will come with its joyful hum, The smile of God will bright the sod, The frost and snow into beauty blow. Blessed are we that we should see Such marvels here from year to year. Thrice blessed we'd be, could we perfectly Read what is writ as the seasons flit. And mark the days with grateful praise. Thanksgiving then in the hearts of men Would endless be as eternitv. THE HARVEST KISS. The kiss you gave me last year On the load of hay, I never shall forget, dear, Till my dying day. 12 I30 THE AMERICAN TOURISTS LESSON. The fields were bare, you know, then, That load was the last. The sunset sky it blushed when Pageant day had passed. The harvesters rejoiced, dear, In their labor done. I scarcely heard their loud cheer : I my love had won. Far up amid the twilight, Where the stars awake, I clasped you as a tryst-right, My first kiss to take. And now I come again, dear, When the harvest's o'er. The kiss you gave me last year Waits, my love, for more. THE AMERICAN TOURIST'S LESSON. The prairie's crossed ; the West is East ; The old Atlantic band Of Puritans have spread their wings And covered all the land. The silent places wake with song : The plains and mountains wide Are dotted o'er with pleasant nests. Where builders, twitterers, hide. THE AMERICAN TOURIST'S LESSON. The eagle on Glen Eyrie's wall Has bound her castle high, While man, with emulation grand, Has planted his close by. The tents, like fallen feathers, bright The Rocky Mountain Parks. The tourists nestle, roam, and glide About the canyon darks. The West a faded myth becomes, A vision of the past. There only is the East, the East, We've learned by rote at last. In cabin, tent, on mount and plain, Where birds of passage meet. There ever is the same refrain With cordial smile replete : *' The East, the East ! we're from the East !' They chant it every one, Until we marvel that like clouds Men chase the setting sun. One day, when, weary, sore of flight Adown the Pike's Peak trail. We paused for shelter in a cot. Rude, comfortless, and frail, A woman weather-beaten, kind, Warmed us with fire and smile. "I'm from away down East," she said, "And only stop awhile." 131 32 LOST MUSIC. Our homesick hearts with quickened bound Inquired her native State ; She said, "Missouri," and she sobbed, *' The distance is so great !" With melting pity we recalled A group we earlier met, Who told us to the '* distant East" Their thoughts kept turning yet. Their sighed-for East was Kansas fair. In Utah, just beyond. The Rocky Mountains were the East ; So we the lesson conned: The prairies, plains, and mountains crossed. We touch Pacific shore, But we have crossed the East, the East ; The West goes on before. LOST MUSIC. Clattering, clattering. Falls the wheat pattering Into the hoppers old. Then up it goes jolting, Down it comes bolting. And the warm flour is sold. THE STRAWBERRY TRYST Clattering, clattering, Grinding and pattering, Notes that are lost on me. The mill keeps repeating Its musical greeting. The water-wheel dances free. Only the clattering Seems a mock chattering Of the sweet tinkling past, And e'en the corn breaking With heavy bass quaking. Falls on me dumb at last. Clattering, clattering. Tinkling and pattering. Oh for the early days When we milled together, And I wondered whether Fairest was wheat or maize ! 133 THE STRAWBERRY TRYST. The field was broad, and the strawberries sweet, That hung where wind and sunshine meet. They parted the grass with fingers fair. And gathered the strawberries red with care : They parted the grass, and their fingers grew Scarlet with strawberry blood or dew. 12* 134 THE EMPTY SWING. With well-filled baskets from parted grass, They sit to rest where the shadows pass. The oak and the elm tree tinge the air, The lark and the oriole's notes are there. The boscage bows to the dream of bees And listens to catch their melodies. The boscage bows, and tlie strawberry maid, Lulled by the musical breath of shade. Forgets the thorn in her finger-tip. The badge of her strawberry workmanship, Till all at once, with a wave of pain. The brier its presence betrays again. The strawberry youth is tender and strong, He plucks from her hand the wee brier throng, Into his own flesh pressing it deep : "A strawberry souvenir," he sighs, "to keep.'' Sorrowful eyes, melodious shade, Tove for love breathes the strawberry maid. THE EMPTY SWING. Forward and back, forward and back. Under the apple-tree. May wind pushes an empty seat With careless hand and free. IN THE MEADOW. 135 The blushing bloom, the blossom snow, Is drifting round the swing ; The children fair, whose place is there, Are low with suffering. A dire disease encompassed them ; They struggle it to pass, That little feet may swing again Above the orchard grass. Mockery seems the floral day. With all her choral train ; Mockery seems the golden breeze That leaves them only pain. The empty, empty, empty swing, That tosses to and fro, The cruellest mockery seems of all Amid the blossom snow. We tearful from the May world turn To cool each fevered brow, And pray with fervency of heart To hope, to bear, to bow. IN THE MEADOW. Buttercups nod in the meadow Mid bloom of fairer hue. The grass in green, green fringes Is headed with violets blue. 136 IN THE MEADOW. The sparkling stream in the meadow Dances a gladsome tune, And the birds in the water willow Chirp to the frogs of June. Two little boys, human blossoms, Sit by the rippling stream, With fishing-rods over the water. Hooks where no fish may dream. One bobbin a-quiver goes under, Quick hands toss up the rod, And a glittering sun-fish panting Lies where buttercups nod. Another rod's up ; a sly nibble Left but the naked hook ; A new worm's life must be taken To cover the ugly crook. "I think," utters six-year, while baiting, '' That worms don't have much fun. It's queer why God, when He made them. Gave them no feet to run." ^* It's no more fun to be fish than worm," Remarks the active eight, " And how, Vickers, would we get the fish If we had no worms for bait?" " I don't know, — but it seems to me A pity to hurt such things ; They are so nice, and they don't complain, None of 'em bites or stings." AUTUMN COLOR. 137 The fishing-tackle fell on the grass ; Vickers, with thoughtful air, His chin on his palm, ^aid musingly, " I wonder if God will care?" I wonder, my little philosopher. Ah ! older heads than thine Have rested 'mid beauty, and questioned If they wrought God's design. AUTUMN COLOR. Out in the browning grass-field, Under the chestnut-tree, The wind throws satin wonders Down to the children three. He whistles and sings, the north wind, His notes are gay and free. He must be thinking of Christmas, Up in the chestnut-tree. Three "Red Riding-Hood" children Catch the tune, you see ; If not — they catch the chestnuts Tinder the grand old tree. 138 THE RAIN OF SEPARATION AND THE BOW. Brown little hands close grasp them, Voices are full of glee ; Pockets no longer slender Shine through the dresses three. Light fairies crowned with scarlet, The maidens, — oh, dear me ! They turn their faces toward me And laugh out merrily. Brown, brown, brown are the faces. Bright as the nuts I see. Dame Nature brands the races, Marking them carefully. Brown is the autumn color. Dark little children three. Ye are Ethiop fairies Under the chestnut-tree. THE RAIN OF SEPARATION AND THE BOW. 'TwAS the high noon of the year, A glorious summer twilight. When we parted, But the purple air seemed drear ; We were blind to all the cheer, Broken-hearted. THE RAIN OF SEPARATION AND THE BOW. Our life-paths must divide, That our separate tasks be done, Or endeavored. Trees that spring up side by side Are transplanted far and wide, Families severed. Every tree, that it expand, Must have sun, and time, and space, To perfect in. Every life alone must stand. That its strength attain command To effect in. All the love that e'er has been, All the tender yearning care Souls can measure, Cannot save our dearest kin From the troublous waves, or win For them pleasure. Prayerful, patient faith provides All the safeguard we possess For each other. Individual act decides Whether we can stem the tides, Not our brother. 139 New delight dissolves our tears. And caresses them to smiles, Gloom is blighted. I40 A MIDDAY BATTLE NOTE. We may meet — the misty years Are transfigured ; clouds and fears Rainbow-lighted. A MID-DAY BATTLE NOTE. The days are hot, and the days are cold, But the battle for life goes on. We press to the front, with scars untold, And the victory barely won. We press to the front and hold our own, By effort and God's sweet grace, While the sun and shadow have softly thrown Age lines into beauty's place. The poet may sing, the yeoman plough, The philosopher rub his stone, We are warm with sympathy, yet somehow We must fight our battle alone. For life is double within, without. With scars and with blossoms fair. And we are alone, though compassed about With a wealth of love and care. EXULTATION. 14 j Each cry for strength and each prayer of thanks Must peal from our inmost soul, If it reach the Lord of the battle ranks As the tides of action roll. There is no rest, and no grand discliarge, But we fall out one by one. Receiving our pensions, small or large. According to service done. EXULTATION. A CHESTER HEIGHTS HYMN.'^- I AM saved ! the Lord hath saved me ! Help me shout the glorious news ! I have tasted God's salvation, And 'tis sweet as honeyed dews. Loud I sing my exultation, Hoping it will reach the skies. Keep, dear Lord, my soul forever Under Thy protecting eyes ! When at last my days are gathered Into Thy great judgment one. May I find my name deep written In the records of the Son. *" Set to music by Prof. Sweney. 142 THE SUNSHINE. Bless the Lord, that His salvation Came to us through Christ's pure love; Bless Him that He Jesus loaned us From His Golden Courts above. Free salvation ! glad salvation ! Let us shout from pole to pole, Until each diseased nation Feels that God hath made it whole. THE SUNSHINE. I WAS slumbering in the meadow. At the streamlet's pearly feet. Where the trailing willow shadow Kissed the breeze and made it sweet ; And the sunshine yellow. With his breath so mellow. Touched me there. Close beside me kneeled he ; God's great love revealed he, iVnd His care. I was clambering up the mountain. And the way was rugged, steep. While the sky's outpouring fountain Lashed and groaned to reach the deep ; 7 HE NEW YEAR'S RIDE. But the sunshine yellow, With his breath so mellow, Touched me there. Close beside me kneeled he ; God's great love revealed he, And His care. I was over, through, and under Valley, ocean, hill, and plain ; I was bowed with grief and wonder — But the brightness came again; For the sunshine yellow, With his breath so mellow, Touched me there. Close beside me kneeled he ; God's great love revealed he Everywhere. M3 THE NEW-YEAR'S RIDE. The sun rose bright that New-Year's day, And Uncle Goodwin's family sleigh Was at the gate. The robes and bricks Made comfort for the load of six. Now, Harry, uncle's oldest son, A pony had that liked to run : This pony Harry wished to ride And keep his father's team beside. 144 THE NEW YEAR'S RIDE. The snow was smooth, the horses gay, The bright load dashed along its way. Harry, upon his pony black, Kept close within the sleigh's crisp track, Over the prairie broad and clear. Until Madge exclaimed, '' We're here !" And loving Grandpa, at the gate, Called, "Happy New Year! Children, wait. Out he lifted them one and all, — Jack, May, and Madge, and baby small, While Aunt and Uncle laughed to see Dear Grandpa hugged so merrily. " Ho, Harry boy, a pony ! why, The coal-black racer takes my eye ! Get off, my son ! You're quite a man." To see his pony then Grandma ran. And such a time they had that day. The gifts, the dinner, the jolly play; I can't tell half, but you folks know Who to your grandpa's New-Years' go. Just as turkey was served to all. New flakes of snow began to fall : " The good old lady in the sky Is picking geese, the feathers fly," Said Uncle Goodwin. ''I declare. To-morrow must be New Year's there," Laughed Madge, '^ and goose their feast : I'd rather be down here at least." 45 THE NEW YEAR'S RIDE. These good days cannot always last, And this one's close came all too fast. At four o'clock the family sleigh Was packed again, and sped away. *' Harry," said Uncle, " mount, and keep Close, for the snow is growing deep." " Yes," called Harry, '' I'll do quite well. Good-by, Grandpa, Grandma, and Bell." He tied his scarf in a jaunty bow, Touched his hat, and said, " Coaly, go !" Across the plain so soft and white He rode, and soon was out of sight. The flakes fell fast, the fierce wind blew ; Coaly plodded the white depth through Slowly, for now the track was lost. And only drifts the prairie crossed. The jingling bells were far away, And Harry was lost that New-Year's day. On, on he went till night was near, Cold and tired, and filled with fear. What do you think he saw at last, When hope and strength were failing fast ? Lit by a gleam in the winter sky. Far ahead he could descry Grandpa's house with its snowy dome. ''I wonder," thought Harry, "if this is home. The knowing pony increased his pace. And found the end of his circling race. ,46 A NATIONAL DIRGE. Such a ride was the New-Year's ride. Harry was soon at Grandpa's side, Declaring, as he does to this day, " I cannot see how we lost the way." A NATIONAL DIRGE. James A, Garfield, twentieth President of the United States, died from the effect of an assassin's bullet, September 19, 1881. He is dead ; the nation weeps, He is dead, dead, dead. Worn with pain, at last he sleeps ; He is dead, dead, dead. Faithful hands may still their care. He is dead, dead, dead. Mourning hearts are everywhere, He is dead, dead, dead. Snapped our cord of hopes and fears, He is dead, dead, dead. Tears and crape, and crape and tears ; He is dead, dead, dead. Sobbing break the prayers half said, — He is dead, dead, dead. Freely we had died instead. He is dead, dead, dead. A NATIONAL DIRGE. He, our loved, our pure, our lost, He is dead, dead, dead. The green land is shadow-crossed, He is dead, dead, dead. Heavy night winds toss and sigh He is dead, dead, dead. Mercy's angel passed us by, He is dead, dead, dead. Life too grand for mortal hold ; He is dead, dead, dead. Gathered to a Safer Fold, While we wail him dead, dead. September 21, 1881. 147 THE END. F H 1 6 ^^^ ,-1°*. . .♦ "sr* ><5 ;*• .^'^ ■ov 400 . jP-nK • ^^..s* "o -^^.^ ,4 o,. « ^. *^^5* .-f^ ^o. **^ s .^^'^ ''Wms .'^'■''^^ ''mms j''^ cP\* 4> O^t^* ^. - -^ov* • ^-i-' ,.'i>j^.t'. ^-fe_ rp* ..r^L* , .:^- "•^ ^*^.,. '- ^> . 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