Introductory material (continued 2)

I know that we can never stem the current, That bore the sunshine of my life away; Our feet can never cross the unbridged torrent That flows between us, wider every day.

Perhaps, when we have passed the heavenly portal. And all our tears are dried by Christ, the Friend, And we have entered on the life immortal, Perhaps our path ways There may meet, and blend.

I cannot tell; the mystic, grand To-morrow Was never meant for earthly, mortal eyes. But it is sweet, to think all tears and sorrow, Will vanish at the dawn of heavenly skies.

1869

ONCE MORE TOGETHER

[To H. A. M.]

What sounds so sweet as the glad words of greeting? And what starts the tears, Like the warm kiss that is given at meeting After long years.

Friend of my heart, we are once more together; Hand clasped in hand. We sit and we walk in the beautiful weather That gladdens the land.

Oh, rare golden days, in the heart of September; Days more than sweet-- Days that my heart will forever remember, Ye are too fleet!

Why haste away! the greedy "Past's" measure Already runs o'er; But like a miser who hoards up rare treasure, He cries out for "more."

Oh, bright Autumn days! If you only would linger And loiter, and stay! Too soon old time shall be pointing his finger And bidding me say.

That word "Good-bye," that's so hard to be spoken. Hearts have been stirred Almost to breaking; and fond hearts have broken At that last word.

Away with these sad thoughts! this rare golden weather Shall not find me sad, Because we cannot always wander together, But I will be glad

Of the days that are left. No foreboding of sorrow Shall darken my sky. Nor To-day be o'erclouded, because some To-morrow, I must say good-bye.

1871

ONCE IN A WHILE

Once in a while, in this world so strange, To lighten our sad regrets, We find a heart that is true through change-- A heart that never forgets. Oh, rare as a blossoming rose in December-- As a bird in an Arctic clime, Is a heart, a heart that can remember Through sorrow and change and time.

Once in a while we find a love That will live through life and death, Ay! that will follow the soul above. Not passing away with the breath. But rarer, Oh, rarer by far and stranger Than a spring in the desert sand, Is a love that will last, with toil, and danger, And strife on every hand.

Once in a while we find a friend That will cling through good or ill, Whose friendship follows us e'en to the end, Be it up or adown the hill, But the heart so true, and the love so tender, And friendship's faithful smile, Whether we dwell in squalor or splendor, We find but "once in a while."

1872

BEAUTY

Though thy cheek be fair, as the roses are, Thy brow like the drifted snow, And thine eye as bright, as the diamonds light, Yet if in thy heart doth grow But noxious weeds, and selfish deeds Follow thy steps alway, What in the end availeth it, friend, If thy face is fair, I pray.

For the smoothest brow, old Time will plow, And he dimmeth the brightest eye; And the fairest face, and the form of grace, In the lowly grave must lie. But our deeds live on, when life is done. Nor Time, nor death destroy; And the words we say, will make their way With sorrow, or with joy.

And even the thought, that we utter not, In heaven is like a shout. And bad or good, it is understood, And the angels write it out. But they do not care, if the face be fair, Or what the world deems plain. They look to the heart, and the deathless part, For the rest is poor and vain.

1870

A PLEA FOR FAME

Let those slander fame who will-- Call her cheat and blame her ways. It may all be true; and still I shall give her words of praise. She has been my faithful friend, True and constant to the end.

Since I saw her hand first beckon Far above my lowly plain, I have had no need to reckon What my loss, or what my gain. She has made sweet blossoms blow In whatever path I go; She hath made the dark ways light, Made the somber places bright; She has filled my empty cup Full to overflow with pleasure, And, though I may drink it up, She again refills the measure.

She has never promised aught That she has not more than brought. She has stood by me in danger, Made a friend of many a stranger-- Made a welcome warm for me Whereso'er my lot may be; Thrown wide open many a door That was closed to me before; Given me every boon and blessing-- Almost--that is worth possessing.

All my life, I never knew Any other friend so true. Youth and Love are fleeting things; Wealth has light and airy wings-- Fame, once mine, will never flee, She has been a friend to me. Let who will condemn her ways, I shall always sing her praise.

1872

SOMEWHERE

Somewhere there is a spot of ground, Covered with grass, or snow, may-be, That one day will be spaded 'round And dug up to make room for me.

And I unconsciously have trod, Perhaps, and so again may tread Upon the very voiceless sod, That will be roof above my head.

Somewhere upon the earth to-day Are dwelling men, who yet shall spade And cut and dig the earth away, Until my narrow house is made.

Perchance they have clasped hands with me; Those hands, that, after I am dead, Shall measure me so reverently, To find how long to make my bed.

How strangely, solemn thoughts like these Will come, when life seems blithe and gay; Like voices of the passing breeze, Saying "All things must pass away-"

OUR ANGEL

Upon a couch all robed by careful hands For her repose, the maiden Mable lies, Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands-- A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyes May, wondering, gaze upon a little while; That mortal hands may touch a few times more.

Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile, As if the glories of that mystic shore, When first they fell upon her spirit eyes-- All the rare splendors of that unseen way Had touched her with a wondering, glad surprise, And left the pleased expression on her clay.

Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast-- Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow. And they have robed her for her peaceful rest. Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe, But in that garb we loved to see her wear; A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand.

I wonder, as I see her lying there, If God will give her spirit in His land Another shape. She could not be more fair. I think he will not change her form, or face, But with the same long, rippling, golden hair She will kneel down before the throne of grace, And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will raise Up to Christ's face, and touch Him with her hand. And will with her own sweet voice, sing God's praise, And still be fairest in the Angel band.

1872

A SUMMER IDYL

I hear the sound of the reapers, All in the golden grain, And voices of strong young binders, Singing a sweet refrain. The winds are asleep on the hilltops, And the sun smiles down in the vale, Till the rose faints under his glances, And her cheek grows wan and pale.

The meadows are green as the ocean; And the winds, when they wake from rest, Ripple and billow the grasses, Like waves on the ocean's breast. The vine grows over my window, Where the humming bird comes each day, And the robin and thrush in the willow, Are singing their lives away.

Oh, beautiful, languid Summer! You are so fleet, so fleet. Oh, youth, and joy, and gladness, You are so sweet--so sweet! My life is a wonderful poem, Complete in measure and rhyme, And the sweetest of all the stanzas Is written this summer time.

But the golden harvest is going-- The summer will fade and pass. The thrush and the robin will vanish, And the snow fall over the grass. The vine at my window will perish. And the beautiful poem of life Will change to a measure of sorrow, And be marred and broken by strife. Then revel in youth, and summer; Oh, heart, be glad and gay, For sorrow, and blight, and winter, Are coming to us one day.

1872

THE MUSICIANS

The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure, And I laughed, when the music fell on my ear, For he and Mirth played a joyful measure, And they played so loud that I could not hear The wailing and moaning of souls a-weary-- The strains of sorrow that floated around, For my heart's notes rang loud and cheery, And I heard no other sound.

Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers, Played louder and louder in joyful glee; But sometimes a discord was heard by others-- Though only the rhythm was heard by me. Louder and louder, and faster and faster The hands of the brothers played strain on strain, When all of a sudden, a Mighty Master Swept them aside; and Pain, Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner, Restrung the strings of my quivering heart, And the air that he played was a plaintive minor, So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start; Each note was an echo of awful anguish. As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow. And my soul for a season seemed to languish And faint with its weight of woe.

With skillful hands, that were never weary, This Master of Music played strain on strain, And between the bars of the miserere, He drew up the strings of my heart again: And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder, To see that they did not snap in two.

"They are drawn so tight they will break asunder," I thought, but instead, they grew, In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger; And I could hear on the stilly air-- Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer-- The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair, And my soul grew tender and kind to others; My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad; And I held all men to be my brothers, Linked by the chastening rod.

My soul was lifted to God and heaven, And when on my heart-strings fell again The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even, There was never a discord to mar the strain. For Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner, Attuned the strings with a Master hand, And whether the music be major or minor, It is always sweet and grand.

1872

IN VAIN

The artist looks down on his canvass, And smothers a heart-weary sigh, And he sees not the beautiful picture That glows with the hues of the sky. For a picture that cannot be painted Burns into the artist's brain, And he weeps as he sits at his easel, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."

The poet reads over his poem, The thoughts of a Heaven-lent soul-- And sweet as the ripple of waters The beautiful sentences roll. But a poem that cannot be written, Burns into the poet's brain, And he weeps in a passion of anguish, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."

The musician sits at his organ, And the air echoes sweet melodies. But his heart cries for sounds that are better Than the sounds that he draws from the keys. For a chord that has never been sounded-- A passionate,--ecstatic strain. And he weeps as he sits at the organ, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."

Oh, Artist, Musician and Poet! Three souls that were lent to the earth To brighten with fingers of beauty This bare, barren planet of dearth! You dream of the glories of Heaven, And vainly are striving to show To the gaze of the clay-fettered mortals, The things that no mortal shall know.

1871

BABY EVA

[Lines to the sweetest little girl in the world.]

Sitting and watching the fire-light fall In fitful gleams, on floor, and wall, I think of the fairest of baby-girls, With bright blue eyes, and sunny curls, With two round cheeks, and a dimpled hand-- The sweetest baby in all the land.

I think of her thousand coaxing arts, That won her place in my heart of hearts; And how at twilight, the baby's hour-- A winsome queen, she ruled in power; And laid on my shoulder her head of gold And named the stories she wanted told.

"Goosey Loosey," "Cat and Mouse," "London Bridge," and "Jack and his House," "Peter's Pig," and "the Foolish Frog," "The Mooley Cow," and "the Poly-wog." And when these were told, as many more, Till I needs must add, to my ample store.

I can think how the bright little eyes would glow At the tale of the kid that was made to go. How they filled with tears, when Old Mother Hubbard Opened the door on an empty cupboard. How they sparkled with glee, and glowed with fun When she heard how the wasp made the hornet run.

Over and over the winsome elf Would plead for the stories she knew herself; She would sigh o'er the fate of poor Hen-Pen Who foolishly hid in the Fox's den, And grieve o'er the poor little mouse that was drowned Before his "great long tail" was found.

And sitting alone in the fire-light's glow, And thinking about it, all I know That not on the earth, in any place, Is there such another winsome face-- Is there another, so sweet and wise, As baby Eva--beneath the skies.

1873

I SHALL NOT FORGET

I shall not forget you. The years may be tender, But vain are their efforts to soften my smart; And the strong hands of Time are too feeble and slender To garland the grave that is made in my heart. Your image is ever about me--before me, Your voice floats abroad on the voice of the wind; And the spell of your presence, in absence, is o'er me, And the dead of the past, in the present I find.

I cannot forget you. The one boon ungiven, The boon of your love, is the cross that I bear. In the midnight of sorrow, I vainly have striven To crush in my heart the sweet image hid there; To banish the beautiful dreams that are thronging The halls of my memory--dreams worse than vain; For the one drop withheld, I am thirsting and longing, For the one joy denied, I am weeping in pain.

I would not forget you. I live to remember The beautiful hopes that bloomed but to decay, And brighter than June glows the bleakest December, When peopled with ghosts of the dreams passed away. Once loving you truly, I love you forever; I mourn not in weak, idle grief for the past; But the love in my bosom can never, oh never Pass out, or another pass in, first or last.

THE OLD AND THE NEW

As a mother who dies in travail-- Who closes her eyes in death, And sinks in the sleep that is long and deep, With her babe's first wailing breath, In the hush of the midnight watches, So, the old year passed away, And the new was born, and was hailed this morn, As the "Happy New Year Day."

The day when our eyes look backward, To see what our hands have done, Through the hours of gold that the dead year told, Like the beads of a pious Nun-- When we shut up the blotted ledger, With its record of joy and grief, Of losses and gains, and pleasures and pains, And turn to the new white leaf

We hoped, we planned, and we promised, When the year that is dead was young: But our hopes are like leaves that are withered, And the year like a song that is sung. We planned out some wonderful project, That should bring to us riches and fame: Hour by hour, day by day, our plans fell away, And our project was only a name.

We promised that life should be better, As the sphere of our labors grew broad, That "those things behind" should pass from the mind, As we reached for the prize of our God. But alas, for the promises given! Lo, what were our good resolves worth? They were lost to our sight, and we strayed from the light, And worshiped the poor things of earth.

And so, while we builded our castles, With turrets of sapphire and gold, Till they glowed in the sun, the months one by one, Slipped away, and the year grew old-- Grew feeble and old and departed In the shadows and gloom of the night; And some said 'twas a year full of sorrow, And some, 'twas a year of delight.

Some, sitting in darkness and weeping, Sob, "Oh. but the year was so long!" And some, full of cheer, say the beautiful year Was only one verse of a song. To some it brought gladness and pleasure, To others but sorrow and gloom. It gave one the sweet orange blossoms, Another, the dust of the tomb.

There are mothers to-day who are sitting, With arms that are aching to hold The small form of grace, and the dear little face, And the head with its crown of spun gold; And they think of the last happy New Year, And the voice that made music all day, And, sitting alone in the silence, they moan, For the babe that is hidden away.

There are maidens, in love-letters, reading The story so old and so new; And their happy hearts beat, in a rhythm so sweet, As they read of the love strong and true; And they think that of all the glad New Years, There was never another so glad; And they heed not the wail of the mother, so pale, Who thinks the day dreary and sad.

There are some leaning over the coffin Of a hope that went out with the year; And their sad eyes are dry, and the lips white that cry, "The hope of a life-time lies here." God pity and comfort such mourners, For God alone knoweth the pain Of these suffering hearts, when a dear hope departs, And is buried to rise not again.

It is sad to lean over a loved one, And cover the face with a pall, But who mourns, with bowed head, o'er a hope that is dead, Has the bitterest sorrow of all. God grant that this New Year may bring them, Some other hope, fully as sweet; May it cull the bright flowers from happiness' bowers, And cast them in wreaths at their feet.

Despair and delight walk together; The sunshine falls over the tomb; And close by the weary, whose lives are all dreary, Walk those who are crowned with earth's bloom. Some wearing the laurels of glory, And flushed with the glow of success, May their wreaths never pale, or their honors grow stale. Or their hopes or their happiness less.

Oh, wonderful year that has left us! Full of tragedy, sorrow and change, Was there ever another so fateful, Was there ever another so strange? Great hearts that were throbbing last New Year Are food for the grave-worms to-day, And lips whose least word a whole nation heard, Are nothing but cold, silent clay.

There was one who was crowned with the Fern Leaves, Whose ringing tones, full of good cheer, Lightened hearts that were sad, and made weary ones glad, On many a weary New Year. There was one double-dowered by heaven, Twice gifted and favored by God, REID, whose brush, and whose pen, made him king among men,-- He, too, lieth under the sod.

And another, the hero of battles. Before whom the enemy fled In alarm and dismay, while he won the day, MEAD,--warrior and hero, is dead. There was one who climbed up the steep ladder, Step by step, on rounds that he made; And carved out his name, on the summit of Fame, In letters that never will fade.

He struggled for knowledge and riches, Position and glory, and won. But, reaching too far, like a child for a star, He fell, with the words, "It is done!" It is done, all the climbing and toiling; It is done, all the worry and strife, All the bitter and sweet, th' success and defeat,-- It is done, the great drama of life.

It is done, all the year could do for us, Its mixture of shadow and sun, Its smiles and its tears, its hopes and its fears, Its labors and duties, all done. We stand face to face with the New Year, Nor know what it hides from our sight; God grant that it be kind to you, and to me, That it lead us in ways that are light.

The bells in the steeples are joyful, The children are shouting in glee, There is mirth and good cheer in the happy New Year-- All hail to young '73! Come out of the shadows, ye mourners! And drop, for this one day at least, Your mantles of woe, and let us all go And take part in the revel and feast.

Let us laugh like gay children together, Forgetting we ever shed tears-- Forgetting the losses, the sorrows and crosses That came to our lives with the years-- Remembering only the perfume, The beauty, the bloom, and the sun, Let us talk of the New Years departed, And call this the happiest one.

January 1st, 1873

DECORATION POEM

A year that was solemn, and sad and strange, Has passed away to its tomb, Since we made the graves of our dear, dead braves Like a garden, all abloom,-- A year that brought sorrow, and want, and change-- A year with a fateful breath: And the dreaded beat of its flame-shod feet Wrought ruin, and woe, and death.

High and higher the tongues of fire Leaped up in a single night, Till the walls of a town went crumbling down, And a city fell in her might. And with flame and disease, and woes like these, Death laughed in his mad, wild glee; And Pestilence loosened his imps in the land, And ships went down at sea.

But with all of the passion, and pain, and fear,-- With all of the long, sad hours,-- We have not forgotten to offer here Our yearly tribute of flowers. I think the heart in a loyal breast Knows no such word as forget; And I think--nay, know--that in weal or in woe, We shall remember our debt.

The debt of a nation redeemed from shame, And a million of slaves set free, Of a spotless fame, and cherished name, Honored on land and sea. Of the dear old flag kept out of the dust, The flag of the brave and true, And this is the debt we are owing yet To the boys who wore the blue.

Thousands are sleeping in Southern graves, With no slab to tell us where; But the land where the sweet magnolia waves, God's hands keep fresh and fair. And the angels above; in pity and love, Watch over the unknown mound, Where some heart's joy, some mother's boy, A nameless grave has found.

To a clear sweet song that is free and strong, Yet sad with a minor strain, I liken the lives of the boys in blue, Who died ere they knew our gain; To a glad, glad song, that rings loud and bold, In a stirring major key, I liken in thought, the boys who fought, And were crowned with victory.

To the hero who comes with the beating of drums, We can give the laurels of fame; And with mirth, and music, and song and feast, We can honor and praise his name; But we bring to the bed of the sainted dead, Only these wreaths to-day; Yet they speak with their bloom and sweet perfume, More than our lips can say.

They speak of a love that can never die, But strengthen and grow with time; Of lives that blossom again on high,-- Of a faith and hope sublime. They tell how a grateful nation's heart Remembers her tried and true, And how tears are shed for the honored dead, For the boys who wore the blue.

They speak of the higher and purer life That the Lord's dear angels know; Where nought can enter of pain or strife, And tears can never flow. Sleep on brave boys your graves are as green As the thoughts we give to ye, And these blooms will say ye are shrined alway In the halls of memory.

Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30th, 1872

AT SET OF SUN

If we sit down at set of sun, And count the things that we have done, And counting, find One self-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance, most kind, That fell like sunshine where it went-- Then we may count that day well spent.

Or, on the other hand, if we, In looking through the day, can see A place or spot Where we an unkind act put down, Or where we smiled when wont to frown, Or crushed some thought That cumbered the heart--ground where it stood-- Then we may count that day as good.

But if, through all the life-long day, We've eased no heart by yea or nay; If through it all We've done no thing that we can trace, That brought the sunshine to a face-- No act most small That helped some soul, and nothing cost-- Then count that day as worse than lost.

1869

LOVE SONG

When the glad spring time walked over the border, And the brown honey bee crept from his cell; When the sun and the west wind put nature in order, And decked her in robes that became her so well, Then did my torpid heart waken from slumber, Then did I first spring to life and to light. For what were the years passed without thee; they number Only as one long, dark, flavorless night.

In the flush of the spring time, I saw thee, and seeing, Loved with the love that had waited for thee. A life that I never had known, sprang to being-- A life and a love that were heaven to me. There never before was such warmth in the summer, There never before were such hues in the fall, Never such balm in the breath of that comer Who shrouds the dead seasons, and rules over all.

Love, I have drunk in the charm of thy presence, The elixir that grants me perpetual life. My blood leaps, and bounds! I am thrilled with the essence, And soar over trials, and troubles, and strife. We live, and we love! and what grief can alarm us; Darling, my darling, the world is our own! Life never can rob us--death cannot disarm us Of this, our vast riches, our wealth, love, alone.

The summer is dead! Did'st know it, my darling? Did'st know that the winter walked over the earth? The gold-breasted thrush, and the quaker-crowned starling Make glad other lands, with their innocent mirth. Ah no! for the summer of love in thy bosom, Make summer and sunlight, for thee, everywhere. I should not have known: but I missed the bright blossom That all through the summer, I saw in thy hair.

1870

DISPLAY

Oh, households wherein skeletons abide! Keep the dark closet closed, nor think it wise To throw the door open for stranger eyes, To see the grinning, fleshless thing inside.

I hate that senseless, imbecile display Of loathsome things, that calls the gaping crowd To gaze and comment. Let the screening shroud Cover the faces of the dead, I say.

And if a household counts a skeleton, Then keep the ghastly phantom closeted; Nor flaunt the bones of the unquiet dead For all the vulgar throng to gaze upon.

Oh, you whose souls are burdened cruelly, Who shrink in anguish at the bitter smart That gnaweth, burneth, at your very heart-- Cover the wounds, that strangers shall not see!

Think you a bleeding heart will sooner heal, To hang where all the cutting winds that blow, And all the birds of prey can mock its woe? I hate that vain parade, of all we feel.

Whoever knew the world to give relief To any private sorrow of a heart! Its sneering pity is a poisoned dart! Then closet well your phantoms, and your grief.

1869

AT THE WINDOW

Every morning, as I walk down From my dreary lodgings, toward the town, I see at the window near the street, The face of a woman, fair, and sweet, With soft brown eyes, and chestnut hair, And red lips, warm with the kiss left there. And she lingers as long as she can see The man who walks, just ahead of me.

At night, when I come from my office, down town, There stands the woman, with eyes of brown, Smiling out through the window-blind, At the man who comes strolling on behind. This fellow and I resemble each other; At least, so I'm told, by one and another. (But I think I'm the handsomer, far, of the two.) I don't know him at all, save to "how d'ye do," Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at work In a dry goods store, as a salaried clerk.

And I am a lawyer, of high renown; Have a snug bank account, and an office down town. Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite: (It has no better name, so I speak it outright.) There were symptoms before: but it's grown, I believe, Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve, When passing the little house, close by the street, I heard the patter of two tiny feet, And a figure in pink, fluttered down to the gate, And a sweet voice exclaimed, "Oh, Will, you are late And, darling, I've watched at the window until-- Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will."

I passed on my way, with an odd little smart Beneath my vest pocket, in what's called the heart. For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will; And that voice crying "darling" sent such a strange thrill Throughout my whole being. "How nice it would be," Thought I, "if it were in reality me That she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout." (It was envy made me use that word, no doubt, For he's a fine fellow, and handsome, ahem!) But then it's absurd that this rare little gem Of a woman, should be on the look-out for him, Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim, While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary, and bare, With no one to welcome me, no one to care If I'm early, or late--no soft eyes of brown To watch when I go to, or come from, the town.

This bleak, wretched bachelor life, is about, If I may be allowed the expression--played out. Somewhere there must be, in this wide world, I think, Another fair woman, who dresses in pink. And I know of a cottage for sale just below, And it has a French window, in front, and--heigho I wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be, Before coming home from the office I'll see A nice little woman there, watching for me.

1870

HOW

How can I let my youth go by? How can I let Time mark my brow, And steal the light of a laughing eye, And whiten the locks that are nut brown now. And the tide that goes, And ripples, and flows, Like a beautiful river, on forever, Over my head, through every vein, And fills me, and thrills me, with joy like pain, Old cruel Time, With a touch of rime, Will drug, and chill, and freeze, until It likes a stream, In its winter dream.

Ho! ho! old Time! you may chuckle and smile, But Death may cheat you, and beat you yet; What shall you say, if, after a while, Ere the sun of my youth has set, I go with him, to a closet dim, And closing my eyes, in a long, long rest, Lie white and cold, And never grow old, With my two hands clasped over my breast. Always young, With my song half sung-- Lying under the graves' green mould; And the world, for a day Would miss me, and say, "When will the rest of the tale be told?" And then go on, Gaily on, Till its hopes were fears, and its young were old. And, lying there, What should I care, Though Time, in a phrenzy of baffled rage, Should beat on my grave, And howl and rave, That I would not barter my youth, for age; But lie and sleep, ; Down low and deep, Though suns of a thousand seasons set. Always young, Never old, With my song half sung, And my tale half told-- Ho, ho, old Time, I may cheat you yet!

December, 1869

BY AND BY

Sometime fame shall come to me; Sometime in the "yet to be." Not to-day, and not to-morrow; After years of toil and sorrow, After losing youth and grace, In the weary, foolish chase.

After weeks of bitter tears, After months, and after years, After waiting day on day, Throwing love, and peace away, I shall find the phantom nearing-- I shall find the shadows clearing.

I shall reach the thing I sought, I shall reach, and find it--what? Will it recompense, and pay For the joys I cast away? In the weary, weary race, When I lost my youth, and grace?

Is it worth the wear, and strife-- Worth the best part of a life? Thus have men and women queried, Standing on the summit, wearied With the long and steep ascent, When their youth and grace were spent.

Time sweeps onward with his cycle: Life is brief, and love is fickle. I will pause not at his calling, I will heed not tear-drops falling: Fame, but Fame, will satisfy, I shall find it by and by.

1870

KING AND SIREN

The harsh king, Winter, sat upon the hills, And reigned, and ruled the earth right royally. He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills. "I am no puny, maudlin king," quoth he, "But a stern monarch, born to rule and reign, And I will show my power to the end; The summer's flowery retinue I've slain, And taken the bold, free North-Wind for my friend.

"Spring, Summer, Autumn--feeble queens they were, With their vast troops of flowers, birds, and bees, And winds, that made the long, green grasses stir-- They lost their own identity in these. I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all! And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand. The trusty North-Wind answers to my call, And breathes his icy breath upon the land."

The Siren, South-Wind, listening the while, Now floated airily across the lea. "Oh, King!" she said, with tender tone and smile, "I come to do all homage unto thee. In all the sunny region whence I came, I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand. Thine is a well-deserved, unrivalled fame; I kiss in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand."

Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face. He listened rapt, to her soft-whispered praise. She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace; "Dear King," she said, "henceforth my voice shall raise But songs of thy unrivalled splendor! Lo! How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine-- I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for oh, Thy wondrous beauty mak'st thee seem divine."

The vain king listened, in a trance of bliss, To this most sweet sweet voiced Siren from the south. She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kiss Upon the stern white pallor of his mouth. She hung upon his breast--she pressed his cheek-- And he was nothing loth to hold her there. While she such tender, loving words did speak And combed his white locks, with her fingers fair.

And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles, And stole his strength with every glance she gave, And stabbed him through and through with tender smiles, And with her loving words she dug his grave. And then she left him: old, and weak, and blind-- And unlocked all the rivers, lakes and rills, While the Queen Spring, with her whole troop behind, Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came over the hills.

1871

AFTER?

After the summer glory has departed, After the sun slides low adown the skies, After each snowy rose, and the red-hearted, Droops in the chilling blast, and faints, and dies, When the brown bee no longer seeks the clover, But flies away, and hides in his honeyed den. And from the bleak hills cutting winds blow over, Full of keen darts--ah, will you love me then?

Or is it but the passion heat of Summer, That you mistake for love within your heart? And will not Winter, that unwelcome comer, With his cold, scornful sneers, make it depart? Have not the subtle odors of the flowers Drugged you, and made you drunk with rare perfumes? And when the winter crashes through the bowers, Will not your love fade, with the fading blooms?

If so, I will not listen to your wooing; And I will turn from words and glances sweet. Because I will not hear a drunkard's suing-- Drunken with rose-scents, and the summer heat. But if you woo me, in sound mind, and reason, And can convince me fully it is so, And that your love will last through any season, Why then, my answer will not quite be--No.

1870

IF YOU HAD BEEN TRUE

Love, in the glow of the sunset, I have been thinking of you. Thinking what you might have made me, If you had been constant and true. You know I built wonderful castles, And you had a part in them all; But you cheated me, Love, you remember. And down fell each beautiful wall.

Well, you see I lost faith in all women-- The very worst thing I could do. Thought they were all of one pattern, And that was inconstant, untrue. I know it was but a mad fancy: Know women are truer than men. But I wish I had found it out sooner, Or could live my life over again.

For you see I have wasted my manhood; I don't really care to tell how. And if I could live it all over, I think I could better it now. I would marry some nice little woman-- Some other, if I couldn't get you. And I would be tender and faithful, And she would be constant and true.

1870

AFLOAT

Once there was a boat, locked fast to a shore, But rust ate the chain, day by day, And the boat was loosened more and more, As the fastenings slipped away. Yet, any day, an outstretched hand, Could have caught, and locked it again to land.

But never a hand was stretched to save, And the boat at last was free; And shot like an arrow over the wave, And drifted out mid-sea. And never, oh never, across the main, Will the boat to the shore be brought again.

So was my heart, love--linked to thine; But neglect ate the chains away: Yet a tender word love, I opine, Would have saved it, any day. Ay! a tender word, said first or last, Would have mended the chain, and held it fast.

But the word was lacking: and so my heart, Slipped from its chains, like the boat. And then as the last link fell apart, It sped o'er the waves--afloat. Nor pleading hands, nor words, you see, Brings the boat to shore, or my heart to thee.

ROSES AND LILIES

Roses and Lilies, both are sweet; Lily and Rose, both are fair; But which to gather for mine alway, Which to gather, and keep, and wear, That is the question that bothers me, For I cannot wear them both, you see.

Rose is the brightest and blithest of girls: I could lay my heart at her tiny feet, And gaze forever in those dark eyes, And kiss forever those lips so sweet. And holding her soft, white, clinging hand, Dreamily float into Eden land.

And Lily--Lily, my ocean pearl, So sweetly tender, so moonlight fair, I could float to heaven upon her smile, And kiss forever her silken hair, That droppeth down, like a golden veil Over her cheek, and brow--snow pale.

Lilies and Roses--both are fair: Rose, or Lily, which shall it be? I love them both with my heart of hearts, But I cannot wed them both, you see. Dark-eyed Rose, my winsome girl-- Moon-faced Lily, my ocean pearl.

1870

IN HEAVEN WITH YOU

'Tis said, when we shall go across the river, Whose bridge is death, and gain the other side, There in that land, with God, the mighty Giver, The heart shall evermore be satisfied.

And yet, sometimes I cannot help but wonder, How I can live in heaven without your love; How live, rejoicing, through all time, I ponder, And not have you, even with God above.

We bear such things on earth, for we remember That life is but a little span, at best. Its passion summer, but precedes December, And in the grave, we say, there will be rest.

But after death, time stretches with no limit: Your love, no time can ever bring to me. Is heaven so bright this shadow can not dim it? It seems so long--that strange Eternity.

How could my heart, and soul, change so completely That I should never think of this up there? But in the angel choruses join sweetly, Nor ever feel this gnawing grief, and care.

How vast God's lore! how vain the skill of mortal! He did not mean that we should understand, Until our feet had crossed the shining portal, The things so deep, and fathomless, and grand.

And He has made a heaven--a place most holy, For His redeemed to sometime enter in. And there is room for all the meek and lowly, Whose faith, through sorrow hath washed out all sin.

And I believe, when we shall cross the river, Whose bridge is death, and reach the other side, There in that land, with God the gracious Giver, Our hearts shall evermore be satisfied.

1869

THOU DOST NOT KNOW

Thou dost not know it! but to hear One word of praise from thee, There is no pain I would not bear-- No task too great for me. My hands could tireless toil all day, My feet could tireless run, If at the close thy lips would say, "Brave, noble heart, well done."

Thou dost not know it! but to win Approval from thine eyes, My soul has conquered many a sin, And conquering, neared tee skies. And though the reward may not be given, In all my earthly days, I feel that after death--in heaven, Thy lips will give me praise.

Thou dost not know--may never know, That all I strive to be, All things praiseworthy that I do, I strive, and do, for thee. And though I seldom see thy face, Or touch thy hand, my friend, Those meetings are the means of grace, That help me to the end.

Thou dost not know that thy grand life Has been my beacon light. I aim to conquer in the strife, That I may reach thy height. I strive to live, so that my feet May walk the fields most fair, For the afterlife, seems, oh! so sweet, Because thou wilt be there.

Thou dost not know how brave and strong A woman's heart can be. But few could hide so well and long What mine has hid from thee. So well, that should this idyl chance To meet thine eye, my friend, Thou'd scan it with a careless glance. Nor dream to whom 'twas penned.

1872

A GOLDEN YEAR

Linger, linger, oh royal year! For I grieve to see you dying. Rest on the hilltops--loiter near; Wait, O Time, in your flying. For never, in all the twice ten years, You have brought to build my twenty. Never was one so free from tears-- So overflowing with plenty.

Filled to the brim with the purest draughts, That I sip in fearless pleasure; While an unseen spirit watches and laughs, And again refills the measure. My brightest dreams, and my fondest hopes, The year has gathered together, And right bountifully they have come to me. From the Spring to the Autumn weather.

The rarest of flowers, subtle and sweet, That grew in the world Ideal, Have dropped their seeds in the soil at my feet, And blossomed among the Real. And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows, Passion-hearted, yet tender. And my path is strewn with the glories of June, And I'm hedged about with its splendor.

Care flew over the hills, one day, And I sang, as he swift retreated; And Hope took his crown, and Joy settled down, On the throne where Care had been seated. Contentment hedged me all round about, And Love built his blazing fire; And Happiness poured his treasures out, And left me with no desire.

I have walked breast high in a sea of bliss: I have loved my God, and my brother. There never before was a year like this-- There never can be another. Linger, loiter, a little while, For I grieve to see you dying! But even in grief, I can only smile, For my heart is too light for sighing.

December, 1870

FORESHADOWED

My life has been a summer day complete, Teeming with pleasures, tender, pure, and sweet. But tiny clouds have ever dimmed the sky, And they have quickly passed, and floated by.

Oh, seldom in this thorny world of ours, Is mortal's pathway so bestrewn with flowers. Fragrant and fair, they ever blow and bloom, Untouched by chilling frosts, and wintry gloom. And I thank God, for all his tenderness, And from my very soul adore, and bless Him who has cast my lines in pleasant ways, And crowned with joy and happiness my days.

But sometimes, though the sun shines clear and bright, And all the world seems full of joy and light, A nameless shadow, none but I can see, Falls on my heart, hushing its melody. A nameless, voiceless shadow; but I know It tells of future agony and woe. Some mighty sorrow, vague and undefined, But dark, and awful, waits for me, behind That shadowy cloud. Something of woe and tears-- Of grief, and anguish, is the future years.

It floats away, and I rejoice again, With all my warm young heart untouched by pain. But ever and anon I see it loom, Over my life, and feel its awful gloom.

Oh God! I know not what is hidden there. But give me strength to suffer and to bear. Oh, guide my soul! and teach me how to pray, And make my spirit stronger every day. Upon Thy mighty arm, oh! let me rest, And lean. And when Thou deemest best, Reveal, my Father, what is hid behind The nameless shadow, vague, and undefined.

1869

FORTUNE'S WHEEL

My Love was a poor man's daughter, And I was a poor man's son. And oft we walked on the sea shore, When the work of the day was done. Hand in hand, on the gleaming strand, And our two hearts beat as one.

My Love was meek, and gentle, And she was wondrous fair; With hazel dyes in her slumbrous eyes, And chestnut shades in her hair. And we raked hay on the meadow, And I gave my heart in her care.

But the great, notched wheel of Fortune, Kept turning on and on. And she was a rich man's daughter, And I was a poor man's son. And she had a score of lovers, or more. But I was the favored one.

And I passed hard by her window, Nor turned my face to see The lady fair, with gems in her hair, As fine as fine could be. Though I knew her heart was dying For just one word from me.

My Love grew pale as the lily, And faded day by day, And I passed by, and heard her sigh, And turned my face away. For I was proud as the proudest-- And her gold between us lay.

And the great, notched wheel of Fortune Kept rolling on and on. And she was a poor man's daughter, And I was a rich man's son. And maids of grace smiled in my face, But I saw only one.

I found my love in the cottage, Where first I sought her side. And I shall not tell how I wooed--but well, For she had not my pride. And I gave my heart in her keeping, And won her for my bride.

1870

SEARCHING

These quiet autumn days, My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings Goes out, and searches for the hidden things, Beyond the hills of haze.

With mournful, pleading cries Above the waters of the voiceless sea That laps the shores of broad Eternity, Day after day it flies.

Searching, but all in vain, For some stray leaf that it may light upon, And read the future as the days agone-- Its pleasure and its pain.

Listening, patiently, For some voice speaking from the mighty deep, Revealing all the secrets it doth keep, In silence, there for me.

Come back and wait! my soul, Day after day thy search has been in vain, Voiceless and silent o'er the future's plain Its mystic waters roll.

God seeing, knoweth best, And in his time the waters shall subside, And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide. Then wait, my soul, and rest.

1869

DAFT

In the warm yellow smile of the morning, She stands at the lattice pane. And watches the strong young binders Stride down to the fields of grain; And she counts the over and over As they pass the cottage door: Are they six? she counts them seven-- Are they seven? she counts one more.

When the sun swings high in the heavens, And the reapers go shouting home, She calls to the household, saying "Make haste! for the binders have come! And Johnnie will want his dinner-- He was always a hungry child;" And they answer, "Yes, it is waiting;" Then tell you, "Her brain is wild."

Again, in the hush of the evening, When the work of the day is done, And the binders go singing homeward In the last red rays of the sun, She will sit at the threshold waiting, And her withered face lights with joy: "Come, Johnnie," she says, as they pass her, "Come in to the house, my boy."

Five summers ago, her Johnnie Went out in the smile o' the morn, Singing across the meadow, Striding down through the corn: He towered above the binders Walking on either side, And the mother's heart within her Swelled with exultant pride.

For he was the light of the household; His brown eyes were wells of truth, And his face was the face of the morning, Lit with its pure, fresh youth; And his song rang out from the hill-tops, Like the mellow blast of a horn, As he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows, And down through the rows of corn.

But hushed were the voices of singing, Hushed by the presence of death, As back to the cottage they bore him-- In the noontide's scorching breath. For the heat of the sun had slain him, Had smitten the heart in his breast, And he who had towered above them Lay lower than all the rest. The grain grows ripe in the sunshine, And the summers ebb and flow, And the binders stride to their labor, And sing as they come and go; But never again from the hill-tops Echoes the voice like a horn; Never up from the meadows, Never back from the corn.

Yet the poor, crazed brain of the mother Fancies him always near; She is blest in her strange delusion, For she knoweth no pain, no fear: And always she counts the binders As they pass her cottage door; Are they six, she counts them seven: Are they seven, she counts one more.

1870

TRUST

Once Pain beat on my heart, And well-nigh killed it. I shuddered at the smart, But said, "God willed it." And down and down again, With awful power, Fell the great hand of Pain, Hour after hour.

While, like a mighty flail, The fierce blows hurt me, I cried, "God doth prevail: He'll not desert me." Blow upon cruel blow, The great hand gave me, Yet I cried, "He doth know, And he will save me."

I did not loudly cry, And ask God's reason; I knew He'd tell me why, In his own season. "In His good time," I said, In trusting blindness, And I was not afraid To wait his kindness.

I did not trust in vain. God drew me nearer, And whispered, "Smile again! The way is clearer." And lo! my mortal sight Could reach to heaven, My faith dispelled the night, And light was given.

THE COMMON LINK

When on the crowded thoroughfare, Amidst the motley throng I stray. In all the stranger faces there, I meet and pass from day to day. Whether the face be young, or old, Or wreathed in smiles, or calm, or cold. On every brow I trace some line That links the strangers' heart to mine.

Though a proud beauty rustles by, With haughty mien, I smile and say, "You have a heart-ache--so have I: We both are hiding it to-day. Though you are rich, I am poor, We both have entered sorrow's door; Grief comes alike to you and me, So we are of one family."

The richest nabob that I meet, The poorest delver that I see, Youth and old age upon the street, Are one and all the same to me. No heart that beats, but has its grief; Nor wealth, nor youth, gives full relief; And through the tears that sometimes fall I claim relationship to all.

So poor, and rich, and high, and low, I meet upon this common plain. Though far and wide our paths may lie, We entertain the same guest--Pain. The subtle threads of this strange cord, Draw me to mankind, and the Lord, And through the sorrows heaven sends, I hold all men to be my friends.

1869

BURIED TO-DAY

Cold is the wind, that blows up from the river. Cold is the blast that sweeps over the plain. In the bleak breath of the morning, I shiver-- Shiver and weep, in my desolate pain. She was so fair--like the beautiful lily-- Fair, oh too fair to be hidden away. And the grave is so dark, and so damp, and so chilly, And she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.

White is the snow that is heaped on the meadow, Whiter the face, in this desolate room. Low in the valley lurk darkness and shadow-- Low lies my heart, in its sorrow and gloom. How the spades scrape, on the sods they are breaking, Breaking, and cutting the snowdrifts away. How the men bend to the grave they are making. Where she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.

Thick are the walls! but the bleak wind will enter, And chill her through all her long slumber, I know. Rich are her robes! but the merciless Winter Will beat on her breast, with its tempests of snow. Oh, she was guarded, and shielded from sorrow-- Kept from the shadows, and darkness, alway. But she will lie, as the beggar to-morrow-- My love--oh my love!--that is buried to-day.

1870

WHEN I DIE

Often, when I am alone, Thinking of the "things unseen;" Things to our eyes never shown, Hidden by the veil between This world and eternity-- To be lifted by and by. Oft the thought has come to me, "Who will robe me, when I die."

When the night-time swiftly nears, And my last sleep comes apace, And the mourners' bitter tears Fall above my dying face; When I pass out, white and still, Where no mortal hand can save, Out beyond the reach of skill-- Who will robe me, for the grave?

When my work is all complete, And I have no more to do, And I pass with willing feet, From the old life, to the new; While my dear ones numb with woe, Weep above my pulseless heart, Who, of all the friends I know, Who will robe me to depart?

Who will fold my pallid hands, On my quiet bosom; close Eyes that gaze on other lands, Clothe me for my last repose? When soft fingers toy and play With my tresses tenderly, Oft the thought has come to me, "Will these robe me, when I die?"

THE UNSEEN THORN

"Cinnamon Roses!" she said, "how fair," Holding them out in her finger-tips. "Yes," I whispered, "the hue they wear Was borrowed out of thy cheeks, and lips. Beautiful roses! and each supposes Itself replete, with thy graces, Sweet. Fair they may be, yet not like thee-- See! they fade at thy smile, dear maid!"

"Give me a Rose!" and nothing loth, She tossed a beautiful bud to me. But I gathered the maid and the flowers both-- Close to my breast. "Not that, but thee! I most am wanting. The dear face haunting My heart each hour, is the sweetest flower." And I gathered close the face like a rose, And kissed her lips and her finger-tips.

The leaves, from the roses in her hand, Dropped one by one: but the thorn was left. (Fool, that I did not understand.) Cheated, and jilted, and all bereft, Of the fair, false blossom I held on my bosom I stand to-day. But the thorn alway Pierces my heart like a cruel dart. The rose is dead: and her love--has fled.

1870

FATHER AND CHILD

The New Year wedded the winter-- Winter, the harsh old king! Whose head was a snow-capped mountain-- Whose breath was the North-Wind's sting. But he wooed and wedded the maiden, And gave her a robe of snow; And hung on her breast bright jewels, With a lace-work of frost below.

And the days flowed on like a river; And the mother looked up and smiled, When she laid in the arms of Winter, Their beautiful first-born child. "And what shall we name our infant?" She said to the harsh old king. And the old man kissed her softly, And said, "we will call her Spring."

"And how shall we robe our darling? I have always dressed in white! But she must be clothed in colors-- With something soft, and bright." And the old man smiled and answered, "We will give her a robe of green; Trimmed with the fairest flowers, And buds, that were ever seen!"

And he kissed the beautiful infant, Softly on cheek, and brow, And he clasped the hand of the mother, And said "I am going now! The days of my life were numbered, And the last is slipping away. But I leave you to guard our darling, Wherever her steps shall stray."

1870

UNDER THE MOON

Under the moon two lovers walked-- The silver moon--the round, full moon; Under its beams they softly talked. Of youth, and love, and June. And they plighted their vows in the silvery light, For their hearts, like the moon, were full, that night.

Under the moon they walked again-- The setting the moon--the waning moon. And scarcely a word was said by the twain. (Ah moon, you set too soon.) For love, in one o' the hearts, like the rim Of the waning moon, grew faint, and dim.

Under the skies a maiden stood-- The cold night skies--the moonless skies: She heard the owl in the lonely wood, And she heard her own deep sighs. "Heart and skies devoid of light; Oh God!" she cried, "what a dreary night!"

Under the skies is a narrow mound-- The watchful skies--the starry skies. And the rays of the moon, so full and round, Shine down, where the maiden lies. And they shine on the fickle lover, who Walks with another, and woos anew.

SINGERS

The sweetest songs that were ever sung, And those that please the best, Through sorrow, and grief, and tears were wrung From some o'er-burdened breast. Though the words breathe only of mirth, and bloom, And the strains are the gladdest and lightest, Remember that after a night of gloom, The rays of the sun are brightest.

The rain must fall, ere the spring-time grass Grows tender, and green, and sweet. Through the pangs of travail, a soul must pass, Ere a song is born complete. After a winter of storm, and snow, Blossom the buds in our bowers: After a season of tears and woe, Blossom the poet's flowers.

There are few who give the poet a thought, When they read the pleasing strain. There are few who know that a poem is wrought Through sorrow, and tears, and pain. The merriest song, and the blithest lay, And those that are sweetest and gladdest, Are woven in gloomy and cheerless days, When the poet's heart is the saddest.

TAKE MY HAND

I am walking in the darkness: All around me is the night. I am groping in the shadows, And I cannot see the light. Every sunbeam has departed; There is gloom throughout the land. I am fainting by the wayside-- Heavenly Father, take my hand.

Oh, the paths are rough and thorny, That my weary feet have trod. I am bleeding--I am dying, Take me by the hand, O God! Let my gloomy way be lighted, By the glory of Thy face! And thy broad and mighty bosom, Let it be my resting place.

Through this awful night of sorrow, Father, let me hear thy voice. Teach me how to sing in anguish-- How to suffer, and rejoice. Take me by the hand, and guide me, Lead me in the better way. Through this vale of storm, and tempest, To the land of perfect day.

Strengthen me for every contest: Let my prayer be not in vain. I would bless thee in my sorrow-- I would glory in my pain. Make my spirit white, for heaven! Let my soul be purified In the blood that flowed so freely, From the wound in Jesus' side.

Gird my soul, oh God, for battle! I am weak, O make me strong. Do not let my courage falter, Though the strife be fierce, and long. And upon Thy hand, my Father, Let me keep a clinging hold, Till I cross the pearly portal, To the city built of gold.

1869

DISINTERRED

[Written after the attempt of Sensation Lovers to prove that Shakespeare's plays were written by Lord Bacon.]

Lo! here's another corpse exhumed! Another Poet disinterred! Sensation cried, "Dig up the grave, And let the dust be hoed and stirred; And bring the bones of Shakespeare out! 'Twill edify the throng, no doubt.

"The Byron scandal has grown old! That rare tit-bit is flat, and stale. The throng is gaping for more food! We need a new sensation tale. Old Shakespeare sleeps too well, and sound. Tear off the shroud--dig up the ground!

"We have exhumed poor 'Raven Poe' And proved beyond the shade of doubt, He saw no raven, after all. Now trot the bones of Shakespeare out! Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--good! Who shall we serve up next for food?"

And who, say I, oh seers of earth! What corpse comes next? I daily look To see if some sage hasn't proved That Jones, or Smith, wrote Lalla Rook! Or Blifkins lent his brains to Moore-- Who was a plagiarist, and boor.

Sensation, keep your servants out; Let them be watchful, and alert! We'll need a new discovery soon: Tell them to dig about the dirt, And tear off Keats', or Shelly's shroud, To please and edify the crowd.

1870

A LAWYER'S ROMANCE

Into the mellow light of the cloudless autumn day, Somehow, the vision slips, of a landscape, far away, Wherever I turn my eyes, it hovers before them still, The little, vine-wreathed cot, on the southerly slope of the hill,

The pasture at the left, the ducks a-swim in the pond, And the straight, green rows of corn, with the wheat fields just beyond, The sloping lawn on the right, that is always seeming to say To the lake that lies below, "I will meet you just half way."

And over and over the cot, from th' ground to th' mossy eaves, Cling, and twine, and clamber the vines, with their dark, green leaves; The little mimic garden, with its simple flowers a-blow, Larkspur, bleeding hearts, and the clumps of phlox, like snow;

Petunias, red and white, like drooping and fragile maids, Rose trees hanging down, with roses of many shades, Marigolds, bachelor-buttons, with clusters of evergreen, On the two trim rows of beds, with the narrow path between,

And the setting rays of the sun, lending it all a flush, That is given to sunset scenes, by the heavenly Artist's brush. It is thus it rises to-day, and hovers before my eyes; I have seen it softly lit, with the mornings' sweet surprise--

I have seen it when the dew glistened upon the grass-- In the hush of the summer noon, when the calm lake lay like glass-- In the ghostly rays o' the moon--in the quiet of the night-- But never half so fair as under that sunset light.

Ah! foolish, and weak old heart, must you live it over again? Why reopen the book, whose final page was Pain! But the picture rises before me, rises, and hovers there, And the glory of the sunset falls on the maiden's hair;

The maid, who stood in that garden ten long summers ago, Stood by the "bleeding hearts," and the clusters of phlox, like snow. Ah! musty and dusty old heart, you were younger and lighter then! Yet not young, for now you have beat, two score years and ten; But that one summer holds the essence of all my life, The forty years before were records of toil and strife, And I opened the book again, when my holiday was o'er, And began at the page I left, and plodded on as before.

Weary of law, of work, of the dust, and heat of th' town, Ill, in body and mind, my heart went longing down To the cool, green country meadows; and I followed it one day, And there in the vine-wreathed cot, let the summer slip away;

Ay! and I let the heart I had guarded forty years-- The heart that had never been stirred by love's wild hopes and fears-- I let it slip away to the maid with amber eyes, With tresses dusky brown, and cheeks like th' sunset skies.

Ah! secret I tried to keep, ah! love I strove to hide! But in the July twilight, I lingered at her side, And, leaning by the rose tree, her tresses swept my cheek! "Ah! sweet," I cried in a tremor, "I love you--let me speak!"

And then, somehow the love I had thought to guard untold Broke loose from the fetters of silence, and gathered strength, and rolled Forth in a torrent of words; and I knelt at the maiden's feet, Crying, "Grant me a token, as yea or nay, my sweet."

And then, with a shy, sweet smile, she gave me her finger-tips, And, bolder grown, I said, as I raised them to my lips, "'Twere a lesser love than mine, that were wholly satisfied, With a touch of your fingertips, and farther than that denied."

The curtains of her eyes dropped low, and I drew her close, And over and over again kissed the sweet face like a rose. I said, "I have pleaded a case, and won it; do you see? And now I take my pay! for a lawyer must have his fee."

Ah! summer over and gone, into the echoless past! Oh! August afternoons, that drifted by too fast! Oh! rows on the quiet lake, in the blissful moonlit eves, When the harvesters sang their song, carrying home the sheaves.

I can hear it even now, the voices, strong and sweet, Over the noise, and rattle, and roar of the busy street, I can see the face of Mable, full lipped, ripe, and fair, With the amber tints in her eyes, and the dusky shades on her hair.

Into my life's September, came the beauty I missed in June, The glory lost in the morning, came in the afternoon. The dream that belongs to youth, golden--complete--sublime, I dreamed not, in the spring, but in the autumn time.

Ah! and the young heart wakes from the dream of love, and then, Suffers a little while, and dreams it over again. But never a second draught of the wine of love for me, I drank it all at the first, and shattered the cup, you see.

I woke from the golden dream when I saw her on the breast Of a fair-faced, beardless youth--when I saw his red lips pressed Over and over again to the mouth, like a rose half blown, And I heard her whispered words--"My only love, my own."

Hush! censure them not! His heart she toyed with even as mine. He suffered keenly, I think, then knelt at another's shrine. And she--speak softly of her--she died: she is only dust; Died repentant--forgiven--and entered Heaven--I trust.

And I--well my years drift on, as my two-score drifted away, Only at times, this memory comes, as it came to-day, Thrilling me through and through--and I live it all once more, Though I shut the past away, and have striven to lock the door.

Have I lost all faith in woman? Nay, surely not: should we Say that every heart is false because one proves to be! Because I find a worm in the petals of a rose, Shall I say that worms are coiled in every flower that blows?

Nay, there are constant woman, and women as sweet and fair As she with the amber eyes, and the shadows on her hair. But I found the wine of love so late, that when I quaffed I held none in reserve, but drank it all at a draught.

The future? I do not dread: it is neither dark nor bright. I have had my day of joy--I have had my sorrow's night. God helped me through the last--I do not know just how, But He answered when I called Him, and why should I doubt him now?

Nor mortal eye can see, nor mortal heart conceive, What He holdeth in His kingdom for the faithful that believe. But I sometimes think the dream that was broken here for me, I shall finish and complete by the shining Jasper sea.

1870

A SUMMER DAY

There's a gaping rent in the curtain That longs for a needle and thread, There's a garment that ought to be finished, And a book that wants to be read. There's a letter that needs to be answered, There are clothes to fold away, And I know these tasks are waiting, And ought to be done to-day.

But how can I mend the curtain, While watching this silvery cloud, And how can I finish th' garment. When the robin calls so loud. And the whispering trees are telling Such stories above my head, That I can but lie and listen, And the book is all unread.

If I try to write the letter, I am sure one half the words Will be in the curious language Of my chattering friends, the birds. The lilacs bloom in the sunshine, The roses nod and smile, And the clothes that ought to be folded And ironed, must wait awhile.

I lie in the locust shadows, And gaze at the summer sky, Bidding the cares and troubles And trials of life pass by. The beautiful locust blossoms Are falling about my feet, And the dreamy air is laden With their odors rare and sweet.

The honey-bees hum in the clover, The grasses rise and fall, The robin stops and listens, As he hears the brown thrush call. The humming-bird sings to me softly, The butterfly flits away-- Oh, what could be sweeter than living, This beautiful summer day!

1869

SONG AND MAID

A poet toiled over a song, for the maid Who had plighted her troth to him. And he leaned, and wrote, in the gathering shade, Till his eyes were dim.

But the maiden strolled on the distant beach. And listed another's tender speech.

The poet sang of her love-lit eye, So softly, and deeply blue; How its soulful glance--half arch, half shy, He only knew.

But the maid's blue eyes were shedding their light On the face of a tall, dark man, that night.

He sang of her hand, so white, and fair, And soft as a hand could be. "And the ring," he sang, "that is gleaming there Binds her to me."

But the maid to her tall companion said, "This ring? 'tis the gift of a friend, now dead."

He sang of her ripe and dewy lips-- "They are roses before they blow. And the taste of the nectar that from them drips I only know."

But the maid, as she walked in the moonlight mist, Lifted her face, and was lovingly kissed.

He sang of her voice, "It is soft and clear As the voice of a gentle dove. So tender, that I alone can hear Her words of love."

But the maiden whispered to one by the sea, "I love thee, darling, and only thee."

Ah, poet! finish your last light strain: Ah, maid! shall we give you praise, or blame? You are wringing a heart, with bitter pain, Yet helping to laurel a brow with fame.

For out of the depths of a master woe, And through the valley of dark despair, The soul of a singer must grope, and go, Ere he wear the purple true poets wear.

ASLEEP

"Come closer," she said, "my sister, For I can not see your face. The day grows dim, and the shadows grim, Are gathering on apace. I am glad that the night is coming: I am weary, and want to rest. What! do you weep, that I fall asleep Leaning upon your breast?

"Oh, Sister, I am so tired: How tired you can not know. And a jarring pain, in my weary brain, Beats like a cruel blow. I think it will all have vanished, After I sleep awhile. How sweetly I rest, lying here on your breast. In the warmth of your loving smile.

"Such a beautiful dream, my sister, I dreamed while I slept last night. I thought he was true: and he came with you, And kissed me in love's delight. And he said--. But I am so weary, I will sleep ere I tell the rest." But the sister wept, for the maiden slept In the sleep of death, on her breast.

1869

TWO COUNTS

If I count my life by the ticking of clocks, In the old methodical way, If I count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks, If I figure it out by the ceaseless flocks Of hours that make a day, If I count from the annual calendar, And trust to the measured years in there, Well, then I have turned, we'll say, But a notch, or two, on the wheel of time; I am still in the flush of my youths' glad prime; My life is new, As the count will say. I am scarcely through With the opening play. I am, in truth. In the flush of youth, If I trust to ticking and striking of clocks, And count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks.

If I count my life by the beat, throb, beat, Of the weary heart in my breast, If I count by the aims that have met defeat, And the vain, vain search for rest, If I count by tears, And by haunting fears, By hopes that were all in vain, By dear trusts shattered, And good ships battered, And lost on the treacherous main, By faith unfounded, And love death-wounded, If I reckon it thus, why then Counting this way, I have lived, we'll say, Full three-score years, and ten.

1870

THE WATCHER

"I think I hear the sound of horses' feet. Beating upon the gravelled avenue. Go to the window that looks on the street! He would not let me die, alone, I knew!" Back to the couch the patient watcher passed. And said, "It is the wailing of the blast."

She turned upon her couch, and seeming, slept, The long, dark lashes, shadowing her cheek. And on, and on, the weary moments crept, When suddenly the watcher heard her speak, "I think I hear the sound of horses' hoofs!" And answered, "'Tis the rain, upon the roofs."

Unbroken silence: quiet, deep, profound. The restless sleeper turns. "How dark! how late! What is it that I hear--that trampling sound? I think there is a horseman at the gate!" The watcher turns away her eyes, tear-blind. "It is the shutter, beating in the wind."

The dread night passed. The patient clock ticked on. The weary watcher moved not from her place. The gray, dun shadows of the early dawn, Caught sudden glory, from the sleeper's face. "He comes! my love! I knew he would!" she cried, And, smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died.

1870

LIFE AND DEATH

Three days agone, and she was here: Her light step on the stair was springing. Her sweet voice fell upon my ear; (She mocked the thrushes in her singing.) The billows of her long, bright hair Fell round her, in a golden splendor. Her face was young and fresh and fair; Her eyes were innocent and tender.

Her presence filled the house: each room Breathed of her pure and sweet existence. She was like some rare plant in bloom, Its fragrance reaching through the distance. Here was her ribbon--there her book, Beyond, her wreath, or faded flower. A step, a voice, a laugh, a look, Told of her presence, hour by hour.

"How strange is life!" I said, "From naught God fashioned out this glowing creature. Endowed with motion, feeling thought-- Perfect in symmetry, and feature. Sweeter than any opening rose, All grace and beauty hangs about her. Though every flower were left that blows, Earth would be bare and bleak, without her."

Three days agone! ay! life is strange, But death is stranger, vaster, deeper. It brings us tears, and gloom, and change. She was God's sheaf, and Death His reaper. Three days! and now no voice is heard-- No light step on the stair is bounding. In vain the tuneful-throated bird Listens to hear her answer sounding.

I cannot find her, anywhere! How vast and strange the mystic power, That leaves but one soft strand of hair, Of all that golden, shining shower. In door, and out, in every place, I search and seek; oh, vain endeavor! The voice, the laugh, the form, the face, Have vanished from the earth forever.

A spot of ground, a fresh-turned sod, Hides what was beautiful and mortal. Her spirit (fairer still) to God, And life eternal, crossed the portal. Frailer than any opening rose, The winds of earth blew cold about her. Fairer than any flower that grows. Heaven was not complete without her.

1872

AN AUTUMN REVERIE

Through all the weary, hot midsummer time, My heart has struggled with its awful grief. And I have waited for these autumn days, Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief. For I remembered how I loved them once, When all my life was full of melody. And I have looked and longed for their return, Nor thought but they would seem the same, to me.

The fiery summer burned itself away, And from the hills, the golden autumn time Looks down and smiles. The fields are tinged with brown-- The birds are talking of another clime. The forest trees are dyed in gorgeous hues, And weary ones have sought an earthy tomb. But still the pain tugs fiercely at my heart-- And still my life is wrapped in awful gloom.

The winds I thought would cool my fevered brow, Are bleak, and dreary; and they bear no balm. The sounds I thought would soothe my throbbing brain, Are grating discords; and they cannot calm This inward tempest. Still, it rages on. My soul is tossed upon a troubled sea, I find no pleasure in the olden joys-- The autumn is not as it used to be.

I hear the children shouting at their play! Their hearts are happy, and they know not pain. To them the day brings sunlight, and no shade. And yet I would not be a child again. For surely as the night succeeds the day. So surely will their mirth turn into tears. And I would not return to happy hours, If I must live again these weary years.

I would walk on, and leave it all behind: will walk on; and when my feet grow sore, The boatman waits--his sails are all unfurled-- He waits to row me to a fairer shore. My tired limbs shall rest on beds of down, My tears shall all be wiped by Jesus' hand; My soul shall know the peace it long hath sought-- A peace too wonderful to understand.

1869

TWO LIVES

An infant lies in her cradle bed: The hands of sleep, on her eyelids fall. The moments pass, with a noiseless tread, And the clock on the mantle counts them all. The infant wakes, with a wailing cry, But she does not heed, how her life slips by.

A child is sporting, in careless play: She rivals the birds with her mellow song: The clock, unheeded, ticks away, And counts the moments that drift along. But the child is chasing the butterfly, And she does not heed how her life drifts by.

A maiden stands at her lover's side, In the tender light of the setting sun. Onward and onward the moments glide, And the old clock counts them, one by one. But the maiden's bridal is drawing nigh, And she does not heed how her life drifts by.

A song of her youth the matron sings, And she dreameth a dream, and her eye is wet. And backward and forward the pendulum swings, In the clock that never has rested yet. And the matron smothers a half-drawn sigh, As she thinks how her life is drifting by.

An old crone sits in her easy chair; Her head is dropped on her aged breast. The clock on the mantle ticketh there-- The clock that is longing now for rest. And the old crone smiles, as the moments fly, And thinks how her life is drifting by.

A shrouded form, in a coffin bed-- A waiting grave, in the fallow ground: The moments pass with a noiseless tread, But the clock on the mantle makes no sound. The lives of the two have gone for ay, And they do not heed, how the time drifts by.

1869

IN MEMORIUM

(Miss Jennie Blanchard, aged 21 )

Across the sodden field we gaze, To woodlands, painted gold and brown; To hills that hide in purple haze, And proudly wear the autumn's crown. Oh, lavish autumn! fair, we know, And yet we cannot deem her so.

The blossoms had their little day; The grasses, and the green-hung trees. They lived, grew old, and passed away. And yet, not satisfied with these, The cruel autumn could not pass Without this last fell stroke: alas!

"Alas," we cry, because God's ways Seem so at variance with our own, And grieving through the nights and days, We see not that His love was shown In gathering to the "Harvest Home," Our lost one, from the grief to come.

Oh, Tears! she will not have to weep! Oh, Woes! she will not have to bear! For her, who fell so soon asleep, No furrowed face, no whitened hair. And yetwe would have given her these, In lieu of heavenly victories.

How weak the strongest mortal love! How selfish in its tenderness! How God's angelic host above Must wonder at our blind distress! We see her still grave, dark and dim, And they see only Heaven and Him.

Perpetual youth! oh, priceless boon! Forever youthful: never old! How can we think she died too soon? What though life's story was half told? Wiser than all earth's seers, to-day, Is this fair soul, that passed away.

Magician, sage, philosopher, With all their vast brain-wealth combined, Are only babes, compared with her: This soul, that left the "things behind," And, "reaching to the things before," Gained God, through Christ, forevermore.

October, 1870

MY LOVE

My love is fair as the morn; Yes, fair as the summer morning, When with fold on fold of red, and gold, The sun in the east gives warning, And a soft, rare light, not dim nor bright, O'er hill and mountain lingers; And flower, and vine with jewels shine-- Bedecked by the fairie's fingers.

My love has eyes like the clouds, That are dyed with the autumn's splendor, So darkly blue, where her soul looks through-- So truthful and so tender. When their light is hid by the snowy lid, My heart seems lost in shadow. And her glance will chase the gloom from my face, Like sunlight on a meadow.

My love has cheeks like a rose-- Yes, like a rose in blossom, And a flake of snow is her polished brow, And a drift of snow is her bosom; And her hair sweeps down, half gold, half brown, Like a silken veil, to cover The matchless grace of her form and face, From the burning eyes of her lover.

My love has a voice like a thrush-- Yes, like a thrush when singing. And the wondering lark cries, "Listen! hark!" When he hears her glad tone ringing. Oh, she is fair, beyond compare; And how her sweet face flushes, When I whisper low a tale we know-- And the rose is shamed by her blushes.

1871

THE FROST FAIRY

All day the trees were moaning, For the leaves that they had lost. All day they creaked and trembled, And the naked branches tossed, And shivered in the north wind, As he hurried up and down, Over hill-tops, bleak and cheerless, Over meadows, bare, and brown.

"Oh, my green and tender leaflets. Oh, my fair buds, lost, and gone!" So, they moaned through all the daytime, So, they groaned, till night came on. And the hoar-frost lurked, and listened, To the wailing, sad refrain. And he whispered, "Wait--be patient-- I will cover you again;

"I will clothe you in new garments: I will deck you, ere the light. In a sheen of spotless glory, In a robe of purest white. You shall wear the matchless mantle, That the good frost-fairy weaves." And the bare trees listened, wondered-- And forgot their fallen leaves.

And the quaint and silent fairy, Backward, forward, through the gloom, Wove the matchless, glittering mantle; Spun the frost-thread, on her loom. And the bare trees talked together-- Talked in whispers, soft, and low, As the good and patient fairy Moved her shuttle to and fro.

And lo! when the sudden glory Of the morning crept abroad, All the trees were clothed in grandeur; All the twiglets robed, and shod In the glittering, spotless garments, That the sunshine decked with gems; And the trees forgot their sorrow, 'Neath their robes and diadems.

1870

THE SUMMONS

I think the leaf would sooner Be the first to break away, Than to hang alone in the orchard In the bleak November day. And I think the fate of the flower That falls in the midst of bloom Is sweeter than if it lingered To die in the autumn's gloom.

Some glowing, golden morning In the heart of the summer time, As I stand in the perfect vigor And strength of my youth's glad prime; When my heart is light and happy, And the world seems bright to me, I would like to drop from this earth-life, As a green leaf drops from the tree.

Someday, when the golden glory Of June is over the earth, And the birds are singing together In a wild, mad strain of mirth, As the skies of June can be, I would like to have the summons Sent down from God to me.

I would not wait for the furrows-- For the faded eyes and hair; But pass out swift and sudden, Ere I grow heart-sick with care; I would break some morn in my singing-- Or fall in my springing walk, As a full-blown flower will sometimes Drop, all a-bloom, from the stalk.

And so, in my youth's glad morning, While the summer walks abroad, I would like to hear the summons, That must come, sometime, from God. I would pass from the earth's perfection To the endless June above; From the fullness of living and loving, To the noon of Immortal Love.

1873

THREE YEARS OLD

Written upon Eva Orton's third birthday.

A robin up in the linden-tree Merrily sings this lay: "Somebody sweet is three years old-- Three years old to-day." Somebody's bright blue eyes look up Through tangled curls of gold, And two red lips unclose to say-- "To-day I am free years old."

Clouds were over the sky this morn, But now they are sailing away; Clouds could never obscure the sun On somebody sweet's birthday. Bluest of skies and greenest of trees, Sunlight and birds and flowers, These are Nature's birthday gifts To this sweet pet of ours.

The pantry is brimming with cakes and creams For somebody's birthday ball. Papa and mamma bring their gifts, But their love is better than all. Ribbons and sashes, and dainty robes, Gifts of silver and gold, Will fade and rust as the days go by, But their hearts will not grow cold.

Then laugh in the sunlight, somebody sweet-- Little flower of June! You have nothing to do with care, For life is in perfect tune. Loving hearts and sheltering arms Shall keep old care away For many a year, from somebody sweet, Who is three years old to-day.

Milwaukee, June 26, 1873

THE DIFFERENCE

Up in the cozy chamber, Where, on the snowy bed The dress, and the pearls, and the new false curls, For the morrow's use were spread, The bride-elect and her mother Were sitting before the grate, Talking over the days gone by, And planning the future state.

"I really am quite well suited," Said Minnie, "with my outfit-- Jane says Kit Somers trousseau, Is nothing compared with it. That her laces are imitation, And her bonnet a perfect fright, And she says I'll wholly eclipse her In everybody's sight.

"And she isn't to make the tour, But only to visit awhile. I declare I'd never be married If I couldn't do it in style. Jane says her jewels, though splendid, With mine can never compare: I tell you I do love Harry, When I look at this solitaire.

"And I think he's a darling, mother, For he's going to let me board, At least he will, he says, until He finds that he can afford To purchase that house of Mosleys, That splendid brown stone front. I wouldn't have anything humbler. And Harry says he won't.

"My presents are perfectly splendid, Much finer than Kit's, I know, I think that's half of a wedding To have such things to show. If we get that house of Mosleys, What a brilliant life we'll live. Such people as I'll have throng it-- Such parties as I will give.

"I mean to just queen it, mother, In society everywhere, And my title of Belle of the City I shall continue to wear. I don't believe that a woman By marriage should be tied down To wearing a smile for her husband And for all other men a frown.

"I mean to dress better than ever, And be just as merry and free. Children! the troublesome wretches! No ma'am, not any for me. I know I'd be cross and unhappy, With children to tease, and annoy. A joy, you say, to be mother, Well, I will be spared that joy."

Across the hall in their bedroom A hale old couple sat, Minnie's grandfather and mother, Having a good night chat. "So, the last of the children is going," Grandmother said, and sighed, "Minnie, (we named her Mary,) To-morrow will be a bride.

"It will be a great occasion, All glitter and glow and shine, A nineteenth century wedding, Not much like yours, and mine. A few good friends were with us, When we were married, John, They came to see us united-- Not to see what the bride had on.

"I wore a snowy muslin, And a white rose in my hair, No silks nor gems, nor diadems-- And yet you thought me fair. We stood in the broad cool kitchen, On the white and sanded floor, And a breeze from the odorous orchard, Looked in at the open door.

"The minister read the service That made us one for life, And I was no longer a maiden But a loved and cherished wife. You took me home on the morrow! Six miles, in a one-horse chaise; Folks didn't race over the country 'Touring' in those old days.

"Our house was a tiny cabin That would just hold two, you said, But ere a year, you found, my dear There was room for three, instead. Ah me! that wonderful baby! 'Twas a moment of perfect bliss When I held up the pink faced darling For his father's tender kiss.

"Then came a dear little daughter! And then more boys and girls Till you built on a wing to the cabin To cover their sunny curls. There was never a happier woman In all of the land I know, Singing away at my labor-- Watching the children grow.

"I had my beaux and lovers, When I was a girl; but when I became your bride I put aside All thoughts of other men. Lover, and king, and husband, And friend, I found in you, And you repaid my devotion, By being kind, and true.

"Ah well! the world keeps changing And weddings have changed with the rest, People go only to comment And see how the bride is drest. Girls wed houses and titles Instead of men as of old, And babies are out of the fashion And all that glitters is gold.