ail~~ > POEMS. BY WILL. M. CARLETON, CHICAGO: L,AKESIDE PUBLISHING AND PRINTING COMPANY. I 87 I. I * ~ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 187[, by WILL. M. CARLETON, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. t', THIS LITTLE VOLUME I s REVERENTLr AND AFF.ECTIONA TEL1 ctcirat e TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER. .T:''''. -"x -%' ok o f, a .7;-I I 6, RIFTS IN THE CLOUD. Life is a cloud!-e'en take it as you may; Illumine it with Pleasure's transient ray; Brighten its edge with Virtue; let each fold E'en by the touch of God be flecked with gold, While angel-wings may kindly hover near, And angel-voices murmur words of cheer, Still, life's a cloud! forever hanging nigh, Forever o'er our winding pathways spread, Ready to blacken on some saddened eye, And hurl its bolts on some defenceless head! Yes, there are lives that seem to know no ill; Paths that seem straight, with naught of thorn or hill; The bright and glorious sun, each welcome day, Flashes upon the flowers that deck their way, And the soft zephyr sings a lullaby, 'Mid rustling trees, to please the ear and eye; And all the darling child of fortune needs, And all he cares, and all he knows or heeds, POEMS. While fairy ey-es their watch above him keep, Is breath to live, and weariness to sleep. But life's a cloud! and soon the smiling sky May wear the unwelcome semblance of a frown, And the fierce tempest, madly rushing by, May raise its dripping wings, and strike him down! When helpless infancy, for love or rest, Lies nestling to a mother's yearning breast, While she, enamored of its ways and wiles As mothers only are, looks down and smiles, And spies a thousand unsuspected charms In the sweet babe she presses in her arms, While he, the love-light kindled in his eyes, Sends to her own, electrical replies, A ray of sunshine comes for each caress, From out the clear blue sky of happiness. But life's a cloud! and soon the smiling face The fi'owns and tears of childish grief may know, And the love-language of the heart give place To the wild clamor of a baby's woe. The days of youth are joyful in their way; Bare feet tread lightly, and their steps are gay. Parental kindness grades the early path, And shields it from the storm-king's dreaded wrath. But there are thorns that prick the infant flesh, And bid the youthfuil eyes to flow afresh, 6 RIFTS IN THE CLOUD. Thorns that maturer nerves would never feel, With wounds that bleed not less, that soon they heal. When we look back upon our childhood days, Look down the long and sweetly verdant ways Wherein we gaily passed the shining hours, We see the beauty of its blooming flowers, We breathe its fresh and fragrant air once more, And, counting all its many pleasures o'er, And giving them their natural place of chief, Forget our disappointments, and our grief. Sorrows that now were light, then weighed us down, And claimed our tears for every surly frown. For life's a cloud, e'en take it as we will, The changing wind ne'er banishes or lifts! The pangs of grief but make it darker still, And happiness is nothing but its rifts! There is a joy in sturdy manhood, still; Bravery is joy; and he who says I WILL, And turns, with swelling heart, and dares the fates, While firm resolve upon his purpose waits, Is happier for the deed; and he whose share Is honest toil, pits that against dull care. And yet, in spite of labor, faith, or prayer, Dark clouds and fearful o'er our paths are driven; They take the shape of monsters in the air, And almost shut our eager gaze from HIeaveni! 7 POEMS. Disease is there, with slimy, loathsome touch, With hlollow, blood-shot eyes and eager clutch, Longing to strike us down with pangs of pain, And bind us there, with weakness' galling chain. Ruin is there, with cunning ambush laid, Waiting some panic in the ranks of trade, Some profitless endeavor, or some trust By recreant knave abused, to snatch the crust From out the mouths of them we love the best, And bring gaunt hunger, an unwelcome guest. Disgrace is there, of honest look bereft, Truth in his right hand, slander in his left, Pride in his mouth, the devil in his eye, His garment truth, his cold black heart a lie, Forging the bolts to blast some honored name; Longing to see some victim wronged or wrong; To see him step into the pool of shame, Or plashed by loved ones that to him belong. A dark cloud hovers over every zone, The cloud of ignorance. The great unknown, Defying comprehension, still hangs low Above our feeble minds. When we* who now Have stumbled'neath the ever-varying load That marks the weary student's royal road, Have hurried over verbs in headlong haste, And various thorny paths of language traced, Have run our muddled heads, with rueful sigh, *Class of'69, Hillsdale College, of which this Poem was one of the Graduating Exercises. 8 RIFTS IN TIIE CLI,OUD. 'Gainst figures truthful, that yet seemed to lie; Have peeped into the Sciences, and learned How much we do not know-have bravely turned Our guns of eloquence on forest trees, And preached grave doctrines to the wayward breeze When we have done all this, the foggy clotid, With scarce a rift, is still above us bowed; And we are children, on some garden's verge, Groping for flowers the opposing wall beneath, Who, flushed and breathless, may at last emerge, With a few scanty blossoms for a wreath. But never was a cloud so thick and black, But it might some time break, and on its track The glorious sun come streaming. Never, too, So but its threads might bleach to lighter hue, Was sorrow's mantle of so deep a dye. And he who, peering at the troubled sky, Looks past the clouds, or looks the cloud-rifts through, Or, finding none, remembers their great worth, And strikes them for himself, is that man who Shows the completest wisdom of this earth. When one stands forth in Reason's glorious light, Stands in his own proud consciousness of right, Laments his faults, his virtues does not boast, Studies all creatures-and himself the most, Knowing the way wherewith his faults to meet, 9 POEMS. Or, vanquished by them, owning his defeat,. He pays the penalty as should a man, And pitches battle with the foe again; When, giving all their proper due and heed, He yet has power, when such shall be the need, To go his way, unshackled, true, and free, And bid the world go hanged, if needs must be, He strikes a rift for his unfearing eye, Through the black cloud of low servility: A cloud that's decked the Orient all these years; 'Neath whose low-bending folds,'mid groans and tears, Priestcraft has heaped its huge, ill-gotten gains, And tyrants forged their bloody, clanking chains; A cloud, that when the Mayflower's precious cup The misty, treacherous deep held proudly up, By waves that leaped and dashed each other o'er, But onward still the ark of Freedom bore, Some fair and peaceful Ararat to find, Dipped its black wings, and swept not far behind. To-day, it lowers o'er this great, free land, O'er farms and work-shops, offices and spiresIts baleful shadow casts on every hand, And darkens church, and state, and household fires. It is a thing to pity and to blame, A useless, vile, humiliating shame, A silent slander on the Heaven-born soul, Decked with the signet of its own control, IO RIFTS IN THE CLOUD. A flaw upon the image of our God, When men, obedient to some Moglil's nod When men, the sockets of whose addled brains Are blessed with some illuminate remains Wherefrom thie gliun of reason still is shed, Blow out the light, and send their wits to bed And, taking as their sole dictator, then, Some little, thundering god of speech or pen, Aping submissively the smile or frown Of some great brazen face that beats them down, Or silenced by some lubricated tongue, Covered with borrowed words and neatly hung They yield their judgments up to others' wills, And take grave creeds like sugar-coated pills; And, with their weakness tacitly confessed, Like the unfeathered fledglings of a nest, When the old Bird comes home with worms and flies With half a smile and half a knowing frown, They open wide their mouths, and shut their eyes, And seem to murmur softly, " Drop it down." He who will creep about some great man's feet, The honeyed fragrance of his breath to meet, Or follow him about, with crafty plan, And cringe for smiles and favors, is no man. A fraction of a man, and all his own, Although his numerator be but one, With unity divided up so fine That thousands range themselves beneath the line, I I RIFTS IN THE CLOUD. Yet ominously silent; moving on, AWhile from its threatening folds, so deep and dark, The forked lightning, ever and anon, Shoots for some life, and never fails its mark! STEWARD, our classmate, is not here to-day; Many an oak is blasted on its way, Many a growing hope is overthrown. What mig ht have been, his early growth had shown; What was, our love and tears for him may tell; He lived, he toiled, he faded, and he fell. When STEWARD lay within that narrow room Men call a coffin-in its cheerless gloom Himself the only tenant, and asleep In a long slumber, terrible and deep; WVhen at thie open door his pale, sad face Appeared to us, without a look or trace Of recognition in its ghastly hue, Soon to be hid forever from our'view; When, with his sightless eyes to Heaven up turned, Wherefrom his royal soul upon them burned, tie waited for his last rites to be said, With the pathetic patience of the dead; When tenderly his manly form we lay In its last couch, with covering of clay; Who in that mournful duty had a part, But felt the cloud of Death upon his heart? I3 RIFTS IN THE CLOUD. Yet ominously silent; moving on, 'While from its threatening folds, so deep and dark, The forked lightning, ever and anon, Shoots for some life, and never fails its mark! STEWARD, our classmate, is not here to-day; Many an oak is blasted on its way, Many a growing hope is overthrown. What migeht have been, his early growth had shown; What was, our love and tears for him may tell; He lived, he toiled, he faded, and he fell. When STEWARD lay within that narrow room Men call a coffin-in its cheerless gloom Himself the only tenant, and asleep In a long slumber, terrible and deep; WVhen at the open door his pale, sad face Appeared to us, without a look or trace Of recognition in its ghastly hue, Soon to be hid forever from our'view; When, with his sightless eyes to Heaven up turned, Wherefrom his royal soul upon them burned, tle waited for his last rites to be said, With the pathetic patience of the dead; When tenderly his manly form we lay In its last couch, with covering of clay; Who in that mournful duty had a part, But felt the cloud of Death upon his heart? 13 POEMS. But when we thought how his unfettered soul, Free from his poor sick body's weak control, Pluming its wings at the Eternal throne, Might take through realms of space its rapid flight, And find a million joys to us unknown, The cloud was rifted by a ray of light. OLD CLASS OF'69! together, still, We've journeyed up the rough and toilsome hill Seeking the gems to labor ne'er denied, Plucking the fruits that deck the mountainside. Now, in the glory of this Summer's day, We part, and each one goes his different way. Let each, with hope to fire his yearning souLl, Still hurry onward to the shining goal. The way at times may dark and weary seem, No ray of sunshine on our path may beam, The dark clouds hover o'er us like a pall, And gloom and sadness seem to compass all; But still, with honest purpose, toil we on; And if our steps be upright, straight and true, Far in the East a golden light shall dawn, And the bright smile of GOD come bursting through. I4 DEATH-DOOMED. They're taking me to the gallows, mother —they mean to hang me high; They're going to gather round me there, and watch me till I die; All earthly joy has vanished, now, and gone each mortal hope,They'll draw a cap across my eyes, and round my neck a rope; The crazy mob will shout and groan-the priest will read a prayer. The drop will fall beneath my feet and leave me ill the air. They think I murdered Allen Bayne; for so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother-hang me till I'm dead! The grass that grows in yonder meadow, the lambs that skip and play, .A POEMS. The pebbled brook behind the orchard, that laughs upon its way, The flowers that bloom in the dear old garden, the birds that sing and fly, Are clear and pure of human blood, and, mother, so am I! By father's grave on yonder hill-his name without a stain I ne'er had malice in my heart, or murdered Allen Bayne! But twelve good men have found me guilty, for so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother-hang me till I'm dead! The air is fresh and bracing, mother; the sun shines bright and high; It is a pleasant day to live-a gloomy one to die! It is a bright and glorious day the joys of earth to graspIt is a sad and wretched one to strangle, choke, and gasp! But let them damp my lofty spirit, or cow me if they can! They send me like a rogue to death-I'll meet it like a man. For I never murdered Allen Bayne! but so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother-hang me till I'm dead! i6 DEATH - DOOMED. 17 Poor little sister'Bell will weep, and kiss me as I lie; But kiss her twice and thrice for me, and tell her not to cry; Tell her to weave a bright, gay garland, and crown me as of yore, Then plant a lily upon my grave, and think of me no more. And tell that maiden whose love I sought, that I was faithful yet; But I must lie in a felon's grave, and she had best forget. My memory is stained forever; for so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother-hang me till I'm dead! Lay me not down by my father's side; for once, I mind, he said No child that stained his spotless name should share his mortal bed. Old friends would look beyond his grave, to my dis honored one, And hide the virtues of the sire behind the recreant son. And I can fancy, if there my corse its fettered limbs should lay, His frowning skull and crumbling bones would shrink from me away; But I swear to God I'm innocent, and never blood have shed! I8 POEMS. And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother-hang me till I'm dead! Lay me in my coffin, mother, as you've sometimes seen me rest: One of my arms beneath nmy head, the other on my breast. Place my Bible upon my heart-nay, mother, do not weepAnd kiss me as in happier days you kissed me when asleep. And for the rest-for formn or rite-but little do I reck; But cover up that cursed stain-she black mark on my neck I And pray to God for his great mercy on my devoted head; For they'll hang me to the gallows, mother-hang me till I'm dead! But hark! I hear a mighty murmur among the jostling crowd! A cry!-a shout!-a roar of voices!-it echoes long and loud! There dashes a horseman with foaming steed and tightly-gathered rein! He sits erect!-he waves his hand!-good Heaven! 'tis Allen Bayne! The lost is found, the dead alive, my safety is achieved! DEATH - DOOMED. For he waves his hand again, and shouts, " The pris oner is reprieved!" Now, mother, praise the God you love, and raise your drooping head; For the murderous gallows, black and grim, is cheated of its dead! I9 UP THE LINE. Through blinding stormn and clouds of night, We swiftly pushed our restless flight; With thundering hoof and warning neigh, We urged our steed upon his way Up the line. Afar the lofty head-light gleamed; Afar the whistle shrieked and screamed; And glistening bright, and rising high, Our flakes of fire bestrewed the sky, Up the line. Adown the long, complaining track, Our wheels a message hurried back; And quivering through the rails ahead, Went news of our resistless tread, Up the line. UP TIIE LINE. The trees gave back our din and shout, And flung their shadow-armns about; And shivering in their coats of gray, They heard us roaring far away Up the line. The wailing storm came on apace, And dclashed its tears into our face; But steadily still we pierced it through, And cut the sweeping wind in two, Up the line. A rattling rush across the ridge, A thunder-peal beneath the bridge; And valley and hill and sober plain Re-echoed our triumrnphant strain, Up the line. And when the Eastern streaks of gray Bespoke the dawn of coming day, AAe halted our steed, his journey o'er, And urged his giant form no more, Up the line. 21 Sit' TO JOE, AT WAR. (I865.) Now many a day has passed away Since last I pressed your hand, And saw you go to fight the foe Of this, our native land. Thrice has December's chilling blast Its desolation round you cast, Bidding all warmth depart; And yet I know, my gallant Joe, It has not cooled your heart! Now many a sun has come and gone, Since you and I have met, And deep in gore to rise no more Full many a star has set; A thousand hopes that then were bright IIave darkened into endless night, A thousand hearts have bled; And many a home is wrapped in gloom, And mourning for its dead. A;~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ TO JOE, AT WAR. Now many a form, once blithe and warm, Lies'neath the Southern sod, And many a soul has reached the goal, And gone to meet its God. The rolling drum and bugle's tones, Are freighted with the widow's groans, And orphan's helpless cry; For in the graves of Freedom's braves The hearts of thousands lie. But by the blood of those who stood And fought at Bunker Hill, By all our pride of those who died, But live, in history, still; By all our fields, with carnage stained, By all that we have lost and gained, By all our faith in God, That flag shall yet be firmly set On every Southern rod! That flag shall float, though o'er the throat Of many a blazing gun! That flag shall wave, though o'er the grave Of many a traitorous son! Though the whole South, from shore to shore, Be drenched with patriotic gore, The North with widows' tears; Noble and grand that flag shall stand, And wave a thousand years! 23 POEMS. Full well you know, my honest Joe, How virtue e'er exalts; So may you claim a soldier's fame, But shun a soldier's faults. And when this bloody war is o'er, And Peace comes smiling down once more To heal our nation's woe, May Honor crown you with renown, As gayly home you go. 24 I THE CABLE. Peal the clanging bell! Thunder the brazen gul! Over the earth in triumph swell The notes of a victory won! Not over field and ditch and corse; Not by musketry, cannon and horse; Not by slkirmishes bloody and fell; Not by the whiz of shot and shell; But men of will and thought, M1en of muscle and brain, Have planned and toiled and suffered and fought, And conquered the raging main! Far from an Eastern shore, By the second ark is brought, Spanning the dusky distance o'er, A line of glowing thought! Dashing through ripples and torrents and waves, Courting the gloom of mariners' graves; Hastily threading the ocean aisles, And bringing to naught three thousand miles! For men of will and thought, Men of muscle and brain, Have planned and toiled and suffered and fought, And conquered the raging main! 2 POEMS. Time in his car, indeed, Flits fast from place to place; But restless Thought has dared his speed, And Thought has won the race! Man is as naught in Time's fierce clasp, But Thought can escape his greedy grasp; And Time shall have perished, by and by, But the soul of Thought can never die! Thunder the guns as you ought! Well may the church bells chime! For man, with the Heaven-given sword of thought, Has conquered the Scythe of Time! Sing to the GOD of love! A thousand anthems raise! Render to Him who reigns above, A tribute of song and praise! His is the ocean, deep and dark; His is the quick electric spark; His is each willing, helping hand; His are the mighty souls that planned! Pray that the blessed line May stretch from shore to shore, And together the hearts of nations twine, Till nations are no more! 26 JOHN CHINAMAN IS COMING. From out the sunset's golden flame He long has wrapped around him, From out the walls of woe and shame Where centuries have bound him, With clashing cymbals, opium pipes, And horrid words and letters, With streaming cue, and bleeding stripes, And marks of chains and fetters, With shaven poll, and browless eye, And ceaseless sound of drumming, With rattish rush and hungry cry, John Chinaman is coming! Now drape with crape our spangled flag, And vent your righteous passions, And let your tongues in anger wag, American Caucasians! 'Twas sad to roil the Saxon stream With Sambo, poor old fellow; C)) POEMS. And now, forsooth, its struggling gleam Must bear a tinge of yellow! Yet ere, as freemen, we revile, Our conscience craves benumbing; And'mid our musings, all the while John Chinaman is coming! Now ye who toil, with quickened breath And hotly streaming faces, And hate the wretch who flees fromn death And cheaply seeks your places, See, riding down your iron streets, In search of warmth and victual, A man who works for what he eats, And only eats a little! But Western acres long shall grow, And factories swell their humming, And all shall live and prosper, though John Chinaman is coming! Now ye who crush the cringing man, And cheat and spurn and spite him, See here a beast of trampled clan, That licks the hands that smite him! But hold the pearls of your abuse, And let your wits befi-iend you, Or he you put to shameful use, May some time turn and rend you; For burdened wights to upright forms The hand of Right is plumbing, 2S JOHN CHINAMAN IS COMING. And straight and proud, through sneers and storms, John Chinaman is coming! Now ye who constant effort wield To Christianize your neighbors, Here opens up to you a field Well worthy of your labors! And not without allowance due These threads of vice unravel, Nor heathen spurn who come to you, And save you leagues of travel; And when at last at Heaven's gate Your passports you are thumbing, Perhaps you'll see that while you wait, JolIn Chinaman is coming! And while our race, that God has made To work His grandest pleasure, Climbs slowly to its destined grade, With steady step and measure; If, after all our woe and sin, And weakness and dejection, The gracious Lord shall let us in Through gates of blest perfection, While marching on, and truths Divine Continually summing, We'll see that somewhere in the line, John Chinaman is coming! 29 THE LABORING MEN. Who are the laboring men? We are the laboring men; We, the muscle of tribes and lands, With streaming faces and hardened hands; With well-patched garments, stained and coarse, With untrained voices, heavy and hoarse; Wre, who can brave the noontide heats, And mow the meadows and pave the streets; Who hew the timber and turn the sod; Who wield the hoe and carry the hod; Yes, we are the laboring men The genuine laboring men! And each, somewhere in the stormy sky, Has a glittering star, be it low or high! For pride have we, to do and dare, And love have we, to cherish and care; And power have we; for lose our brawn, And where were your flourishing cities gone? Or bind our hands or fetter our feet, And what would the great world find to eat? Ay, where were your gentry then? We are the laboring men! THE LABORING MEN. Who are the laboring men? \Ve are the laboring men! We who stand in the ranks of trade, And count the tallies that toil has made Who guard the coffers of wealth untold, And ford the currents of glistening gold; Who send the train in its hurrying trips, And rear the stores and own the shlips And though our coats be a trifle fine, And though our diamonds flash and shine, Yet we are the laboring men The genuine laboring men! We guard the gates of the angry seas; We hold the nation's granary keys; The routes of trade we have marked and planned, Are veins of life to a hungry land. And power have we in our peaceful strife; For the nation's trade is the nation's life And take'the sails of our commnerce in, Where were your "laborers' pails of tin"? Ay, where were your " laborers" then! We are the laboring men! Who are the laboring mien? We are the laboring men; We of the iron and watery way, \WhomI fire and steam and tide obey; Who pierce the sea with a prow of oak, \\Tho blot the sky with a cloud of smioke; Who ben(l the breezes unto our wills, 31 0 POEMS. And work the looms and hurry the mills; Who oft have the lives of a thousand known, In the hissing valves that hold our own; Yes, we are the laboring men The genuine laboring men! And though a coat may a button lack, And though a face be sooty and black, And though an oath in a speech may blend, A heart's a heart, and a friend('s a friend! And power have we; but for our skill, The wave would drown, and the sea would kill; AAnd where were your gentry then? Aye, we are the laboring men! Who are the laboring men? We are the laboring men; We of the mental toil and strain, Who stall the body and lash the brain; Who wield the pen when the world's asleep, And plead with mortals to lalughl or weep; Who bind the wound and plead the cause, And preach the sermons and make the laws; Who stand before the listening throng, Andi fight the devils of Shame and Wrong; Yes, we are the laboring men The genuine laboring men! And though our hands be small and white, And though our flesh be tender and lighlt, And though our muscle be soft and low, Our boiling blood has a mighty flow! 32 THE LABORING MEN. WVe've power to kindle Passion's fire, With the flame of rage, and fell desire; Or quell, with soothing words and arts, To throbs of grief, the leaping hearts. Who shall question, thenl, That we are the laboring men? Who are NOT the laboring men? They're not the laboring men; They who creep in dens and lanes, To rob their betters of honest gains The rich that stoop to wrong the poor; The tramps that beg fiom door to door; The rogues who love a darkened sky, And steal and rob and cheat and lie; The loafing wights and senseless bloats, Who drain their pockets to wet their throats! They're not the laboring men, The gentline laboring men! And each, some time in the coming days, Shall stand in the world's indignant gaze; And each at the bar of the Judge shall stand, And render account to the Sovereign Land; And each should be sent to the prison grim, To toil for the mnen who have suffered by him And there, with a home behind the grate, Be made to avenge the injured State. Truly and justly, then, They will be laibori,ng mten! * 33 A TRIBUTE TO DICKENS. Across the foaming sea of words and thought, Where heavier craft were struggling with the storm, The winds one day an unknown vessel brought, Of flaunting streamer and fantastic form. Old captains gazed, and wondered at her route, And gravely shook their grizzled heads in doubt; And critics nursed their literary ire, And quickly loaded up their gtins to fire. But crowding sail, she cut the dangerous waves, Swept past old wrecks and signals of distress, And o'er forgotten hulks and nameless graves, Straight glided to the harbor of success! The great World gazed on her a little while, Its careworn face grew brighter with a smile, Until its voice caught rapture fiom its gaze, And swelled into a thunder-peal of praise! A 5,4', A TRIBUTE TO DICKENS. The outstript jester, smiling, dropped his pun, The sage looked up, with laughter in his eyes; The critic turned his double-shotted gun, And jubilantly fired it at the skies! The laboring throng, when their day's toil was o'er, Crowded along the unaccustomed shore, And viewed, with wonder and delight oft-told, The varied treasures of her deck and hold! For there, upon the deck, in genial state, Stood Pickwick, captain of the motley crew; The sturdy Samuel Weller for his mate, And many a passenger The People knew; And stored among her cargo of rich mirth, Shone forth the richest diamonds of earth; Wit, humor, pathos-all the brighter gems, Set in a thousand flashing diadems! And ever as they gazed, and rushed to gaze, Came sweeping o'er the sea another gale, And gleamed upon their glad eyes, thro' the haze, The snowy whiteness of another sail; Rich loaded was one bark, and fair to see, But aimed great guns at petty tyranny; And as she swiftly glided safe to land, Young Captain Nickleby was in command. Then came a ship of stranger seeming still, With " Curiosities" in plenty stored; 35 POEMS. And thousands crowded round her, with one will, To view the passengers she had on board. And one there was-her namne was " Little Nell"The People much adclmired, and loved ftill well; And many wept, and lingered at her side, When peacefully she laid her down and died. So one by one to port the vessels came, Laden with comfort for both rich and poor, But hurling bolts of scorn-envenomed flame At tyrant, rogue, and snob, and titled hoor. And each new ship the multitude flocked round, And gloated o'er the treasures that they found; And as each sail came flashing into sight, Broke forth a thousand plaudits of delight! Pictures there were, that painter's brush might pine And pray to spring from out its striving art; The hand that drew their outlines was divine It was the servant of a god-like heart. The city haunts, from palace down to den, Stood forth in glowing colors once again; And the wide country landscape well was traced, With river, grove, and hill, and desert waste. And words-such fitly-spoken words as well Were to such pictures apples of fine gold, Upon the ears of listening millions fell, And often by the fireside were retold. Pity, and love, and symtpathy, were there; 36 A TRIBUTE TO DICKENS. Sorrow, and rage, and raven-winged despair; Denunciation, big with conscious might, And earnest, manly pleadings for the right. And so the millions, eager to confess The pleasures they from his creations drew, Hastened to praise, and glorify, and bless - The quiet man whose face they hardly knew, Who, in his lonely room, worked for his goal, With busy brain, and strongly-yearning soul; And with his good pen, built, and rigged, and manned The noble vessels which his genius planned. But one dark day, the news flashed o'er the earth, That he, beloved guest of many lands, Had gone to where his regal soul had birth, Led by the pressure of down-reaching hands. There have been kings, reposing in the shroud, Scorned in the laughing heart, though mourned aloud; Here was a citizen, wept by his peers, And deluged by a flood of heartfelt tears! '0 Dickens! if in yonder star-girt land, Thou canst but wand(ler thro' its streets and vales, And then before the breathless millions stand, And tell thy merry and pathetic tales, If thou canst yet thy daily toil prolong, Plead for the right, and battle with the wrong, The happiness of Heaven will o'er thee spread, For thou thy path Heaven-given, still wilt tread! 37 POEMS. No new laudation to thy name we raise No tribute of new grief with us appears; Through all thy life we gave thee words of praise Long ere thy death we gave thee our best tears. But wheresoever still the English tongue In all the world is spoken, read, and sung, Shall rise the fervent words oft-heard before' God bless thee, glorious Dickens, evermore!" 38 4+ CITY OF BOSTON. "We only know she sailed away, And ne'er was heard of more." Waves of the ocean, that thunder and roar, Where is the ship that we sent fiom our shore? Tell, as ye dash on the quivering strand, Where is the crew that comes never to laJd? Where are the hearts, that unfearing and gay, Broke from the clasp of affection away? Where are the faces, that smiling andl bright, Sailed for the death-darkened regions of night? Waves of the ocean, that thunder and roar, Where is the ship that we seat from our shore? Storms of the ocean, that bellow and sweep, Where are our friends that went forth on the deep? Where are the faces ye paled with your sneer? Where are the hearts ye have palsied with fear? Where is the maiden, so tender and fitir? Where is the father, of silvery hair? -im POEMS. Where is the glory of womanhood's time? Where the warm blood of man's vigor and prime? Storms of the ocean, that bellow and poulr, Where is the ship that we sent from our shore? Birds of the ocean, that scream through the gale, What have ye seen of a wind-beaten sail? What have ye heard, in your moments of glee, Birds of the bitter and treacherous sea? Perched ye for rest on the threatening mast, Beaten and slhattered and bent by the blast? Heard ye no message to carry away, Home to the hearts that are yearning to-day? Birds of the ocean, that hover and soar, Where is the ship that we sent from our shore? Depths of the ocean, that fathomless lie, What of the crew that no more cometh nigh? What of the guests that so silently sleep Low in tlhy chambers, relentlessly deep? Cold is the couch they have haplessly won; Long is the night they have entered upon; Still must they sleep, till the trumpet o'erhead Summons the sea to uncover its dea(l! Depths of the ocean, with treasures in store, Where is the ship that we sent fiom our shor-e? GOD of the ocean, of mercy and power, Look we to thee in this hleart-clLrushinlg hour! 40 CITY OF BOSTON. Cold was the bitter and merciless wave, Wairm was thy love and thy goodness, to save; Dark were the tempests that thundered and flew, Bright was thy smile, bursting happily through Bright to the band who have followed thinie eye Home to the shores of the beautifiul sky! Safe in thy goodness and love evermore, Leave we the ship that we sent from our shore! 41 LOST AND RECLAIMED. INTRODUCTION. Why toil whlere hands have labored well and lonbg, Through tears, and blood, and pain? Why sweep the strings of cold, reluctant song, And sweep them all in vain? Why yearn where better hearts have gone for nought, Through sad, disastrous years, And seek to earn what has not yet been bought By reason, prayer, and tears? There is a fearful demon on this earth, Stalking from land to land; Where'er he go, he carries woe and dearth, And blood-red is his hand. A million corses mark his cruel way, And lepers, vile and stained, Who follow at his bidding, while they pray To have the devil chained! LOST AND RECLAIMED. They follow him, with footsteps faint and weak, Through want, and shame, and guile; They cling to him, they kiss his bloated cheek, And curse him all the while. They shrink in horror from his loathsome den, They dread its hopeless gloom; They turn and beg deliverance and then Rush headlong to their doom. The sage has drawn the sword of reason out Against thie crafty foe, And dealt his foul and loathsome form about, With many a lusty blow; The orator has mingled in the fray, The bard has sung his verse; But victory lingers long upon the way, And with us stays the curse! The man of God has raised his tear-stained face To the Great Priest on high, And prayed that this fell blight upon our race Might harmless pass it by; Yet, for his faith, but slight reward appears; The guerdon is not won! Through weary months, and sorrow-laden years, The fearful work goes on! And women-they whose cautious, trusting lives Grow thick with hopes and fears, 43 POEM'S. The mothers, and the sisters, and the wives Have lavxished their best tears; But tears, alas! have fallen all in vain, Or soon to be effaced, E'en as the dropping of the blessed rain Upon a desert waste! Is there a country hamlet, that has reared Its church-spire humbly up, Where the arch-fiend has not some time appeared, And brought the poisoned cup? Is there a township where, on every hand, Tile wine-cup holds not slaves? Is there a church-yard in this " Christian land," That counts not drunkards' graves? Ay, throned within the loftiest halls of state, The monster rules the hour, And in the revels of the rich and great, He knows his fatal power. And gifted men, whom we have named and sought To fill the highest place, Have turned upon us in their shame, and taught Us lessons of disgrace! Shlall we submit? Ask you the wid(low's groan, The orphan's helpless cry! Ask you of those Mwho best the curse have known, And mark their stern reply! 44 LOST AND IECLAIMED. Shall we submit? Ask you the crumbling bones Of victims, fallen low, And listen to the anguished, pleading tones, That join in answering, "No!" By all the glorious records of our race, Stamped with Jehovah's seal, By all the humbling lessons of disgrace, That damp our pride and zeal, By honest effort, trampled and unknown, By the glad victor's crown, By the great truths that deck the Eternal throne, The monster SHALL go down! I. HOME. O times and manners! hold your way! You're growing faster every day! There's naught we heed, or seem to need, Except the precious boon of speed! There's naught we seem to care to know, Except the faculty to go! And go we must, and " go it blind," Or fold our arms, and stay behind. On railway trains we lie and sleep, While dr-agged o'er valley, plain, and steep; 45 POEMS. (And so, pet authors we peruse, And in a kind of mental " snooze," We let them drag us where they choose.) Ah, ancient Dobbin! poor old horse! Ill luck to thee were Watts and Morse! Thy usefulness will soon be past; Thy time, old horse, will come at last! But let bold Progress have his will! And let the world grow faster still! Though poets dream, let engines scream, And push ahead, with all their steam! Awhile I leave this noise and strife, To sing of country scenes and life; Awhile I sing of country air, Scented with flowers, so sweet and fair, Or flaked with snow, when cold winds blow, And Winter leaves his Northern lair. Awhile I sing of country roads, In all their various states and modes Of turnpikes, belting hills and vales Of croaking frogs, and barking dogs, And " thank-ye-ma'ams," of logs and rails; Of level miles, that husband time; Of hills that horses hate to climb; Of bridges, o'er ravine and flood; Of well-made beds of mire and mud; Of plains, whereon the wheel fast whirls; Of sidelong slopes that scare the girls; Who scream so piteously, withal, 46 LOST AND RECLAIMED. And catch at you, with faces blue, Lest they, perhaps, should catch a fall, That you, if you have half a heart, Your prompt assistance must impart, And tender them your strong right arm, To keep them safe from mud and harm; Of guide-posts, showing you along; Of folks who pass the time of day; And when you ask of tihem the way, They do their best, and tell you wrong! And then, the grave-yards on the way, With lettered head-stones, old and gray, Telling the old, admitted taleWe know too well the truth they tell!That time is short, and flesh is frail. Telling when youth's bright day-star set WThen dark old age grew darker yet; When housewives left the wheel and loom, WAhen rose-cheeked maidens lost their bloolin; \W hen the tired farmer ceased to reap, And when the baby went to sleep; When the old doctor, worn and tried, WVent on his last and slowest ride; When the quaint deacon silent lay Where he was wont to sing and pray. When slow, from some death-chilled abode, The wagons rattled down the road, Came to the little church, and there Halted for sermon, hymn, and prayer, 47 POEMS. Then bearers, with uncovered head, Bore the sound sleeper to his bed. Up such a rustic, quaint old street, Past field of barley, corn, and wheat, Past verdant, silver-washed ravine, 'Neath woodland arches, draped with green, Or, if in wintry day you go, Past stubble-land and drifting snow, Past winter-chilled, denuded trees, Moaning and shivering in the breeze; Past different homes of different styles, Ride up the road a dozen miles, And, passing various homes and names, You'll come where lived my UncleJames. It was a sober farm-house, old, Yet guarded well'gainst heat and cold, And looking, on its little knoll, So quiet, self-possessed, and droll, That one could almost see it grin A kind and amiable " Come in." The beech and maple grew before Its ancient, hospitable door; The jessamine, on summer days, Shut out the hot and piercing rays That fain would storm the window-frame, And set the glasses all aflame; The morning-glory opened up, Each day, its dainty, purple cup; 48 LOST AND RECLAIMED. And like the hands that bade it grow, And like the hearts that beat below, The tender-rooted, fiagile vine Crept slowly round its stated line, Climbing, each day, with purpose high, A little nearer to the sky. Well stocked with hay, and husks, and grain, Marking the limits of the lane Halved by a wagon-beaten track, The surly barn stood coldly back. Oh, ancient barn! oh, boyhood days! How stands that place, in homnely grace, Before my retrospective gaze! How many a day the clover hay, In treading, tired my boyish legs! How many a prize my straining eyes Have found, in hidden nests of eggs! How well I recollect those sheep; Each one a shy and woolly heap! Those orphaned calves, whose nimble tongtes Proclaimed the soundness of their lungs! The horses-steady, kind old fools; The biting, kicking, sinful mules; Whose ways were such, to foe or fiienld, That they were safe at neither end! The cows-especially old Brindle, A kind of lop-horned, bovine swindle, Whom Uncle James, one hapless day, Was mnilking, and was hleard to say, 3 49 POEMS. While Brindle at a thistle picked, ' Now, kick not, that ye be not kicked. For wherewithal ye kick"-just then Old Brindle kicked, and kicked again. Oh, how thle pail against a rail Went crashing on its milky track! And, king of shames! how Uncle James Went tumblilng over on his back! The stupid brutes, untaught by Reason's light, And holding mlan in awe, If let alone, will work life's problem righlt, And follow NatuLre's law; They seek out no inventions;,and their skill Is naught but honest trust And that whichl tends to poison and to kill, They shrink fi'om in disgust. They sip thle pure. cool dews of eve and morn, They crop the growing grass; They feed upon the fresh, green blades of corn, But never drain the glass! Some, taught by Nature, live in constant strife, And on each other prey; But seldom do they drain each other's life By sI )w degrees away! But man has souglht to drown his cares in mirth, And ignoble desire; An,d he has chiauged the choicest firuits of ea-rth, T'o a collstlulilg fire! - -i 0 LOST AND RECLAIMED. And some have revelled in the unholy feast, And sunk their rank and mark, Beneath the veriest reptile, bird, or beast, Of good old Noah's ark! If so be Reason hold the dumb brute back From self-destroying greed, If lack of reason leave him to the track That Nature has decreed, If Reason teaches heaven-created man The arts to make him worse, (Dispute the doctrine, ye who will or can!) Then reason is a curse! \Tes,'tis a curse, (and so is Heaven's best light,) When showing cursed goals! Better the darkness of Egyptian night, Than wrecked and ruined souls! And he who bears, with sadness or with glee, Intoxication's fruit, Were ten times better off, if he could be A decent, sober brute! But I must stop this calling names, And hurry on to Uncle James; (Called " Uncle Jimmy" by those wights WVho set all names to wrongs or rights, And follow the irreverent plan, To nick-name every one they can;) But there he lived; a fine old man 5I' POEMS. As e'er the race of Temperance ran; A well-preserved old mall; to whom Some sixty Junes had shown their bloom, And sixty winters had appeared, And frosted o'er his hair and beard. His high, full brow was creased by care, And bronzed by Summer heat and air: His well-set eyes, of deepest hue, Were clear, and bright, and shrewd, and true; His beard, with patriarchal grace, Decked a fair portion of his face; And his great hands, ne'er known to shirk, Were hardened o'er with manly work. Though grief is deep, and years are long, His gait was upright, straight and strong; His active mind was balanced, still, And iron-bound his massive will. He laid his views of right and sense, Precisely as he laid a fence: Marking with care the proper course, Then building with his utmost force; And when'twas done, howe'er it proved, The fence (or view) was never moved. For, mnind you, when he drove a stake, The wind might blow, the earth might quake, He hung steadfastly to his plan, And never pulled it up again. Whenever lightning-rods came round, The glib tongued, well-taught salesman found In Uncle James, the keenest pill 52 LOST AND RECLAIMED. Of candor, sophistry, and will, With well-laid grooves for it to follow, It e'er had been his lot to swallow. " Why, man alive," he'd say,' the fact is, Your tall machines won't work, in practice. There's heaps of lightnin' high in air; God manufactur's it up there; And when it comes, the Lord will fetch it, And then, of course, we'll have to ketch it. So do you think to frighten God, Pointin' at Him your lightnin'-rod? 'Twill scare Him just as much, if I Point my old whip-stock at the sky." But oh, I wish, some lucky day, You could have only heard him pray! I criticise not oft in prayer, The word, the attitude, or air; I hold no feud with church or creed; I blame not those who shout, or read; But, oh, I wish, some lucky day, You could have only heard him pray! His speech was ancient, thick, and slow; Tinged with the phrase of long ago; His periods were not free from blame, His grammar was a little lame; But oh, his honest, earnest face! His simple, unaffected grace! His fervent tone, that seemed to say, " I'll have the blessing, any way!" 53 POEMS. And every word, it seemed to rise Straight through the ceiling to the skies! Aunt Rachel was as good a dame As ever bore that Bible name. Once glossy ringlets decked her head, Now streaked with many a silver tlhread; Once girlish mischief filled the eyes Now sorrow-softened, mild and wise; But never was the heart more true, And ne'er the eyes of deeper hue, And ne'er the touch of sharper thrill, And ne'er the voice of sweeter trill, That once had made such vexing flames Within the heart of Uncle James, Than dwelt in her he yet adored, Who ruled his house and graced his board. She ruled by gentle word and scheme, And she and order reigned supreme, While kindness governed all her ways, And kindness lengthened out her days. When sorrow came, and passed her by, She pitied much, and looked on high, And prayed for those round whom it crept, Shedding her tears with those who wept. And when the dark-robed ghost of death Cut short her first-born's feeble breath, And on the sorrow-clouded day He wooed her first-born girl away, And when another son-her pride 54 LOST AND RECLAIMED. Passed pale and trembling fromt her side, She kissed for all each coffined one, And calmly said, " Thy will be done." When a dead flice lies upturned to the sky, As ours, God help us! will; When shadows rest upon the soulless eye, So helpless and so still; When the numb hands are crossed and laid away, In unavailiing sleep, Although we know that form is only clay, We pity, while we weep. We pity, that the cold and flushless cheek, With smiles will ne'er be bright; We pity, that the tongue can never speak The words of truth and right; We pity, that the hand no more may clasp A friend's, in honor true; We pity, that it never more can grasp The work it burned to do! But do we think what ftturLle mortal gain May gather in the grave? And do we think what throbs of weary pain The hand of death may save? Ay, do we think, while gazing on that cold And marble-colored face, That the grim monster may e'en now withhold Thie red flush of disgrace? 55 POEMS. Better, a thousand times, we early fall, And -perish in the strife, Than lie beneath intoxication's pall, And live a dying life! And the lost drunkard, shouting in his glee, Or trembling in remorse, Were ten times better off if he might be An honorable corse! But two of all Aunt Rachlel's five Had passed their eighteenth year alive. Both given to her in one day, Both since allowed with her to stay. She marked the manhood of her boy, Her daughlter's loveliness, with joy; And, weeping thoughts she could not tell, She thanked her God it was so well. James, Junior, was a manly lad, With much to praise, and little bad; With gay smiles, ever bound to win, And well-earned whiskers on his chin. Tall, straight and strong he daily grew, Each year decreasing what he knew, As'twill with any smart young man Who reads himself, as best he can; And, on his parents' future page, James was the staff of their old age. Some faults, peculiar to his years, In every growing youth appears. 56 LOST AND RECLAIMED. Good conduct has too much of salt, Unpeppered by a little fault; An(l some few faults, of various names, Peppered the character of James. He had a weakness, too, for curls, And casting sheep's-eyes at the girls; Especially a black-eyed one, Brim-full of fiolic, sense, and fun, Full often wild, and never tame, Admired by all, and Kate by name; Whom, soberly, he used to seek, Upon an average, twice a week; And who, as one mnight well suppose, Led him at pleasure by the nose. But, viewing matters all around, His traits were good as oft are found. His country home had kept himn clear Of whisky, brandy, gin, and beer; His heart was good and well-inclined, And he was cordial, true, and kind. Fair Ada, with her mother's face, Grew up in loveliness and grace. A simple, trusting maid was she, Of innocent and trustful glee; Giving, with heart untouched by guile, The boon of firiendshlip's hand and smile; But by grave lessons, early taught, Knowledge that some have dearly bought, 57 POEMS. She knew the dangers of her way, Guarded herself by night and day, And, gazing sharply, scanned and proved The circle in whose bounds she moved. And so that happy household dwelt, And toiled, and laughled, and sang, and knelt, Each morn and eve, before the throne Where all the deeds of men are known. And, as they dwelt in that fair place, Prosperity came down apace, And gentle love around them twined, And joined themn all, in heart and mind. II. LOST. Was there a bright and glorious Summer sky Ever so pure and clear, But black and ragged clouds were hovering nigh, To make it dull and drear? Was there an Eden e'er so blithe and gay, And free from troubling Care, But hurrying change, some dark, unwelcome day, Brought grief and sorrow there? When, blessed with pleasant days and fortunle's smile, Our life untroubled grows, 58 LOST AND RECLAIMED. 'Tis best to guard in watchfulness, the while, Against unlooked-for foes; And while we thank the Lord for mercies past, And blessings, day by day, 'Tis best ahead a watchful eye to cast, And watch, as well as pray. Blithe, happy households, basking near and far, In Pleasure's radiant sun, Were ominously startled by the jar Of Sumtei's signal-gun; The nation drew, with anger in its eye, A long, determined breath, Then quickly laid its household jewels by, For scenes of blood and death. GOD answered Charleston, with the impetuous rush Of armed and marshaled men, Sworn by the waving flag they loved, to crush The serpent to his den! And beardless youth, and men of riper age, With glowing heart and mind, Turned to life's view a fearful, flashing page, And left the old behind! The balls that whiz about the soldier's head, With danger are replete; But vastly more the glistening nets that spread About the soldier's feet! The carnage-devils, hovering o'er the fight, Are pitiless and fell; 59 POEMS. But vastly more the imps that, day and night, Would lead the soul to hell! Was there a camp so guarded round from sin, And so supremely blest, But that Intemperance some time entered in, And made himself a guest? Are there not those who in the grave are laid, And still might live to-day, If those of higher rank, whom they obeyed, Had spurned the cup away? The war had come; the stirring call To save our nation from her fall, Had issued from the lips of him Whose honest eyes have since grown dim. And straight fromn valley, plain, and hill, From office, workshop, farm, and mill, Burning to thwart their country's foes, - Avengers of The Flag arose. And James, whose heart had often burned, As records of the past he turned, Wherein the feuds of former days Were told in glowing word and phrase, Felt Freedom's love within him move, And longed that holy love to prove. He came, one evening dull and brown, Back from the nearest market town, And, entering the lampless gloom 60 LOST AND RECLAIMED. That filled the little sitting-room, He silent found his parents both; And told them of the binding oath That he had taken, on that day, To mingle in the rising fray, And do his boyish best to save The nation from an early grave; And tearfully before them bent, Asking their blessing and consent. The weeping mother did not speak, But kissed his brow, his lips, his cheek, Gave him a long and warm embrace, Then hid her flushed and streaming face. The father bade the boy to stand; Then placed his hard and trembling hand Upon the youthful sol(lier's head, And then, in trembling accents, said: " You're young; and it might better do, If you might wait a year or two; For years will come, and years will go, Ere conquered is that Southern foe; And we by law might keep you here, Until you entered manhood's year. But since you've started on the track, Go on! we will not hold you back! Now, do your duty, like a man, Which means, to do the best you can; When darkest clouds come o'er your sight, Look cheerfully ahead for light; 6i POEMS. When Pleasure shows her handsome form, Look out for an approaching storm; But al'ays, al'ays keep in sight The good North star of truth and right. Study, whatever else you do, Your Bible, and your drill-book, too; And with the bugle's stirring ring, Mingle the hymns you used to sing; And may the God of battles shed His choicest mercies on your head." The sister entered, without callShe paused, she gazed, she knew it all; And, hastening to the soldier's side, She mingled tears of grief and pride; Mingled assurance with her fears, And smiles of courage with her tears; And while her gentle eyes grew dim, She playfully exhorted him To prove a soldier such as she Would have her only brother be. They knelt and prayed; and from the West, As if the earnest prayer were blest, Threading a sudden cloud-rift, came The setting sun's deep, crimson flame; And through the cottage window, shed A radiant halo round each head. But when the fervent prayer was done, Dark clouds swept swiftly o'er the sun, 62 LOST AND RECLAIMED. And like a deep-toned warning word, A distant thunder-peal was heard. The war went on; the news fast came Of bloody fights, now old in fame, Wherein fell many a noble one Whom fame has never dwelt upon. Wherein fell many a gallant boy, Somne home's well cherished pride and joy, Whose noble deeds might well be told In glowing words of pearl and gold. But why peruse that blotted page? Whv feel again the lofty rage That stood in each true face confessed, And burned in every loyal breast? Why read again those long death-rolls That tell of brave, departed souls; That tell of blazing eyes grown dim; Of bleeding form and shattered limb? The war, thank God, is o'er; and we Live yet, the firuits of peace to see. The war was done; the priceless boon was saved; And high, o'er land and sea, Flashinlg in bright and star-gemmed beauty, waved The old flag of the free! The stifling smoke of battle rolled away, And tears of joy revealed; 63 POEMS. The clanging bells sent forth a roundelay, And loud the great gains pealed! Forth marching from the lone, deserted camp, With proud and glorious name, Forth creeping from the prison's deathly damp, The conquering legions came. Came, with each past heart-rending woe and grief Changed to bright pleasure, now; Came, with the unfading, well-earned laurel wreath Upon each noble brow! The household band its rays of comfort shared, And poured its welcome free, To those who from the bloody fray were spared, Their homes again to see. Maternal love spread wide its yearning arms, His hand the father gave; While beauty summoned forth its freshened charmns, To welcome home the brave. Come, mother, set the kettle on, And put the ham and eggs to fry; Something to eat; and make it neat, To please otirjamie's mouth and eye; For Jamie is our son, you know; The rest have perished long ago! And when Pat brings him home to-nighlt, His glad, l)lue eyes will sparkle bright, 64 LOST AND RECLAIMED. His old, sweet smile will play right free, His old, loved home once more to see. I say for't!'twas a cur'us thing, That Jamie wasot maimled or killed Four were the years with blood and tears, With gloomy, hopeless tidings filled! And many a night, the past four year, We've lain within our cottage here, And while the rain-storm came and went, We've thought of Jamie, in his tent; And offered many a silent prayer, That God would keep him in His care. I say for't!'twas a cur'us thing, That Jamie was not maimed or killed! Four were the years, with hopes and fears, With long and bloody battles, filled! And many a morn, the past four year, We've knelt around our fireside, here, And while we thought of bleeding ones, Of blazing towns and smoking guns, We've thought of him, and breathed a prayer That God would keep him in His care. Nay, Ada! you just come away! Touch not a dish upon that shelf! Mother, she knows just how it goes! Mother shall set it all herself! There's nothing, to the wanderer's looks, 65 POEMS. Equal to food that Mother cooks; There's nothing to the wanderer's taste, Like food where Mother's hand is traced; Though good the sister's heart and will, The mother's love is better still. She knows the side to lay his plate, She knows the place to set his chair; Many a day, with spirits gay, He's.talked, and lalughed, and eaten there; And though four years have come and gone, Our hearts for him beat truly on; And he shall take, as good as new, His old place at the table, too! And'cross the table, as of old, Your chair, my Ada, girl, shall be; Mother, your place, and kind old face, I'll still have opposite to me. And we will talk of olden days; Of all our former words and ways; And we will tell him what has passed, Since hlie, dear boy! was with us last; And how our eyes have fast grown dim, Whenever we conversed of him. And he shall tell us of his fights: His marches, skirmishles, and all; Many a tale shall make us pale, And pity them who had to fall; 66 LOST AND RECLAIMED. And many a one of sportive style, Will go, perchance, to make us smile; And when his stories all are done, And when the evening well is gone, We'll kneel around the hearth once more, And thank the Lord the war is o'er. Hark! there's a step! he's coming now! Hark, mother!-there's the sound once more! Now on our feet, with smiles to greet, We'll meet him at the opening door! It is a heavy step and tone; Too heavy, far, for one alone; Perhaps the company extends To some of his old army friends; And who they be, or whence they came, Of course, we'll welcome them the same. What bear ye on your shoulders, men? Is it my Jamie, stark and dead? What did you say? once more, I pray; I did not gather what you said. What! drunk!-you tell that lie to me! What! drunk! 0, God! it can not be! It is, it is, as you have said! Men, lay him on yon waiting bed! 'TisJamie! yes, a bearded man, Though bearing still some boyhood's trace; Stained with the way of reckless days, 67 POEMS. Flushed with the wine-cup, is his face; Swelled with the fruits of reckless years; Robbed of each look that e'er endears; Robbed of each trait that e'er might make Us cherish him for his own sake, Except the heart-distressing one, That Jamie is our only son! 01i, mother! take the kettle off, And set the ham and eggs away! What was my crime, and when the time, That I should live to see this day! For all the sighs I ever drew, And all the grief I ever knew, And all the tears I ever shed Above our children that are dead, And all the care that creased my brow, Are naught to what comes o'er me now! I would to God, that when those three We lost, were hidden from our view, Jamie had died, and by their side Had lain, all pure and stainless, too! I would this rain might fall above The grave of him we joyed to love, Rather than hear its coming traced Upon this roof he has disgraced! But, mother, Ada, come this way, And let us kneel, and humbly pray. 68 LOST AND RECLAIMED. They knelt and prayed; and God looked down Upon the cottage old and brown, Looked on that silver-threaded hair, Looked on that maiden, young and fair; And when, with tearful eyes, they rose, He lightened half their weight of woes. And though they wept for sorrow, still, They felt submission to Htis will. III. RECLAIMED. Next morn the sun rose clear and bright, And bathed the hills in golden light, Ere, with a sigh, long-drawn and deep, The drunkard wakened firom his sleep. No bitter or reproaching word From those who sought his couch he heard; They gathered round his curtained bed, They bathed his hot and aching head; And when he rose, they vied to prove The great endurance of their love. They led him to the teeming board With relishled, old-time dainties stored Their studied words were light and fi-ee, And full of well dissembled glee; But, oh!'tis hard to jest and smile, And feel tlhe lheart-achle all the while! 69 POEMS. Hard for a stream to smoothly flow, Withl bitter, boiling springs below! He ate, and drank, and told full well The stories soldiers love to tell, And, waxing warmer, did his best, With serious tale and sportive jest, To call the sympathetic tears Or bring the hearty laugh and cheer. At last he came, with cunning tact, Unto the last nighlt's shameful fact; And told them how, in army life, With storms and dire exposure rife, A drop of liquor, just in time, Was not considered any crime. How comrades drank fiomn day to day, To pass their time and cares away; I-How firom temptation first he shrank, And shunned the haunts of those who drank; Till slow, but surely, thread by thread, The fatal net was round him spread; And finally he came to do That which was wrong enough, he knew, But which, whene'er once done by men, Is easier far to do again. Until his likling for the glass Had come to such a fatal pass, That it had come, at last, to fill The p)lacec of btalil for every ill. 70 LOST AND RECLAIMED. " But now," continued he, "'tis o'er, I make myself a sot no more; And nought of that the drunkard sips, Shall pass again between my lips." They knelt, and prayed, and God looked down Upon the cottage old and brown; And when they rose, their faces four With high resolve were covered o'er. But one resolve call never shed From off one's face the drunkard red; And one resolve call never break A habit years have gone to make! 0, Habit! ruthless despot! rods of iron, Are biroken every day; But closer, more relentless bonds environ The subjects of thy sway! 0, Habit! ruthless despot! bands of steel Are shattered by a blow; But closer grasp mankind may never feel, Than those thy victims know! 0, Habit! cautious safeguard! careful friend! WVatchman by night and day, To those who to thy fairer regions wend Their slow and toilsome way! Happy is hle who nmaIrks his pathway true, For right and virtue's sake! Iapl)y is he who never habit kniew, He vot(ll(l be gla to reak.! 71 POEMS. Scarcely a month had passed away, When on an idle, careless (lay, Habit and appetite conspired To reach the goal of shame desired, By one who kept the bane to sell; A mean, relentless imp of hell; A poor, unholy child of sin, With bloated form and senseless grin; Who held the tempting wine-cup nighl; Who lived, that better men miight die. O for a word, a word of hate, To paint this sclleming devil's bait! O for a word, a word of scorn, To name this poisoned human thorn! But it was done by crafty men, And James, poor boy, was drunk again. Once vows are broken, we may call Them almost worse than none at all. BuLt why the doleful tale rehearse? PoorJames went on from bad to worse; Went on, in spite of tears and sighs, And bleeding hearts and streaming eyes; And, every earnest vow forgot, Became a low, degraded sot. And yet, some beauty decked his face, Or lingered still some manly grace, Or memory of the past camne in, And blotted out the present sin; 72 LOST AND IRECLAIMED. For Kate, the black-eyed girl he loved, Was still by his disgrace unmoved, And, half in pity, half in pride, Consented soon to be his bride. And when they pictured her the life That hangs about a drunkard's wife, She, with a true smile, glad and warm, Replied, " Poor boy! he must reform! For me he'll drop the fatal cup; My work shall be to bring him utp." Ah, Kate, beware that fearful lengthl! Man's weakness has a kind of strength; And ere you wear the victor's crown, Look out he does not pull youL down! They married on one hapless day, And moved a hundred miles away; And then commenced her patient toil, To pull from him the leaden coil, And charm away the magic spell That hung round him she loved so well. She labored, toiled, with patience true; She labored, toiled, all would not do. Down, down the ladder, still he went, Until her patience well was spent; Down, down the ladder, spite of prayer, And bitter tears, and black despair; 4 73 POEMS. Until she turned the fatal leaf, And mnadly drank to drown her grief! And so, devoid of love and shame, They fellow-revelers became; And even on their daily board, The alcoholic mixture poured. And'twixt their spells of reckless glee, Harsh, angry words ran high and free. At last, one eve, some taunting word From out her careless lips he heard; Some word unpardonably true, That from a drunken quarrel grew; Whereat a savage oath he swore, And dashed her fiercely to the floor. Sobered, she rose; and while the red Warm blood came dripping from her head, She turned from him, in bitter spite, And glided out into the night; And as she went her way, she swore Never again to pass his door. Months came - not sbe; blood had been found Upon the floor and on the ground; Neighbors talked low, from ear to ear, And coldly said, " Foul play is here;" And soon the drunken husband saw Himself within the grasp of law. 74 LOST AND RECLAIMED. Too proud to pass o'er silence's line, He said no word, he gave no sign; And when the jury of his life Proclaimed him murderer of his wife, He listened, with no word to say, And heard the Judge pronounce the day, The place, the mananer, and the time He should be punished for the crime, And, as the old Judge gravely said, Hanged by the neck till he was dead. The morning of the fatal day Rose heavy-clotl(led, dull, and gray; The prisoner's parents, worn and pale, Were praying with him in his jail; Ada, her last sad parting o'er, Had hurried home the day before, Feeling, she said, she could not stay So near the horrors of that day. She sat within her little room, In bitterest tears and deepest gloom, VWhen open swung the cottage-gate, And lo, the pale, sad face of Kate! " Oh, Ada, caii it be to-day, At noon, so many miles away, The pitied sight of cLirious eyes, My huLsbanld for my mIur(ler (ies? Far in my recent mountain homne, Wlhere the world's tidings seldom come, 75 POEMS. And where, all bent and full of days, My friend, a gypsy woman, stays, I, yester-eve, with curious eye, Watched a boy's kite rise free and high. 'Twas severed from its line; and while I pondered that full many a mile The wind had borne its printed sheet, It fell and fluttered at my feet. And on the sheet that decked the frame, I read my poor, dear husband's name; You know what else- need I say more? My horse stands foaming at the door; Another horse must do hIis half, And bear me to the telegraph; Another horse must run, to-dlay, To yonder town, ten miles away!" Away she dashed, through mud and rain; O'er steep, rough hill, and muddy plain; But when the ten long miles were past, And she had reached the goal at last, She found she was not there too soon; It only lacked an hour of noon. The operator stroked his chin, And answered, with a boyish grin, " I'm sorry, very sorry, madam; Your news are good- I wish they had'em; If they could go, of course I'd let'em; No doubt your husband'd like to get'em; 76 AND RECLAIMED. And, laying by all sorts of jesting, No doubt he'd find'em interesting; But as your father-in-law, I take it, Old Uncle Jimmy, used to make it, ' When lightnin' comes, the Lord will fetch it: And then, of course, we have to catch it;' It came in here for keeps, this morning, Without a half a second's warning; My battery was torn to flitters Likewise, a little flask of bitters; I found myself, as soon as able, Snugly laid up beneath the table. The wires stopped working, quite disgusted; In short, the whole concern is bu'sted. But here's an engine, on the track, Has been somewhere, and just got back; And this good-looking fellow, here, A friend of mine, the engineer, (One of your good, kind-hearted mules,) Will take you, spite of rain and rules; Though every cloud were an Inspector, And every mile-post a Director. But, Lord! why talk of common things? At noon, to-day, your husband swings. 'Tis fifty minutes of the time, And fifty miles! you'll have to climb!" Now on, iron steed! On, on to the goal! What is the worth of your extra speed, 77 POEMS. To the worth of a human soul! -The ground it thunders underneath, The clouds they thunder above; On, to the borders of yonder town, For the sake of the God of love! My husband must walk out, To the jailor's nod and beck; They'll place himn upon the gallows high, With a rope around his neck. And he will hang and choke, With deliverance rushling nigh! On! If ye come not there by noon, An innocent man must die! They led the fettered prisoner out, 'Miid pity's tears, and anlger's shout; They led the prisoner out to die, And placed him on the gallows high. On! on! on! The engine shakes and reels; The rails they quake, they shiver and shlake, Beneath the whirling wheels! Shake, ye bands of iron! Roll, ye drivers, roll! What is the worth of the whole of you, To the worth of a human soul! The hangman tied the knot with care, The good old chaplain breathed a prayer; 78 LOST AND RECLAIMED. The iundertaker lingered nigh, The coffin, rough and black, stood by. On! on! on! With the whistle's screech and scream; Pile in the coal! pile in the coal! And press the hissing steam! On with the hissing steam! In with the senseless coal! What is the worth of a hundred tons, To the worth of a human soul! Houses and towns fly past, Fly, like a quick-spent breath! They are naughlt to us! we are running a race With the grim old monster, Death! On, on with the steam! In, in with the coal! What is ouR flight, in the name of God, To the flight of a human soul! The Sheriff, ill a formal way, Said, " Prisoner, have you aught to say?" He spoke: his words were clear and plain, Though mingled with the falling rain; He spoke: his voice was calm and true, Though thunder-heads were speaking, too. '" By the great God that dwells on high, I innocent of murder die; Guilty of almnost all beside, 79 POEMS. Cursing my doting parents' pride, Their every fond wish I have crossed; I strayed, I wandered, I am lost! Young men, but listen, while I sumn The secret of my ruin- IRum! Shleriff, your duty; do not stay! People, I've nothing more to say." The good old chaplain breathed a prayer, Then clambered slowly down the stair. The Sheriff drew, with manly sighs, The black cap o'er his prisoner's eyes, Then turined unto the fatal drop:Sheriff; for God's great mercy, stop! Sheriff, for God's sake, see Yon rising column of steam! Sheriff, for God's sake, hear Yon whistle's frenzied scream! Sheriff, for God's sake, hold! What is a moment or two, To the great, black, eternal gutlf That meets this prisoner's view? The spring is touched; the prop is fled; The prisoner's body falls like lead! Here we come, at last! Come, to sorest need! Our fifty miles are done and passed, so LOST AND-RECLAIMED. Thanqks to our iron steed! Fire. and iron, and steam, Runniing a race witht fate! Running a race with black-winged Death! 0, Heaven! are we too late? The rope had broken, as he fell, And left him there, alive and well; His face with strangulation dark, And round his neck an ugly mark, But living, still, with strength and breath, As yet untouched by hand of death. His weeping wife, with streaming face, Rushed, panting, to his strong embrace; And the great crowd, on every side, Like giant babies laughed and cried. Then, amid silence, clear and high Arose the prisoner's heartfelt cry: " 0, sacred, generous God above! To-day, thy grand, forgiving love Has kept for me my feeble breath, Has saved my shrinking soul from death! And now, 0 God! by all that's dear, By my loved parents, weeping here, By her whom thou hast willed to save Me fi-om a vile, dishonored grave, By all the scenes of this dread (day, By her, my sister, far away, By this dread scaiflld, dull and drear, * Si POEMS. And by the rope that bound me here; By the black cap across my face, The blinding badge of my disgrace, I swear, and send my true oath up, Never again to drain the cup! And( to thee, God of all, I pray For strength to battle, day by day; For heart to strive, and power to win, Against this fiend of woe and sin." The rain-clouds burst asunder; and the light Came streaming gladly down, As if the smile of God, all beaming bright, Had chased awaay His frowin! The wondering multitude stood still as death, And spoke no wondering word, And when at last they drew a long, glad breath, No thtinder-peal was heard! An angel wrote that oath in Heaven's own book, In gold without alloy; And Heaven's bright battlements in triumph shlook, With angel shouts of joy. O'er streets of gold, and verdant, rill-worn plain, The shlining legions flatned, And sung, in chorus loud, the glad refrain, Reclaimed, thank God! reclaimed! S2 ASLEEP. Asleep! asleep! we are all asleep, From the men who toil to the babes that creep; From the fiends who lurk where serpents hiss, To the child that rests with a mother's kiss; From the youth who courts love's dreamy spell, To the death-doomed wretch in the prison cell; From the millionaire on his restless bed, To the beggar who begs for his daily bread. VWTinds may sweep, And cares may creep, But wake us not- we are all asleep. Asleep! asleep! we are all asleep, And who shall tell of the dreams that creep - The varied visions of joy and pain, That toil or dart through the waiting brain? From the restless lad who yearns to roam, To the wanderer, dreaming of friends and home; From the boy who longs for older ways, 'V POEMS. To the man, who sighs for his childhood days; Fromn the maiden who waits for the wedding bell, To the outcast, shrinking fiom death and hell! Passions may leap, And dreams may creep, But wake us not- we are all asleep. Asleep! asleep! we are all asleep; And who shall tell of the spirits that keep Their guarding about our silent beds, Their vigils above unconscious heads? Of fathers who pity their suffering ones, Of mothers who weep for their e-rring sons? Or who shall tell what mortals lie Some ghastly phantom hlovering nigh, Some grieved, or ruined, or murdered one, That curses the form it gazes on? Ghosts mnay creep, And phantoms sweep, But wake us not- we are all asleep. Asleep! asleep! not all asleep; There are those who watch and those who weep; There are those who long for the tardy dawn, There are those who pale as the night wears on; There are those who revel, with giddy brain, And those who are mourning on beds of pain; There are those who watch by the suflerer's side, There are those who wait and creep'and hid(le; There are those who totuchi the ttlneful lyre, S4 ASLEEP. And those who are fighting the fiend of fire! Robbers may creep, And flamnes may leap Though rest be precious, not all may sleep. Asleep! asleep! we all must sleep, In a long last slumber, heavy and deep, 'Neath clods of clay and moving forms, 'Neath suns of Summer and moaning storms; In vaults of marble and nameless graves, 'Neath verdant meadows and ocean waves; Joining the millions still and dumb, And waiting the millions yet to come. Friends may weep, And troubles may sweep They will wake us not fiom our breathless sleep! 85 DEAD. Dead - is she dead? Has her last mortal word been said? Has her last precious breath been drawn Her soul to join the angels gone? They tell me, pitying, it is so; I can not doubt their looks of woe; And yet, I can not make it seem That she is dead!'tis as a dream; The hard, dull vision of a night, Ready at morn to take its flight, Yet mingled with a dreadful fear That that glad morn may ne'er be here. She lies within the narrow case That holds her in its close embrace; Her head with blooming garlands dressed, Her white hands folded on her breast; While her pale cheek in color vies With the long lashes of her eyes. But olh, thlat smile upon her face! That smile which I have loved so longt DEAD. Worshipped, and thought it nothing wrong - That smile of beauty, and of grace - It lingers still! - it stays for me! Enters my heart with silent tread, And almost lifts its weight of lead; But 0, my God! it cannot be, It MUST not be - that she is dead(! And yet they say That Death has crossed her flowery way. And they have robed her for the grave, With all affection's pompous art, And mean that sable plumes shall wave, And sad friends tearfully bewail The loss of her who lies in state Within that polished box of fate, WNhose every glistening silver nail Pricks me unto my very heart! And once, when I stood silent here, Gazing on all I held most dear, They paused in their funereal din, And seemed to think it'most a sin, That I should gaze without a tear! Tears! tears, indeed! Would I migl,.t shled them; I have need! Why, 1 have tears enough shut tup Within my sorrow's aching cup, To flood that corse in bitter brine! For all the tears that e'er were mine, S7 POEMAS. By all my petty sorrows bre(d, Gathlered for years but never shled, Are waitiing now to mourn this dead! They stirge and dash against my brain, They beat, and wearl, and give me pain, My crippled senses almost drown; And yet, I fear they must remain, For the flood-gates are firozen down! Dead, surely? I Have heard of those wvhlo seemned to die, But in some deadly stupor lay, And in thle grave were laid away. And how, at last, too late, they woke, When the d(read spell that bound them broke Woke, but unto a living death! Woke, but to live, and die again! And I have heard how they have lain, And gnawedcl their fingers in their pain, And struggtled fearfully for breath Then, courtiing death, have turned them o'er, AAnd welcomed that they feared before. Oh, what if she, my loved, my own, Should waken in her claiyey bed, With all these friends andl,mourners fl(wn, The (lamp, chllill clods upon her thrown The coffim-lid above her head Oh, in that hlorrid moment, she Wrould cry, and moan, and call for me! Oh, blessed thought! would cry for me 88 DEAD. Oh, cursed thought! where should I be? O God, I can not stand and see My angel buried with the dead! Heavy the long, dark years shall roll Across my pool, rebellious soul. Each spring that smiles around me bright, Will mock me with its merry light; And when the flowers of Summer start, They'll mind me of my desert heart, Where every flower has ceased to bloom - Where every hope has found a tomb! When loud the Autumn breezes swell, They'll sing to me a funeral knell; And Winter's coldly pinching vise Will lock my withered heart in ice! A wretched coward Grief has made, If I but dared, I too would die, And with my shattered hopes would lie, My last great debt to Nature paid, Rest for my body she would give; But- all my fears and fancies weighed I dare not die, I dare not live! And now, adieu, The only love that e'er I knew - The only love I e'er shall know! My only one, I press once- thrice My burning lips to thine of ice, Then turn away in bitter woe; 89 POEMS. And nlow my parting pangs are o'er, And I have gazed upon her last, Close down the coffin lid once more, And nail it there, secure and fast. Then o'er her throw the solemn pall, And let me bow my aching head, Gaze on the holder of my all, And make it seem that she is dead. go TO LAKE HURON. Huron, I stand upon thy shore, And see thy foaming billows tossed; I hear thy long-continued roar, I gaze, I wonder, and am lost! Lost, in thy waves, that upward leap; Lost, in thy great, unfathomed deep, Where human foot hath never trod; Huron, thou tellest me of God! Whether the tempest o'er thee lower, Or sunbeams on thy breast rejoice, Thou art a token of His power, Thou art an echo of his voice! Hle holds thee in His mighty hand, He guides thee at His stern command, Tunes thee to measures soft and light, And sweeps thy strings with giant might. The clear blue sky is o'er thee thrown, Smiling as only Heaven can smile, And thou below dost sadly moan, Lashing thy sanded shores the while, And mourning sadly for the dead POEMS. That rest within thy rocky bed; And as thy waters foam and surge, Thou sing'st for them a solemin dirge. For many a vessel, driven afar, Has felt the fury of thy wave; And many a bold and gallant tar Has found in thee a gloomy grave. A thousand hopes too bright to last, A thousand pictures of the past, Covered with Sorrow's sable palls, Lie deep within thy silent hlalls. And we, who gaze on thee to-day, And walk thy pebbled edge along, Whiling a social hour away, With harmless mirth and cheerful song, When shall we gather here once more, To view the wonders of thy shore? I hear thy voice, old inland sea, Saying " It nevermore may be!" And now, old lake, a long farewell! Nor Anger's frown, nor Pity's tear, Nor all the powers of earth and hell, Can check thee in thy grand career. When the Archangel's notes sublime Proclaim the ftlneral-rites of Time, When the last year of earth is o'er, THEN shalt thou yield, but not before! 9 7, ~ (, APPLE-BLOSSOMS. Underneath an apple-tree, Sat a maiden and her lover; And the thoughts within her, he Yearned, in silence, to discover. Round them danced the sunbeams bright, Green the grass-lawn stretched before them; While the apple-blossoms white Hung in rich profusion o'er them. Naught within her eyes he read, That would tell her mind unto him; Though their light, he after said, Quivered swiftly through and through him; Till at last his heart burst free From the prayer with which'twas laden, And he said, " When wilt thou be Mine forevermore, fair maiden?" "When," said she, " the breeze of May With white flakes our heads shall cover, POEMS. I will be thy bridelinig gay Thlou shalt be my husband-lover." " How," said le, in sorrow bowed, "i Can I hope such hopeful weather? Breeze of May and Winter's cloud Do not often fly together." Quickly as the words he said, From the West a wind came sighing, And on each uncovered head Sent the apple-blossoms flying; "' Flakes of white'! thour't mine," said lhe, " Sooner than thy wish or knowing!" " Nay, I heard the breeze," quoth she, " WVhen in yonder forest blowing." 94 APPLES GROWING. Underneath an apple-tree, Sat a damne of comely seeming, With her work upon her knee, And her great eyes idly dreaming. O'er the harvest-acres brilght, Came her husband's din of reaping; Near to her, an infant wight Through the tangled grass was creeping. On the branches long and high, And the great green apples growing, Rested she her wandering eye, With a retrospective knowing. " This," she said, " the shelter is, Where, when gay and raven-headed, I consented to be his, And our willing hearts were wed(leld. s Laughing words and peals of mirth, Long are chlanged( to grave endeavor; POEMS. Sorrow's winds have swept to earth Many a blossomed hope forever. Thunder-heads have hovered o'er Storms my path have chilled and shaded; Of the bloom may gay youth bore, Some has fruited - more has faded." Quickly, and amid her sighs, Through the grass her baby wrestled, Smiled on her its father's eyes, And unto her bosom nestled. And with sudden, joyous glee, Half the wife's and half the mother's, " Still the best is left," said she: "I have learned to live for others." 96 THE FADING FLOWER. There is a chillness in the air - A coldness in the smile of day; And e'en the sunbeam's crimson glare Seems shaded with a tinge of gray. Weary of journeys to and fro, The sun low creeps adown the sky; And on the shivering earth below, The long, cold shadows grimly lie. But there will fall a deeper shade, More chilling than the Autumn's breath: There is a flower that yet must fade, And yield its sweetness up to death. She sits upon the window-seat, Musing in mournful silence there, While on her brow the sunbeams meet, And dally with her golden hlair. 5 POEMS. She gazes on the sea of light That overflows the western skies, Till her great soul seems plumed for flight From out the window of her eyes. Hopes unfulfilled have vexed her breast, Sad smiles have checked the rising sigh; Until her weary heart confessed, Reluctantly, that she must die. And she has thought of all the ties The golden ties- that bind her here; Of all that she has learned to prize, Of all that she has counted dear; The joys of body, heart, and mind, The pleasures that she loves so well; The grasp of friendship, warm and kind, And love's delicious, hallowed spell. And she has wept, that she must lie Beneath the snow-wreaths, drifted deep, With no fond mother standing nigh, To watch her in her silent sleep. And she has prayed, if it might be Within the reach of human skill, And not averse to Heaven, that she Might live a little longer still. 98 THE FADING FLOWER. But earthly hope is gone; and now Comes in its place a brighter beam, Leaving upon her snowy brow The impress of a Heavenly dream: That she, when her frail body yields, And fades away to mortal eyes, Shall burst through Heaven's eternal fields, And bloom again - in Paradise. 99 :. I j ~ > ~ AUTUMN DAYS. Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease Of the southward-flying swallow. Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden, Autumn days! Shivering, quivering, tearfuil days, Fretfully and sadly weeping; Dreading still, with anxious gaze, Icy fetters round thee creeping; O'er the cheerless, withered plain, Woefully and hoarsely calling; Pelting hail and drenching rain On thy scanty vestments falling. Sad and mournful are thy ways, Grieving, wailing, Autumn days! :i-.', *0 'TIS SNOWING. FIRST VOICE. Hurrah!'tis snowing! On street and house roof gently cast, The filling flakes come thick and fast; They wheel and curve from giddy height, And speck the chilly air with white! Come on, come on, ye light-robed storm! My fire within is blithe and warm. And brightly glowing! My robes are thick, my sledge is gay, My champing steeds impatient neigh, My many silver bells are clear, With music for my waiting ear; And she within- my queenly bride Shall sit right gaily at my side; Hurrah!'tis snowing! SECOND VOICE. Good God!'tis snowing! From out the dull and leaden clouds, The surly storm impatient crowds; POEMS. It beats against my fragile door, It creeps across my cheerless floor; And through my pantry, void of fare, And o'er my hearth, so cold and bare, The wind is blowing; And she who rests her weary head Upon our hard and scanty bed, Prays hopelessly but hopefuil still, For bright Spring sun and whippoorwill; The damp of death is on her brow; The frost is at her feet; and now 0 God!'tis snowing! FIRST VOICE, Hurrah!'tis snowing! Snow on! ye cannot stop our ride, As o'er the white-paved road we glide; Past forest trees, thick-draped with snow, Past white-thatched houses, quaint and low; Past stately barn and fattened herd, Past well-filled sleigh and kindly word, Right gaily going! Snow on! for when our ride is o'er, And once again we reach our door, Our well-filled larder shall provide, Our cellar door shall open wide; And while without'tis cold and drear, Within, our board shall smile with cheer, Although'tis snowing! 102 TIS SNOWING. SECOND VOICE. Good God!'tis snowing! Rough men now bear, with hurried tread, My pauper wife unto her bed; And while, all crushed, but unresigned, I cringe and follow close behind; And while my scalding, bitter tears, The first that stain my manhood's years, Are freely flowing, Her waiting grave is open wide, And into it the snow-flakes glide; A mattress for her couch they wreathe; And snow above, and snow beneath, Must be the bed of her who prayed The sun might shine where she was laid And still'tis snowing! Io3 Wa -, II THE LITTLE SLEEPER. There is mourning in the cottage as the twilight shadows fall, For a little rosewood coffin has been brought into the hall, And a little pallid sleeper, In a slumber colder, deeper, Than her days of life could give her, in its narrow borders lies, With the sweet and changeful luster ever faded from her eyes. Since the morning of her coming, but a score of suns had set, And the strangeness of the dawning of her life is with her yet; And the dainty lips asunder Are a little pressed with wonder, And her smiling bears the traces of a shadow of sur prise, But the wondering soul that made it shines no more friom out her eyes. THlE LIl'TLE SLEEPEit. 'Twas a soul upon a journey, and was lost upon its way; 'Twas a flash of light from Heaven on a tiny piece of clay; It was timid, and yet bolder, It was younger, and yet older, It was weaker and yet stronger, than this little human guise, With the strange, unearthly luster ever faded fromn its eyes. They will bury her, the morrow; they will mourn her as she died; I will bury her the morrow, and another by her side: For the raven hair, but started, Soon, a maiden would have parted, Full of fitful joy and sorrow, gladly gay and sadly wise; With a dash of joyful mischief in her deep and change ful eyes. I will bury her the morrow, and another by her side: It shall be a wife and mother, full of love, and care, and pride; Full of hope and of misgiving; Of the joys and griefs of living; Of the pains of others' being, and the tears of others' cries; With the love of GOD encompassed in her smiling, weeping eyes. * 105 POEMS. I will bury on the morrow, too, a grandame, wrinkled, old; One whose pleasures of the present were the joys that had been told; I will bury one whose blessing Was the transport of caressing Every joy that she had buried- every lost and broken prize; With a little gleam of Heaven in her dim and longing eyes. I will joy for her to-morrow, as I see her compassed in; For the lips now pure and holy might be some time stained with sin; And the brow, now white and stainless, And the heart, now light and painless, Might have throbbed with guilty passion, and with sin-encumbered sighs, Might have surged the sea of brightness in the sweet and changeful eyes. Let them bury her to-morrow; let them treasure her away; Let the soul go back to Heaven, and the body back to clay; Let the grief that here is hidden, Let the happiness forbidden, Be forevermore forgotten, and be buried as it (lies; And an angel let us see her, with our sad and weep ing eyes. io6 GONE BEFORE. Pull up the window-lattice, Jane, and raise me in my bed, And trim my beard, and brush my hair, and from this covering free me, And brace me back against the wall, and raise my aching head, And make me trim, for one I love is coming here to see me; Or if she do not see me, Jane,'twill be that her dear eyes Are shut as ne'er they shut before, in all of their reposing; For never yet my lowest word has failed of kind replies, And ever still my lightest touch has burst her eyelids' closing; So let her come to me. , 4 ' I Io8 POEMS. They say she's coining in her sleep -a sleep they cannot break; - Ay, let them call, and let them weep, in dull and droning fashion! Her ear may hear their doleful tones an age and never wake; But let me pour into its depth, my words of burn ing passion! Ay, let my hot and yearning lips, that long have yearned in vain, But press her pure and sacred cheek, and wander in her tresses; And let my tears no more be lost, but on her forehead rain, And she will rise and pity me, and soothe me with caresses; So let her come to me. Oh, silver-crested days agone, that wove us in one heart! Oh, golden future years, that urged our hands to clasp in striving! There is not that in earth or sky can hold us two apart, And I of her, and she of me, not long may know depriving! So bring her here, where I have long in absence pining lain, While on mrn fevered weakness crashed the castles of our building; GONE BEFORE. I109o And once together, all the woe and weary throbs of pain That strove to cloud our happiness, shall be its present gilding; So let her come to me. They brought her me - they brought her me - they bore her to my bed, And first I marked her coffin's form, and saw its jewels glisten I talked to her, I wept to her, but she was cold and dead I prayed to her, and then I knew she was not here to listen. For Death had wooed and won my love, and carried her away How could she know my trusting heart, and then so sadly grieve me!Her hand was his, her cheek was his, her lips of ashen gray — Her heart wvas never yet for hitn, however she might leave me; Her heart was e'er for me. 0 waves that well had sunk my life, sweep back to me again! I will not fight your coming, now, or flee from your pursuing! But bear me, beat me, dash me to the land of Death, and then I I0 POEMS. I'll find the love Death stole from me, and scorn him with my wooing! Oh, I will light his gloomy orbs with jealous, mad surprise, Oh, I will crush his pride, e'en with the lack of my endeavor; The while I boldly bear away, from underneath his eyes, The soul that GOD had made for nme- to lose no more forever; Ay, she will go with me! Pull down the window-lattice, Jane, and turn me in my bed, And not until the set of sun be anxious for my waking; And ere that hour a robe of light above me shall be spread, And darkness here shall show me there the morn that now is breaking. And in one grave let us be laid - my truant love and me And side by side shall rest the hearts that once were one in beating; And soon together and for aye our wedded souls shall be, And never cloud shall dim again the brightness of our meeting, Where now she waits for me! COVER THEM OVER. FOR DECORATION DAY. Cover fhem over with beautifiul flowers, Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours; Lying so silent, by night and by day, Sleeping the years of their manhood away: Years they had marked for the joys of the braveYears they must waste in the moldering grave. All the bright laurels they waited to bloom Fell to the earth when they went to the tomb. Give them the meed they have won in the pastGive them the honors their future forecast; Give them the chaplets they won in the strife Give them the laurels they lost with their life. Cover them over, O cover them over, Parent and husband and brother and lover! Crown in your hearts those dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers! Cover the faces that motionless lie, Shut from the blue of the glorious sky; Faces once decked with the smiles of the gay, Isa POEMS. Faces now marked by the firown of decay. Eyes that looked friendship and love to your own, Lips that the thoughts of affetction made known; Brows you have soothed in the hour of distress, Cheeks you have brightened by tender caress. Oh how they gleamed at the nation's first cry! Oh how they streamed when they bade you good-by! Oh how they glowed in the battle's fierce flame! Oh how they paled when the deathl-angel came! Cover them over, 0 cover themn over, Parent and husband and brother and lover! Kiss in your hearts those dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers! Cover the hands, that are lying untried, Crossed on the bosom, and low by the side; Hands to you, mother, in infancy thrown, Hanlds by you, father, clasped close in your own; Hands where you, sister, when tried and dismayed, Hung for protection and counsel and aid; Hands that you, brother, in loyalty knew, Hands that you, wife, wrung in bitter adieu. Bravely the musket and saber they bore; Words of devotion they wrote in their gore; Grandly they grasped for a garland of light, Catching the mantle of deathl-darkened night. Cover them over, 0 cover them over, Parent and husband and brother and lover! Clasp in your hearts those dead heroes of ours, And cover themn over with beautiful flowers! II2 COVER TItEM OVER. Cover the feet, that all weary and torn, Hither by comrades were tenderly borne; Feet that have trodden, in flowery ways, Close by your own, in the old happy days; Feet that have pressed, in Life's opening morn, Roses of pleasure, and Death's poisoned thorn. Swiftly they rushed to the help of the right, Firmly they stood, in the shock of the fight. Ne'er shall the enemy's hurrying tramp Summon them forth from their death-guarded camp; Ne'er, till the bugle of Gabriel sound, Will they come out from their couch in the ground. Cover them over, O cover them over, Parent and husband and brother and lover! Rough were the paths of those heroes of oursNow cover them over with beautiful flowers! Cover the hearts that have beaten so high, Beaten with hopes that were born but to die; Hearts that have burned in the heat of the fray, Hearts that have yearned for the homes far away; Hearts that beat high in the charge's loud tramp, Hearts that low fell, in the prison's foul damp. Once they were swelling with courage and will, Now they are lying all pulseless and still. Once they were glowing with friendship and love, Now their great sotuls have gone soaring above. Bravely their blood to the nation they gave, Then in her bosom they found them a grave. Cover them over, O cover them over, I I3 POEMS. Parent and husband and brother and lover! Press to your hearts those dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers! One there is, sleeping in yonder low tomb, Worthy the brightest of flow'rets that bloom. Weakness of womanhood's life was her part Tenderly strong was her generous heart; Bravely she stood by the sufferer's side, Checking the pain and the life-ebbing tide; Fighting the coming of terrible Death, Easing the dying man's fluttering breath; Then, when the strife that had nerved her was o'er, Calmly she went to where wars are no iiiore. Voices have blessed her now silent and dumb, Voices will bless her in long years to come. Cover her over, O cover her over, Blessings, like angels, around her shall hover! Cherish the name of that sister of ours, And cover her over with beautiful flowers! Cover the thousands who sleep far away, Sleep where their friends cannot find them to-day; They who in mountain and hill-side and dell, Rest where they wearied, and lie where they fell. Softly the grass-blade creeps round their repose; Sweetly above them the wild flow'ret blows; Zephyrs of fireedom fly gently o'erhead, Whispering names for the patriot dead. So in our minds we will name them once more, I 14 COVER THEM OVER. So in our hearts we will cover them o'er; Roses and lilies and violets blue, Bloom in our souls for the brave and the true. Cover them over, O cover theml over, Parent and husband and brother and lover! Think of those far-away heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers! When the long years have rolled slowly away, E'en to the dawn of earth's funeral day, When, at the Archangel's trumpet and tread, Rise up the faces and forms of the dead; When the great world its last judgment awaits, When the blue sky shall swing open its gates, And our long columns march silently through, Past the Great Captain, for final review, Then, for the blood that has flowed for the right, Crowns shall be given, untarnished and bright; Then the glad ear of each war-martyred son Proudly shall hear the good judgment, " Well done." Blessings for garlands shall cover them over, Parent and husband and brother and lover; GOD will reward those dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers! IlIS I TO SPAIN. (i868-9.) 0, bright and balmy Spain! Bright with the sun that decks thy clear blue skiesBright with the fire of maidens' wildering eyes; Bright with the sheen that o'er thy record shines, And gilds with fame thy mountains, clad with vines I Bright with the deeds that paled thy ancient foe, And bade Numantia's smoldering embers glow In triumph o'er her slain! Rival of Greece in peaceful ways and arts; Rival of Rome in brave and warlike hearts; The home of valor, history long hath told, That flashed as flashed thy ancient mines of gold, 0, bright and balmy Spain! 0, dark and fiowning Spain! Dark with the ignorance and sin-born ills That gloom and glower upon thy many hills; Dark with the crime that taints each passing breeze, TO SPAIN. From strong Gibraltar to the Pyrenees; Red with the blood that meets the dagger's thrust; Bent with the fruits of recklessness and lust, And loathsome with their stain; Trod by the feet of sycophants and slaves; Festered and blotched by ignominious graves; While hang above thy wayward, thorny path, The thunder-heads of GoD's avenging wrath, 0, dark and firowning Spain! 0, grand and glorious Spain! Grand with the tales thy children love to tell, Of Ferdinand and peerless Isabel; Grand as the center of the mighty powers That humbled proud Grenada's glittering towers; Land whence Columbus trained his eagle gaze, And sailed to find a place for Freedomn's blaze, Across the rippling main! A blaze of light that grows and brightens still, Like to a watch-fire built upon a hill; A thing of joy, that patriots love to see; That shines abroad, and mnight illumine thee, 0, grand and glorious Spain! 0, crushed and bleeding Spain! Crushed by the battles of contending foes, Raining upon thy head their mutual blows; Crushed by the foreign soldier's reckless tread, Crushed by the bodies of thy hapless dead; I 7 POEMS. Crushed by the pall that hid thee from the light; Crushed by the Inquisition's damning blight, And priests of lust and gain! Gnawed by the worms that foul Corruption breeds; Consumed and wasted by their strifes and greeds; Upon thy brow humiliation's brand, Traced by a sceptered harlot's withered hand, 0, crushed and bleeding Spain! Rouse to thy rights, O Spain! Ay, thou hast roused, with anger in thy tone, And hurled thy loathsome ruler from thy throne; Ay, thou hast roused, with self-reliant trust, And trod thy haughty nobles in the dust! Resolve, that ne'er again, whate'er befalls, Shall hateful Bourbon stand within thy halls, Or Bourbon's hated train! Show to the world, whoe'er thy ruler be, He needs must stand the choice of thine and thee; Show to the world that every nation's throne, Whose e'er it be, must be that nation's own! Show that, O quickened Spain! Repent, O wicked Spain! Pray to the GOD thou hast so long ignored, Not to the virgin whom thou hast adored; Let natural religion be thy guLide, And not the Pope on whom thou hast relied; Let Art and Science chase away thy ills, II8 TO SPAIN. And perch themselves upon thy many hills, Improving heart and brain; Then with a firm but mild and bloodless stroke, Throw from thy neck the temporary yoke; And Virtue, Honor, Truth, and Right increased, Stand forth the grand Republic of the East, Redeemed, triumphant Spain! 3-. I Ig : FORWARD. The bas that counts a heart can feel it heat. The man who counts a soul can feel it yearn; The while it guides his willing, eager feet Where triumph calls, and Victory's altars burn. The while it prompts his head and hands to earn That which will place him at the front; the when Humanity his merits shall discern, And give to him a place of honor; then Acknowledging a man among his fellow-men! The Fates decreed us at the birth of Time, The Fates decree, and hold the fiat still, That they who cannot or who will not climb, Be trampled down by themn who can and will. Philanthropists may take the doctrine ill, And nobly lift their suffering fellows high; And he who strives to clamber up the hill. Though weak, has help, for GOD helps them who try; But he who will not strive, had best lie down and die! fall"" 10 FOIlVARI[I)., For hammer, axe, and spade Will vex his ears, And spindles whirl about his idle head; The steamer's shriek will rouse his feeble fears, The lightning-train will shake him in his bed The nets of cliques and clans will round him spread; And time - a chariot to the man who strives - Will be a funeral car, and he its dead, Till he unto his charnel-home arrives. Millions of men have lived good corses all:tleir lives .... m A rainbow alrches on the clouded sky, But ne'er for long its colors flash and play; A comet shines upon the gazing eye, But still is speeding on its endless way. Sun, mnoon and stars- not one of them may stay; For not an orb- howe'er it seem to stand - But marches grandly on by night and day, Nor cares nor dares to halt, without command Of Him, the mighty Chief, by whom its route was plantled. A tiny floweret blossoms under foot, And turns its dainty petals to the sky; Draws life from earth and air through leaf and root, While yet Destruction broods and lingers nigh; But naught that seems inaction we descry, Though Summer wanes, and Autumn winds are cold; When eflort fails, the plant is fain to die; Its energies and days at once are told, And soon it hangs its head, and crumbles to the mnold. 6 I2I POEMS. There is not that in earth or air or space, There is not that in heart or mind or soul, Save in one holy and mysterious place, But hurries forward to some future goal, Or cowers back to an inglorious whole; Wherefrom it sprung- whereto it turns to die; And He who keeps all motion in control, Whom change and dissolution come not nigh, The samq forevermore- is the great God on high. Man loVes to clamber on the steeps of fame, Then rest awhile his wearied limbs; and yet Each day some fellow-man must learn his name, To stand for one who may that name forget; Each day some new requirement must be met; Each changing year his altitude must grow, Or, twined about with Comfort's gaudy net, His indolence may plot his overthrow, And he may plunge into the deep, dead gulf below. Yet many a knight who mingles in the broil, Falls, ere his sun has reached the highest place; Death strikes the strongest reaper in his toil, And stops the swiftest runner of the race. But time is short, and death is no disgrace, And rather, to the faithful man, a friend; And leaves a glory on the marble face Of him who holds out faithful to the endWhose ways are brave and true, so far as they extend. I22 FORWARD. Then forward, men and women!- let the bell Of progress echo through each wakened mind! Let the grand chorus through our numbers swell Who will not hasten, shall be left behind! Who conquers, shall a crown of glory find; Who falls, if faithful, shall but fall to rise Free from the tear-drenched clay that clogs man kind, To where new triumphs greet his eager eyes; FORWARD has ever been the watchword of the skies! I23 WE WAIT. We all are waiting, and have ever been. Upon the steady rock of changeless fate We sit, and see the foaming waves come in, And long some treasure of the sea to greet, Some golden waif, to glitter at our feet; We murmur that our ships are over-late, And still we wait. We trace the fragrant path of childhood's days, We press our way to manhood's iron gate; And glorious pictures meet our yearning gaze, And castles rise, with lofty, gilded dome, And lure us from the homely halls of home; But, nearer viewed, they grow less bright and great, And still we wait. We seize the joyous bloom of manhood's prime, We proudly stand within the halls of state; And gazing higher, steadily we climb, And pander to the lust of place and power, And glory in the triumph of an hour; We see ahead another sparkling bait, And still we wait. WE WAIT. Or, haplessly, we tread life's path awry, And gaze from out the prison's guarded grate; And fiercely glare we at the boundless sky, And o'er the fields where Freedom joyous roves; And, pining, view the valleys, hills, and groves; And the sick heart beats high with useless hate, And still we wait. Or if upon the field of war we stand, And sword with sword for mastery we mate, Grim Death, and radiant Glory, hand in hand, Approaching us with silent step we see; And one of them, we vow, for us must be; Bravely we strive to win renown's estate, And still we wait. And when we grope within the gloom of age, When our few steps grow feeble and sedate, We-cast our eyes back o'er a blotted page; We peer among the pictures of the past, We gaze upon the future, overcast; Our musings all with hopes and fears we freight; And still we wait. 125 THE THREE BROTHERS. Yes,'twas a terrible, terrible fight, With its tumult, rage, and slaughter; Yes,'twas a horrible, horrible sight, For the blood flowed there like water. 'Twas a victory bought at a fearfiil price, A triumph dimmed in the getting; And many an eye saw the bright sun rise, That saw not the sun at setting. There were three brothers in that fight The same flag floating o'er them - While the booming cannon, left and right, Crushed all that stood before them. Fire, and smoke, and hurtling lead Hovered in clouds about them; But together they fought,'mid the living and dead Who ne'er had cause to doubt them. They saw the enemy onward pour, Their death-tubes poised and gleaming, They heard the belching cannon's roar, And the rifle bullet's screaming; :~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE THREE BROTHERS. But still they fought with a hearty cheer For the friends who lived to love them, And their every thought was bright and clear As the sky that smiled above them. The eldest, a youth with an eye of fire, And a spirit that ne'er was broken, Was conning the words of his veteran sire, The last that to him he had spoken: " God bless you, my son, as forth you go! 'Tis well the nation has won you! But if ever you fall with back to the foe, My curses for e'er be on you!" The second, a youth with a dreamy, brown eye, And a form erect but slender, Thought of a maiden, coy and shy, But kind, and loving, and tender. " My love, I bid thee go," said she: "May Fame with her laurels wreathe thee! Fight for God, and country, and- me, And carry this poor heart with thee!" The youngest, a blue-eyed, fair-haired boy, Fought bravely as any other, But his face lit up with a beautiful joy, As he thought of his sainted mother; How she had soothed his weary woe, - Ere death had come to sever; And he thought, " Perhaps, ere the sun is low, I shall be with her forever." I27 POEMS. Rattled and thundered the brazen guns, And pealed the war-cry louder; Forward rushed the uLndaunted ones, ThlroughL dust, and blood, and powder; Slowly the foe were forced to yield, Onward came the others; But a thousand dead lay on that field, And three of them were brothers. There they lay - by their comrades sotlughlt With their good blood all around(l tlhem. Side by side they had bravely fotughlt, And side by side they found them. 'Mid the wrecks of the battle-storm They vainly strove to weather, Torn and mangled each bloody form, They all lay there together. But I have heard, that upon each face Was a smile of mnanly beauty, As to say, " I perished in my place, And I strove to do my duty." And I have tlhoughlt, that in God's good time, When a few more years were fleeting, Far above, in His courts sublimie, There would be a happy meeting. I?,8 THE ARMISTICE. FEBRUARY, 1871. Hushed is the sound of the rifle's crash, and the can non's mnurderious booming; Sheathed for a time is the bloody sword, and the flash ing bayonet; Dark on the homes of the ravaged land the war-cloud yet is glooming; Over the hills of sore defeat, the sun of France is set. Now on bloody battle-fields of glory and disgrace, Gaze the nations long and hard into each other's face: One, with triumph in her eye, sings victory's swelling note, Wrhile her iron hand is tight upon the other's throat. Under the weight of fell Despair, the conquered one is kneeling, Gazing upon the conqueror, with anger and surprise; Yet with a look, half-hidden still, of humble, mute appealing, Blent with the stern and haughty glance that kindles in her eyes. * 130 POEMS. Close by her cheerless, fireless hearth, a widowed (lame is cowing; Dead is her son, and dead his sire, and broken is her heart. Gloomily o'er her desolate home the cloud of war is bowing, While the lightning-bolts of grief from its recesses dart. "0O my God!" she moans and prays: "let now the carnage cease I Kings nmay quarrel, princes fight, but give the peasant peace! Though our legions fall in dust, or march with triumph's tread, Will it shut the bleeding wound, or raise the cold and dead? Emperor, Regent, President - what boots it which reign o'er us, While by our sweat, and tears, and blood, we fill their glory's cup? Say! can they raise our fallen sons, tostand again before us? Bid our dalughllters, crushed and shamned, in triumph to look up?" Under the temple of his rest, Napoleon's form is lying; Over its proud and lofty dome the great shot hissed and fell. 'Neath the shade of the lofty roof, his countrymen are dying, TIIE ARMISTICE. 131 Starved by the band that compassed them, and struck by Prussian shell. Now the nation crushed and riven at Saalfield's hap less fray, Flings the bolts of bitter hate she forged since that sad day; Now she wears the rose that grew on sorrow's quicken ing thorn Now she pays with usury good the Frenchman's ancient scorn. For never an old-time Gaul has stepped into this strife's arena, And never chief has France to mass her legions for a blow; And never the clash of steel can rouse the conquering chief of Jena, And never the Prussians' tread can wake their ancient, dreaded foe. So, O France, from the German ground that once by thee was harrowed, All the seeds of hate thou sowedst, to thorns of death have sprung. So shall thy greedy boundaries by Germnan hands be narrowed; This is the fruit thou plante(1st when the century was young. So, O Prussia, mark thy way, and mind thy rival's doom: Plant the seeds of gratitude, while victory is in bloom. 132 POEMS. Nations crushed by sword and fire, revenge will some time gain; Nations crushed by generous deeds, will ever thus remain. So, if the years to come to thee, shall favor thine am bition, Or should Defeat thy steps entrap, with shrewd dis astrous hand, Deeds of kindness planted now will meet a blest fruition, Golden crowned by the thanks and prayers of France, thy sister-land. 'a THE RAILROAD HOLOCAUST. NEW HAMBURG, FEBRUARY, I87I. Over the length of the beaten track, Iito the darkness, deep and black, Heavy and fast Like a mountain blast, With scream of whistle and clang of gong, The great train rattled and thundered along. Travelers, cushioned and sheltered, sat, Passing the time with doze and chat; Thinking of naught With danger fraught, Whiling the hours with whim and song, As the great train rattled and thundered along. Covered and still, the sleepers lay, Lost to the dangers of the way: Wandering back, Adown life's track, A thousand dreamy scenes among; And the great train rattled and thundered along. 134 Heavily breathed the man of care; Lightly slept the maiden fair; And the mother pressed Unto her breast Her beautiful babes, with yearning strong; And the great train rattled and thundered along. Shading his eyes with his brawny hand, Danger ahead the driver scanned; And he turned the steam; For the red light's gleam Flashed warning to himn there was something wrong; But the great train rattled and thundered along. " Down the brakes!" was the driver's shout; " Down the brakes!" rang the whistle out; But the speed was high, And the danger nigh, And Death was waiting with altar and pyre; And the train dashed into a river of fire. Into the night the red flames gleamed; High they crackled and leaped and streamed; And the great train loomned Like a monster d(loomed In the midst of the flames and their vengefuil ireIn the glowing tide of a river of fire. Roused the sleeper within his bed; A crash, a plunge, and a gleamtn of red, s H RAILROAD HOLOCAUST. And the sweltering heat Of his winding sheet Clung round his form with an agony dire, And he moaned and died in a river of fire. And they who were spared fiom the fearful death, Thanked God for life, with quickened breath, And groaned that too late From their terrible fate To rescue their comrades was their desire; They sank in a river of death and fire. Pity for those who woke and died, And sank in the river's merciless tide; And blessings enfold The driver bold, Who, daring for honor, and not for hire, Went down with his train in the river of fire. 135 rV DEAD AND ALIVE. The biting, wintry storm swept swiftly round, And wrapped the cottage in its chillv folds, Thatching it thicker every icy hour. The tiny snow-flakes fluttered in the wind, Careered, and dashed, and fell, and rose again, As fain, each one, to live its longest time, Ere sinking back to an inglorious whole, Lost, nevermore a snow-flake. Every thing Bore, on that day, the signet of King Death. The clouds were palls, and every drift a shroud. The apple-trees were singing funeral hymns; And high the leafless burghers of the wood Rose,'mid the storm, like skeletons upright. Death reigned without the cottage, and within E'en held his somber court. The house was still, E'en to the burly clock; whose lumbering weight So oft had climbed, responsive to HER touch. The tell-tale hands had stopped, the hour she died, DEAD AND ALIVE. And, mutely eloquent, e'en yet proclaimed The fatal time that saw her life go out. The time that tuned the hopeless, dreary wail Of many sad and motherless young hearts, Chilled as with ice by three remorseless words: " Your mother's dead." Ahl! many firiends we love Must part the clouds of earth, and seek the sky, Ere we can fly to find where they are gone. The earth may beat on many a coffiln lid Fit time to strains of sorrow in our hear-ts, For those upon whose lifeless forms it falls. Life's turnpike teems with sorrow's flinty stones, And takes its toll in sobs and bitter tears, For those who faint and fall upon the way. And yet, a hundred griefs may come and go; Each in its turn may bend us to the earth And then, while yet we mourn the latest ill, Somie crushing sorrow may outweigh them all. It is a sad, a mournful thing, to see A cherished sister lying in her shroud; To feel no more the confidence and love That huing upon her pure and hallowed lips; To know that Death, a suitor come unbild, Has wooed her fromn your strong, encircling arm To feel a hundred flowers of memory nipped By the same frost that rests upon her brow To think of all the past - the darlin g past I37 POEMS. The blessed past- as all forever gone, Without a future to renew its charms; Ah, yes! a sister's loss is hard to bear! And yet, it is not all. A brother's grave Is fenced and girt with desolation round. Tlhere is no sound so mournfull as the hush That broods and lingers o'er a death-stilled heart; And there is power, and mighty power, to move, With the inaction of a strong right arm. For memory lingers, in her double guise, Rewarding and avenging all the past; Pouring a blessed balm for some kind word, And giving thrusts for each unworthy deed. Ah, yes! a brother's loss is hard to bear! And yet, it is not all. A faither's voice May hush its words of counsel and reproof, Its blessings, and its hopeful words of cheer, And sink in Silence's dark, unfathomed sea. A father's coffin holds a treasure lost; A fathler's love is something strong and true, A father's loss is heavy to be borne! And yet it is not all. But oh, the pang, The cruel pang, the hard, heart-sickening pang, That turns each sweet of life to bitterest gall, 138 DEAD AND ALIVE. Each zephyr to a tempest, and each breeze To organ-tones of woe; the hopeless pang That pits rebellious life against itself, When the strong cord, the golden, love-charged cord That binds a faithful mother's heart to ours, Severs, and falls in ruin at our feet, And mocks us, with its brightness, from the dust! There is no loss, except the loss of Heaven, Like that which fills a loving mother's shroud. There is no love, except the love of God, Like that which burns within a mnother's heart. It is a fire that never will go out, Though base ingratitude be on it poured; Though wickedness may wrap and clasp it round. E'en he who checks the answer to its prayers, Still sees, along his crooked, thorny path, The mild refulgence of its constant light. And thotiugh he tread the vilest steeps of sin, And climb, perchance, with wayward, bloody stride, E'en to the hangman's rope, a mother's lips Will kiss him in his coffin of disgrace, And dote on him for what he might have been. And there she lay - the mother of that flock Unheeding all the childish tears of grief, That else had wasted not a single note, Without her loving and consoling kiss. The hearth was cold- the kitchen fire gone outAnd the bold storm beat madly at the door, 139 POEMS. Like some importunate mourner, that would faiin Admittance gain, to sorrow with the rest. While yet the stricken band were closing round, And weeping sorrow that they could not tell, The door swung swiftly on its creaking hinge; And, heeding not the sudden, wondering look Of the sad father, as he raised his eyes And sighed for sorrow of the hopeless past, Entered a young and fragile female formn, With locks dishevelled, and with garments thin, And face as pale as she had been the dead. Upon her brow were drawn long lines of care, And marks that told of waywardness and vice. Scarce greeting them whose wondering looks she met, She hastened to the sleeper; and with tears Of penitence, that well might pay the debt That sin and disobedience had run up, She clasped the stiffened form unto her breast, And madly kissed the mute, unanswering lips, And thus she spoke: " O mother, mother, lost! Thou're here, and yet thou'rt gone! I still can see The gentle smile that lingers on thy face, But cannot hear thy kind, consoling voice! My lips impure may kiss thy sacred cheek, Yet feel no kindly pressure back again! My words of grief and penitence may fall 140 DEAD AND ALIVE. With pardon humbly asked, upon thine ear; And yet thou canst not hear them; and no word Of blest forgiveness canst thou answer back! " O mother, mother wronged! Wronged by ingratitude, and all the shame That one like me could heap upon thy pride! Wronged by neglect, and bitter, scornful words! Spurned, when thou followedst me, e'en in my guilt, Down to the darkest depths of wayward sin, And begged of me, with tears, to come with thee, And tread the paths of virtue once again! " Speak to me but one word; one little word Of pardon, for the dark and shameful past; One little, fleeting word; nay, e'en a breath; Or give to me a silgn; a smile; a look; That I may feel forgiveness for my sin! I cannot see thee laid into thy grave, Without one word of pardon or of love! And if, 0 God! Thou wilt but let her come, But just to speak one little word to me, I swear to Thlee, my lips shall sing Thy praise, My heart shall beat accordance with Thy word, And truth and virtue shall adorn my life, Until this weary heart shall cease to beat." As the frail plantlet, bursting firom its seed, Casts off the earth that rests upon its head, And springs to blooming beauty, so this prayer, 141 POEMS. Cleaving the guilt and shame that o'er it hung, Bloomed fair and pure before the All-seeing eye. And it was answered. From her deathly trance, The mother woke; and, lifting up her head, Said, " Where am I? a deep, long sleep was mine. I dreamed that in the fields of Paradise, A shepherdess, I watched and fed my flock; Till the Almighty came to me and said, 'Matron, return unto thy flock below; For they are chilled by the cold, wintry storm; And one, which long time went from thee astray, Worn, soiled, but penitent, to-day returns. She shall be washed in the pure blood of Christ, And thou shalt take her, chastened, to thine arms." Ski 142 WE HOPE. \\rithi the stiunilighit, wvithi tile moonlighlt, witli tle statr li(hlit sweet atl l uolden, Csomie to us a tliotusai(nd memories tlhat ire ttc,rue. iI(l kind, anid oiden; Arnd we enter in the chambers of our hearts so gladly lighted,. And with blooming lhopes we cover all the joys thlit care liath bli,ghitecl, And encouraged, an(l rejoicili), we go foi-th utpoii our way. With the midnight, with the storm-clouLd, with the dlarkness fiercely scowling, With the rattling of the raiin-(rops, a]]d tlhe tern- )est's disma-l howling, Through our weary hear-ts, in darkness, we go hailt iing, stuimbling, groping, While Despair is hard upon tus, aI)d e'en covers LIIp our hoping; And in sadness, and in silence, fori a gleam of light we pray. ,PI POEMS. Then we yearn and call for comfort; but no comfort comes unto us, And we wrap ourselves in sadness, and Despair goes thrilling thro' us; And the darkness gathers rounds us, with its horrors, half-unspoken, And we pray again for succor: that the fearful spell be broken, With the light of something shinling, be it only but a ray. Then within our hearts a blossom, foiom the dreary mould is springing, Then the birds of Hope make music, with their sweet and cheerful singing; Then, upon the great clouds gazing, we discern their silver lining, And( at last, through veils of blackness, bursts the sun beam's glorious shlining, And upon our raptured vision beams the light of perfect day. IUlG I 191~ 144 A Tribute to Dickei,, — 3 City of Boston, - --- Lost and Reclaimed-Intr-oduLctioni, Part I.-I-ome, Part I.-Lost, Part III-Reclaimed-, - - Asleep, Dead, - - - - To Lake Huron, —Apple Blossoms, — Apples Growing, - -- The Fading Flower, —Autumn Days, - - - 'Tis Snowing, - - - - The Little Sleeper, -- Gone Before, —Cover them Over,- -- To Spain, -. ---- Forward!. We Wait, ---- The Three Brothers, — The Armistice, —The Railroad Ilolocaust, Dead and Alive, - - - We Hope, - - - - 34+ -39 42 -o6o f,i _ - ~~93 95 -97 _ 01 -1 04 - - I07 - - III -1 20 - - I26 -1 29 -- 1133 1 36 - - I43