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THE ROMANCE OF THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 BY 
 
 DAVID SKAATS FOSTER 
 i2mo, price $1.00. 
 
 "There is romance between the covers of this book and the 
 1 unexpected ' is found." — Evening Wisconsin. 
 
 " A pleasant book to while away odd, half-drowsy minutes in 
 a long journey by rail." — Chicago Times. 
 
 " Suggests Bret Harte's happiest vein." — Brentano's Book Chat. 
 
 " The ' Noah's Ark ' is a pleasing and touching narrative." — 
 Westminster Review \ London. 
 
 " Mr. Foster's book has the elements of popularity and suc- 
 cess."— Utica Herald. 
 
 11 Of marked beauty and tenderness." — Lynn Transcript. 
 
 " Full of a gentle pathos and again of a quaint humor which 
 is very pleasant."— Toledo Blade. 
 
 " Mr. Foster shows rare skill and ingenuity, .... leading the 
 reader into ambush, as it were, to be surprised with a pun or whimsical 
 turn of thought." — Cincinnati Times. 
 
 " I have taken honest pleasure in many of its pieces." — Edmund C. 
 Sted?nan. 
 
 11 In a tender and appreciative style." — Indianapolis Journal. 
 
 " I have been much pleased with many of the lines as well as the plots 
 of ' The Romance of the Unexpected.' " — Will Carleton. 
 
 "As a whole, the poems show a true ear, a sweetness and purity of 
 thought and poetic gifts which make us await with interest what he may 
 do in the future." — New York Independent. 
 
 " l Mariquita,' the story of a rich and coquettish young widow, who 
 is pleased to masquerade as a poor dependent before her lover, and make 
 him elope with her to escape the persecution of a pair of mythical fierce 
 uncles, instead of getting married in the usual way, is, perhaps, the gem 
 of the book." — St. Louis Republican. 
 
 " Some of the fancies very sweet and tender, and some of them very 
 playful and sunny." — Chicago Times. 
 
 " The gentleness of feeling, the playful humor, and the frequent grace 
 of expression, by which the book is marked." — William Winter. 
 
 " But the writer's animal spirits, and his genuine, hearty sympathy 
 with old things that have dear associations, — these are his most character- 
 istic traits." — Boston Register. 
 
 " The k Noah's Ark ' is abitof genuine sentiment." — Chicago Journal. 
 
 "....' Each of them, or at least those which impressed me 
 most vividly, containing a story, charmingly and piquantly told. I have 
 especially in mind ' Noah's Ark,' ' Mariquita,' ' The Magic Mirror,' and 
 the ' Tight-Rope Dancer,' each of which is, in the best sense, a metrical 
 romance." — H. H. Boyesen. 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
Rebecca the Witch 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER TALES IN METRE 
 
 BY 
 
 DAVID SKAATS FOSTER 
 
 & 
 
 SECOND EDITION OF " THE ROMANCE OF THE UNEXPECTED, REVISED 
 AND ENLARGED. 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 %\z ^nichcrbother |)rfss 
 
 Ii 
 
 

 t 
 
 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 DAVID SKAATS FOSTER 
 1888 
 
 Press of 
 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 
 New York 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Rebecca the Witch i 
 
 Jansen and Philip 36 
 
 'The Noah's Ark 55 
 
 \Mariquita 64 
 
 The Old Spinning-Wheel . . . . . 68 
 
 Summer Thoughts 71 
 
 Galatea 72 
 
 The Reading of the Tale 73 
 
 The Portrait 74 
 
 The Cricket 75 
 
 The Rose 76 
 
 The Voices of the Wood 77 
 
 An Autumn Fancy 78 
 
 A Winter Fancy 79 
 
 At Break of Day 80 
 
 The Haunted House 82 
 
 Santa Trinidad 84 
 
 Then and Now 87 
 
 The Old, Old Home 89 
 
 My Friend 91 
 
 At Alden's 93 
 
 On the Death of a Child Four Years Old . . 96 
 
 The Unknowable •• 99 
 
 The Old Swing 102 
 
 When the Heavens Were Near .... 104 
 
 Shadows 106 
 
 iii 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Magic Mirror 108 
 
 Thalia 116 
 
 Christmas 118 
 
 My Novel 121 
 
 Midnight 124 
 
 The Game of Chess ■ 126 
 
 Paquita 128 
 
 Mendelssohn's " Lieder Ohne Worte " . . .133 
 
 A Castle in New England 136 
 
 The Last Day of Summer 139 
 
 The Sisters 141 
 
 The Ocean 143 
 
 The River 144 
 
 The Castle by the Sea 145 
 
 The Mohawk Valley, from Richfield Hill . . 146 
 
 The Gorge 147 
 
 Twilight 148 
 
 The Fountain 149 
 
 The Shell 150 
 
 Valeska 151 
 
 Dusk 152 
 
 The Wind in the Trees 154 
 
 The Oak Wood 156 
 
 John Wentworth's Will 157 
 
 A Pantomime 162 
 
 Jack's Letter to Bob 165 
 
 Madeline on Base-Ball 168 
 
 Sitting on the Stair 170 
 
 The Boston Girl 172 
 
 The Death-Bed of Mrs. O'Flaherty . . . 174 
 The Beautiful Tight-Rope Dancer . . .175 
 
 How They Paid the Church Debt at Smithville, 178 
 The Ballad of Campanini de Lancy . . .181 
 
 An Angel 183 
 
 A Song of Sixpence 186 
 
 Jonathan Blake's Clock 189 
 
 " The Luck of George McClure " . . . .195 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 IN FIVE PARTS. 
 
 I. The Arrest. 
 
 II. The Examination. 
 III. Strange Doings. 
 IV. The Ghost. 
 
 V. The Compact. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 THE ARREST. 
 
 I. 
 
 ON a quiet hazy morning, 
 Glorious morning of September, 
 In the year which doomed the witches, 
 
 Sixteen hundred ninety-two, 
 Lay the little town of Salem, 
 Still and peaceful as the forest 
 
 In its dress of autumn hue ; 
 Lay the quaint old town of Salem, 
 Still and peaceful as the harbor 
 Which the homely hamlet circled 
 
 With an arm of burnished blue. 
 
 II. 
 
 With its weather-beaten houses, 
 Framed of solid oaken timbers, 
 Straight and primitive and gabled, 
 Sparsely scattered round the bay; 
 
 3 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 Each with one square ponderous chimney, 
 And its doors and windows, staring 
 
 In a Puritanic way ; 
 Sleepy, grave, and rusty seemed it, 
 Like a small old English sea town, 
 Very different from the noisy, 
 
 Thriving city of to-day. 
 
 III. 
 
 Crag and torrent, hill and marshland, 
 Salem's stony farms surrounded, 
 Walls of dense primeval forest 
 
 Girt them like an iron band. 
 Where the wharves now line the water, 
 With their buildings and the great ships, — 
 
 With their ships from every land, — 
 Floated small and curious vessels, 
 English vessels, queer and ghostlike ; 
 And with skiff and cabin dotted, 
 
 Stretched a circling beach of sand. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Save the thin blue smoke that upward 
 Eddied from the great square chimneys, 
 At that early hour of morning, 
 
 All was motionless and still. 
 Homely peace and calm contentment 
 O'er the hamlet seemed to hover, 
 
 Like the mist above the hill. 
 Not a hint was there of conflict 
 With the fearful hordes of Satan, 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 Of the vague fear which infected 
 Staunchest heart and stoutest will. 
 
 V. 
 Yet, the archfiend's deadliest volleys 
 On the goodly town had thundered, 
 Many a witch had signed the compact, 
 
 With her name's ensanguined red. 
 Twenty witches to the gallows, 
 Fifty more to rack and dungeon, 
 
 Had this evil frenzy led. 
 Saintly deacons, spotless matrons, 
 High and low, alike had yielded, 
 No one knew what man was guilty, 
 
 Still the dark plot thrived and spread. 
 
 VI. 
 And a scene of that strange drama, 
 Even now, upon this glorious 
 Autumn morning, was enacted 
 
 Ere the day had well begun, 
 For a warrant had been issued, 
 On complaint of divers persons, 
 
 Good and true men, every one, 
 That the youthful witch, Rebecca, 
 Might be found and apprehended, 
 Might be questioned of her witchcraft 
 
 Ere the setting of the sun. 
 
 VII. 
 On the road which led toward Rowley, 
 Northward, half a league from Salem, 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 Rose a homely ivied dwelling, 
 
 On the outskirts of the wood, — 
 Rose a plain, one-storied dwelling, 
 With a lowly, sagging gable, 
 
 Moss o'er-grown, and rusty hued, 
 And a door between two windows, 
 Like the faces drawn by children ; — 
 And three cloaked and stately strangers, 
 On this morn, before it stood. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 They were men of grave demeanor, 
 Grave and stern and Puritanic, 
 Officers of law and justice, 
 
 Acting in King William's name. 
 From the door-way gazed a young girl 
 With a look of childish wonder, 
 
 And a white-haired, trembling dame, 
 Like a very witch of Endor, 
 Stood and barred the way before them, 
 With defiant word and gesture, 
 
 And a glance like scorching flame. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But the doughty marshall Herrick, 
 Foremost of those grave intruders, 
 Grew impatient and the good wife, 
 
 With a sombre scowl, surveyed. 
 From his path he lightly thrust her, 
 And his heavy staff of office, 
 
 With a threatening gesture swayed. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 In his hand he held the warrant, 
 And he read with sombre accents, 
 Read the warrant which empowered him 
 To arrest the sinful maid. 
 
 X. 
 
 Of the two, old goody Proctor 
 Fitter seemed for deeds of witchcraft, 
 But the court had made no error, 
 
 As this curious tale will show. 
 Small and slender was Rebecca, 
 Small and active, sometimes seeming 
 
 Almost like a child, although 
 Kindly suns of seventeen summers 
 Had each outline gently rounded, 
 And to little neck, and forehead 
 
 Given their rich and swarthy glow. 
 
 XI. 
 
 In the Oriental outline 
 
 Of her little nose, the arches 
 
 Of her black malicious eyebrows, 
 
 And her proud lip's curve and swell, 
 There was something strange and elflike, 
 And her dark eyes shone with trembling 
 
 Light, like an enchanted well. 
 Gypsy locks, black, wild, and tangled, 
 Nestled in her neck and bosom ; 
 On her brown face cast their shadows, 
 
 Touched it with a witchlike spell. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Thus, we have Rebecca's portrait ; 
 Roughly drawn and quickly fashioned, 
 As the silhouettes from paper, 
 
 Deftly cut in days of old, — 
 Of the Puritanic maiden, 
 Type of primness and decorum, 
 
 Type of nature, fair and cold, 
 As Rebecca was the image 
 Of an implike grace and beauty, 
 Of a dream's unearthly fancies 
 
 Caught and pressed in human mold. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Several years before, in Salem, 
 All at once, as if by magic, 
 Had the little black-eyed maiden 
 
 And the ancient dame appeared. 
 None knew whence they came or wherefore ; 
 'T was a dark enigma, shrouded 
 
 In a shadow strange and weird. 
 On some small, mysterious stipend, 
 They had lived apart from Salem ; 
 Lived a life of deep seclusion, 
 
 By all good folk shunned and feared. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 With a brown hand making shadow 
 For her eyes, Rebecca stood there, 
 Stood there, with the wild locks blowing 
 Round her small fantastic head. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 It was proof, perhaps of witchcraft, 
 That her glance was proud and mocking 
 
 As she heard the warrant read. 
 And the final word she greeted 
 With a peal of merry laughter, 
 Whereat Herrick's look grew threatening, 
 
 But Rebecca lightly said : 
 
 XV. 
 
 " I will go with you to Salem, 
 Valiant conquerors of women ! 
 But for court and law, I care not ; 
 
 Bolts and dungeons, what are they, 
 To a witch who hath a broomstick ? 
 Witches have strange arts, and look ye, 
 
 Lest ye feel their power some day ! " 
 At this bold, irreverent answer 
 Marshal Herrick scowled and trembled, 
 Cried in wrath : " Good Fenwick seize her ! 
 
 Drag the little witch away ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Hold ! " exclaimed the silent stranger, 
 
 Who had stood apart, inactive ; 
 
 " Hold ! " cried he, with voice imperious, 
 
 And a gesture of command. 
 " Fenwick ! look ye to the beldame ! 
 And most worthy marshal Herrick ! 
 
 Bulwark of this sin-cursed land ! 
 
IO REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 Search ye well the house ! for haply, 
 There be proofs of guilt, and meanwhile 
 I will lead the witch to Salem, 
 Place her in the gaoler's hand." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Tall and graceful was the speaker, 
 Tall and upright, like a soldier ; 
 Handsome was his face, yet darkened 
 
 By a grave and thoughtful frown. 
 And his great top-boots, and gauntlets, 
 Leathern belt, and iron sword-hilt, 
 
 And his cloak of rusty brown, — 
 All contrasted very strangely 
 With the velvet trunks and doublet, 
 With his lace, and stiff-starched ruffles, 
 
 And the hat with steeple crown. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Captain in the governor's forces, 
 He had lately brought a message 
 From the governor, who was absent, 
 
 Fighting Indians up in Maine, 
 To Sir William, acting governor, 
 And chief justice of the witch court, 
 
 In this year of William's reign ; 
 And had lodged with him at Salem, 
 Given him aid, and given him counsel, 
 So that witches well might tremble 
 
 At the name of Renald Fane. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. II 
 
 XIX. 
 
 With his little captive, Renald 
 Went toward Salem, lost in weighty 
 Self-communing, while Rebecca, 
 
 At his side, or in advance, 
 Tripped with step so light and airy, 
 That its motion seemed like music, — 
 
 Seemed a sort of goblin dance ; 
 Now and then, at stolen moments, 
 O'er her shoulder looking backward, 
 And his thoughtful face regarding 
 
 With a swift and mocking glance. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And, when Renald's eyes would linger, 
 Linger sometimes, in abstraction, 
 On the childish head and shoulders, 
 
 With their quaint, defiant air, — 
 On the slender, sinuous figure, 
 Or the little brown ears, peering 
 
 From her wild and lustrous hair, — 
 Doubtless, then, he asked, in wonder, 
 If 't were all a mask and semblance, 
 If the archfiend might have empire 
 
 O'er a form so young and fair, 
 
 XXI. 
 Which, to him, embodied nothing 
 But the innocence and gladness 
 Of a sweet New England maiden. 
 Then, perhaps, with sudden change, 
 
12 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 Would those great dark eyes regard him, 
 And their ghostly incantation 
 
 All his wisest thoughts derange. 
 Face and form resumed their witchcraft. 
 Was it truth ? or was it fancy ? 
 In his heart he felt it working, 
 
 Working, with an influence strange. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 At the meeting of the cross-roads, 
 Doubtless by this charm o'er mastered, 
 Renald paused, and thus addressed her : 
 
 " By this sword ! it shall not be ! 
 Yonder lies the road to Boston, 
 Hasten ! there, alone, is safety ! 
 
 Little maiden thou art free ! 
 Seek the house of Nathan Sargent ! 
 There shalt thou have rest and welcome, 
 Welcome, harbor, and concealment, 
 
 For the love he bears to me." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Not so ! " answered him Rebecca ; 
 
 " That would only prove me guilty ; 
 I am no small craven, fearful 
 
 Of a judge's word or frown, 
 Let me stand the trial fairly ! 
 For a harmless little maiden, 
 
 In this court of great renown, 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 1 3 
 
 Nothing has to fear or suffer." 
 " Let it be so, then ! " said Renald. 
 And they turned, and walked in silence 
 Till they came to Salem town. 
 
 THE EXAMINATION. 
 
 I. 
 
 On that autumn day, the twilight 
 Stealing through the small-paned windows 
 Of the sombre court-house, dimly 
 
 Lighted up the great square room. 
 Ne'er before had been such concourse 
 At the Salem witchcraft trials. 
 
 And the hour's mysterious gloom 
 Filled each heart with fearful fancies, 
 Filled the court with ghostly shadows, 
 Made the rafters and the cross-beams 
 
 Strange fantastic shapes assume. 
 
 II. 
 
 At the solid oaken table, 
 With the magistrates of Salem, 
 Sat a man of sombre feature, 
 
 Look severe, and iron frame, — 
 Sat the chief judge, old Sir William. 
 Soldier, magistrate, and statesman, 
 
14 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 With a zeal like burning flame 
 He had fought 'neath Marlborough's banner, 
 Tricked the Indians, hung the witches, 
 Spread the Bible at the sword's point, 
 
 All in his good sovereign's name. 
 
 III. 
 
 In the black cloak, velvet garments, 
 Ruff, laced band, and silken skull-cap ; 
 In the face, square-jawed and massive ; 
 
 Grizzled locks, and peaked beard, 
 Well the Puritan, the iron, 
 Stern, relentless persecutor 
 
 Of the Devil's hosts, appeared. 
 When, with Hale's reports before him, 
 He had grasped his solid sword-cane, 
 Scowled with frown of deadly import, — 
 
 Then had witches quaked and feared. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Though it seemed as if ne never 
 Had been aught but the resentful, 
 Dark enthusiast, there were whispers 
 
 Of a time when 't was not so. 
 'T was a tale of love and sorrow, 
 Love and coldness and desertion, 
 
 Shrouded in the " long ago," 
 When his locks than night were darker, 
 When he first, in Charles' employment, 
 Landed in that rock-girt province, 
 
 Land of forest, land of snow. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 1 5 
 
 V. 
 
 With Sir William, it was rumored, 
 There had come a mystic stranger, — 
 Come a young girl, with the tender 
 
 Beauty of some Latin race. 
 *T was the story, oft repeated, 
 Of a maiden's foolish fondness, 
 
 Of her sorrow and disgrace. 
 For in time his stern ambition 
 Steeled his heart as with a cuirass, 
 And he turned in cruel coldness 
 
 From the fair and tearful face. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then he sailed again for England, 
 And the stranger strangely vanished, 
 No one knew what fate she suffered, 
 
 Or, if known, 't was never told. 
 This was he, the iron-hearted, 
 In whose presence stood Rebecca, 
 
 Like a sprite in human mold. 
 Well his heart might then have softened 
 Towards the little friendless maiden, 
 With the haunting recollection 
 
 Of that sweet sad face of old. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Several hours had swiftly vanished 
 In that grave examination, 
 Which the old chief judge had opened, 
 Opened thus, with solemn air : 
 
1 6 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 " Thou dost stand accused of witchcraft, 
 Of strange arts, of league and compact 
 
 Made with Satan, now, declare 
 Names of all thy dark familiars ! 
 Names of persons thou hast injured ! 
 And, if hellish feast or concourse 
 
 Thou hast joined, say when and where ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But, these words of fearful import, 
 Not affirming, not denying, 
 Lightly had Rebecca answered, 
 
 Answered, with fantastic mien, 
 Old Sir William's scowl returning 
 With the pretty scorn and malice 
 
 Of a captive elfin queen. 
 Like a thing of dream or fancy, 
 Some sweet picture, or vague poem, 
 Out of place, she seemed to stand there, 
 
 In that stern and gloomy scene. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Now and then the grave assemblage 
 Had been touched and had been softened 
 By her voice, sweet-toned and pleasant, 
 
 By her childish words and ways, 
 By her face's sad expression, 
 As she, through the half -raised window, 
 
 Looked, with far-off tender gaze, 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 1 7 
 
 At the clouds and at the sunlight, 
 At the woods, and hills, and meadows, 
 Which had been the sole companions 
 Of her childhood's lonely days. 
 
 X. 
 
 But this mask of grace and sweetness, 
 
 Mask of beauty, fair and gentle, 
 
 While they gazed, would often vanish, — 
 
 Vanish like a flash of light. 
 Then her eyes grew strange and starlike, 
 Look and gesture seemed fantastic, 
 
 And her wild locks black as night. 
 Some mysterious force had changed her, 
 To an ugly brown-faced wizard, 
 And they rubbed their eyes and wondered, — 
 
 Wondered if they saw aright. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then had witnesses come forward. 
 With their several depositions : 
 One had seen her in the forest, 
 
 Bending o'er a crystal well, 
 Making faces in the water, 
 Talking to her own reflection, 
 
 As beneath some devilish spell. 
 Deacon Cloyse had heard her singing, 
 To their sweet and pious psalm-tunes, 
 Words outlandish, strange, and sinful, 
 
 Words whose sense no man might tell. 
 
1 8 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Heard her singing, with irreverent, 
 Nasal twang, the sweet and saintly- 
 Hymns of Sternhold and of Hopkins, 
 
 Hymns of quaint and good renown. 
 Once Rebecca, with her demon 
 Of a great black cat before her, 
 
 Had been found by Mistress Brown, 
 Holding meeting in the wood-shed, 
 With this great black fiend for preacher, 
 In derision of the godly 
 
 Minister of Salem town. 
 
 XIII. 
 Goodman Pope had once been startled 
 By a strange and witchlike laughter, 
 As he passed, one day in summer, 
 
 Though the forest, dim and still ; 
 Here and there its mocking cadence 
 From the air above had led him, 
 
 Stumbling, groping on, until 
 Looking up he saw Rebecca 
 In a great oak tree, whose climbing 
 Spoke of witchcraft, and betokened 
 
 More than human strength and skill. 
 
 XIV. 
 Stranger things were then related : 
 Doves would perch upon her shoulder ; 
 All the dwellers of the forest 
 Answer to her mystic call. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 1 9 
 
 Not alone had brute creation 
 Owned her sinful fascination, 
 
 For the maidens, one and all, 
 Had remarked the furtive glances 
 Of the young men as they passed her. 
 With her eyes she had bewitched them, 
 
 Had bewitched them, big and small. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Then had marshal Herrick spoken 
 
 Of Rebecca's apprehension, 
 
 Of her threats and bold irreverence ; 
 
 How his search had brought to light 
 Certain damning evidences, 
 Such as philters, divers broomsticks 
 
 Worn with many an airy flight, 
 Dolls or puppets pierced with needles,— 
 These and other tools of witchcraft, 
 Such as made her guilt apparent, 
 
 Made her guilt seem black as night. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Thus, with evening, had Rebecca's 
 
 Long examination ended. 
 
 " *T is enough," the old chief justice 
 
 Sternly cried ; " the court decrees, 
 That the prisoner stand committed 
 To the prison here in Salem, 
 
 Till such time when it shall please 
 This high court to give her trial. 
 Many a witch has decked the gallows, 
 
20 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 Many a witch in flames has perished, 
 On less weighty proofs than these." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then Rebecca, for a moment 
 Seeming, by her look and gesture, 
 Lost in some wild invocation, 
 
 Raised her brown, defiant head ; 
 Dark and proud and strangely fearless, 
 From those awe-struck men and women, 
 
 From the solemn court was led. 
 Near the door stood Captain Renald, 
 And she turned and looked upon him, 
 But his face was cold and silent, 
 
 As the faces of the dead. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Darkness came ; in Salem prison 
 
 Sat the little witch Rebecca, — 
 
 Sat with head bent down and hidden, 
 
 In the dark and narrow cell. 
 Like a figure carved in marble 
 Seemed she, as the gaoler left her, — 
 
 As the gaoler fastened well 
 Door and bar of oak and iron, 
 That no fiend nor imp might enter, 
 That no word nor aid might reach her 
 
 From the subtile powers of hell. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 21 
 
 STRANGE DOINGS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Great excitement and commotion 
 Reigned in Salem's homely households, 
 Knots of good men met and lingered, 
 
 Lingered till the hour grew late, 
 On the green, and at the cross-roads, 
 In the ordinary's guest-room, 
 
 And with words of solemn weight, 
 Discoursed of the witch Rebecca. 
 Spoke of fiends and apparitions, 
 Spoke of league, and plot, and onslaught, 
 
 Dangerous to church and state. 
 
 II. 
 
 For, with recent days, had witchcraft 
 In most curious ways developed, 
 With a dark and wondrous fancy, 
 
 Most unheard of and unknown. 
 Now, indeed ! seemed evil rampant, 
 Now to its appalling zenith, 
 
 Had the archfiend's boldness grown. 
 Twice of late his apparition 
 Over truth and law had triumphed ; 
 Twice the godly ranks, embattled, 
 
 Into fear and rout had thrown. 
 
22 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 III. 
 
 Goody Good, a witch, arrested 
 Late upon the night preceding, 
 Straightway to Sir William's presence, 
 
 Closely watched and pinioned fast, 
 In the great room of the old house 
 Built by saintly Roger Williams, 
 
 Strongly built in days long past, 
 Had been led, there being present, 
 Renald Fane, stout Colonel Pyncheon, 
 And three more, and had been questioned 
 
 Of her deeds, from first to last. 
 
 IV. 
 
 When — as if by magic, quickly 
 
 All the lights had been extinguished, 
 
 Chairs danced up and down like demons, 
 
 Dreadful cries and groans arose, 
 On the shoulders of those present 
 Rained a shower of grievous buffets, 
 
 Shower of superhuman blows. 
 Then it ceased, fresh lights were gotten, 
 And behold ! the witch had vanished. 
 How and where ? no man might answer ; 
 
 Human search could not disclose. 
 
 V. 
 
 On the night before, still stranger 
 And more mystic things had happened. 
 Sergeant Haynes and Master Fenwick, 
 Men of metal true and good, 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 2$ 
 
 Had arrested old dame Partridge, 
 And, the wrinkled witch conducting, 
 
 Came, at dark, through Topsneld wood. 
 They were speaking, as they journeyed, 
 Speaking words of grace and wisdom, 
 When, behold ! a dark-faced stranger 
 
 Suddenly before them stood. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Leaped upon them, like the lightning, 
 Ere their swords had left the scabbards 
 Aud with storm of wondrous buffets 
 
 All resistance overcame, 
 So that through the forest, headlong, 
 Filled with terror, they were driven, 
 
 And behold ! the wrinkled dame, 
 So, at least, said worthy Fenwick, 
 Changed into a beauteous maiden, — N 
 Changed, and vanished with the Devil, 
 
 In a cloud of smoke and flame. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Strong men trembled, as they listened 
 
 To these tales of direful magic, 
 
 Yet, the strange narration held them, 
 
 Held them with a mystic power, 
 Till the night grew late, and fearful 
 Of the fiend that walks in shadow, 
 
 Seeking whom he may devour, 
 One by one they hastened homeward, 
 One by one the lighted windows 
 
24 REBECCA THE WITCH, 
 
 Faded out into the darkness, 
 
 And 't was near the eleventh hour. 
 
 VIII. 
 And the gaoler heard a rattling, 
 Heard a loud, sonorous knocking 
 At the prison gates, and opening 
 
 Bar and bolt with trembling hand, 
 Saw the form of old Sir William, 
 In his great black cloak enveloped, 
 
 Spectre-like before him stand. 
 " With Rebecca, speech is needful, 
 Lead me straightway to her presence ! 
 Deep and stern his accents sounded, 
 
 And it seemed a strange command. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But in Salem's narrow dungeons 
 Many a witch had he exhorted, 
 Many a witch in secret questioned, 
 
 And the gaoler straight obeyed, — 
 Led him to Rebecca's chamber, 
 Left him there, to conjure Satan 
 
 From the sinful little maid. 
 Time went on, and all was silent, 
 When, at last, the honest gaoler 
 Came, to find why old Sir William 
 t In the dungeon thus delayed. 
 
 X. 
 
 Lo ! Rebecca's cell was vacant, 
 All the prison doors were open ; 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 2% 
 
 Once again, had witchcraft triumphed. 
 
 Like a fire the tidings spread. 
 In the Roger Williams mansion 
 Old Sir William was discovered 
 
 Snoring in his four-post bed ; 
 There for hours he had been sleeping, 
 Caring naught for witch or devil ; 
 So, at least, his guest and lodger, 
 
 Captain Fane, there present, said. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Morning came ; all Salem wakened 
 To this fact of solemn import : 
 To its wildest consummation 
 
 Had the power of witchcraft grown, 
 When the Fiend thus masqueraded 
 In the form and cloth of Justice, 
 
 To defend and save his own. 
 Fear upon all men descended, 
 And they walked more circumspectly, 
 Shunned the darkness and the shadow, 
 
 Went not forth at night, alone. 
 
 THE GHOST. 
 
 I. 
 
 Large and stately was the old house 
 Where Sir William lodged, at Salem ; 
 
26 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 *T was the Roger Williams mansion, 
 
 Built in sixteen thirty-three, — 
 Built of solid sash and portals, 
 Brick and glass and oaken timbers, 
 Brought by ships across the sea. 
 'T was a grave, substantial building, 
 With a single, great, square chimney, 
 And each end was darkly shadowed 
 By a giant linden tree. 
 
 II. 
 
 Though its shingled sides and gables 
 Were with moss and mould encumbered, 
 Well its timbers had resisted 
 
 Half a century's decay, 
 And each long and low framed story 
 O'er the one beneath projected 
 
 In the old-time, curious way. 
 At the meeting of the cross-roads, 
 Stood it, like some veteran landmark, 
 Like an old Cromwellian soldier, 
 
 Battle-scarred and weather-gray. 
 
 III. 
 
 All its rooms seemed cold and gloomy, 
 With their rows of small-paned windows, 
 And their low, bare, cross-beamed ceilings, 
 
 Darkly stained with fire and smoke. 
 In the great reception chamber, 
 And the dimly lighted hallway, 
 
 Panelled with worm-eaten oak, 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 2J 
 
 Sternly scowled, from dingy portraits, 
 Divers grave New England worthies, 
 Endicotts and Smiths and Winthrops, 
 Clad in cuirass, gown, or cloak. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Backward from the larger structure 
 Ran a gabled wing, connected 
 With the mansion by a stairway 
 
 And a passage dark, whose door, 
 Had been ever barred and bolted, 
 Since the death of some fair lady, 
 
 Who had lived there years before. 
 For this wing, some said, was haunted ; 
 In its bare and distant chambers 
 Lights had sometimes gleamed, and footsteps 
 
 Sounded on the creaking floor. 
 
 V. 
 
 'T was a sad and rusty mansion, 
 Filled with rich and sombre memories, 
 Memories which took shape and substance 
 
 When the storm-winds and the rain 
 Blustered down the great square chimney, 
 Made the doors and windows rattle, 
 
 Made each timber creak and strain ; 
 Or when floods of trembling moonlight 
 Floated in the great bare chambers, 
 And the linden's ghostly fingers 
 
 Seemed to knock upon the pane. 
 
28 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Still more sombre, now, and dreary, 
 Stood the old house, for Sir William, 
 Since the night in which Rebecca 
 
 Had been spirited away, — 
 Stricken with a grievous illness, 
 In a grim and fearful humor, 
 
 In his great dark chamber lay. 
 Though he often thus had suffered, 
 In this sudden visitation, 
 All men saw the hand of Satan, 
 
 Saw and trembled with dismay. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Days had vanished, and his sickness, 
 
 Which before had always mended 
 
 With such length of time, seemed graver ; 
 
 'T was a night of leaden skies, 
 Night of darkness, flood, and tempest ; 
 In each corner of the old house, 
 
 Strangest noises seemed to rise : 
 From the locked and distant gable 
 Came the sound of sledge-like pounding, 
 Sound of doors that shut and opened, 
 
 Strangest sobs, and shrieks, and sighs. 
 
 VIII. 
 It was midnight, and the sick man, 
 Reading in his great oak bedstead, 
 By a flick'ring lamp, which dimly 
 Lighted the vast chamber's gloom, 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 29 
 
 Seemed to hear along the passage, — 
 Hear upon the creaking stairway, 
 
 Hear through each resounding room — 
 Rustling as of silken garments, 
 Ghostly, slow-approaching footsteps, 
 As of that fair lady, long since 
 
 Sleeping in the narrow tomb. 
 
 IX. 
 
 O'er the square and massive fireplace, 
 Facing toward the open door-way, 
 Hung a dim, old-fashioned mirror, 
 
 In a frame of tarnished gold, — 
 Hung a dingy, wondrous mirror, 
 Of whose mystic power and history 
 
 Dark and curious things were told ; 
 For, at certain times and seasons, 
 He, who in it gazed, was startled 
 By some pallid face, or semblance, 
 
 Long departed, and, behold ! 
 
 X. 
 
 As the glance of old Sir William 
 Rested on the magic mirror, 
 O'er its surface came a shadow, 
 
 Changing in a moment's space, 
 To the dim and ghostly semblance 
 Of a dark-haired Eastern maiden, 
 
 With a swarthy, oval face, 
 
30 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 And a form of graceful outline, 
 In a quaint, old-fashioned bodice, 
 Bodice of long-faded satin, 
 
 Stiff with gems and edged with lace. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And the old man's look grew ghastly, 
 For the phantom was Giuditta — 
 Was Giuditta, wronged and martyred 
 
 In the thoughtless days of yore ; 
 She whose dark, reproachful glances 
 And imploring words were written 
 
 In his heart, forevermore. 
 From the dingy mirror, slowly 
 Faded out the shadowy likeness, 
 And a vague and rustling figure 
 
 Seemed to pass the chamber door. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Three times came that wondrous vision, 
 Came and passed, and then Sir William 
 Found his voice, and, filled with frenzy, 
 
 Shrieked that long-forgotten name, 
 So that Captain Fane, awakened 
 By his wild and fearful outcry, 
 
 Hurrying to his chamber, came. 
 Strangely taciturn and quiet, 
 Lost in sombre thought, he found him, 
 Found his malady increasing 
 
 Like a burning, inward flame. 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 3 1 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Morning dawned, all day he labored 
 With a dark and strange chimera : 
 For the curious doubt had entered 
 
 In his once cold, fearless mind, 
 Whether all his state and wisdom 
 Were not like the flower that withereth, 
 
 Were not like the empty wind ; 
 Whether, really, in his frenzied 
 Persecution of the witches, 
 He had acted for the glory 
 
 Of the Saviour of mankind. 
 
 THE COMPACT. 
 
 I. 
 
 In those troublous days, near Salem 
 Lived a white-haired, saintly preacher, 
 Samuel Hale, a man of learning, 
 
 And of fearless will and thought. 
 He alone of all his fellows 
 Had not joined the witchcraft outcry. 
 
 He alone had set at naught 
 All those fearful evidences, 
 And had boldly said that witchcraft 
 Was a thing of air, a shadow 
 
 From disordered fancies wrought. 
 
32 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 II. 
 
 For these things he then was resting 
 'Neath Sir William's stern displeasure, 
 Though he had been known and honored 
 
 By that great judge many a year. 
 Strangely, now, to him Sir William 
 Turned in his dark desolation, 
 
 In this hour of shadowy fear. 
 And the old man, quickly summoned, 
 Came without a moment's parley, 
 Came as though he had been waiting 
 
 For the summons to appear. 
 
 III. 
 
 With the sick man long he tarried, 
 
 Tarried till the grim old justice 
 
 Was subdued and calmed and softened 
 
 By his godly words and ways. 
 Near his bed there lay an order 
 For a witches execution, — 
 
 Lay an order which for days 
 Had his hand and seal awaited, 
 And behold ! as if enchanted, 
 Suddenly he seized and flung it 
 
 In the hearth fire's smouldering blaze. 
 
 IV 
 Then he told the reverend preacher, 
 Of that fearful apparition ; 
 Told the story of Giuditta, 
 
 How in youth and beauty's glow 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 33 
 
 He had robbed her from her father, 
 Old Bersezio, by a secret 
 
 Marriage, which no man might show ; 
 How they fled across the ocean, 
 How at last he spurned and left her, 
 Like a fragile rose, to perish 
 
 In that land of rock and snow. 
 
 V. 
 
 As he ceased, the good-man answered 
 With an accent strangely fervent : 
 " In thy power there is atonement, 
 
 Though a mournful one, at best. 
 Thou must own this secret marriage, 
 That thy lady's name no longer 
 
 'Neath a cruel stain may rest ; 
 That her slumber may be peaceful 
 In that dark and narrow chamber ; 
 That thy heart may be no longer 
 
 Haunted by its ghostly guest." 
 
 VI. 
 
 To this act of mournful justice 
 Eagerly the judge consented. 
 And to this effect a paper, 
 
 At his own express command, 
 By the reverend man was written. 
 And Sir William signed and sealed it, — 
 
 Sealed it with a trembling hand. 
 And the preacher's gray eyes twinkled 
 As he grasped the costly writing, 
 
34 REBECCA THE WITCH. 
 
 And he spoke, and told a story, 
 Like the tales of fairy land. 
 
 VII. 
 Told how this unhappy lady, 
 Dying in a land of strangers, 
 Had bequeathed a little daughter 
 
 To his care ; how he alone 
 Had possessed this weighty secret, 
 And his smiling charge entrusted 
 
 To an old and faithful crone ; 
 How, with her, the little maiden, 
 In a homely cottage hidden, 
 Ignorant of her name and station, 
 
 To a woman's years had grown. 
 
 VIII. 
 " Tell me that she lives — this maiden ! " 
 Cried Sir William, " that her mother's 
 Sufferings in her life may vanish, 
 
 In her joy be rectified ! " 
 But the good-man, naught responding, 
 Rose, and with an air mysterious, 
 
 From the shadow, deep and wide, 
 Of the massive four-post bedstead, 
 Led a dark-eyed, graceful maiden, 
 Led the little witch, Rebecca, 
 
 Smiling, to her father's side. 
 
 IX. 
 And the old man gazed in wonder, 
 For it was as if Giuditta 
 
REBECCA THE WITCH. 35 
 
 Had been brought to life — translated 
 From that far and shadowy shore. 
 
 And a flood of recollections, 
 
 Flood of tenderness, swept o'er him — 
 Touched his heart's remotest core. 
 
 And he cried : " O child of Judith ! 
 
 Thou art come, like some sweet angel, 
 
 Come to be my staff and solace ; 
 Thou shalt leave me nevermore ! " 
 
 X. 
 
 " Not so ! " cried a voice, whose owner 
 Slowly stepped from out the darkness ; 
 " For her heart is steeped in witchcraft, 
 
 And a witch she will remain. 
 With the fiend she hath compacted, 
 And this fiend, who works in darkness, 
 
 Will his precious right maintain. 
 From a prison cell he freed her, 
 And for this, to her deliverer 
 She is bounden, and hath given 
 
 Her sweet self to Renald Fane." 
 
JANSEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 A TALE OF OLD NEW YORK. 
 
 "HP WAS in New York, a thriving town upon 
 
 * Manhattan Isle, 
 A town of twenty thousand souls, built in the old 
 
 Dutch style, 
 A town of customs long extinct, whose every sign 
 
 to-day 
 Has vanished, and whose very walls and streets 
 
 have passed away. 
 The year was seventeen seventy-six, a time when 
 
 classic lore 
 And ruffled shirts together went ; when our ances- 
 tors wore 
 Three-cornered hats and long-queued wigs and 
 
 buckles at the knee, 
 With velvet coats and satin vests, embroidered 
 
 wondrously ; 
 When debutantes and stately dames astounding 
 
 toilets made, 
 
 36 
 
JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 37 
 
 With powdered hair and great court hoops and 
 
 richly flowered brocade. 
 'T was in September, scattered round in harbor 
 
 and in bay, 
 With thirty thousand men aboard, the English 
 
 squadron lay. 
 The battle of Long Island had been fought and 
 
 had been lost, 
 And Washington from Brooklyn town at dead of 
 
 night had crossed. 
 His troops were cantoned in the streets ; along the 
 
 Boston road 
 From dawn to eve a surging stream of exiled wan- 
 derers flowed. 
 Pale faces and the clang of bells, the rolling of the 
 
 drum, 
 Showed that a crisis was at hand, and that the end 
 
 had come. 
 
 They had been friends for many a year, the heroes 
 
 of this tale, 
 And one was Jansen Schuyler, and the other Philip 
 
 Hale. 
 The Schuylers were among the first to join that 
 
 fearless band 
 Of patriots, and to link their fate to their adoptive 
 
 land. 
 They lived upon the Bowery road ; their stately 
 
 mansion bore 
 The Schuyler arms in bold relief above the wide 
 
 arched door, 
 
38 JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 And on its red-brick gabled front the curious fact 
 was told, 
 
 In iron figures quaintly wrought, that 't was a cen- 
 tury old. 
 
 The Hales could boast of long descent, of names of 
 grave renown, 
 
 And Philip's father long had held an office from 
 the crown. 
 
 Their mansion near the fortress stood, their for- 
 tunes were allied 
 
 To England's cause, their hearts and hopes were 
 on the Tory side. 
 
 Between the Hales and Schuylers, thus, the first 
 grave difference came, 
 
 And Jansen saw his friend no more, but filled with 
 warlike flame, 
 
 In freedom's conclave nightly sat, and marched 
 and drilled by day, 
 
 With that small band which Hamilton was forming 
 for the fray. 
 
 Though like in stature and in age, no eye could 
 
 mark or find 
 Similitude between the friends in face or heart or 
 
 mind. 
 The form of Jansen was erect ; he had the pride 
 
 and grace 
 Of a Norse Viking in his step and in his noble 
 
 face, 
 With its blond beard and fearless eyes of clear, 
 
 straightforward blue. 
 
JANSEN AND PHILIP. 39 
 
 His life was like his outward form, symmetrical 
 
 and true ; 
 For passion never swayed his heart, or made his 
 
 mind less clear. 
 He lived like that proud knight of France, without 
 
 reproach or fear. 
 Though Philip's face was dark and pale, and in 
 
 itself expressed 
 No beauty, yet his voice and smile a curious charm 
 
 possessed. 
 His nature was a medley, formed of contradictions 
 
 strange, 
 Of noble impulse and resolve, of swift and sudden 
 
 change. 
 Though often moved and led away by freaks and 
 
 passions strong, 
 His heart was swift to own its fault, to expiate the 
 
 wrong. 
 By Jansen's side he thought himself immeasurably 
 
 small ; 
 And ever leaned upon his friend as on a granite 
 
 wall. 
 
 There was a widow, Mistress Clarke, who lived in 
 
 modest ease 
 In her small villa, hidden quite among the rocks 
 
 and trees, 
 About a mile beyond the town. They called it 
 
 Falcon's Nest ; 
 5 T was near the site of Union Square, but farther 
 
 to the west. 
 
40 JANSEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 She had a child whom Philip loved, a maiden free 
 
 as air, 
 Who filled the place with magic charm, and made 
 
 it bright and fair. 
 They had been playmates from their youth, and 
 
 *t was their childish plan, 
 That Annie should be Philip's wife, when he be- 
 came a man. 
 She was a gentle, slender girl, brown-haired and 
 
 hazel-eyed, 
 With form and limbs which could not be ungrace- 
 ful, if she tried. 
 Her mind was pictured in her face by every smile 
 
 and look ; 
 One read it there as one might read a story from a 
 
 book. 
 Her voice was soft and musical, but most her 
 
 magic lay 
 In her quaint smile and in her eyes, which had a 
 
 curious way 
 Of looking upwards suddenly, and in their depths 
 
 the whole 
 Of her sweet thought revealing down into her very 
 
 soul. 
 Her kind heart never knew the pangs those eyes of 
 
 hers had cost, 
 For he who came within their spell and gazed too 
 
 long was lost. 
 
 Philip had often to his friend in glowing words 
 portrayed 
 
JANSEN AND PHILIP. 4I 
 
 The charms of face and mind which marked this 
 little sylvan maid ; 
 
 Had often brought them face to face, these friends 
 that he loved best. 
 
 A year had passed since Jansen first had come to 
 Falcon's Nest. 
 
 'T was an unlucky hour, an hour of strange, re- 
 lentless fate, 
 
 That time, when Philip's friend first passed the 
 little rustic gate. 
 
 In Jansen's words and Jansen's look a strange en- 
 chantment lay, 
 
 For Annie's breast was deeply moved, and when he 
 passed away 
 
 His voice and likeness lingered still, deep in her 
 bosom's core ; 
 
 She felt she ne'er had lived till then, had never 
 loved before. 
 
 And Jansen slept not all that night, but mourned 
 the curious fate 
 
 Which opened up a view of heaven, when it was all 
 too late. 
 
 But Jansen's heart was staunch and true, and Jan- 
 sen's will was strong, 
 
 And 'gainst this treachery to his friend he battled 
 well and long. 
 
 And Philip knew it not ; his eyes were closed to 
 every sign ; 
 
 He walked, unconscious of the truth, upon a burn- 
 ing mine. 
 
 He felt aggrieved when Jansen sought to shun that 
 dangerous snare. 
 
42 JANSEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 It seemed to him a strange dislike, and with a con- 
 stant care 
 
 He sought to reconcile his friends, and ever fanned 
 the flame 
 
 In Jansen's heart with Annie's praise, and so it 
 often came 
 
 That they three sat 'neath Annie's porch in even- 
 ing's fading light, 
 
 And watched the stars and listened to the voices of 
 the night. 
 
 And Philip marked not Annie's cheek, nor Annie's 
 heart-beats heard, 
 
 When her small hand in Jansen's hand lay like a 
 frightened bird. 
 
 'T was now a wild and lawless time ; an armed 
 
 mob scoured the town ; 
 Each day some luckless Royalist, some servant of 
 
 the crown, 
 Was seized and tried upon the charge of treason to 
 
 the State. 
 It was a dark September night, the hour was grow- 
 ing late, 
 When some one knocked at Jansen's door, with 
 
 loud, impatient din, 
 And Jansen came and drew the bars, and Philip 
 
 rushed within. 
 " The mob ! " he cried ; " they 've burned our 
 
 home ; their leaders thought to find 
 My father there ; and I escaped, and they are just 
 
 behind." 
 
JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 43 
 
 Breathless and trembling, there he stood, with torn, 
 
 disordered dress, 
 And Jansen swiftly barred the door, and from an 
 
 oaken press 
 Took down a dark, old-fashioned cloak, which oft 
 
 in rain and storm 
 Had sheltered him, and wrapped it well 'round 
 
 Philip's shivering form. 
 Then led him by the garden path to where his good 
 
 gray steed 
 Stood ready saddled in the stall, and bidding him 
 
 God-speed, 
 Flung wide the gate upon the moor, and like a flash 
 
 of light, 
 Upon the saddle Philip sprang and vanished in the 
 
 night. 
 
 The next day saw the town girt round by all the 
 British fleet, 
 
 Witnessed the landing of Lord Howe and Wash- 
 ington's retreat. 
 
 So swiftly drew the English lines around by sea 
 and land, 
 
 That there was scarcely time to fly, and one belated 
 band 
 
 Was saved alone by Aaron Burr, whose cool, un- 
 erring skill 
 
 Led them through by-ways, woods, and glens, and 
 over vale and hill, 
 
 And brought his column safely through beyond the 
 British line, 
 
44 JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 While yet Lord Howe at Murray Hill was sitting 
 
 o'er his wine. 
 Then came the fight of Harlem Heights, wherein 
 
 five thousand men 
 Of England's best marched up the hill and then 
 
 ran down again. 
 Six days the British held New York, and on the 
 
 seventh day 
 There rose a mighty fire which swept half of the 
 
 town away. 
 Starting at Whitehall Slip, it crossed upon the 
 
 Hudson side, 
 And burning northward, left a swath of ruin long 
 
 and wide : 
 A vast extent of smoking pyres, charred beams, and 
 
 blackened walls ; 
 No building west of Broadway stood, excepting old 
 
 Saint Paul's. 
 The maddened soldiers wreaked their hate alike on 
 
 friend and foe, 
 And thousands, driven from their homes, were hur- 
 rying to and fro, 
 With aimless steps and faces pale, and many a 
 
 wanderer found 
 No shelter but the Lord's blue sky, no pillow but 
 
 the ground. 
 
 Upon the evening of that day a girlish form in 
 
 white 
 Stood by the gate at Falcon's Nest and gazed into 
 
 the night. 
 
JANSEN AND PHILIP. 45 
 
 It was a dark and gusty eve, and still a sombre red 
 
 Far off above the smoking town across the sky was 
 spread. 
 
 The young girl's heart was strangely sad, her eyes 
 were filled with tears, 
 
 And all her soul perplexed and torn with vague and 
 gloomy fears. 
 
 She thought of all the homeless waifs that cruel fire 
 had made ; 
 
 She thought of Jansen far away, and bowed her 
 head and prayed. 
 
 There came a step, a shadow dark upon the path- 
 way fell, 
 
 And lo ! in his great bandit's cloak, that cloak she 
 knew so well, 
 
 She saw the form of Jansen stand before her tear- 
 dimmed eyes, 
 
 And with a little cry of joy, of wonder, and 
 surprise, 
 
 And that dear name upon her lips, of him that she 
 loved best, 
 
 She flung her arms about his neck, her head upon 
 his breast, 
 
 And poured out all her soul in wealth of loving 
 words until 
 
 Her heart was eased, and then she paused ; but he 
 was strangely still, 
 
 And starting back, she looked and saw a face un- 
 earthly pale — 
 
 Saw, wild and ashen as a ghost's, the face of Philip 
 Hale! 
 
46 JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 One moment — all his life crushed down, as by a 
 
 sudden blow — 
 Stood Philip trembling like a leaf, and swaying to 
 
 and fro. 
 Fair Annie sought in vain to speak ; she knew not 
 
 what to say ; 
 And Philip turned without a word and silent, passed 
 
 away. 
 
 While yet against the starless sky the smold'ring 
 city glowed, 
 
 There came the tramp of armed men upon the 
 Broadway road. 
 
 Northward they marched, a half a score of grena- 
 diers in red, 
 
 And in their midst, with pinioned arms, a captive 
 spy was led. 
 
 The papers found within his vest were signed by 
 Aaron Burr. 
 
 He had been dogged and pointed out by some offi- 
 cious cur, 
 
 And taken on the ferry stairs an hour before, and 
 now 
 
 They led their prize to Beekman house, the quar- 
 ters of Lord Howe. 
 
 They left the town and skirted then a small fresh- 
 water lake ; 
 
 Their torches gleamed upon its breast like a long, 
 glittering snake. 
 
 They gained the Boston road and wound beneath 
 a wood-capped hill, 
 
JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 47 
 
 Which then was known as Inclenberg, and now is 
 
 Murray Hill. 
 And there, a haggard, desperate man stood in the 
 
 shadow cast 
 By Robert Murray's great farm-house and watched 
 
 them as they passed. 
 And lo ! he started and his eyes flashed out a 
 
 strange, fierce light, 
 As scarlet coats and shining arms went on into the 
 
 night ; 
 For 'neath the torches' fitful gleam, for one short 
 
 moment's space, 
 He saw the prisoner's blood-stained dress, his pale 
 
 and steadfast face, — 
 Saw Jansen bound and led along, a poor, inglo- 
 rious spy, 
 And knew that his revenge had come, that his false 
 
 friend must die. 
 
 Surrounded by its broad domain of pasturage and 
 
 wood, 
 Some distance from the Boston road the Beekman 
 
 mansion stood, 
 And from a rising knoll looked down upon the 
 
 Harlem's blue 
 From Randall's Island to Hell Gate — a wide and 
 
 varied view. 
 Of massive stone and brick and oak 't was fashioned 
 
 straight and square. 
 Within its walls five families might have lived with 
 
 rooms to spare. 
 
48 JANSEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 Its gabled roof was green with mould, its stories 
 
 long and low ; 
 Between the columns of its front a recessed portico 
 Led through a spacious door-way to a hall more 
 
 spacious yet, 
 Where one might drill a company or dance a 
 
 minuet. 
 And Beekman house was sadly changed on this 
 
 eventful night : 
 Its rooms were full of scarlet coats, each window 
 
 blazed with light ; 
 Deep oaths rang out and sabres clanked in corridor 
 
 and stair ; 
 For, with his retinue and aids, Lord Howe was 
 
 quartered there. 
 In the great Beekman dining-room, upon the Beek- 
 man plate, 
 Surrounded by his brilliant chiefs, he dined in 
 
 princely state. 
 Before him lay the papers found upon the captive 
 
 spy. 
 The champagne sparkled, and the wit of song and 
 
 jest ran high ; 
 They laughed at Mister Washington, but they were 
 
 strangely still 
 About the fight at Harlem and their run down 
 
 Break-neck Hill. 
 And neither did they mention there, those soldiers 
 
 of renown, 
 The night they thought to take him as he lay in 
 
 Brooklyn town ; 
 
JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 49 
 
 And how they rubbed their eyes, and saw, when 
 
 morning came again, 
 That he had slipped away at night with twice five 
 
 thousand men. 
 
 The river side of Beekman house was dark and 
 still, and there, 
 
 Were sentries marching to and fro before a 
 mold'ring stair, 
 
 Which downward through an oaken door and nar- 
 row archway passed, 
 
 And led into the Beekman vaults, a stronghold 
 doubly fast, 
 
 Where, with his head upon his arms, the prisoner 
 Jansen lay, 
 
 And waited with a steadfast heart for night to pass 
 away. 
 
 Beside him burned a flickering lamp, whose feeble 
 light was thrown 
 
 Upon the great decaying beams and walls of cob- 
 webbed stone. 
 
 He heard the waves beneath the hill, the sentry's 
 measured tread, 
 
 And now and then an echo faint of laughter over- 
 head, 
 
 And through it all upon his ear a voice of silver fell, 
 
 Before him in his mind rose up that face he loved 
 so well. 
 
 Hours passed. He heard the sentry's voice without 
 the walls, and then 
 
 A footstep sounded, and his door swung wide and 
 closed again. 
 
50 JANSEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 And lo ! a mantled stranger stepped within the 
 
 lamplight pale, 
 And throwing back his cloak, revealed the face of 
 
 Philip Hale ; 
 He motioned Jansen back, and spoke with hatred 
 
 in his eye, — 
 Spoke with a quick and trembling voice, nor waited 
 
 for reply : 
 " Thy papers have not proved thy guilt, friend Jan- 
 sen. Thou art free. 
 But though 't is mine to bear this word, thy fate is 
 
 naught to me ; 
 For I have come from Falcon's Nest, and I have 
 
 learned to-night 
 To know thy friendship as it is, to read thy heart 
 
 aright. 
 Here ! take thy cloak ! and wrap it well around thy 
 
 face and form ! 
 The night is cold, and there is one would have thee 
 
 safe and warm ! 
 Cursed be the hands that wove it ! cursed the 
 
 hands which spun its thread ! 
 Ere I had taken aught from thee, I would I had 
 
 been dead ! 
 Go ! leave me ! In McGowan's Pass there is a 
 
 sheltered place, 
 And there, at dawn, must Jansen meet his old friend 
 
 face to face, 
 And with his good sword prove that he is not a 
 
 living lie — 
 This world *s too small for him and me, and one of 
 
 us must die ! " 
 
JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 5 I 
 
 One moment Jansen stood there, all his being 
 
 strangely wrought 
 By Philip's words, and then he turned and, lost in 
 
 bitter thought, 
 With his great cloak around him thrown, went from 
 
 his prison door. 
 The guards drew back and bade him pass, and he 
 
 was free once more. 
 Yet, as he strode into the gloom, resist it as he might, 
 There crept a chill upon his soul, a darkness like 
 
 the night. 
 
 The hours wore on, and it was strange how Philip 
 
 lingered still 
 In that sepulchral, mouldy cell, as of his own free will. 
 Yet there he sat ; within his hands his face half 
 
 hidden lay ; 
 He marked not how the night sped on ; his thoughts 
 
 were far away. 
 Save for the tears upon his cheek, the trembling 
 
 through his frame, 
 He seemed a figure carved in stone ; and when the 
 
 gray dawn came 
 He rose and, with a radiant face, knelt on that 
 
 pavement bare, 
 And poured out all his soul to God in one long, 
 
 fervent prayer, — 
 A prayer for Jansen, for that friend of many a 
 
 joyous day, 
 For that sweet girl whom he had loved — how well, 
 
 no words could say, — 
 
52 JAN SEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 A prayer that Christ might come to him, and ever 
 
 from that hour 
 Surround him with his loving arms and with his 
 
 heavenly power, 
 Might banish envy, pride, and fear, and, like a 
 
 gentle friend, 
 Support his weak, uncertain steps and lead him to 
 
 the end. 
 
 The sun came up above the hills and thinned the 
 
 mist and spread 
 A glory o'er the autumn woods of glistening gold 
 
 and red. 
 The frost yet sparkled where it lay upon the blades 
 
 of grass, 
 And hung like diamonds to the rocks about Mc- 
 
 Gowan's Pass. 
 And there, upon the narrow road which led to 
 
 Boston town, 
 Was Jansen, gazing toward the south and pacing 
 
 up and down ; 
 For there had Philip summoned him to stand at 
 
 break of day. 
 The time sped on ; upon his heart a growing sad- 
 ness lay. 
 While pondering to himself how best his skilful 
 
 hand might spare, 
 A rattle, as of musketry, was borne upon the 
 
 air. 
 And lo ! a courier from New York dashed up with 
 
 breathless pace, 
 
JAN SEN AND PHILIP. $3 
 
 And reined his steed at Jansen's side, and stared at 
 
 Jansen's face. 
 " They 've shot a spy at Beekman house, the Hes- 
 sians of Lord Howe. 
 His papers doomed him from the first, and rumor 
 
 said 't was thou. 
 I bear the news to Sterling's camp." This said, he 
 
 spurred his steed, 
 And through the wood, beyond the pass, sped on 
 
 with winged speed. 
 One moment, like a drunkard, Jansen reeled from 
 
 side to side, 
 And dazed, as with a flash of light, sank on his 
 
 knees and cried : 
 " O wretched man ! whose eyes were bound with 
 
 an impervious veil ! 
 Who had a friend and knew him not, a friend like 
 
 Philip Hale ! " 
 
 Years passed, and after long defeat, that small un- 
 daunted band 
 
 Had planted freedom's glorious flag throughout 
 this whole broad land. 
 
 And peace had come again, and in the streets of 
 New York town, 
 
 Was preparation swift for flight, and hurrying up 
 and down, 
 
 Among King George's loyal friends, until one 
 autumn day 
 
 The British fleet weighed anchor, spread its sails, 
 and passed away. 
 
54 JANSEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 And back unto their ruined homes the exiled 
 
 patriots drew, 
 And took their burdens bravely up and built their 
 
 lives anew. 
 There was a homely house, which stood within a 
 
 narrow street, 
 A home which children's steps made glad, which 
 
 tender love made sweet ; 
 And there, as often as the year brought round the 
 
 sacred time, 
 Brought round the day of Philip's death, of Philip's 
 
 deed sublime, 
 All sounds were hushed, the doors were barred, the 
 
 light was faint and dim, 
 And there was mourning, fast, and prayer in 
 
 memory of him. 
 His portrait hung above the hearth ; the softened 
 
 firelight shed 
 A trembling glory on his face, a halo round his head ; 
 And there at night, when through the room the 
 
 darkening shadows crept, 
 Sat Jansen and his brown-haired wife and thought 
 
 of him and wept. 
 They spoke of all the mournful past with voices 
 
 sad and low ; 
 They knelt upon the floor and prayed that they 
 
 might hourly grow 
 To be like their lost friend, and that their hearts 
 
 might never fail 
 In tender sorrow, reverence, and love for Philip 
 
 Hale. 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK. 
 
 IN the year — well! that don't matter ; once upon- 
 a time there stood, 
 O'er the hill beyond the village, where the river 
 
 skirts the wood, 
 A deserted, gabled house, with tumbling porch and 
 
 broken gate, 
 And a yard o'ergrown with burdocks, empty, bare, 
 
 and desolate. 
 'T was in autumn, earth lay fair and still, the day 
 
 was almost done, 
 Golden shone the leaves of elms and maples with 
 
 the setting sun, 
 As a child of six years, seeming for his round face 
 
 younger still, 
 Poorly clad came trudging barefoot on the road- 
 way, down the hill ; 
 His unchildlike, thoughtful manner and his dark 
 
 eyes' timid gaze 
 Shewed he ne'er had played with children, spoke 
 
 of joyless, lonely days, — 
 
 55 
 
56 THE NOAH'S ARK. 
 
 Spoke of sorrow, which is saddest when it comes 
 in childhood's days. 
 
 In his face a look of hope sprang up, and vanished 
 like a spark, 
 
 As he neared the old house — found it still so lonely, 
 strange, and dark ; 
 
 Then he knocked, called " Father ! Mother," with 
 an accent sad and faint, 
 
 Which arose, when all was silent, to a wild and 
 helpless plaint. 
 
 Beating on the door with little fists, a never-ceasing 
 din, 
 
 But an echo answered only, from the empty rooms 
 within. 
 
 Then he climbed a twisted apple-tree, which spread 
 its yellow leaves 
 
 O'er the gabled wing, and through a little window, 
 'neath the eaves, 
 
 Peered long time, with childish rapture, in a cham- 
 ber small and dim, — 
 
 For he saw a scene as wondrous as the fairy tales 
 of Grimm — 
 
 Saw a magic scene, like those described by An- 
 derson and Grimm. 
 
 In that narrow little chamber, strangely, plainly 
 
 manifest, 
 In a cobwebbed, dingy corner, darkened by the 
 
 chimney breast, 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK. 57 
 
 There were elephants and camels, wolves and lions, 
 
 red and blue, 
 Led by men with gowns and turbans, gravely 
 
 marching two by two. 
 Just beyond, a Noah's ark was stranded high upon 
 
 the shore, 
 From whose hold this motley crew had doubtless 
 
 landed on the floor. 
 Let us leave this strange host marching, 'neath Paul 
 
 Wickford's eager glance, 
 And explain why he was haunting this deserted, 
 
 cheerless manse 
 Like a ghost of joys departed, drawn back by some 
 
 magic spell, 
 Or a ray of sunshine stealing through the grating 
 
 of a cell, — 
 Like the visits of the angels to Angelico's dark 
 
 cell. 
 
 Seventy years before, this house with gables peaked, 
 
 and chimneys queer 
 Had been built by Gabriel Wickford, and a legend, 
 
 not too clear, 
 With the mansion strange connected some dire 
 
 curse for shadowy crime 
 Of the builder, for the Wickfords never prospered 
 
 from that time, 
 Until Paul's kind father, bent and worn by many 
 
 an adverse wave — 
 By misfortune, grief, and suffering, found oblivion 
 
 in the grave ; 
 
58 THE NOAH'S ARK. 
 
 Then the house for debt was taken, and the mother 
 
 from that day- 
 Paled and sickened, wasted slowly, kissed the child 
 
 and passed away. 
 They had journeyed to a distant land, so little Paul 
 
 was told, 
 And the hope of their returning, day by day his 
 
 heart consoled 
 
 With the glorious hope of sometime he was glad- 
 dened and consoled. 
 
 In a large, strange neighboring household, with a 
 
 grudging will received, 
 Paul divined not that strange riddle we call death, 
 
 but still believed 
 In the morning his beloved ones would return, 
 
 when morning came, — 
 They would surely come " to-morrow," but the days 
 
 were all the same ; 
 And unnoticed he would wander softly to his 
 
 desolate home, 
 Wondering if the night had brought them, hoping 
 
 still that they had come. 
 Tired with knocking, calling, listening, he would 
 
 climb at last and gaze 
 Through the little chamber window at those joys 
 
 of brighter days — 
 At the Noah's ark which somehow had escaped the 
 
 sheriff's hand. 
 There they often found and led him from the realms 
 
 of fairy-land — 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK. 59 
 
 Tore him from the secret treasure, childish faith of 
 wonderland. 
 
 Leafless were the trees, and snowflakes on the chilly- 
 winds were tossed, 
 
 And the child more sad and lonely, for his faith 
 was partly lost, 
 
 Since they shewed him in the churchyard where 
 the graves lay side by side, 
 
 Came once more and knocked and waited, and at 
 last sat down and cried — 
 
 In the doorway — softly, mutely, wept away his child- 
 ish woe. 
 
 Darkness came ; the little figure lay there still, all 
 white with snow ; 
 
 But his lonely heart was happy, in that slumber 
 calm and deep, 
 
 For he heard dear, loving voices calling to him in 
 his sleep — 
 
 Heard quick footsteps, saw the windows lighting up 
 the wintry night, 
 
 Saw the door ajar, and father, mother, radiant with 
 delight, — 
 
 Sprang into their tender outstretched arms with 
 quiverings of delight. 
 
 Twenty years had come and vanished, and the old 
 house, which had stood 
 
 Winter, summer, storm and sunshine, in the drear- 
 iest solitude, 
 
60 THE NOAH'S ARK. 
 
 Was transformed, as by a fairy, to a castle quaint 
 
 and fair ; 
 Ivy climbed o'er porch and gables, flowers were 
 
 blooming everywhere ; 
 And the fairy who had changed it was a maid of 
 
 mortal mould, 
 Only daughter of the tenant, who had leased this 
 
 castle old ; 
 And this tenant was the preacher in the village 
 
 church, whose spire 
 O'er the hill, among the elm trees, at the sunset 
 
 gleamed like fire. 
 Several years in calm seclusion they had lived 
 
 there all alone, 
 And than Madeline, no thriftier housewife in the 
 
 land was known — 
 Never prettier, gentler maiden, than sweet Madeline 
 
 was known. 
 
 And her beauty grew, the longer one beheld her, 
 
 for she stole 
 Like an animated picture, or like music on the 
 
 soul : 
 Cheeks, smile dimpled, all her gestures poems, with 
 
 a magic change, 
 Either loving, roguish, sprightly ; or perhaps in 
 
 contrast strange, 
 One beheld her sweet, grave profile, bending o'er 
 
 some well-worn book, 
 With her hair a saint-like aureole, a Madonna's 
 
 thoughtful look 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK. 6 1 
 
 In her eyes, expressive, downcast, or those eyes in 
 
 the romance 
 Of a girlish revery gazing, with a far-off tender 
 
 glance. 
 She had passed a happy girlhood in the old house, 
 
 and it seemed, 
 With its pleasant nooks and corners, where she 
 
 lived and toiled and dreamed, 
 All her own, like those quaint fancies, those bright 
 
 castles she had dreamed. 
 
 And a message from the owner made a flood of 
 
 bright tears come, 
 Filled her tender heart with sorrow, — they must leave 
 
 the dear old home, 
 For a stranger wished to buy it, and that very day, 
 
 by chance, 
 In her father's absence came he, to inspect the queer 
 
 old manse. 
 He was young and grave and handsome, tall and 
 
 brave as knight of old, 
 Who awoke the sleeping princess, when the hundred 
 
 years were told. 
 In his smile was something mystic, what it was she 
 
 could not say, 
 As through all the curious mansion's dear old rooms, 
 
 she led the way, 
 From the cellar to the attic, pausing then, before 
 
 the door 
 Of a locked mysterious chamber, which she ne'er 
 
 had shown before, — * 
 
62 THE NOAH'S ARK. 
 
 Like that chamber in her heart, in which no eye 
 had seen before. 
 
 Here she hesitated ; then her fair cheek took a 
 
 deeper shade, 
 As the door she softly opened and a tiny room dis- 
 played, 
 Desolate and bare and lonely ; and the stranger's 
 
 swift glance fell 
 On the little wooden figures and the ark, for strange 
 
 to tell, 
 There they stood, arranged exactly for a march 
 
 across the floor, 
 As when little Paul last saw them, more than twenty 
 
 years before. 
 Then with downcast eyes and trembling voice and 
 
 look of maiden shame, 
 Told she, how a little boy named Paul had lived 
 
 there ere they came, 
 And how, left alone and wandering through the 
 
 mansion old at will, 
 She had found these toys arranged, as if their owner 
 
 lived there still, — 
 How she wept to see them standing there, so sad 
 
 and poor and still. 
 
 And these treasures, which so long ago had 
 
 thrilled a little heart, 
 In her eyes appeared so sacred, that she kept the 
 
 room apart, 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK. 6$ 
 
 And till now no one had ever come into its deso- 
 late gloom, 
 Which the ghost of vanished childhood filled as 
 
 with some sweet perfume. 
 Here she oft had loved to picture this child's life 
 
 so like her own, 
 Till, between her and the little Paul, a friendship 
 
 sweet had. grown. 
 He would think it strange, and laugh to hear this 
 
 fancy queer and wild, 
 But no words could ever tell him how she loved 
 
 that little child. 
 Then she felt her hand grasped tightly, felt a tear 
 
 upon it fall ; 
 In her heart strange fancies mingled, of the stranger 
 
 and of Paul ; 
 Said the stranger : " I would have you love him 
 
 always, — I am Paul." 
 
MARIQUITA. 
 
 IKE a sleepy Spanish village, 
 *- J Lay the town of St. Augustine, 
 With its palms and white-walled gardens, 
 And its curious Spanish fortress, 
 Built with tower and moat and dungeon, 
 In the days of King Fernando. 
 
 Half a mile beyond the city, 
 
 On the San Sebastian River, 
 
 Stood the great old-fashioned mansion, 
 
 Stretched away the rich plantation, 
 
 Of the fair and youthful widow, 
 
 Leonora, Cid y Guerra. 
 
 She was strange and wild and tender, 
 Strange and wilful and fantastic ; 
 Many a suitor wooed her vainly, 
 Till, at last, came Dick Van Keuren — 
 Came, preceded by a letter, 
 From her kinsmen in Savannah, 
 
 64 
 
MARIQUITA. 65 
 
 On the night of his arrival, 
 Seeking Leonora's dwelling, 
 He was led, by sounds of music 
 And of laughter, to the fortress — 
 Led to join the merry dancers 
 At the ball in fort San Marco. 
 
 In the fortress' broad enclosure, 
 Colored lanterns, Strauss' music, 
 Mingling with the voice of ocean, 
 Towers and battlements dark-outlined 
 'Gainst the starry roof of heaven, 
 Made it all seem like enchantment — 
 
 Made it arabesque and dream-like ; 
 But with him 't was all unnoticed, 
 For his heart was deeply wounded 
 By the eyes of Mariquita, 
 Mariquita, sad and wistful, 
 Standing statuesque and silent, 
 
 Like the ghost of some fair Spaniard 
 Of the days, of seventeen hundred ; 
 Standing, where he first beheld her, 
 In the archway's gloomy shadow, 
 Whence, with merry jests and phrases, 
 He had sought, in vain, to tempt her. 
 
 When at last to words more tender 
 He had come, the night was waning, 
 
66 MARIQUITA. 
 
 And the lights went out, the music 
 Ceased to dull the ocean's murmur, 
 And the ghostly Mariquita 
 Fled away into the darkness — 
 
 Fled away and like a phantom, 
 Many a day his search eluded. 
 Then he thought of Leonora ; 
 Stood at last within her garden. 
 " Sir, my mistress still is absent, 
 She will come again to-morrow," 
 
 Spoke the rosy little handmaid 
 From the doorway, where her slender, 
 Rounded figure seemed a picture 
 In a frame ; her eyes were downcast, 
 And she blushed that thus he found her, 
 For, behold ! 't was Mariquita. 
 
 Balmy winds of evening rustled 
 Through the orange-scented garden ; 
 O'er the plashing of the fountain, 
 And the swaying of the hammock, 
 Low and tender voices sounded, 
 Paused and ceased and then continued : 
 
 " Do not ask me ! oh ! I fear them, 
 Uncle Juan, Uncle Pedro, 
 And the haughty, cruel cousin, 
 Leonora, Cid y Guerra. 
 
MARIQUITA. 67 
 
 She was born to joy and riches, 
 I — to sorrow and to bondage." 
 
 Night came on, a white-robed figure 
 Through the garden swiftly glided 
 To the thicket, by the river, 
 Where the steed and rider waited ; — 
 " Up ! away ! and now forever 
 You are mine, sweet Mariquita." 
 
 " Do you hear that hollow murmur, 
 Like the distant tramp of horses ? 
 We are followed. Oh ! I fear them, 
 Uncle Pedro, Uncle Juan. 
 Faster still ! the preacher lives there 
 Where that light shines out before us." 
 
 Strangely, gleamed the flickering torchlight 
 On the hurried midnight wedding 
 And 't was then, that Dick Van Keuren 
 Found that Mariquita' s story 
 Of the proud and cruel cousin, 
 Uncle Juan, Uncle Pedro, 
 
 With the hurried flight at midnight, 
 And the horsemen following after, 
 Was a strange conceit and fancy, 
 A romantic whim, of Donna 
 Leonora, Cid y Guerra, — 
 Found that she was Mariquita. 
 
THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL. 
 
 T^HROUGH the intricate maze of its pulleys and 
 * wheels, 
 
 And its oaken frame, a vision steals 
 Of the long gone years, of the hands that are still, 
 And the elm-shaded house at the foot of the hill, 
 Where the child, round-cheeked and wond'ring- 
 
 eyed, 
 Watched the old wheel buzz at the ingleside, 
 With a sound like a far-off muffled drum, 
 In its " dickety, whir-r, whir-r y hum" 
 
 Years come and go ; on the porch it stands, 
 And the pirns fly round 'neath a fair girl's hands ; 
 She watches the sunset's fading rays, 
 With a far-off, girlish, fanciful gaze : 
 Till the rose steals into her dimpled cheek, 
 And the garrulous spinning-wheel seems to speak 
 Her foolish thoughts to Christendom 
 With its " clickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum." 
 
 68 
 
THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL. 69 
 
 Still time speeds on ; 't is a winter's night, 
 The hearth fire is circled with faces bright, 
 There is laughter and jest, and the storm, in vain, 
 Beats on the door and the frosted pane, 
 And the wheel spins round with a measured rhyme, 
 Like a quaint refrain of the old, glad time, 
 Like a presage of sorrowful days to come ; 
 In its " clickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum.** 
 
 Its voice oft brought the sick child rest, 
 And lightened many a weary breast ; 
 Beneath its song the whispered word 
 And kiss of lovers passed unheard. 
 If it could speak, that strange old wheel 
 What wonderful secrets it would reveal ! 
 What romance is hid in the weary sum 
 Of its " cltckety, whir-r, whir-r, hum " I 
 
 It had its influence and its share 
 
 In every joy and every care ; 
 
 Fast, fast it flew, yet with swifter rate, 
 
 Spun round and round, the wheel of fate. 
 
 They fashioned out of its woven thread 
 
 The dress of the bride and the sheet for the dead, 
 
 And the wheel went round, though the heart grew 
 
 numb, 
 With a " clicketyy whir-r, whir-r, hum** 
 
 All are vanished and all are still, 
 
 And the spinning-wheel by the clattering mill 
 
7° 
 
 THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL. 
 
 Has been left behind with the primitive days 
 Of homelier toil and more honest ways ; 
 Yet, oft through the night, and out of the gloom 
 And the gathered dust of the lumber-room, 
 Its song, like a ghost's voice, seems to come, 
 With a " dickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum.** 
 
SUMMER THOUGHTS. 
 
 TPON a mossy knoll in the forest, I 
 **-' Lay looking upward at the eternal blue 
 
 Of the infinite and quiet heavens, through 
 The oak-leaf and the hemlock's canopy. 
 And now and then a cloud went drifting by, 
 
 Listless and slow and changing to the view. 
 
 How like my fleeting summer thoughts to you, 
 Calm, peaceful clouds ! And now the evening sky 
 A deeper, darker, lovelier azure hath, 
 
 The birds have ceased their singing, and the 
 breeze 
 Is filled with hum of insects ; darkness saith — 
 
 With the first few stars twinkling through the 
 trees — 
 That night has come. A little while, and death, 
 
 Like night, will end life's summer reveries. 
 
 7i 
 
GALATEA. 
 
 [ STOLE forth from the merry festival, 
 * With which the panes of Wentworth glimmered 
 bright, 
 
 And wandered in the still midsummer night, 
 Through an old garden with an ivied wall 
 And winding paths and statues mythical. 
 
 A pensive marble goddess robed in white, 
 
 Like some fair vision of the shadowy light, 
 Inspired me with the thought fantastical, 
 To kneel before her and apostrophize 
 
 Her loveliness in quaint, impassioned tone. 
 But, starting from her mystic reveries, 
 
 Ere I had ceased, the imagined nymph of stone — 
 A swift dissolving dream of laughing eyes, 
 
 A magic dream of golden hair — had flown. 
 
 72 
 
THE READING OF THE TALE. 
 
 \~\ 7E read together on a winter's night 
 * ' The oldest, quaintest, saddest of romances. 
 She leaned upon my chair ; by slow advances 
 My arm around her stole ; the panes were white 
 With silvery frost ; the hearth fire flickered bright ; 
 
 My heart was filled with ardent, wistful fancies, 
 
 And in her face I read by stolen glances 
 A gentle sorrow mingled with delight. 
 Her moistened eyes looked up ; the tale had 
 wrought 
 
 Upon us both love's tenderest, sweetest spell. 
 She must have guessed my fond and longing thought, 
 
 For her dear head upon my shoulder fell ; 
 And in that blissful silence there was naught 
 
 Beside the exquisite truth we knew so well. 
 
 73 
 
^<r r 
 
 7 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 "DEAUTY of yonder portrait ! 't is from thee 
 *-* That thy descendant hath the loveliness 
 Of her arch smile, and blue eyes' thoughtful- 
 ness. 
 
 Telling thy tale, she bade me laughingly 
 Beware thy ghost." Thus lost in revery 
 
 I heard the rustle of a silken dress, 
 
 And saw what seemed the ghostly ancestress 
 Enter my lonely chamber stealthily. 
 Close by she passed, a little hand I caught, — 
 
 'T was snatched away, — she vanished into air, 
 Leaving a ring so small its size with naught 
 
 But Cinderella's slipper might compare, 
 Which, strange to say, when like the Prince I sought 
 
 An unknown bride, one hand alone could wear. 
 
 74 
 
THE CRICKET. 
 
 f"\H ! little cricket, that the evening long 
 ^-^ Dost tell thy story to the silent hours, 
 
 While the dew falls upon the thirsty flowers ! 
 What is the burden of thy ceaseless song ? 
 A tale of love ? or secrets that belong 
 
 To the dim solitudes of ruined towers, 
 
 Whose crumbling walls the ivy leaf embowers ? 
 Or drolleries of Titania's shadowy throng ? 
 Thou art a friend, so ancient legends tell, 
 
 That with the power of mystic sorcery 
 Guardest the hearth where thou dost love to dwell, 
 
 And with thy quaint and pleasant company 
 The night's deep loneliness thou dost dispel, 
 
 Thou merry chief of insect minstrelsy ! 
 
 75 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 [ PLUCKED a rose that bloomed in solitude, 
 * Filling with fragrance a secluded bower, 
 
 And saw its petals, falling in a shower, 
 Rise up a maiden, her sweet attitude 
 And slender form and dimpled cheek imbued 
 
 With all the grace and beauty of the flower. 
 
 "Art thou," I asked, "the sport of magic power, 
 Or some dark-eyed enchantress of the wood ? " 
 "A hundred years," she answered, u, t was my 
 doom, 
 
 Because I laughed at love and lovers' woes, 
 A full-blown rose in loneliness to bloom ; 
 
 Who plucked the flower and broke my long 
 repose, 
 Him I should wed. Alas ! I must resume, 
 
 If he refuse, my sleep within the rose." 
 
 76 
 
THE VOICES OF THE WOOD. 
 
 T T E, who in some cathedral, gray and old, 
 *• ■*■ Has cherished solemn reveries, knows the 
 thrill 
 
 Which moves my heart, in forest dim and still, 
 Until I long, within the shady wold, 
 To dwell, and naught beyond its walls behold, 
 
 Save what some shifting, leafy opening will 
 
 Disclose of waving grain, blue sky, and hill, 
 Village half hid, or church spire, tipped with gold. 
 With the half gloom of those vast aisles imbued, 
 
 Let me forget myself, in revery, 
 Till sunlight by their shadow is subdued, 
 
 The breezes hushed by their solemnity, 
 And like mysterious voices of the wood, 
 
 Religion, love, or sorrow speaks to me. 
 
 77 
 
AN AUTUMN FANCY. 
 
 QUMMER has fled, and though the earth dis- 
 
 o 
 
 plays 
 
 Her woods and fields, her vales and mountains, 
 dressed 
 
 In quiet, perfect beauty, on the breast 
 Of nature a mysterious sadness weighs, 
 And there doth steal upon me, while I gaze 
 
 Upon the white clouds, floating to the west, 
 
 And sinking 'neath the blue hill's wooded crest, 
 Once more, the sweet belief of childish days, 
 That, could I pass beyond yon distant hill, 
 
 There would I find the summer once again, 
 With skies eternal, cloudless, deep and still, 
 
 And that this bright and beautiful domain 
 Would give me back sweet friends, and would fulfil 
 
 All hopes and wishes cherished long in vain. 
 
 78 
 
A WINTER FANCY. 
 
 '"THE night wind moans, the frost is on the pane, 
 * And by the flickering hearth fire manifest 
 
 There ever sits a sad and silent guest, 
 For I the ghost of childhood entertain 
 And live the days of childhood o'er again, 
 
 Until the thoughts of those, whose kindness 
 blessed 
 
 My little world, long vanished, fill my breast 
 With a great longing, passionate, childish, vain, — 
 A longing for the arms that round me twined 
 
 And filled my little heart with fond delight, 
 The looks which every cloud with silver lined ; 
 
 The cheering words which made the days so 
 bright. 
 Friends of my childhood ! gentle, true, and kind, 
 
 Where are ye all, upon this winter's night ? 
 
 79 
 
AT BREAK OF DAY. 
 
 'T'HE stars fade slowly, twinkle, pale and die, 
 * Before the halo rising in the east, 
 A rosy glamour steals athwart the sky, 
 
 And grows to flames of gules and amethyst, 
 The hills are silver-rimmed, the curtain of mist 
 As at some swift command, rolls back from field, 
 
 Valley and lake and wood, and floats away, 
 And the whole glorious pageant is revealed 
 At break of day. 
 
 There is a solemn murmur of the breeze, 
 There is a ripple on the lonely shore, 
 
 A solitary chirp, among the trees, 
 Is taken up and echoed o'er and o'er 
 And dies away, and all is still once more. 
 
 Then comes the signal, and all living things 
 Raise up an anthem, glorious, blithe and gay, 
 
 And the whole earth with one grand chorus rings 
 At break of day. 
 80 
 
A T BREAK OF DAY, 8 1 
 
 There is a night of sorrow and unrest, 
 A darkness of the soul — a night when all 
 
 The world of thought is haunted and oppressed 
 And hemmed about, as with a dungeon wall, 
 When heaviness and fear upon us fall. 
 
 Take courage, then ! the longest, darkest hour 
 Comes just before the first faint tinge of gray, 
 
 And sadness has no place, and fear no power, 
 At break of day. 
 
 And when that last, that silent, starless night, 
 
 Comes over us, when the dark, sorrowful stream 
 Sweeps at our feet, in dread, relentless might, 
 And every deed and word and thought shall 
 
 seem 
 To pass before us, in a troubled dream, — 
 What joy ! to watch the faintly outlined shore 
 Rise, grand and glistening, 'neath morn's silvery 
 ray 
 To know that night departs for evermore 
 At break of day. 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 RUSTY, worn, and stained by wind and weather, 
 Still the same, through all the years' swift 
 change, 
 Long has stood a homely, gabled dwelling, 
 
 Silent, dark, and strange ; 
 Seeming lost, o'ershadowed and forgotten, 
 
 In the busy street. 
 But 't is filled with bright and quaint illusions, 
 Hallowed by sweet faces long since vanished, 
 Haunted by the tread of unseen feet. 
 
 He who lives there, careworn, gray, and lonely, 
 
 He who loves its melancholy gloom, 
 Sometimes hears the noise of children romping 
 
 In some distant room — 
 Merry ghosts of hide-and-seek, whose voices 
 
 Lead him on, until 
 Something tells him they are but the phantoms 
 Of his childish hopes and creeds ; — then swiftly 
 They have fled, and all again is still. 
 
 83 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 83 
 
 From his mid-day reveries he is startled 
 By a fair ghost, from an old romance, 
 With a merry laugh, a slender figure, 
 
 And a roguish glance. 
 Was it all a dream ? but look ! the curtain 
 
 Trembles still, ah ! well ! 
 'T is not true, for her sweet voice is silent, 
 She has long been sleeping in that palace 
 Where no knight can come to break the spell. 
 
 There 's a whispering in the embrasured casement, 
 When the dusk comes and the night winds sigh ; 
 'Gainst the panes a little group seems shadowed, 
 
 Ghosts of long gone by, 
 When the mother called her children round her, 
 
 Held them close, and told 
 Stories of the stars and of the fairies, — 
 Magic stories, which, in childhood's kingdom, 
 Change the earth — the very hours — to gold. 
 
 But at midnight, when the street is silent, 
 And the firelight floats upon the walls, 
 Quickly all is changed, a bright enchantment 
 
 On the old house falls ; 
 Bringing back the beauty and affection 
 
 Of the golden years, 
 Bringing back the perfumes and the music, 
 Bringing back the faces and the voices, 
 Bringing back the smiles without the tears. 
 
SANTA TRINIDAD. 
 
 OEMEMBEREST thou the mission, with its 
 * ^ memories 
 
 Of times long passed away ? 
 And how, admitted by a solemn verger, — 
 
 A verger bent and gray, — 
 Thou ! fairest Helen ! lingered in the garden, 
 
 While I, of graver mood, 
 Explored at will the queer old Spanish ruin's 
 
 Historic solitude ? 
 
 There Sister Trinidad, in seventeen hundred, 
 
 A young and pious soul, 
 Becoming Santa Trinidad, 't was written, 
 
 Put off her hood and stole. 
 There still were shown the holy vestments ; gazing 
 
 Upon those relics quaint, 
 My heart grew tender, with the recollection 
 
 Of the sweet nun and saint. 
 
 The sunlight, stealing thro' the painted windows, 
 Streamed on the chapel wall : 
 
 8 4 
 
SANTA TRINIDAD. 85 
 
 I saw, in a kaleidoscopic medley, 
 
 Its colors rise and fall ; 
 I saw, upon the altar piece, its radiance 
 
 Restoring once again, 
 The old-time glory and the beauty faded 
 
 Long since from mortal ken. 
 
 At length, from cell and corridor emerging, 
 
 I climbed the belfry tower, 
 And thinking of those strange traditions, lingered 
 
 Until the twilight hour : 
 Returning then, along the shadowy cloisters, 
 
 Mysterious and dim, 
 I seemed to hear, in mellow cadence, floating, 
 
 The solemn vesper hymn. 
 
 I gained the chapel ; thro' the ivied windows 
 
 Yet stole a feeble gleam, 
 And lo ! as still as marble, as romantic 
 
 As youthful painter's dream, 
 Bringing me back to centuries departed, 
 
 To thoughts of things divine, 
 Behold ! a slender, black-robed nun was kneeling 
 
 Before the dingy shrine. 
 
 The phantom rose, a graceful, girlish figure, 
 
 With cowl of monstrous size ; 
 I caught a transient glimpse of pretty features, 
 
 Of two dark Spanish eyes ; 
 She moved, she spoke, words of soft, foreign accent 
 
 Came from that sombre hood, 
 
86 SANTA TRINIDAD. 
 
 The door beyond her opened, in the doorway 
 The ancient verger stood. 
 
 One glance he gave — one swift, wild look of terror, 
 
 As if he saw the dead, 
 And crying, " Santa Trinidad," behind him 
 
 He slammed the door and fled. 
 O laugh more musical than e'er was uttered 
 
 By recluse grave and sad, 
 O faithless Helen ! to have donned the vestments 
 
 Of Santa Trinidad. 
 
THEN AND NOW. 
 
 I\ A ANY, many years have fled 
 
 * * * Since this land I journeyed through ; 
 
 Round the careless youngster's head 
 
 Straggling locks of brown hair blew ; 
 Laughing, like the fields of May, 
 
 Stretched my future ; though around 
 Many a dream-like picture lay, 
 
 Tenderer charms in thee I found. 
 
 Little maid of fifteen springs ! 
 
 As we strolled 'tween wood and stream, 
 Hours were golden, hope had wings, 
 
 All was like an airy dream. 
 Now through this same land I wend, 
 
 'T is a memory-haunted way, 
 Life is hastening toward its end, 
 
 Heart is sere and head is gray. 
 
 From thy cottage gleams the light ; 
 Childish voices, glad and sweet, 
 
 8 7 
 
88 THEN AND NOW. 
 
 Outward float into the night ; 
 
 At the door thy child I meet. 
 Little maid of fifteen years, 
 
 So like thine her sweet traits seem, 
 That my eyes are dim with tears — 
 
 All again is like a dream. 
 
 No ; 't is not a dream, for all 
 
 We have lived, worked out, and thought 
 Is not fabric that will fall — 
 
 Shadow that will come to naught. 
 What our tender thoughts once hold 
 
 Hallowed, beautiful, sublime, 
 Ne'er will vanish, ne'er grow old, 
 
 But live on to endless time. 
 
THE OLD, OLD HOME. 
 
 J\ l\ Y heart is saddened, for all 
 
 ■ " * Seems so queer and common and small, 
 
 As I stand by the old house once more. 
 The gables are not so tall, 
 
 Nor the lawn as wide as of yore, 
 And the faces that I recall 
 
 Look not from window or door. 
 
 A railroad crosses the leas, 
 
 And they 've laid out a street where the breeze 
 
 Rustled once in the waving corn. 
 Oh ! 't is hard to believe that these 
 
 Were the haunts of life's sunshiny morn, 
 And that those great, spreading elm-trees 
 
 Were planted when I was born. 
 
 The old place has changed, and they 
 Who endeared it have passed away ; 
 
 But still in my heart I behold, 
 As if it were yesterday, 
 
 The apple-trees, gnarled and old, 
 One mass of white blossoms in May, 
 
 And in autumn, weighted with gold ; 
 8 9 
 
90 THE OLD, OLD HOME. 
 
 The meadows, the fields of grain, 
 The barn, with its copper vane, 
 
 And dovecote under the eaves ; 
 Where we heard the pattering rain, 
 
 As we lay in the yellow sheaves ; — 
 And a changing, fanciful chain 
 
 My sorrowful memory weaves : 
 
 Of the lilac tree, and the bloom 
 Of the roses, whose faint perfume, 
 
 Floating in on the breeze, would fill 
 My dear little narrow room ; 
 
 Of the twilight so soft and still, 
 The evening's deepening gloom, 
 
 And the moon rising o'er the hill. 
 
 My little playmate is dead ; 
 He died when I met in his stead 
 
 The careworn man : and the mirth, 
 The joy of the morning has fled ; 
 
 And the dear old home of my birth, 
 Of my innocent childhood's tread, 
 
 Has passed away from the earth. 
 
 But oft in the world of dreams 
 It exists again, and it seems 
 
 More hallowed, rosy, and quaint. 
 From my far-away childhood streams 
 
 An aroma, sweet and faint, 
 And around it a radiance beams, 
 
 And a charm that words cannot paint. 
 
MY FRIEND. 
 
 HTO him who counts the clock's slow ticking, 
 * While the night's long hours wear away, 
 There comes a truer, nobler impulse, 
 
 Than aught that moves the heart by day, 
 And tender fancies, that, like fairies, 
 
 Fade with the dawn's first streaks of gray. 
 
 And so, to-night, while vainly seeking 
 Oblivion from my cares and fears, 
 
 There comes a flood of recollections ; 
 A face, which fills my eyes with tears ; 
 
 A longing, passionate and childish, 
 For my true friend of boyish years. 
 
 And wond'ring what have been his fortunes 
 In the long years since we have met, 
 
 I fear his life has not been brighter 
 For my poor influence, and regret 
 
 That in the account of our affection 
 I 'm still so greatly in his debt. 
 
 91 
 
92 MY FRIEND, 
 
 I long for our dear confidences 
 
 In those familiar, sacred haunts, 
 To have once more our golden visions, 
 
 With all their treasures of romance — 
 The girls we loved, the stately castles 
 
 Which filled the future's bright expanse. 
 
 And though those castles all have crumbled, 
 Those hopes and dreams have all proved vain 
 
 The thought of our sweet friendship softens 
 The disappointment and the pain ; 
 
 And so, when thinking of my boyhood, 
 The tears are dried, the smiles remain. 
 
 And though the flood that rolls between us 
 Has widened with each year's swift flight, 
 
 These kindly fancies, like a rainbow, 
 Once more its distant shores unite ; 
 
 And o'er this airy bridge returning, 
 I 've been with my old friend to-night. 
 
AT ALDEN'S. 
 
 \\ 7E were sitting by the chimney, 
 
 * " In the hearth fire's flickering light, 
 On the cliff, in Alden's cottage, 
 
 Where I rested for the night ; 
 And I told the scenes and customs 
 
 Of the lands beyond the sea ; 
 While old Alden's little daughter 
 
 Sat and listened at my knee. 
 
 In her blue-eyed radiant beauty 
 
 There was something shy and wild, 
 And the maiden's romance mingled 
 
 With the wonder of the child. 
 Hours had passed, the old sea captain 
 
 In his arm-chair dozed and dreamed, 
 Sadly moaned the neighboring ocean, 
 
 'Gainst the panes the firelight gleamed. 
 
 Then she spoke of knights and tourneys, 
 And her cheeks were all aglow, 
 
 93 
 
94 AT ALDEN'S. 
 
 For all day that little maiden 
 Had been reading " Ivanhoe " ; 
 
 Spoke of ghosts and of magicians, 
 While her voice to whispers grew, 
 
 Toward the panes cast startled glances, 
 Wondered if such things were true. 
 
 And I improvised a story 
 
 Fit for such a place and hour — 
 How, for long years by the ocean, 
 
 In a cruel fairy's power, 
 Lived a little maid enchanted, 
 
 Till her faithful knight, one day 
 While her guardian fierce was sleeping, 
 
 Stole that little maid away. 
 
 As I spoke, her blue eyes twinkled 
 
 With a merry, mystic light ; 
 As I spoke, she rose and lingered 
 
 In the door to say " Good-night." 
 But her lamp threw such a radiance 
 
 'Round the roguish, pretty head, 
 That I swiftly stooped and kissed her, 
 
 And she blushed and laughed and fled. 
 
 When I came once more to Alden's 
 I beheld a mournful change, 
 
 For the little maid had vanished 
 
 And the house seemed sad and strange. 
 
 Alden's pale, gaunt look foreshadowed 
 What his quivering lips would say, 
 
AT ALDEN'S. 95 
 
 And I grasped his hand in silence 
 And in silence turned away. 
 
 All the proud and cherished structures 
 
 By a life-long patience wrought, 
 All the triumphs which have followed 
 
 Days of toil and nights of thought, 
 Crumble, sink away, and vanish, 
 
 Like the ocean's shifting sand. 
 When that sweet face comes before me, 
 
 That lost dream of fairy-land. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD FOUR 
 YEARS OLD. 
 
 1KNEW a child whose little feet had wandered 
 Through naught but flowers, and who — 
 Still thinking that could he but climb the moun- 
 tains, 
 He 'd touch the sky's soft blue ; 
 See why the bright stars twinkled, and if really 
 
 The clouds were flocks of sheep, 
 With all his countless little footsteps weary, — 
 Lay down and fell asleep. 
 
 'T was while the childish faith, in his small bosom, 
 
 Was beautiful and bright, 
 In our good Saviour's story, and the legends 
 
 Of holy Christmas night, 
 In that ethereal world of dream and fancy, 
 
 O'er which kind fairies reign, 
 And in his power to stay, when he grew older, 
 
 All sorrow, want, and pain. 
 96 
 
ON THE DBA TH OF A CHILD. g? 
 
 Long will we miss thee, as we miss the sunbeams 
 
 In autumn days ; thou wert 
 So mischievous and glad, so omnipresent 
 
 In thy short, brown, checked skirt. 
 The block-house thou hadst built behind the wood- 
 shed, 
 
 Is out of all repair, 
 And when, with autumn days, the door creaks open, 
 
 No roguish face is there. 
 
 Sometimes thy dimpled cheeks with clouds were 
 shadowed, 
 
 But only for a while, 
 The pout upon thy quivering lips relaxing, 
 
 Would change into a smile ; 
 Then came the kiss of reconciliation, 
 
 Thy small, choked breast would rise, 
 And then I 'd find what angels were, by looking 
 
 In thy moist, loving eyes. 
 
 And every night, I 've drawn thy little playmates 
 
 Upon my knee, and told 
 Them why thou layest, flower-strewn and small 
 hands folded, 
 
 So white, so still, so cold. 
 'T was but the preparation for the journey 
 
 To a bright twinkling star, 
 Where a great King reigned, who sent forth each 
 twelvemonth 
 
 His angels near and far, — 
 
98 ON THE DEA TH OF A CHILD. 
 
 To find and bring to live in his blest kingdom, 
 
 The gentlest little child, 
 And this time, came the summons to their play- 
 mate, 
 So good, and pure and mild ; 
 And now they grieve no more, but think that some- 
 time 
 Their summons will be given, 
 And their small friend will come again and lead 
 them 
 Up the steep path to heaven. 
 
THE UNKNOWABLE. 
 
 A PROBLEM strange is matter, for resolve it 
 
 ** o'er and o'er, 
 
 Into its simplest forms, we are no further than be- 
 fore ; 
 
 For then, a tiny grain, a germ invisible we hold, 
 
 Which still can be divided, though divided times 
 untold — 
 
 A grain which may become the air, the water, or 
 have power 
 
 To grow into a giant tree, or to a slender flower. 
 
 And what is motion ? who can tell whence comes 
 its secret force ? 
 
 Is it something ? is it nothing ? hath it end ? or 
 hath it source ? 
 
 The spirit of the earth and air, forward and back- 
 ward tossed 
 
 From one thing to the other, never spent and never 
 lost ; 
 
 99 
 
IOO THE UNKNOWABLE. 
 
 We see it in the growing grass, we hear it in the 
 
 wind, 
 We seize it — it eludes our grasp, it will not be 
 
 denned. 
 
 We cannot picture in the mind that kingdom vague 
 called "space," 
 
 For where there are no limits fixed, there is not any- 
 place ; 
 
 And pondering on this shadowy theme, the thought 
 will rise that there 
 
 Must be, in all this dreary waste, a boundary fixed 
 somewhere ; 
 
 Our refuge from that thought's to think that all the 
 stars we see, 
 
 Compared with space, are as one hour in all eter- 
 nity. 
 
 And when did time begin to reign ? and when will 
 time be naught ? 
 
 That time is truly infinite, we cannot think the 
 thought. 
 
 We Ve said that time 's eternal, yet we know not 
 what we say ; 
 
 The only image that can e'er the subtle truth con- 
 vey 
 
 Is, that compared with time, the age which marks 
 this planet's face 
 
 Is like our little universe, lost in the realms of 
 space. 
 
THE UNKNOWABLE. 10 1 
 
 To these mysterious facts, all search must ulti- 
 mately tend, 
 
 And here, as 'gainst the solid rock, all thought and 
 quest must end ; 
 
 For we have found the infinite, that truth, so lightly 
 said, 
 
 Which from the grasp still soars, and leaves the 
 finite in its stead. 
 
 These strange, unknown realities must finally in- 
 still 
 
 Belief that they 're a part, a glimpse, of some al- 
 mighty will ; 
 
 And so, at last, by matter, motion, space, and time, 
 we find 
 
 The impotence of human thought, the dearth of 
 human mind ; 
 
 And this dark veil before our eyes the best assur- 
 ance gives 
 
 That there must be a higher life and that the 
 eternal lives. 
 
 
THE OLD SWING. 
 
 ROUND childhood's home I linger sadly, 
 And note the changes time has made. 
 I watch the group of children playing, 
 
 As once a little child I played, 
 With the old swing that still is hanging 
 Beneath the giant elm-tree's shade. 
 
 And waiting till with twilight's coming 
 The merry crowd departs — once more 
 
 I feel the old swing sway beneath me 
 With mystic measure, as of yore. 
 
 Again I dream the dreams of boyhood, 
 And live that sweet existence o'er. 
 
 It seems with every slow vibration, 
 
 A magic pendulum of days, 
 Which backward moves, until my childhood 
 
 Appears before my tear-dimmed gaze ; 
 And where the gray-haired man was dreaming, 
 
 A careless, happy urchin sways. 
 
 102 
 
THE OLD SWING. 10$ 
 
 He hears the rustling leaves and branches, 
 
 The queer cicada's wizard tune. 
 He tries to solve the wondrous problems 
 
 Of sky and earth, nor thinks how soon 
 In golden plans and childish fancies 
 
 Will fade the smiling summer noon. 
 
 The child becomes the boyish dreamer, 
 
 With future limitless and bright, 
 Outstretching to the land of fairies, 
 
 Where he, a dauntless, loyal knight, 
 In search of some wronged, lovely princess, 
 
 In the old swing takes many a flight. 
 
 Years pass : 't is dusk ; as by enchantment, 
 The swing grows wide enough for two, 
 
 An ardent youth, a pretty maiden, 
 Whom I in days long vanished knew, 
 
 That back and forth are slowly swaying, 
 And talk in whispers faint and few. 
 
 Just then fate broke the link that bound me 
 To that lost youth I loved so well, 
 
 And child and boy and lover faded 
 And vanished with the broken spell. 
 
 For lo ! like all my airy castles, 
 
 The old swing trembled, snapped, and fell. 
 
WHEN THE HEAVENS WERE NEAR. 
 
 \\ 7HEN I was but a little boy, 
 
 * * I thought that all that seemed was true, 
 All trivial things were springs of joy, 
 The earth was glorious, bright and new. 
 
 The world was mine ; 't was full, I thought, 
 
 Of fairies, genii, rare delights 
 And palaces, by magic wrought ; 
 
 I 'd read it in the " Arabian Nights." 
 
 My faith was strong in Santa Claus, 
 
 Whose gifts to good folks always came ; 
 
 And now, I find far different laws 
 Dividing honor, wealth and fame. 
 
 I thought that riches brought content, 
 That friends were always true and kind, 
 
 With rainbows all the showers were blent, 
 The clouds were always golden-lined. 
 104 
 
WHEN THE HEAVENS WERE NEAR. 105 
 
 The sloping hill, before our home, 
 
 Seemed a steep, rugged mountain side ; 
 
 The small stream where we played, like some 
 Historic river, deep and wide. 
 
 I thought the sky's blue crystal lay 
 Just o'er the tree-tops on the hill ; 
 
 And now, heaven seems so far away, 
 And every year grows farther still. 
 
 Years have crept by ; with silent grief, 
 I 've seen each boyish hope decay, 
 
 Each bright conception and belief 
 On life's stern river swept away. 
 
 Wealth, learning, aye ! the world I 'd give 
 
 To be once more so near the sky, 
 Because, the longer that I live, 
 
 The less, it seems, I 'm fit to die. 
 
SHADOWS. 
 
 THE summer wind is sighing in the tree-tops, 
 * A melancholy tale ; 
 
 The sparkling elm-leaves trace upon the heavens 
 An ever-shifting veil. 
 
 The shadow of the chestnut moves and trembles 
 
 Upon the waving grass, 
 The ripples of a sea of molten silver 
 
 Along the meadow pass. 
 
 A cloud draws near — a ship with fleecy canvas. 
 
 Its shadow o'er the lawn 
 Steals slowly on, like death, until the sunlight 
 
 Fades, quivers — and is gone. 
 
 The rustic, ivied seat beneath the chestnut, 
 
 Where often I have made 
 Her eyes grow moist, reading some quaint, sad story, 
 
 Is lonely and decayed. 
 
 1 06 
 
SHADOWS. 107 
 
 The morning-glory looks not in her window, 
 
 As once it used, to meet 
 The merry smile, which triumphed o'er the suffering 
 
 Of beauty pale and sweet. 
 
 We watched the solemn shadow nearer stealing, 
 Before the dark ship came, 
 
 And felt, that should a ray of sunlight follow, 
 'T would never be the same. 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR. 
 
 I. 
 
 ,r p WAS toward the close of a September day ; 
 * The air was hazy ; through a woodland screen, 
 Where sank the golden sun, a fiery ray 
 
 Down slanting o'er the yellow, brown and green, 
 Of corn, ploughed land and pasture, from the 
 sheen 
 Of the broad Mohawk upward glanced again, 
 
 And so enwrapt with flames incarnadine 
 A gabled mansion's windows, peaks, and vane, 
 That the old farm-house looked like castle built in 
 Spain. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet, with the sunset, it seemed lone and drear, 
 
 For only lately, death had crossed the sill, 
 And since that morn, its mistress, Widow Vere, 
 
 Slept in the little graveyard on the hill. 
 
 Here, twenty years, she lived, proud, sad, and still, 
 With one old servant, since her child had fled 
 
 With him she loved against the old dame's will ; 
 
 108 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR. IO9 
 
 And as she, too, for many years was dead, 
 A kinsman, far removed, the estate inherited. 
 
 III. 
 
 And he who now, long time with boisterous din, 
 An entrance sought, was Winthrop Ford, the heir. 
 
 And when at last the door swung softly in, 
 And no one came, as if a ghost were there, 
 He entered through a hall-way, dim and square, 
 
 The musty regions of a darkened room, 
 Where, hung on either wall, a cheerful care 
 
 Had worked a weeping willow and a tomb, 
 
 And framed two coffin-plates, to dissipate the 
 gloom. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thence gladly through the farther door his way 
 He found into an oaken chamber ; here 
 
 Were portraits grave, a hearth and quaint display 
 Of volumes, brown with dust of many a year, 
 Chairs grimly carved, a sideboard dark and queer, 
 
 Whose glass gave back the sunset's dying flame ; 
 And o'er the hearth he saw, pale, startling, near, 
 
 The likeness of a young and lovely dame, 
 
 Who seemed as if about to step down from the 
 frame. 
 
 V. 
 
 She looked the heroine of some strange romance, 
 
 And seemed to follow every move he made, 
 With a mysterious and disdainful glance, 
 
HO THE MAGIC MIRROR. 
 
 Caught from old Colonel Vere, whose face, dis- 
 played 
 With grim effect, above his trenchant blade 
 Of continental glory, Winthrop eyed 
 
 With smile sarcastic, till, by beauty swayed, 
 He turned to her again, and petrified 
 With wonder, there beheld — a mirror, naught be- 
 side. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thence to an open window, with all speed, 
 He sprang, but there no flying beauty found ; 
 
 Some clothes flapped on the line, an ancient steed, 
 Like Pegasus, imprisoned in the pound, 
 Gazed sadly o'er the fence, then turned around, 
 
 And eyed, with ludicrous surprise, the knight, 
 Who ventured thus to tread enchanted ground. 
 
 A passage, then, whose door stood opposite 
 
 The mirror, gave a clue to that fair vision's flight. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And in its darkness, venturing to explore, 
 
 He reached the attic stairs, then turned aside 
 And found his way unto another door, 
 
 Which, as he came, creaked loud and opened 
 wide 
 
 Upon the castle kitchen, where he spied 
 An ancient crone, who, if she were in truth 
 
 The enchanted fair, — was much transmogrified, 
 And who supposed, a fairy prince, forsooth, 
 This apparition swift, of such tall, handsome 
 youth. 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR. Ill 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But, when her fright allowed him to explain, 
 
 The rightful heir, with stately courtesy, 
 She welcomed, like some feudal castelaine, 
 And forthwith darted out and speedily 
 Brought the " baked funeral meats," which 
 proved to be 
 Cheese, doughnuts and mince pie, a goodly cheer ; 
 
 Then, while he ate, traced out the family tree 
 In all its branches, from its earliest year, 
 And told him many a tale of proud old Madame 
 Vere. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The supper ended, by a fire which blazed 
 
 Upon the hearth, for now the nights were cold, 
 
 He sat and smoked, and in the mirror gazed, 
 Hoping that there, once more, he might behold 
 That ghostly girl, of such enchanting mould, 
 
 Whose beauty, subtile as some faint perfume, 
 Filled him with fancies, strange and manifold. 
 
 And now the twilight deepened into gloom, 
 
 The fire had burned low down, and darkness filled 
 the room. 
 
 X. 
 
 An influence supernatural seemed to fill 
 
 The strange old mansion, even the doors had 
 caught 
 The charm, and opened of their own sweet will, 
 And all things were with that bright vision 
 fraught, 
 
112 THE MAGIC MIRROR. 
 
 That face, of which it seemed he 'd always thought. 
 Then, suddenly, the wood blazed up once more, 
 
 Lighting the room ; his eyes the mirror sought, 
 And there he saw, within the passage door, 
 The enchanted princess stand, pale, mystic as 
 
 before. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Her face was oval and her figure tall ; 
 
 Her hair, with silver comb of quaint device, 
 Flowed waving from a fair, low brow, to fall 
 
 Upon a small, round neck ; the sweet surprise 
 
 Of parted lips, arched piquantly ; large gray eyes, 
 Mysterious in the dancing light ; and then 
 
 A dimpled chin, softened what otherwise 
 A too disdainful beauty would have been ; — 
 This much he saw before the blaze died out again. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then springing up, he struck a light and found 
 The open door ; a gust thence sweeping blew 
 
 The light out ; something rustled ; with a bound 
 He rushed into the passage, stumbled through, 
 And up the stairway to the attic flew. 
 
 A phantom shape before the window crossed, 
 And falling o'er a spinning-wheel or two, 
 
 He grasped a fluttering garment, but the ghost 
 
 Changed to an old silk gown upon a rafter tossed. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He stretched his length before the hearth again, 
 And, watching by a lamplight's flickering gleam, 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR. 113 
 
 Thought surely that the colonel winked, and then 
 He slept and dreamed a most unheard-of dream : 
 Goblins and spooks swept by in motley stream > 
 
 And then 't was changed, and the enchanted fair 
 Sat sleeping by the hearth, while what would seem 
 
 The ghost of Madame Vere, with silvery hair, 
 
 Stooped down, and in her face peered with a 
 ghastly stare. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 To shield such sleeping loveliness from harm, 
 For 'neath the spell she moved with many a sigh ; 
 
 He strove, but could not stir, to break the charm, 
 Until, the rusty sword, which dangled nigh, 
 Perceiving, in the twinkling of an eye 
 
 He seized, and at the ghost, with all his will, 
 Flung it, and presto ! wakened instantly 
 
 By a great fall of glass, — with sudden thrill 
 
 He saw the face once more the magic mirror fill. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But now, behold ! her look, her garb portrayed 
 A curious change, as if in antique dress, 
 
 She were bedizened for a masquerade, 
 
 While in her hair, the silver comb, no less, 
 Smacked of the days of some dead ancestress, 
 
 Then to a door, which opened opposite, 
 
 He turned, and saw — no dream of loveliness, 
 
 But the old servant, robed in ghostly white, 
 
 Who spoke of direful sounds and trembled with 
 affright. 
 
114 THE MAGIC MIRROR. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 He pointed at the vision ; drawing near, 
 
 She cried : " The missus' portrait ! yes ! 't is she > 
 
 Took, when she scarce was twenty, many a year, 
 Because it pained her lonely heart to see 
 Her face so gay and handsome, and to free 
 
 Her saintly mind from worldly thoughts and cares, 
 'T was covered by a mirror, goodness me ! 
 
 Who broke it ? I was frightened from my prayers 
 
 And then, an hour ago, sech fearful sounds up- 
 stairs ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Jest after Hilda Gaylord came to change 
 
 The book she borrowed as you came." "And 
 pray ! 
 Who is this Hilda ? " 'T was a story strange 
 The old dame told ; how Hilda came one day 
 Like princess of a fairy tale, to stay 
 At Neighbor Crain's ; this princess fair, 't was true, 
 
 Taught in the village school, across the way, 
 And oft had sat and watched the whole night 
 
 through 
 With Madam Vere. But whence she came, no 
 mortal knew. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " You ought to see her. Why ! she looks, — well 
 there ! 
 It 's curious that I never thought so, jest 
 Exactly like that picture ; I declare ! 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR. 11$ 
 
 If Hester Vere, who died away out West, 
 Had had a child — I 'd think — well now, I 'm 
 blest ! 
 Some say she had, and then, her age, jest right 
 
 For Hilda, and, what 's stranger than the rest, 
 The missus called her Hester Vere, one night. 
 My sakes ! it 's all so plain, right out in black and 
 white." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The truth was out, and Hilda proved next day 
 To be the dame's granddaughter ; naught was 
 clearer, 
 And yet the enchantment ceased not, strange to 
 say; 
 He found her daily lovelier and dearer, 
 And blest his luck, for if, with tastes austerer, 
 He had not supped so well, and in a trance 
 Levelled the poker at the magic mirror, — 
 He had forever lost the golden chance, 
 And Hilda had not been the mistress of the 
 manse. 
 
THALIA. 
 
 /^FTEN, when the hearth fire smoulders, 
 ^-^ In the evening's deepening gloom, 
 There has stol'n a ghostly maiden 
 To my lonely, haunted room, 
 And dispelled the doubt and gloom. 
 
 At my feet she sits and looks up 
 With those great dark eyes at me, 
 
 With a glance now grave, now roguish, 
 With her white arms on my knee, 
 Childlike, she looks up to me. 
 
 And she tells me weighty secrets 
 Of the fairies, of the elves, 
 
 Till the embers, till the grotesque 
 Porcelain figures on the shelves, 
 Take the forms of dancing elves. 
 
 Through the growing darkness steals a 
 Perfume faint from fairy-land, 
 116 
 
THALIA. 117 
 
 And I feel her round arms' pressure, 
 Feel her brown hair brush my hand, 
 Think that I 'm in fairy-land. 
 
 Then we talk of times long vanished, 
 
 Talk of many a boyish dream, 
 Weave, of long-departed fancies, 
 
 Chains that bright and fragile seem 
 
 As a child's glad golden dream. 
 
 Each day, deeper still and clearer, 
 
 I have read in her dark eyes 
 Romances of love and fancy, 
 
 Till my very being lies 
 
 In those ghostly, glorious eyes. 
 
 And though I have known and loved her 
 
 For these many weary years, 
 Every day, more sweet and childlike, 
 
 Her pale oval face appears, 
 
 For these many long, long years 
 
§s°~^ 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Y\ 7EARY were the days of autumn, 
 ™ Long and cold the nights of winter, 
 
 And our hearts were colder still ; 
 We had drained the cup of sorrow, 
 Wandered through the shadowy valley, 
 
 Bowed before the Almighty will. 
 
 Grief had grown subdued and holy, 
 For we knew we had a treasure 
 
 In that home, so far away, 
 Had a little intercessor, 
 An ambassador in heaven, 
 
 Waiting for us night and day. 
 
 By the hearth we sat in darkness, 
 With a little chair between us, 
 
 As we sat a year before, 
 When we listened for the reindeer's 
 118 
 
CHRISTMAS. 1 19 
 
 Tinkling bells, and told the many- 
 Wondrous things of Christmas lore, — 
 
 Sat as when he last was with us ; 
 Thus, our sad imaginations 
 
 Would a quaint deception weave, 
 And our strange and mournful fancy 
 Try to conjure back his presence 
 
 On that lonely Christmas eve. 
 
 And the time wore on, till, startled 
 From my reveries by the pressure 
 
 Of a soft and childish hand, 
 Lo ! I saw, between us sitting, 
 Just as though he ne'er had journeyed 
 
 To that unknown far-off land, 
 
 Golden-haired, brown-eyed, and dimpled, 
 Listening, wondering, and expectant, 
 
 Once again, — our little child. 
 But the guileless face was brighter 
 With the joy of the immortals, 
 
 With a radiance sweet and mild. 
 
 Thus, the second time, from heaven, 
 Like the Christ-child, with a Christmas 
 
 Gift of gladness, he has come ; 
 And, invisible to others, 
 With his little hands he leads us 
 
 Daily, hourly, nearer home. 
 
120 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 And his silent, radiant presence 
 Teaches patience, resignation, 
 
 Makes the dark ways bright and plain, 
 Calms our hearts and makes us tender 
 For all sorrow, want, and suffering, 
 
 Makes us children once again. 
 
MY NOVEL. 
 
 [ WILL write some time a novel, 
 * Simple, thrilling and romantic ; 
 Beautiful shall be the heroine, 
 Very beautiful and tender. 
 
 Artfully will I arrange it, 
 And contrive to paint her portrait, 
 So that she I love will know it 
 Instantly for her own picture. 
 
 Almost black shall be her eyebrows 
 And her hair's rich wavy masses, 
 But her eyes, large, star-like, dreamy, 
 Bluer than the sky at midnight. 
 
 Rosy tints, like morn and evening, 
 O'er her cheek shall steal and vanish ; 
 Round her mouth a smile shall linger, 
 And her chin shall have a dimple. 
 
 121 
 
122 MY NOVEL. 
 
 Every gesture, every outline 
 Of the slender, rounded figure ; 
 Every gay or sad expression, 
 Floating o'er the lovely features, 
 
 Shall suggest some rare old painting ; 
 Shall suggest some sweet, quaint poem ; 
 On the heart shall leave an imprint 
 That shall never be forgotten. 
 
 Almost, yet not quite, a goddess ; 
 Sometimes haughty, sometimes roguish ; 
 Just enough of faults I '11 give her 
 So that one may dare to love her. 
 
 And the youth who loves this maiden, 
 From the day he first beholds her, 
 Shall be learned, grave and thoughtful, 
 Sad, poetical and silent. 
 
 After sighing long in secret, 
 He shall write a tender romance, 
 Wherein he will be the lover, 
 She will be the pretty heroine. 
 
 In this romance, all the long years 
 Of his sighing will be numbered ; 
 In this romance there will happen 
 All the scenes that he has pictured. 
 
 When, from some impending danger, 
 In the mountains, on the sea-shore, 
 
MY NOVEL. 123 
 
 From the flood, or fire, the lover 
 Risks his life to save his mistress, — 
 
 She will find, at last, she loves him, 
 And contrive some way to say so ; 
 Perhaps by sending him an envied 
 Bunch of violets from her bosom. 
 
 Thus, the hero and the heroine 
 He shall paint with such true colors, 
 That she cannot help but see it ; 
 Cannot help but know his secret. 
 
 And her gentle heart, beleaguered 
 By a love so full of fancy, 
 And so delicate and constant, 
 Shall surrender all its treasures. 
 
 In her voice and in the shadows 
 Of her eyes and in her blushes, 
 He shall read the story plainly, 
 And behold ! my novel 's written. 
 
MIDNIGHT. 
 
 '"THERE 'S a time at night, when quickly 
 * The blue of the sky grows dark, 
 Hushed is the cricket's chirping, 
 Vanished the fire-fly's spark. 
 
 The trees are great black giants, 
 
 Cloaked, and silent, and tall ; 
 Each star 's a glittering diamond, 
 
 Each cloud 's a jet-black pall. 
 
 There 's a stir in the solemn darkness, 
 
 As of a wind in the trees, 
 As of a brook's low rustle, — 
 
 But 't is not the stream or breeze. 
 
 It swells, like the murmur of tempests, 
 Then lessens and sinks away, 
 
 As if 't were the winging up of the souls 
 Of those who had died in the day. 
 124 
 
MIDNIGHT. 125 
 
 Though the world is hid in darkness, 
 
 In my life 's a calm bright light, 
 In the quietness of that moment, 
 
 Which comes at the dead of night. 
 
 Then I see though the doubts which beset me, 
 
 As I never before have done, 
 And regrets and fierce ambitions 
 
 Fade slowly, one by one. 
 
THE GAME OF CHESS. 
 
 ,r T WAS stinging, blustering winter weather, 
 
 * How well I recollect the night ! 
 When Kate and I played chess together. 
 
 Her beauty in the hearth-fire's light 
 Seemed more Madonna-like and rosy ; 
 The hours were swift, the room was cosy, 
 
 The windows frosted, silvery white. 
 
 Even now I see that grave face resting 
 Upon the hand, so white and small ; 
 
 I see that mystic grace, suggesting 
 A painter's dream ; I oft recall 
 
 Her glance, now anxious, gay, or tender ; 
 
 The girlish form, complete yet slender, 
 In silhouette against the wall. 
 
 It was not strange that I was mated, 
 For 't was my fondly cherished aim. 
 
 I longed to speak, but I was fated, 
 The rightful opening never came. 
 
 I pawned my heart for her sweet favor, 
 
 126 
 
THE GAME OF CHESS. 12? 
 
 With every look, some vantage gave her, 
 And so, alas ! I lost the game. 
 
 Since then, by fortune, love, forsaken, 
 
 Through checkered years I 've passed and seen 
 
 My castles fall, my pawns all taken, 
 
 My spotless knights prove traitors mean ; 
 
 And worn, with many a check, I wander 
 
 Like the poor vanquished king, and ponder 
 With sadness on my long-lost queen. 
 
PAQUITA. 
 
 I. 
 
 TT was night, and we were anchored, 
 * Off the town of Fernandina ; 
 Miles above, we saw the beacon 
 Shine from old Ramiro's landing 
 Like a star, across the water ; 
 And up spoke the captain, saying : 
 
 II. 
 
 " I have seen the fair Paquita, 
 
 She who came, enthralled and left us, 
 
 At St. Augustine, last winter ; 
 
 I have braved the fierce old Argus, 
 
 Braved the anger of Ramiro, 
 
 I have come and seen and conquered." 
 
 III. 
 
 Then with tone and laugh derisive, 
 Answered, straightway, Randolph Gordon 
 " You are still, an empty boaster. 
 
 128 
 
PAQUITA. 129 
 
 I, myself, have seen Paquita, 
 
 And the month shall scarce have ended. 
 
 Ere I ask you to our wedding." 
 
 IV. 
 
 While they spoke I sat in silence, 
 Though my heart was strangely tortured, 
 For I, too, had known Paquita, 
 When she came to St. Augustine, 
 And her face rose up before me, 
 Dark and sad, with eyes love lighted, 
 
 V. 
 
 As she looked, when last we parted, 
 When she promised to remember. 
 "Their's," thought I, "are idle vauntings ; 
 I myself will seek Ramiro's, 
 And Paquita, she shall tell me 
 If 't was all an idle fancy." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Night, once more, the earth had mantled, 
 As I sat with Don Ramiro^ 
 'Neath Ramiro's broad piazza, 
 While his daughter, light as Hebe, 
 Came and vanished, bringing Reinas, 
 Bringing Cognac or Marsala. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In her dark, sweet face, I vainly 
 Sought a look of recognition. 
 
I30 PA QUIT A. 
 
 She was cold and strange and silent, 
 Just as beautiful as ever, 
 But she did not seem as tender, 
 Did not seem the same Paquita. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But when darker grew the garden, 
 And Ramiro's red cigar light 
 Seemed the one eye of an ogre, 
 Some one stole and stood beside me, 
 Some one whispered " I remember," 
 Pressed my hand and turned and left me. 
 
 IX. 
 
 As I rose to seek the landing, 
 From Ramiro's house departing, 
 Came the sound of whispering voices, 
 Came the sound of girlish laughter. 
 " Surely ! there is some strange secret 
 In this household of the Spaniard." 
 
 X. 
 
 As I watched Ramiro's beacon, 
 On my way across the water, 
 All at once it paled and vanished. 
 When I came on deck the captain 
 Had departed, none knew whither. 
 'T was a night of strange surprises — 
 
 XI. 
 Strange surprises, never ending, 
 For at dawn 't was found that Gordon, 
 
PAQUITA. I31 
 
 In some curious way, had vanished. 
 That day passed, another followed, 
 And at night there came two letters — 
 This is what the captain wrote me : 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Love has triumphed, Will ! Paquita 
 Fled last night with me to Charleston. 
 Old Ramiro would have killed her, 
 So she said, if he had caught us. 
 Please inform the proud Castilian, 
 And condole with Randolph Gordon." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Gordon wrote me, from Savannah : 
 " Will ! Paquita 's mine ; we came here 
 On the boat which leaves at midnight. 
 How she loved me ! how she trembled J 
 Lest our flight should rouse Ramiro ; — - 
 I 'm so sorry for the captain." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Rage, despair, and doubt possessed me 
 At these tidings, so conflicting. 
 Were there, really, two Paquitas ? 
 Was my love returned by neither ? 
 With these tidings, to Ramiro, 
 With these letters, straight I hastened. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Loud and long laughed Don Ramiro, — 
 Laughed until his face grew purple ; 
 
I3 2 PAQUITA, 
 
 In the door-way something rustled, 
 And I looked and saw — Paquita ; 
 Saw her standing, like a statue, 
 With a statue's rounded outlines. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In the shadows and the dimples 
 Of her face a strange smile lingered, 
 And a roguish light came dancing 
 In her eyes' unfathomed darkness ; 
 Like a sweet, embodied riddle, 
 Mystic, fanciful, she stood there. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Speech came back to Don Ramiro — 
 Speech came back, though slow and broken 
 " With the captain fled Aurora ; 
 Inez, now, is Madam Gordon ; 
 Was it not the poor old father 
 Got them ready for the journey ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 They not know I have three daughters — 
 Yes ! Sefior ! born all the same time. 
 It is twins ? no ? what you call them ? 
 And Paquita 's all that 's left me. 
 She, Sefior ! will make the best wife ; 
 You can have her, if you want her." 
 
MENDELSSOHN'S " LIEDER OHNE 
 WORTE." 
 
 i 
 
 SWEET SOUVENIR. 
 
 ,r T IS nothing but a picture 
 
 * With outlines dim and faint, 
 A picture of a young girl, dressed 
 
 In fashion old and quaint. 
 In that picture there are graces 
 
 An artist could not paint, 
 And a face, the fairest, loveliest, 
 
 E'er possessed by girl or saint. 
 
 In that face there is the tenderest 
 
 Look that maiden ever wore ; 
 In that look there 's something tells me 
 
 Of the golden days of yore. 
 In those days there was a story, 
 
 Would that I could live it o'er ! 
 The story of the passionate love 
 
 I cherish evermore. 
 i33 
 
134 "L1EDER OHNE WORTE." 
 
 7 
 CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 At midnight, by the window, 
 
 I sat, till all was still, 
 Then pictured her before me 
 
 By passionate strength of will. 
 
 I weighed each trait of her beauty, 
 Each charm of mind and soul, 
 
 Till I conjured her before me 
 In one sweet, life-like whole. 
 
 With that dreamy look I loved so, 
 She stood in the shadowy light, 
 
 Pale and still as a lily 
 
 Alone in a garden at night. 
 
 Her look was kind and tender, 
 
 I never had seen her so. 
 She loved me, this dream maiden loved me, 
 
 Though the other was cold as snow. 
 
 44 
 
 LOOKING BACK. 
 
 I Ve gained the mountain top, and turning, 
 Look with tearful gaze 
 On the path which brings me 
 Back to childhood's days. 
 
"LIEDER OHNE WORTE." 135 
 
 Childish mountains, like my childish troubles, 
 Dwarf and sink from view ; 
 Youth's brightest scenes have somehow 
 Lost their golden hue. 
 
 Graves of all my hopes and fond ambitions 
 Dead so long ago, — 
 All my wandering, weary footsteps 
 Mark the vale below. 
 
 And, looking back with sad composure, 
 On the path of years, 
 I am calmer for those vanished tempests, 
 Happier for my tears. 
 
A CASTLE IN NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 TPON the torrent's brink, there stands 
 ^ A castle, gray and old, 
 With drawbridge, barbican and keep, 
 
 With turrets manifold, 
 And banners, floating in the sun, 
 
 Like bands of burnished gold. 
 
 High up, above the grated arch, 
 The embrasured casements frown ; 
 
 And there, a ladye young and fair, 
 For many a day looks down 
 
 The roadway, winding o'er the bridge 
 Into the ancient town. 
 
 Upon the fields of waving grain, 
 
 Her mournful glances rest ; 
 She watches every cloud that floats 
 
 Beyond the hill's blue crest ; 
 Until, at last, an armored knight 
 
 Rides down, from out the west. 
 136 
 
A CASTLE IN NEW ENGLAND. 1 37 
 
 The vision fades, the scene is changed, 
 
 In one swift, magic whirl ; 
 A homely, gabled house succeeds 
 
 This castle of an earl ; 
 The princess in the tower becomes 
 
 A fair New England girl. 
 
 She sits beneath the porch at eve, 
 
 The time unreckoned flies, 
 Her little hands are clasped, her book, 
 
 Unread, before her lies ; 
 A fanciful and far-off look 
 
 Is in her tender eyes. 
 
 Across her faintly dimpled cheeks 
 
 The lights and shadows glance, 
 Her sweet and thoughtful face is raised, 
 
 She seems as in a trance, 
 There is an aureole round her head 
 
 Of glory and romance. 
 
 And this was all a dream of hers, 
 
 Her thought's fantastic flight ; 
 A dream which changed her homely house 
 
 Into a castle bright ; 
 A dream which made of farmer Brown 
 
 A handsome, armored knight. 
 
 By homely tasks and trivial cares 
 Her life is compassed round ; 
 
I38 A CASTLE LN NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Her dreamy knowledge of the world 
 In quaint old books is found ; 
 
 Beyond those blue New England hills 
 'T is all an unknown ground. 
 
 Yet often, in the air, a strange, 
 
 Mysterious music seems ; 
 Old towns and lordly castles rise 
 
 In her romantic dreams ; 
 The glow of knighthood's golden days 
 
 Across her pathway streams. 
 
 While there are maids so sweet, shall fame 
 
 Of deeds chivalric fade ? 
 Come forth ! O knight ! upon whose shield 
 
 There is no spot or shade, 
 And lay your lance in rest, to win 
 
 This fair New England maid ! 
 
THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 "pACH day more bright, each day with softer 
 ^ glow, 
 
 At dawn and eve ; the summer time has passed 
 Like a long, pleasant revery and lo ! 
 
 This day has come, the loveliest and the last. 
 
 Woods, meadows, corn-fields are like chequered 
 squares, 
 
 Painted in various colors, bright and gay. 
 Summer, as with a mournful fancy, wears 
 
 Her richest garments, e'er she fades away. 
 
 The soft, clear light's enchantment makes the chain 
 Of distant hills seem strangely near at hand, 
 
 And gives to well-known scenes and objects plain 
 The glamour and the charm of fairyland. 
 
 A few white clouds, in shapes fantastic, rise 
 Above the woods, which crest the highest hill ; 
 
 'T is like the landscape of a dream, it lies 
 So deeply calm, so wonderfully still. 
 
 i39 
 
140 THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 And there are other clouds and hills and woods, 
 In the smooth mirror of the lazy stream ; 
 
 Vague, unattainable, shadowy solitudes 
 Of lotus land, a dream within a dream. 
 
 There 's naught in motion, save the quaint balloon 
 Of thistle-down ; there is no hum of bees ; 
 
 There 's something ghostly in the cricket's tune, 
 The cobwebbed hedge, the shadows of the trees 
 
 The winding brook is choked and half concealed 
 By clumps of cat-tails and of golden-rod ; 
 
 The cattle, grazing in the far-off field, 
 Are still as figures in the land of Nod. 
 
 The air is filled with something sweet and strange, 
 And nature seems to pause and hold her breath, 
 
 Before this sign of an impending change, 
 
 This deep, mysterious calm, which heralds death. 
 
 And now, the wondrous work of nature ends ; 
 
 Now, is its glorious fulness manifest 
 In this last, quiet summer's day, which blends 
 
 A solemn beauty and a perfect rest. 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 
 TN the long night's lonely musing, 
 * Comes the vision of two sisters 
 That I loved in days long vanished — 
 Loved, yet knew not which I loved most 
 
 One was rosy, fair, and dimpled, 
 Romping, laughing, dreaming, sighing ; 
 By her roguish glance enchanted, 
 Queen of all my thoughts, I owned her. 
 
 Dark and mystic was the other, 
 Dark and sad and meditative ; 
 When her eyes grew soft and tender, 
 She it was who seemed the dearest. 
 
 Years have past since we were parted 
 By the bitter tongues of envy ; 
 Many years, and many changes, 
 Like an ocean lie between us. 
 141 
 
142 THE SISTERS. 
 
 But their looks of kindly interest, 
 Patience, virtues, tears, and laughter, 
 Words of cheer and praise and comfort, 
 Gentle ways and sweet refinements, 
 
 Like the stars of night, have lighted 
 Me along the world's dark pathway ; 
 Like the hands of fairies, shortened 
 My apprenticeship in manhood. 
 
 And I weave this little chaplet 
 Of the flowers of love and romance, 
 For those gentle sisters, long since 
 Sleeoing in the silent city. 
 
THE OCEAN. 
 
 ONG I watched the ocean, with its mournful, 
 *-** never 
 
 Ceasing tide, each ship, that from the horizon 
 
 stole, 
 
 Floated by, grew less and vanished, seemed a 
 
 soul, 
 That upon the years, from some far shadowy river, 
 
 Slowly steals, until, with sail of strong endeavor, 
 Hope and yearning, it sweeps by unto its goal, 
 Fades and sinks into oblivion, while the roll 
 
 Of the solemn flood of years goes on forever. 
 
 Now the darkness hides the ocean and the shore, 
 And the ships have long since vanished in the 
 distance, 
 
 Yet I hear the breakers' dull, monotonous roar 
 Tell the story o'er again, with strange insistance, — 
 
 Hear the ancient ocean's hoarse voice evermore 
 Chant the mystic, sad refrain of man's existence. 
 
 i43 
 
THE RIVER. 
 
 /^~\FT have I watched the sunset's mellow light, 
 ^-^ That through the window streams upon the 
 wall, 
 
 Like a mysterious river, rise and fall. 
 The lengthening shadows deepen into night, 
 And still, as if a part indefinite, 
 
 Of life and time and hope, a part of all 
 
 The thoughts and scenes and joys that I recall, 
 Thou flowest on, O river deep and bright ! 
 And I must watch, without the power to stay, 
 
 Thy tide that surges on resistlessly, 
 Thy dancing waves that bear the years away. 
 
 O thou relentless flood ! give back to me, 
 The life, that on thy current, day by day, 
 
 Is floating, floating, floating to the sea ! 
 
 144 
 
THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 
 
 A CASTLED crag, half hidden in a wreath 
 **■ Of ocean mist, an eagle's circling flight, 
 
 The little islands, reefs and breakers white 
 Of a broad sea, whose waters dash and seethe 
 Against the rock, a thousand feet beneath, 
 
 The sudden gleaming of a beacon light 
 
 From the old tower upon the crag, when night 
 His gloomy shadow o'er the earth doth breathe, 
 And answering watch fires, blazing near and far 
 
 From every headland, — all that I have told, 
 And more, in evening sky and cloud and star, 
 
 Pictured above the horizon, I behold, 
 And magic scenes create, that changeful are, 
 
 As those same hues of crimson and of gold. 
 
 i45 
 
THE MOHAWK VALLEY, FROM RICH- 
 FIELD HILL. 
 
 T CLIMBED a winding roadway to the brim 
 * Of a gigantic basin, walled around 
 
 With hills and hills and hills, whose tops were 
 crowned 
 With forest dense, and whose remotest rim, 
 Gorge seamed, through summer haze looked blue 
 and dim. 
 
 Far down a lazy snake-like river wound, 
 
 And all was silence, perfect and profound. 
 I saw the white clouds' shadows slowly skim 
 O'er meadows, cornfields, woods, as bright and 
 still 
 
 As painted squares, the bluest dome expand 
 From ridge to ridge, and 'neath a sheltering hill 
 
 The whitest, smallest, sleepiest hamlet stand. 
 Surely ! the world's fierce tide ne'er rose, until 
 
 It stole within this dreamy wonderland. 
 
 146 
 

 
 THE GORGE. 
 
 OEFORE me, standing at the craggy head 
 
 *~* Of a great gorge, the wildest, loveliest scene 
 
 Of nature lies : far down in the ravine, 
 Choked with great hemlocks, and the yellow and 
 
 red 
 Of birch and maple, like a silver thread, 
 
 A small stream winds and widens to the sheen 
 
 Of a blue lake, that, glassy and serene 
 With distance, at the gorge's mouth is spread ; 
 Marked with white farm-house and tree-tufted hill, 
 
 For miles beyond, fields ploughed and green 
 extend, 
 Even to the horizon's edge, until 
 
 Like pleasant thought, that in a dream doth end, 
 The vista, grown more faint and soft and still, 
 
 Its hues, at length, with heaven's pale gray doth 
 blend. 
 
 147 
 
TWILIGHT. 
 
 I\ A AIDEN ! who veiled in robes of sombre shade 
 * » * Dost haunt the glen and through the forest 
 roam, 
 
 What time the clouds float o'er the heaven's blue 
 dome, 
 In changing, fading, glorious hues arrayed — 
 Art thou, indeed, a sad and lovelorn maid, 
 
 Or shy and gentle spirit, who doth come 
 
 Each day, at evening, from her mossy home, 
 Some grotto, hidden 'neath a wild cascade ? 
 I seek thee many times, and suddenly, 
 
 When the bright tints have died out from the 
 west, 
 With sweet, pale face, as in a revery, 
 
 Passes the gray-eyed maiden of my quest. 
 Through copse, through glen, in vain I follow thee, 
 
 The first star twinkles and thou vanishest. 
 
 148 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 T^HE fountain's crystal depths contain 
 * For thee, O maiden ! fair as shy, 
 
 A realm of fairy mystery, 
 For there, enchanted, long hath lain 
 A strange and beautiful domain. 
 
 Look down upon its trees and sky, 
 
 Its towers, its white clouds floating by, 
 As through some wizard's window pane ! 
 And lo ! even now, a princess fair 
 
 Gazed from those depths, as if she might 
 Enchanted be, awaiting there 
 
 The coming of the valiant knight, 
 Who seeketh always, everywhere, 
 
 To aid and succor beauty bright. 
 
 149 
 
THE SHELL. 
 
 \\ 7ITH wonder great, I heard a small voice say, 
 * " From the deep coral chamber of a shell : 
 
 " A woful maid am I, of those that dwell 
 Beneath the sea ; a curious power have they, 
 To walk as spirits ; while I thus did stray 
 
 It stormed, and I in deepest slumber fell 
 
 Within this hollow, many-tinted shell, 
 Which, when I woke, upon the sea-beach lay. 
 Because a prisoner I must be, until 
 
 Within the ocean's depths, there, I entreat 
 That thou return the shell, and often will 
 
 I cause large pearls to glisten at thy feet, 
 And o'er the waves' sad music sound, and fill 
 
 Thy dreams with maidens' faces, pale and sweet." 
 
 &» 
 
 •:•: 
 
 m 
 
 150 
 
VALESKA. 
 
 A J ALESKA ! fair unknown ! whose portrait graces 
 ™ The old oak room, — what fancies strange arise 
 
 At thy slight figure's antiquated guise, 
 Thy white, round neck half hid in dainty laces, 
 And palest, dreamiest, ghostliest of faces ! 
 
 I love thee, for the tender thought that lies 
 
 In the sweet shadows of thy hazel eyes, 
 And on thy lips, in mournful, lingering traces. 
 At night, I gaze upon thy beauty, quaintly 
 
 Glowing above the hearth-fire's ruddy flame, 
 Until the hour when, queen-like, sad and saintly, 
 
 Thou stepp'st down from thy portrait ; thy dear 
 name 
 I speak — and starting, see thee, smiling faintly 
 
 A mystic smile, fade back into the frame. 
 
 151 
 
DUSK. 
 
 \\ 7E are all here again, in the twilight : 
 
 * * The dark, swaying trees and the sky, 
 The wanderer wind and the ivy, 
 
 The clouds that sail up and float by, 
 
 The flowers, the grass and I. 
 
 The shadows grow broader and deeper, 
 
 I hear the wandering breeze 
 Rustling up in the branches 
 
 And telling the solemn trees, 
 
 Of prairies and of seas. 
 
 And a vision strange steals upon me, 
 
 In that changing fanciful light, 
 A small apparition comes, chasing 
 
 A moth in its zigzag flight — 
 
 'T is a little child, in white. 
 
 In the swing, 'neath the giant elm-tree, 
 He slowly sways to and fro, 
 152 
 
DUSK. 153 
 
 Lost in a day-dream and wondering 
 If the full, white clouds are snow, 
 And what makes the fire-flies glow. 
 
 The picture has long since vanished 
 In the gloom of an evening mild, 
 
 Yet still in the past I linger, 
 
 With thoughts of those days beguiled, 
 When I was that little child. 
 
THE WIND IN THE TREES. 
 
 TN the night I lie by the window, 
 * And hear the wind in the trees, 
 And give to its ceaseless rustling 
 And sighing, what meaning I please. 
 
 At first, 't is the wash of the ocean 
 On a rugged, desolate shore ; 
 
 Or a fire on the hearth, in winter, 
 Beginning to flicker and roar. 
 
 'T is a waterfall, in the distance, 
 Whose cadence floats to the ear, 
 
 Now a far off, indistinct murmur, 
 Now thundering, loud and clear. 
 
 *T is some giant, imprisoned spirit, 
 Who groans and struggles in vain, 
 
 Writhing up in his anguish, 
 Then sinking to earth again. 
 
 i54 
 
THE WIND IN THE TREES. 155 
 
 'T is the endless war for existence, 
 
 Waged by the hosts of mankind, 
 Now the battle's rush sways toward me, 
 
 Now it dies away on the wind. 
 
 And, at last, 't is the conflict within me, 
 Of thoughts that will never cease, 
 
 Till the dawn looks gray through the tree tops, 
 And the night winds sink in peace. 
 
 Thus long in the night, I listen 
 
 To this strangest of symphonies, 
 This music, so quaint and solemn, 
 
 The sound of the wind in the trees. 
 
THE OAK WOOD. 
 
 T WANDERED through a holy, gloomy 
 * Oak wood, where 'neath violets wild 
 A brooklet murmured softly, faintly, 
 As the praying of a child. 
 
 There fell a shadowy dread upon me, 
 There came a rustling strange and low, 
 
 As if the wood might tell me something, 
 That yet my heart was not to know. 
 
 As if to me it might discover 
 
 Some secret of God's mystic will, 
 
 Then seemed it suddenly to tremble 
 Before God's presence and was still. 
 
 156 
 
JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. 
 
 I. 
 
 EACH breaker rolled in, like a smooth green 
 wall, 
 With crest o'er curling as it neared the land, 
 Where into foam it dashed with deafening brawl 
 
 At Philip's feet : yet he, of ocean's grand 
 And melancholy voice, unconscious all, 
 
 Gazed downward fixedly upon the sand ; 
 For airy footprints, small beyond compare, 
 Proved that some graceful nymph had wandered 
 there. 
 
 II. 
 
 Along a wild shore, full of lonely charms, 
 These traces following, he found at last 
 
 A nook fantastic, hollowed by the storms, 
 Where, in the shadow of a stranded mast, 
 
 Her brown hair half concealing her round arms, 
 With book clasped in her hands, lay sleeping fast, 
 
 Like that famed princess of the days of old, 
 
 A maiden of fair face and gentle mold. 
 
 i57 
 
158 JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. 
 
 III. 
 
 As he beheld the dark, fantastic face, 
 
 There rose the fabric of a strange romance. 
 
 She seemed the daughter of some Eastern race — 
 A Spanish maid, — by some mysterious chance 
 
 Here shipwrecked ; for a nameless foreign grace 
 Hung like a dream upon her gentle trance, 
 
 And clothed with magic charm from head to feet 
 
 The girlish figure, slender, yet complete. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Long time he gazed, then stole with noiseless 
 tread 
 
 From that enchanted scene of fairy-land, 
 Not knowing that, had he but turned his head, 
 
 He would have seen her dark eyes wide expand, 
 And fill with roguish sunbeams as she read 
 
 These lines, which he had traced upon the sand : 
 " Fair dreamer ! know that a poor youth this day 
 Gazed on thy face, and loved, and passed away ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 Time fled ; once more he came, aye ! many a day 
 He wandered by the sea, but 't was in vain. 
 
 A sweet illusion, she had passed away ; 
 And like an airy dream, came not again. 
 
 Time passed ; the earth with autumn tints was gay, 
 And in a rumbling, hurrying railway train, 
 
 Past pleasant vales, blue hills, and forests dun, 
 
 All day he journeyed toward the setting sun. 
 
JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. 159 
 
 VI. 
 
 'T was dark, when to a stage-coach queer and old 
 He changed, for he must travel all night still 
 
 Across a mountain roadway, to behold 
 His future bride ; for, by a curious will, 
 
 His Uncle John had left his long-saved gold 
 And goodly lands in trust for him, until — 
 
 Condition strange, of a most strange bequest, — 
 
 He married Marcia Brown, some girl out West. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The coach rolled on, and with a heart like lead, 
 He saw, in fancy, his prospective bride, 
 
 Some awkward country girl, and wished instead 
 'T were that fair dreamer by the whispering tide, 
 
 Who from his quest to shadowy realms had fled. 
 A few stars twinkled on his lonely ride ; 
 
 The village lights, like dancing fire-flies, winked, 
 
 And woods and fences grew more indistinct. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The mantled figure of the traveller strange, 
 Who shared his ride, had faded from his view ; 
 
 His thoughts assumed a more fantastic range ; 
 'T was fairy-land ; a courser, good and true, 
 
 The stage-coach had become with magic change ; 
 The princess had been found, and wakened 
 through 
 
 A loving kiss ; and he, the lucky knight, 
 
 Was bearing his fair prize to realms of light. 
 
l6o JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He woke, upstarting, at his journey's goal, 
 
 And found the stranger gone, the morning gray. 
 
 From a small nosegay in his button-hole 
 
 There came a perfume faint, and, strange to say, 
 
 Around the flowers, traced on a crumpled scroll, 
 These foolish lines of his had found their way : 
 
 " Fair dreamer ! know that a poor maid this day 
 
 Gazed on thy face, and loved, and passed away." 
 
 X. 
 
 He sat upon the porch with Geoffrey Brown ; 
 
 It was a square brick house of days gone by, 
 And faced the river, toward whose banks sloped 
 down 
 
 The checkered squares of meadow, corn, and rye ; 
 And while they talked of changes in the town, 
 
 Of prices, politics, demand, supply, 
 Philip thought sadly of the startled dame, 
 Who vanished in the kitchen as he came. 
 
 * 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then to that romance by the lonely shore 
 Of ocean his sad fancy turned again, 
 
 And to his curious ride the night before 
 
 With that strange voyager, who must have been 
 
 His fairy princess, found and lost once more ; 
 Flown like a dream, he knew not where or when ; 
 
 And all the time old Geoffrey talked away, 
 
 And told what crops did best in sand or clay, — 
 
JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. l6l 
 
 XII. 
 
 Told, while it seemed a changeless, far-off hum, 
 How he and Wentworth went to school together ; 
 
 Talked of his short-horn cattle, and of some 
 Uninteresting lawsuit, of the weather, 
 
 And lastly of his Marcia, who had come 
 
 From visiting " way down East " ; she was 
 "rather" 
 
 The smartest, prettiest lady ever seen, 
 
 And cooked, spoke French, and warbled like a 
 queen. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He soon should see her ; just then, on the stair, 
 Philip heard light, quick footsteps coming down, 
 
 And all at once beheld a vision rare, 
 
 And saw his princess change to Marcia Brown ; 
 
 Her face, resplendent, sweet beyond compare, 
 Had not the slightest shadow of a frown ; 
 
 And so it came that Philip did fulfil 
 
 The strange conditions of " John Wentworth's 
 will." 
 
A PANTOMIME. 
 
 /^IRCLED by a laughing, chattering, 
 ^ , - > Merry group of little girls, 
 Like a rose girt round with pansies, 
 
 Or a sapphire set with pearls, 
 He beheld her at the children's 
 
 Pantomime on Christmas night, 
 Radiant, queen-like, 'neath the magic 
 
 Of the music and the light, 
 
 On a frosty winter's night. 
 
 Harlequin and Columbine 
 
 Phantoms seemed, from fairy-land ; 
 But the clown, the wond'rous Guido, 
 
 Changed all things with swift command 
 Into laughter, as a wizard's 
 
 Touch turns every thing to gold. 
 She, alone, amid the laughing 
 
 Throng, sat silent, pale and cold, 
 
 Like some portrait framed in gold. 
 162 
 
A PANTOMIME. 1 63 
 
 From that hour a glorious vision 
 Haunted him by night and day ; 
 
 Never from his fancy vanished 
 That pale face, those eyes of gray. 
 
 Round her home he often lingered, 
 In the twilight's deepening gloom, 
 
 Watching till the slender shadow, 
 'Gainst the curtain of her room, 
 Should dispel the doubt and gloom. 
 
 Till the spring and summer faded, 
 
 And the autumn's richness passed, 
 And to her enchanting presence 
 
 He had found his way at last. 
 Those were glimpses into heaven, 
 
 Those short hours that flew so fast, 
 'T was a strange, idyllic romance, 
 
 Far too bright, too sweet to last. 
 
 All his hopes and dreams he told her, 
 
 While her gentle heart forgave 
 That he gazed so long and fondly 
 
 At her beauty pale and grave. 
 But at night the spell was ended ; 
 
 From her side he must away ; 
 To some strange toil he was fated, 
 
 What it was he might not say, — 
 
 Sad and silent, stole away. 
 
 Winter came ; once more her presence 
 Graced the Christmas pantomime ; 
 
164 A PANTOMIME. 
 
 Ne'er before had scenes so golden 
 Been since old Arcadian time. 
 
 But the clown, the wond'rous Guido, 
 When the mimic play was done, 
 
 As he bowed before the foot-lights, 
 Seemed the prince of smiles and fun- 
 But the pantomime was done. 
 
 And he suddenly looked upward, 
 And his eyes met hers by chance, 
 
 'Neath the painted mask were features 
 She knew well ; a long, long glance, 
 
 Full of grave surprise and pity, 
 Sad, yet cold, she gave the clown ; 
 
 And he saw love's long-wrought fabric 
 Tremble, crack, and tumble down, — 
 Saw she ne'er could love the clown. 
 
JACK'S LETTER TO BOB. 
 
 PvEAR Bob ! I am going to be married. 
 *-s But before saying more, I must write 
 About something which weighs on my conscience. 
 
 Of course, you remember that night, 
 In the carnival season at Venice, 
 
 When we trained through that dampest of towns, 
 With that party of jolly Venetians, 
 
 That at first we mistook for the Browns ? 
 
 How, after the ball, I was married, 
 
 In joke, to an angel in black? 
 To that ghostly and dark-haired Marchesa, 
 
 The madcap queen of the pack ? 
 Her mask simply heightened the romance, 
 
 And the joke seemed immense, till I knew 
 That that rascally priest was a real one, 
 
 Which made me uncommonly blue. 
 
 For they said that the marriage was legal, 
 And things took a serious shape, 
 
 165 
 
1 66 JACK'S LETTER TO BOB. 
 
 Till you got up a duel and killed me, 
 
 To get me out of the scrape, 
 And I took the next steamer for Naples, 
 
 And left my fair widow to fate ; — 
 It 's queer how her eyes come and haunt me, 
 
 Whenever I 'm thinking of Kate. 
 
 I could kick myself well, when I think that 
 
 I played such an asinine role, 
 And I pray that you '11 bury the secret 
 
 Deep down in your innermost soul, 
 For my Kate would make things rather lively 
 
 For me, if she ever found out. 
 And now I will tell in what manner 
 
 Our little affair came about. 
 
 We met on the steamer from Naples, 
 
 Whence I sailed, as you know, for the States, 
 And at table kind fortune had placed me 
 
 In the chair which was opposite Kate's. 
 She 's a friend of the Browns, Bob ! a beauty 
 
 With manners both arch and demure ; 
 And she 's tall, and her eyes, if you saw them, 
 
 Would remind you of Venice, I 'm sure. 
 
 In the nook, just back of the wheel-house, 
 We talked of things joyous and grave, 
 
 Saw the waters grow dark in the twilight, 
 And the moon's silver bridge cross the wave. 
 
 The rest is the usual story, 
 
 Which no one knows better than you. 
 
JACK'S LETTER TO BOB. 167 
 
 We '11 be married to-night, and I '11 pause here, 
 And write you some more when we 're through. 
 
 Postscript. 
 
 Well ! it 's done, Bob ! and would you believe it ? 
 
 She knows all about that affair, — 
 And that was the Browns' party, — great Caesar ! 
 
 They did us up Brown, I declare ! 
 And I love her the more (but this follows, 
 
 Of course, when such cases arise), 
 For I 've married — just think ! — my own widow. 
 
 Je — rusalem ! ! Yours, Jack Vansize. 
 
MADELINE ON BASE-BALL. 
 
 V\ 7HAT a number of nicely dressed people ! I 'm 
 
 * awfully glad that we came, 
 
 And you '11 be surprised when you find that I 'm 
 
 posted so well on the game. 
 Those buff-colored shirts and red stockings are 
 
 lovely, I know that they '11 win ; 
 And that little man there must be short-stop, for his 
 
 head would n't come to my chin. 
 
 Those three cushions down in the meadow, I sup- 
 pose, are to sit on and rest, 
 
 If they had them up here 't would be nicer ; just 
 see how that woman is dressed ! 
 
 The one with the crimson plush mantle, and the 
 hat with the ribbons and plume ; 
 
 I Ve been watching that couple this long time, I 'm 
 sure they 're a bride and a groom. 
 
 Now, why does the pitcher feel of the ball, every 
 
 time he commences to throw ? 
 To see if its properly curved ? And the catcher, 
 
 poor man ! he 's consumptive, I know, 
 168 
 
MADELINE ON BASE-BALL. 1 69 
 
 Or why does he wear that great pad on his chest ? 
 
 Did you hear those men laugh ? I declare ! 
 It makes me quite nervous and frightened, and 
 
 look at them now ! how they stare ! 
 
 There 's Alice and George just arriving ; that 's her 
 
 trick, always coming in late, 
 Oh, Vanitas Van-Vanitorum ! please see if my hat 
 
 is on straight ! 
 What 's that ? Struck a fowl ? Oh ! how could he ? 
 
 That man has no feeling or sense, 
 Poor little thing ! I don't see it, it must have crept 
 
 under the fence. 
 
 Stole what ? Stole a base ? Well ! I wonder such 
 
 things are allowed on the ground ! 
 And where on earth has he put it ? And what will 
 
 he do when it 's found ? 
 Caught napping at second ? Poor fellow ! he must 
 
 have been frightfully tired. 
 There 're the Smiths over there in a landau — is it 
 
 theirs, or one that they 've hired ? 
 
 The red-stockings whitewashed ? What nonsense ! 
 
 That 's the silliest thing in base-ball : 
 And why is n't kalsomine better, if they 've got to 
 
 do it at all ? 
 Well ! you don't look as if you 'd enjoyed it. I '11 
 
 wager you 're glad that it 's done, 
 But 't was awfully nice and exciting — and who, did 
 
 you tell me, had won ? 
 
SITTING ON THE STAIR. 
 
 " A RT going to the ball this eve ? " 
 ** This was Jack's question, and I grieve 
 
 To say, the evening found me there. 
 On coming down, I picked my way 
 Between the couples, still or gay, 
 
 Who sat upon the stair. 
 
 Half down I paused, the days of yore, 
 The old, old times came back once more. 
 
 In the gay turmoil and the glare 
 I stood and lost myself, and dreamed 
 I saw her face ; once more we seemed 
 
 To sit upon the stair 
 
 Once more the old sweet things I said ; 
 In measure swayed her lovely head 
 
 To some gay waltz's witching air ; 
 Though draughts came whistling from above, 
 I felt no draughts but draughts of love 
 
 When sitting on the stair. 
 170 
 
SITTING ON THE STAIR. \J\ 
 
 The music ceased, I '11 ne'er forget 
 Its dreamy sadness, lingering yet 
 
 In her dark, moistened eyes, " I swear ! 
 I 'd give the world to-night to see 
 That girl, who never more by me 
 
 Will sit upon the stair. 
 
 Since then I 've climbed the stairs of life, 
 I 've had my part of toil and strife, 
 
 And " — my sad revery ended there. 
 For, — first a giggle, then a cough, 
 Then rose a voice which said, " Come off ! 
 
 Don't stand upon the stair ! " 
 
THE BOSTON GIRL. 
 
 TOLD her of a maid whose mind 
 ■*■ Was filled with tender thoughts and fancies, 
 A lovely being of the kind 
 
 They write about in old romances. 
 " Knowest thou," said I, " this maiden fair, 
 
 Whose beauty doth my thoughts beguile ? " 
 She answered with a dreamy air : 
 
 " Well, I should smile ! " 
 
 " Her cheeks possess the rose's hue, 
 
 No form is daintier or completer, 
 No hair so brown, no eyes so blue, 
 
 No mouth is tenderer or sweeter. 
 The favored youth who gains the hand 
 
 Of this fair girl will ne'er regret it." 
 With modest grace she added : " And 
 Don't you forget it ! " 
 
 " O thou dear mistress of my heart ! 
 My angel ! let me kneel before thee 
 172 
 
THE BOSTON GIRL. 1 73 
 
 And say how heavenly sweet thou art, 
 And how devoutly I adore thee." 
 
 She turned away her lovely head, 
 And with a languid look that fired 
 
 My soul, in murmured accents said : 
 " You make me tired ! " 
 
THE DEATH-BED OF MRS. O'FLAHERTY. 
 
 " TJEAR me last wurruds ! Faix ! there 's 
 
 * * O'Shaughnessy, 
 That wurruld's thafe ! — owes me ninepince hap- 
 
 peny; 
 And there 's Phil Coyne, with his decaiving thricks, 
 Owes me five shillin's ; and there 's Pathrick Free 
 By that same token owes me two and six, 
 The craythur ! May the divil howld him fast ! " 
 " The ould woman is sinsible to the last ! " 
 
 " Give me a dhrop ! Arrah ! where was I thin ? — 
 And I owe Micky O'Nail wan pound tin, 
 And Phelim M'Carthy two pounds, and I owe 
 Three pounds to Jimmy Hone, and Mrs. Flynn 
 Wan pound sivin shillin's two pince happeny, — no ! 
 'T is two pince and three farthin's, by your laves." 
 " Howly St. Pathrick ! Hear now how she raves! " 
 
 174 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL TIGHT-ROPE DANCER. 
 
 WOULD like to say, beforehand, 
 * That it always makes me smile, 
 To watch those travelling agents, 
 
 Who sling the greatest style. 
 They dress like princes of the blood, 
 
 Yet any man of sense 
 Can tell a regular gentleman 
 
 From those commercial gents. 
 
 I recollect a man named Briggs, 
 
 A certain travelling swell, 
 When I tended bar at Smithville 
 
 In the Buckingham hotel. 
 'T was the time when we were boarding 
 
 The star variety show, 
 With the beautiful tight-rope dancer, 
 
 Signora Delarito. 
 
 175 
 
I76 THE TIGHT-ROPE DANCER. 
 
 Now Briggs had been there fifteen days, 
 
 And in the show each night, 
 Had watched that tight-rope dancer, 
 
 With rapturous delight ; 
 For on the fair Signora 
 
 He was completely gone, 
 And for bouquets to sling at her 
 
 His samples lay in pawn. 
 
 One night Briggs rigged himself up fine, 
 
 And when the show was o'er, 
 Went up the stairs, and hung around 
 
 The fair Signora's door. 
 And when that tight-rope dancer came, 
 
 And waltzed up to her room, 
 Although what then and there transpired 
 
 Is wrapped in deepest gloom — 
 
 We heard an awful crash, and Briggs 
 
 Came flying down the stairs,. 
 Followed closely by a hamper, 
 
 And a trunk and several chairs. 
 When he reached the bottom landing, 
 
 He was tired and took a rest ; 
 Then he picked himself up sadly, 
 
 And took the first train West. 
 
THE TIGHT-ROPE DANCER, 
 
 1 77 
 
 Soon a fresh commercial tourist 
 
 Took the road in Briggs* stead ; 
 And that star variety phalanx 
 
 Skipped their bill, one night, and fled, 
 And busted up at Yankton, 
 
 Which I think was their best plan, 
 And that " beautiful tight-rope dancer," 
 
 She turned out to be a man. 
 
HOW THEY PAID THE CHURCH DEBT 
 AT SMITHVILLE. 
 
 A T Smithville once, to help the church, 
 ** We gave an amateur play, 
 And set up " Julius Caesar " 
 
 In a most astounding way. 
 The stars were Oscar Johnson, 
 
 Sam Brown, Bill Jones, and me ; 
 And the way that Jones played Caesar 
 
 Was a frightful thing to see. 
 
 At first the applause was great ; we played 
 
 For all the parts were worth ; 
 And the audience was n't critical 
 
 And did n't want the earth ; 
 Till William Jones, as usual, 
 
 Spoiled the play by getting tight, 
 And the whole thing somehow ended 
 
 In a regular Smithville fight. 
 
 We gave them ancient Romans points — 
 Except, it must be said, 
 178 
 
PAYING THE CHURCH DEBT. 1 79 
 
 When Cassius did n't know his part, 
 
 And sang a song instead. 
 When Brutus' false calves slewed around, 
 
 At which some people talked ; 
 And the curtain stuck when Caesar died, 
 
 And the corpse arose and walked. 
 
 But when Mark Antony got up 
 
 Where Caesar's body lay, 
 To speak the funeral speech, which is 
 
 The best thing in the play, 
 The audience laughed and roared, and he 
 
 Soon knew the reason why 
 When he saw the corpse, which sat upright 
 
 And winked with its left eye. 
 
 Jones was a most ambitious man, 
 
 And he thought 't was his best chance, 
 And rising from his bier began 
 
 An original Fejee dance. 
 Such conduct in a corpse you '11 own 
 
 It was exceeding queer ; 
 Then Antony, whose speech was spoiled, 
 
 Got straightway on his ear, 
 
 And from the rostrum stepped, and went 
 
 To put a head on Bill, 
 And they two waltzed around the stage 
 
 In a wild and reckless mill. 
 Then the Roman soldiers somehow, 
 
 In the scrimmage took a hand, 
 
l8o PAYING THE CHURCH DEBT. 
 
 And the Roman populace followed 
 With the members Of the band. 
 
 The audience cheered the Romans on, 
 
 For they thought 't was in the play, 
 But the truth dawned on their minds about 
 
 The time the stage gave way. 
 Then some one raised the cry of " fire " 
 
 And turned out all the lights, 
 And that there row was worse than them 
 
 Old Gladiators' fights. 
 
 The language that was used that night 
 
 Would be awful to relate, 
 And the Romans from that play went home 
 
 In a terribly used-up state. 
 Seven ears and noses were sewed on, 
 
 And a dozen fractures set, 
 But we took three hundred dollars in, 
 
 And paid that old church debt. 
 
THE BALLADE OF CAMPANINI DE LANCY. 
 
 "T* WAS at Smithville, when " Norma " was given 
 
 * By De Lancy's Opera Co.; 
 The assemblage was brilliant and cultured — 
 
 Fifty cents was the price of the show ; 
 And I think that 't was well for Bellini 
 
 That he died several years ago. 
 
 What a storm of applause, and what glitter 
 
 Of bright eyes and calcium lights ! 
 When De Lancy, the tenor robusto, 
 
 Came down from the empyrean heights, 
 Where he soared in his duet with Norma, 
 
 In a cocked hat, a sword, and red tights. 
 
 How gayly he winks toward the boxes, 
 Where the bank clerk's daughters recline ; 
 
 Where the plumber sits in his velvet coat, 
 And the solitaire pin doth shine 
 
 Of the man who owneth a twentieth part 
 Of a share in a telephone line. 
 
 181 
 
1 82 CAMP AN INI DE LANCY. 
 
 But why does he start and grow livid, 
 As he turns to the orchestra chairs ? 
 
 And why does he falter, then dart through the flies, 
 And escape down the private back stairs ? 
 
 And who is that man whose fish-like eye 
 From the front row steadily glares ? 
 
 The curtain came down, and the gas-lights 
 
 Went out, and the music was still ; 
 For that man with the horrible grin, 
 
 Whose gaze made De Lancy ill, 
 Was the landlord from down in Ohio, 
 
 Where they skipped without paying the bill. 
 
AN ANGEL. 
 
 " TS it you, Jack ? I thought you 'd unearth me, 
 
 * For dancing, you know, I don't care, 
 So I quietly stole from the music, 
 
 The laughter and splendor and glare, 
 For a rest on the cool, dark piazza. 
 
 My cigar 's out ; come, give me a light ! 
 And I '11 tell you the dream which absorbed me 
 
 Out here in the calm summer night. 
 
 " The silver-edged mountains of cloudland 
 
 Had softened the light of the moon, 
 And the fire-flies seemed dancing the lanciers 
 
 To the ball-room's far-away tune ; 
 The breezes were rustling and whispering 
 
 Up there, in the trees overhead, 
 And there came a faint scent of syringas, 
 
 Like the perfume of days that are fled. 
 
 183 
 
184 AN ANGEL. 
 
 " And my thoughts went back to a village 
 
 Somewhere in the hills, to the time 
 When my hopes and my visions were golden, 
 
 And life had a halo sublime ; 
 To an old house under the elm trees, 
 
 Which was made, by the romance and mirth 
 Of a pretty and fanciful maiden, 
 
 The dearest spot on the earth. 
 
 " In my dream, Jack ! I saw her, her eyes had 
 
 That same sweet look as of yore, 
 And I felt for a time all the vanished 
 
 Enchantment surround me once more. 
 But alas ! the glamour, the magic 
 
 Of youth are faded and lost, 
 And she — well ! I found she was mortal, 
 
 Though many a heartache it cost. 
 
 " And so, I was sitting here dreaming, 
 
 And striving to think that 't was best 
 That the romance, the freshness were ended, 
 
 That life seemed a pitiful jest. 
 And how did you like your fair partner ? 
 
 You were sitting alone on the stair, 
 And that rose which you have there, resembles 
 
 The one that she wore in her hair — 
 
 " Yes ! I know she 's vivacious and lovely, 
 
 And that she 's an angel, I own, 
 But a snare seemed to lurk in her dimples, 
 
 And her laugh had a traitorous tone. 
 
AN ANGEL. 
 
 1*S 
 
 Introduce me ? — well, no ! for the truth is, 
 
 That beautiful vision of light, 
 That angel of clay, I once worshipped, — 
 
 Is the girl that you danced with to-night." 
 
A SONG OF SIXPENCE. 
 
 /^vH ! sing that song, from out the olden time ! 
 ^-^ Whose burden was the " sixpence of the 
 
 crown," 
 Glad sign of wealth, those days of deeds sublime, 
 And that great king, whose fame is handed 
 
 down, 
 From age to age, by pockets full of rye, 
 And that immortal dish, the singing blackbird pie. 
 
 The sun was high above the eastern hill, 
 
 Yet, in the royal palace, every room 
 Was closely curtained, sombre, dark, and still, 
 
 And in the gilded parlor's stately gloom, 
 By the dim light, which stole through painted 
 
 panes, 
 Counted the sordid king, his vast, ill-gotten gains. 
 
 The tap'stried warriors trembled overhead 
 
 Like threatening ghosts of foes in battle slain, 
 
 Unmoved, he counted on, and counting, said : 
 " Great Scott ! there is a sixpence short again." 
 
 186 
 
A SONG OE SIXPENCE. 187 
 
 The curtains parted, through the room, unseen, 
 Stole, like a lovely ghost, his fair, unrivalled queen. 
 
 With many a fearful backward glance, she passed 
 The banquet hall, which the preceding night 
 
 Had filled with stains of wassail, and at last, 
 Entered the pantry, like a ray of light, 
 
 And there did break her weary fast, with bread 
 
 Whiter than driven snow, with honey thickly 
 spread. 
 
 Fit subject for a painter, there she stood, 
 Her beauty heightened by the quaint array 
 
 Of barrels, drawers, and tins of all things good, — 
 But hush ! a step was heard to come that way ; 
 
 She shrank with fear, her very heart was stilled, 
 
 Pale grew that dimpled cheek, with bread and 
 honey filled. 
 
 " Ah, me ! that sixpence of the king ! " she cried ; 
 
 "Why did I prospect in the old man's vest ? " 
 She heard the door slammed to and locked out- 
 side ; 
 
 Months passed away, her fate is only guessed ; 
 Perhaps they found her after many a day, 
 A skeleton, white bleached, alas ! we cannot say. 
 
 Around the palace, so the books agree, 
 The royal garden lay, and there, the maid, 
 
 As fair a maid as one would wish to see, 
 In blue silk gown and hose of ebon shade, 
 
1 88 A SONG OF SIXPENCE. 
 
 For pastime, hung upon a golden line, 
 Her festive sovereign's shirts, four ply and super- 
 fine. 
 
 When, lo ! there came a bird, a bird of prey 
 
 It must have been, though writ " a little bird," 
 And bit that sweet maid, that she swooned away ; 
 And though what then transpired was never 
 heard, 
 O ! thrice unhappy maid ! we know, too well, 
 That the sweet scent of flowers thou nevermore 
 didst smell. 
 
 And they are gone, aye ! ages long ago, 
 
 King, queen, and maid, their very graves un- 
 known ; 
 
 The royal palace, like last April's snow, 
 Has vanished, nor is left a single stone ; 
 
 And all their wealth and beauty, power and fame, 
 
 Are but a mournful tale, an empty, idle name. 
 
JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 
 
 f^ARVED with impossible figures, a massive and 
 
 ^-^ curious timepiece 
 
 Stood, in colonial years, by Jonathan Blake's ample 
 fireplace — 
 
 Stood there, ghostly and grim, with a flintlock and 
 sword crossed above it, 
 
 And, till the date of this story, at sundown the 
 fourteenth of August, 
 
 Seventeen seventy-and-seven, the time of the siege 
 of Fort Stanwix, 
 
 Ancient, stately, and quaint, from its case like an 
 old Gothic castle, 
 
 Ticked away, without ceasing, in solemn, harmoni- 
 ous cadence. 
 
 Jonathan Blake's pretty daughter Dorothy sat by 
 the window, 
 
 Turning a flax-wheel and singing, but paused, as 
 with terrible clatter 
 
 Open the door flew and in rushed a score of red- 
 coated soldiers, 
 
 189 
 
I90 JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 
 
 And from the cellar to rafters, seeking a fugitive 
 prisoner, 
 
 Turned over tables and chairs and fathomed dark 
 corners with bayonets. 
 
 Rosy the flush that succeeded the pallor of Dorothy's 
 cheek, when, 
 
 Finding him not, they relinquished their search and 
 departed. 
 
 Then, with supreme indignation, hiding her maid- 
 enly fears, and 
 
 Drawing herself up as high as a rather small figure 
 permitted, 
 
 She, to the humble excuses preferred by the English 
 lieutenant, 
 
 Answered with all the disdain that a pair of dark 
 eyes could exhibit. 
 
 Now comes the wonderful part of the tale, for be- 
 fore they had vanished 
 
 Over the hill by the river, the door of the clock flew 
 wide open ; 
 
 Forth from its cavernous chamber, in uniform tat- 
 tered and blood-stained, — 
 
 Forth, like a shadow, a youth stole, and knelt at 
 the feet of the maiden, 
 
 Kissing her hand, and then like a shadow swiftly 
 departed. 
 
 Jonathan Blake was rich. His waving cornfields, 
 
 his woodlands 
 Stretched by the beautiful Mohawk and faded away 
 
 in the distance. 
 
JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 191 
 
 Jonathan Blake was rich, and Jonathan sorely was 
 
 troubled — 
 Troubled beholding the havoc wrought by those 
 
 red-coat marauders, — 
 Wrought overnight, and discovered at dawn of the 
 
 following morning. 
 Grain bins were emptied, the cornfields were tram- 
 pled as though by an army, 
 Haystacks lay smoking in ashes, and oxen and 
 
 horses had vanished. 
 Sadly he reckoned his loss, and hoping for some 
 
 compensation, 
 Rashly determined to start for St. Leger's camp at 
 
 Fort Stanwix, 
 Twenty-one miles up the river, and fifteen miles 
 
 through the forest. 
 Little lame Solomon Pitkin, a scheming and envious 
 
 neighbor, 
 Afterwards found to have been for months in the 
 
 pay of the British, 
 Volunteered to go with him, and so they departed 
 
 together. 
 
 Never returned from that journey, Jonathan Blake 
 
 or his comrade. 
 Whether waylaid by the red-men, or carried off by 
 
 the English, 
 Tidings there came not ; and never, though long 
 
 and patiently sought, was 
 Found the magnified treasure with which report had 
 
 possessed him, — 
 
192 JON A THAN BLAKE 'S CLOCK. 
 
 Hundreds and hundreds of dollars, 't was rumored, 
 in gold and in silver. 
 
 Floating southward, the white clouds, like souls of 
 
 the days of the summer, 
 Sank o'er the blue hills, the heavens grew cheerless 
 
 and wintry, the bleak winds 
 Moaned through the lonely gorges and leafless 
 
 boughs of the forest. 
 So came the winter and passed, and the pretty and 
 
 fanciful maiden 
 Changed to the staid Mistress Hawthorne, the wife 
 
 of the fugitive prisoner, 
 Roger Hawthorne, the youth whom the treacherous 
 
 maiden delivered, 
 Only to render tenfold a captive unto her bright 
 
 eyes. 
 Though as a timepiece its worth had departed since 
 
 Jonathan's journey, 
 Still the old clock in its corner, with queer and 
 
 fidgety manner, 
 Ticked as if it possessed some deep and mysterious 
 
 secret ; 
 And as the years passed away, in the darkness of 
 
 evening its quaint voice 
 Often brought back to the lovers the time when 
 
 the slender young ensign, 
 Wedged in its coffin-like chamber, his ruthless pur- 
 suers evaded. 
 
 Years rolled on, and the Hawthornes — their chil- 
 dren and children's children — 
 
JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 193 
 
 Peacefully slept in the church-yard, unknown in the 
 
 beautiful city, 
 Reared on the spot where their dwelling stood in 
 
 the whispering forest. 
 Long since, the loving tradition about the old clock 
 
 had departed. 
 Owned by some careless descendant, it slumbered 
 
 away in the attic, 
 Covered with lumber and dust ; until, asking for 
 
 just such a timepiece, 
 Came to his door, at dusk one day, a mysterious 
 
 stranger, 
 Bent, and lame in one leg, a little old man in knee- 
 breeches, 
 With a cunning and sinister eye, and dusty, black, 
 
 thread-bare apparel, 
 Who, when the price of the dingy and ponderous 
 
 relic was settled, 
 Paid it in queer old silver, and shut himself up in 
 
 the attic. 
 After the noise of a hammer and chisel some time 
 
 had resounded, 
 Suddenly all was still, and they who ascended to 
 
 seek him 
 Found the clock lying in fragments, but where 
 
 was the singular stranger ? 
 Lo ! the old man had departed in some unaccount- 
 able manner. 
 Strewn with pieces of paper, from end to end, was 
 
 the attic, — 
 Remnants of hundreds of bank-notes, thin and 
 
 yellow and faded ; 
 
194 JONA THAN BLAKE 'S CLOCK. 
 
 Currency Continental, worthless for all but old 
 
 paper ; 
 Torn as by one disappointed, and scattered about 
 
 in madness. 
 
 All that remains to be told of this far-stretched, 
 
 curious story, 
 Is that, repaired and revarnished, the stately and 
 
 veteran timepiece, 
 That since old Jonathan's journey had been in a 
 
 state of disorder, 
 Ticked away, as of yore, with solemn, harmonious 
 
 cadence. 
 
"THE LUCK OF GEORGE McCLURE." 
 
 I. 
 
 »np WAS a year ago, coming December, 
 
 *■ You remember the evening, I know. 
 We were sitting right here, by the hearth fire, 
 
 And watching its flicker and glow, 
 You and I, George McClure and Jack Lyndon, 
 
 Right here, in the Calumet Club, 
 The sanctum and innermost temple 
 
 Of Beacon Hill and the " Hub." 
 
 II. 
 
 And George owned the tender impeachment, 
 
 And told in his spiciest way, 
 His conquest of little Sue Slater, 
 
 The prettiest girl of the day. 
 What a color Sue had ! and her figure ! 
 
 So rich, yet petite, and what eyes ! 
 How lucky he was ! how we envied 
 
 The scapegrace his beautiful prize ! 
 
 i95 
 
I96 "THE LUCK OF GEORGE McCLURE." 
 
 III. 
 
 Sue was poor, but she sang at St. Agnes' 
 
 For twenty-five hundred a year, 
 Three-fourths of which went to a parent 
 
 Who never was seen about here. 
 A cultured and delicate person, 
 
 Who travelled around for her health ; 
 I saw her last summer at Newport, 
 
 Attired like a lady of wealth. 
 
 IV. 
 
 She told me that she was Sue's mamma, 
 
 And spoke of her dear daughter Sue, 
 Which, as that was the name of Sue's mother, 
 
 Was, strictly and honestly, true. 
 She was forty years old, so she told us 
 
 With childish, ingenuous air, 
 But she might, in so far as her looks went, 
 
 Have been her own mother, I swear ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Well ! George had just squandered his fortune, 
 
 And used up his sister's besides, 
 When his cousin John got him that clerkship, 
 
 A something or other in hides. 
 But George was n't fashioned for labor ; 
 
 It all ended up in a row, 
 And he left, and some say he was kicked out, 
 
 But that does n't matter just now. 
 
"THE LUCK OF GEORGE McCLURE." 1 97 
 
 VI. 
 
 It was just after that, that George met me, 
 
 And said there was " really no choice 
 But to marry that little Sue Slater, 
 
 And manage to live on her voice." 
 But his Beacon Street friends would n't have it, 
 
 And chipped in, and sent him out West, 
 To Los Angeles, near the Pacific, 
 
 For a long recreation and rest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He wrote me last month, and he mentioned 
 
 The fruits and the wonderful air, 
 And how he had met a rich widow, 
 
 And hoped that poor Sue would n't care. 
 Last Friday I heard from him further, 
 
 By telegram (ninety cents due). 
 " When you see this," it read, " we '11 be married ; 
 
 Please break it to poor little Sue." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 To bear such a message was cruel, 
 
 A task not at all to my mind, 
 But I saw her, and managed the business 
 
 In a way that was gentle and kind. 
 While I told her she seemed to be laughing. 
 
 These women are strange, I declare ! 
 And it struck me somehow, from her manner, 
 
 That she knew all about the affair. 
 
I98 "THE LUCK OF GEORGE M CLURE^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 There was surely some secret ; she giggled, 
 
 And blushed, and at last out it came, — 
 George, it seemed, had been fooled by cosmetics, 
 
 Misled by the difference in name, 
 And at last, in his search for an heiress, 
 
 That one ruling thought of McClure's, 
 He had married Sue's Grandmother. Waiter ! 
 
 A sour mash and seltzer ! what 's yours ? 
 
 THE END. 
 

 <1»H 
 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 llllilillLn 
 
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