Introductory material

END.

SHELLS

OUR LIVES

Our lives are songs. God writes the words, And we set them to music at pleasure; And the song grows glad, or sweet, or sad, As we choose to fashion the measure.

We must write the music, whatever the song, Whatever its rhyme, or metre; And if it is sad, we can make it glad. Or if sweet, we can make it sweeter.

One has a song that is free and strong; But the music he writes is minor; And the sad, sad strain is replete with pain, And the singer becomes a repiner.

And he thinks God gave him a dirge-like lay. Nor knows that the words are cheery; And the song seems lonely and solemn--only Because the music is dreary.

And the song of another has through the words An under current of sadness; But he sets it to music of ringing chords, And makes it a pean of gladness.

So, whether our songs are sad or not, We can give the world more pleasure. And better ourselves, by setting the words To a glad, triumphant measure.

THE MESSENGER

She rose up, in the early dawn, And white, and silently she moved About the house: Four men had gone To battle for the land they loved: And she, the mother, and the wife. Waited for tidings from the strife. How still the house seemed; and her tread Sounded like footsteps of the dead.

The long day passed. The dark night came. She had not seen a human face. Some voice spoke suddenly her name. How loud it sounded in that place Where, day on day, no sound was heard But her own footsteps. "Bring you word," She cried, to whom she could not see-- "Word from the battle plain to me?" A soldier entered at the door, And stood within the dim firelight.

"I bring you tidings of the four" He said, "Who left you for the fight." "God bless you friend!" she cried, "speak on!" For I can bear it. "One is gone?" "Ay! one is gone!" he said, "Which one?" "Dear lady--he, your eldest son."

A deathly pallor shot across Her withered face: she did not weep. She said, "It is a grievous loss, But God gives his beloved sleep. What of the living--of the three, And when can they come back to me?" The soldier turned away his head, "Lady, your husband too, is dead."

She put her hand upon her brow. A wild, sharp pain, was in her eyes, "My husband? oh God help me now." The soldier shivered at her sighs. The task was harder than he thought. "Your youngest son, dear madam, fought Close at his father's side: both fell Dead, by the bursting of a shell."

She moved her lips and seemed to moan. Her face had paled to ashen grey-- "Then one is left me--one alone," She said, "of four who marched away. Oh, Over-ruling, All-wise God, How can I pass beneath Thy rod!" The soldier walked across the floor. Paused at the window, at the door--

Wiped the cold dew drops from his cheek And sought the mourner's side again. "Once more, dear lady, I must speak. Your last remaining son was slain Just at the closing of the fight, 'Twas he who sent me here to-night." "God knows," the man said afterward, "The fight itself, was not as hard."

1871

IDLE

I sit in the twilight dim, At the close of an idle day, And list to the sweet, soft hymn That rises far away And dies on the evening air. Oh, all day long they sing their song Who toil in the valley there.

But never a song sing I, Sitting with folded hands. The hours pass me by, Dropping their golden sands. And I list from day to day To the tick, tick, tock, of the old brown clock Ticking my life away.

And I see the sunlight fade, And I see the night come on; And then, in the gloom and shade, I weep for the day that is gone. Weep, and wail, in pain, For the misspent day that has flown away And will not come again.

Another morning beams, But I forget the last, And sit in my idle dreams Till the day is overpast. Oh, the toiler's heart is glad When the day is gone and the night comes on, But mine is sore, and sad.

For I dare not look behind: No shining, golden sheaves Can I ever hope to find-- Nothing but withered leaves. Ah! dreams are very sweet! But will it please if only these I lay at the Master's feet.

And what will the Master say, To dreams and nothing more? Oh, idler all the day! Think, ere thy life is o'er! And when the day grows late, Oh, soul of sin, will He let you in There at the pearly gate?

Oh, idle heart beware! On, to the field of strife! On to the valley there, And live a useful life. Up! do not wait a day, For the old brown clock, with its tick, tick, tock, Is ticking your life away.

1869

YE AGENTS

These agent men! these agent men! We hear the dreaded step again, We see a stranger at the door; And brace ourselves for war once more. He bows and smiles. "Walk in," we say,

He smiles again. "I come to-day. Dear Madam, with a great invention; And Sir, pray give me your attention; Now here, you see, is something new. And just the thing, my friends, for you."

In vain we interrupt and say: "We shall not buy of you to-day." "But, Madam, Sir, you have not seen The beauties of this new machine; When thus arranged, your old affair, 'Tis plain to see, is just nowhere." "No doubt," I say; "'Tis very fine, And quite superior to mine." This gives him courage. On he goes, And every sentence glibly flows, Until his lesson is repeated To "warranted if fitly treated."

"Yes, new and fine, and grand," we say, "But still, we shall not buy to-day." "But, Madam, Sir, pray list to reason, 'Twill buy itself in half a season; You see the thing is bound to go." "Oh, certainly, we see, we know. But still, we do not wish to buy." He turns and leaves as with a sigh. And while we hasten to our labor He goes and persecutes our neighbor.

But lo! another follows on, Before the last is fairly gone. One day a reaper, next a mower, And then a fanning mill, and sower; Machines of all kinds 'neath the sun, Each better than the other one; A rocker for each dining chair, A brace to hold the broom in air, A book, just out, and you must buy Or give a proper reason why.

So, if we sometimes turn away Abruptly, Sirs, you must remember, That we have heard your tale each day From early Spring to late December. Why! if we listened to you all, And gave you the required attention, I think ere long each one would call, The "county house," the best invention.

1869

WARNED

They stood at the garden gate. By the lifting of a lid She might have read her fate In a little thing he did.

He plucked a beautiful flower, Tore it away from its place On the side of the blooming bower, And held it against his face.

Drank in its beauty and bloom, In the midst of his idle talk; Then cast it down to the gloom And dust of the garden walk.

Ay, trod it under his foot, As it lay in his pathway there; Then spurned it away with his boot, Because it had ceased to be fair.

Ah! the maiden might have read The doom of her young life then; But she looked in his eyes instead, And thought him the king of men.

She looked in his eyes and blushed, She hid in his strong arms' fold; And the tale of the flower, crushed And spurned, was once more told.

LIFE

An infant wailing in nameless fear; A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room, Or the hum of an insect flying near, Or the screech-owl's cry, in the outer gloom.

A little child on the sun-checked floor, A broken toy, and a tear-stained face, A young life clouded, a young heart sore; And the great clock, time, ticks on apace.

A maiden weeping in bitter pain, Two white hands clasped on an aching brow. A blighted faith and a fond hope slain, A shattered trust and a broken vow.

A matron holding a baby's shoe, The hot tears gather, and fall at will On the knotted ribbon of white and blue, For the foot that wore it is cold and still.

An aged woman upon her bed, Worn, and wearied, and poor and old, Longing to rest with the happy dead. And thus the story of life is told.

Where is the season of careless glee? Where is the moment that holds no pain? Life has its crosses from infancy Down to the grave; and its hopes are vain.

1870

STARS

Astronomers may gaze the heavens o'er, Discovering wonders, great, perhaps, and true! That stars are worlds, and peopled like our own, But I shall never think as these men do.

I shall believe them little shining things, Fashioned from heavenly ore, and filled with light. And to the sky above, so smoothly blue, An angel comes and nails them, every night.

And I have seen him. You no doubt would think A white cloud, sailed across the heavens blue. But as I watched the feathery thing, it was An angel nailing up the stars I knew.

And all night long they shine for us below; Shine in pale splendor, till the mighty sun Wakes up again. And then the angel comes, And gathers in his treasures, one by one.

How sweet the task! Oh, when this life is done, And I have joined the angel band on high, Of all that throng, oh may it be my lot. To nail the stars upon the evening sky.

1868

FADING

She sits beside the window. All who pass Turn once again to gaze on her sweet face. She is so fair; but soon, too soon, alas, To lie down in her last low resting place.

No gems are brighter than her sparkling eyes. Her brow like polished marble, white and fair-- Her cheeks as glowing as the sunset skies-- You would not dream that death was lurking there.

But, oh! he lingers closely at her side. And when the forest dons its Autumn dress, We know that he will claim her as his bride, And earth will number one fair spirit less.

She sees the meadow robed in richest green-- The laughing stream--the willows bending o'er. With tear dimmed eyes she views each sylvan scene, And thinks earth never was so fair before.

We do not sigh for Heaven, till we have known, Something of sorrow, something of grief and woe, And as a summer day her life has flown. Then, can we wonder she is loath to go?

She has no friends in Heaven: all are here. No lost one waits her in that unknown land, And life grows doubly, trebly sweet and dear, As day by day, she nears the mystic strand.

We love her and we grieve to see her go. But it is Christ who calls her to His breast, And He shall greet her, and she soon shall know The joys of souls that dwell among the blest.

1869

HAUNTED

"We walk upon the sea-shore, you and I, Just two alone," you say. But there are three; A tall and manly form is walking nigh, And as I move, he moves along with me.

Your shadow? No, for shadows do not speak, And he is speaking, tenderly and low, Words that bring crimson blushes to my cheek, You cannot hear, the sea is sounding so.

But it is strange you cannot see him there, My darling with the broad and snowy brow. You never saw a face so grandly fair. I'll stand aside--there, do you see him now?

No! well you jest, or else you're growing blind; Blue eyes are never very strong, you know; This summer sun and wind are bad combined, You should not walk here where the sea gales blow.

Ah, he who walks here at my side has eyes That sun, nor wind can dim their eagle sight, You've seen the thunder cloud in stormy skies-- Well, so his eyes are, full of purple light.

Dead! what a foolish thing for you to say, When I can see him walking at my side; Just as we walked a year ago to-day, When first I promised him to be his bride.

Go, leave us. We had rather be alone. Your words are wild to-day. Go, let me be With him a while. And when an hour has flown I'll follow you. But now he waits for me.

GHOSTS

There are ghosts in the room, As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there They come out of the gloom And they stand at my side, and they lean on my chair.

There's the ghost of a hope That lighted my days with a fanciful glow. In her hand is the rope That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

But her ghost comes to-night, With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes, And it stands in the light, And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

There's the ghost of a Joy, A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much, And the hands that destroy Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

There's the ghost of a love, Born with joy, reared with Hope, died in pain and unrest, But he towers above All the others--this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.

I am weary, and fain Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host Make the struggle in vain, In each shadowy corner, there lurketh a ghost.

1869

TIM'S STORY

I was out promenading one fine summer day, When I chanced upon three bosom cronies to stray, And a beer shop we happened to pass on our way.

"Now boys," said I, stopping them all with a wink, "If you'll step round the corner, I'll treat to a drink; How is it, my hearties? now, what do you think?"

So, into the bar-room we dropped in a flash, And up to the keeper I went with a dash: "Four glasses of lager, and none of your trash, But the best and the foamiest money can bring," Was the order I gave, with the air of a king; And mine host fluttered off, like a bird on the wing.

Just then an old toper dropped in from the street, A jolly old soak, with a nose like a beet. And he said, "Now, my rummys, I'll share in that treat."

But I said to my cronies, "Say boys, look ye there! Do you 'spose such a nosey will fall to our share?" Quoth the toper, "Keep drinking, my lads, and you'll wear A nose like my own, or I miss in my guess." "Why," said Ned, "it resembles the light of distress." Said Tom, "It's the color of Sally Ann's dress."

Said Billy, "It looks like the sun's ruddy bed, And shines like the top of my grandfather's head." Said I, "It is ready, I think, to be bled."

"Now thank ye, my lads," said old soak with a bow, "But gulp down your lager, 'twill soon show ye how Red noses are painted and polished, I vow."

I turned to my cronies: "Now, boys, look ye here! I wouldn't, I say, for ten thousand a year, Have my nose grow to look like the one beaming near!"

"Nor I, sir!" "Nor I, sir!" "Nor I!" cried each chum; Then, said I, "A good-bye to all beer, ale, and rum, And hurrah for cold water! my boys, will ye come?"

"We are ready and willing," said Tom, Bill and Ned. "Let's get us a pledge, boys, and sign it," I said-- And so at next meeting, four names were read In the Temperance column. And now should you be In these parts, and a fine-looking fellow should see, You may know it is one of my cronies, or me.

By lectures, and preaching, some fellows are won, But you see it is different with us: it was done By the jolly old soak, with a nose like the sun!

1870

MEMORY'S GARDEN

Back on its golden hinges The gate of Memory swings, And my heart goes into the garden And walks with the olden things. The old-time, joys and pleasures. The loves that it used to know, It meets there in the garden. And they wander to and fro.

It heareth a peal of laughter, It seeth a face most fair. It thrills with a wild, strange rapture At the glance of a dark eye there; It strayeth under the sunset In the midst of a merry throng, And beats in a tuneful measure, To the snatch of a floating song.

It heareth a strain of music Swell on the dreamy air, A strain that is never sounded, Save in the garden there. It wanders among the roses, And thrills at a long-lost kiss, And glows at the touch of fingers, In a tremor of foolish bliss.

But all is not fair in the garden,-- There's a sorrowing sob of pain; There are tear-drops, bitter, scalding, And the roses are tempest-slain. And I shut the gate of the garden. And walk in the Present's ways. For its quiet paths are better Than the pain of those vanished days!

MYSTERIES

In God's vast wisdom, infinite and grand-- Too vast, too infinite, for mortal mind-- There are some things I cannot understand. In all His paths, in all His ways, I find Some subtle mysteries of life and death-- Some marvels that I cannot comprehend, Nor can I hope to know them till the end, When all shall be made plain, above--beneath.

There are so many of His righteous deeds-- There is so much that unto me is plain, I have no time to wonder--have no needs To question why, and wherefore. In the main My mortal eyes see that His works are good. Whatever else seems strange, and dark, and dim, I am content to leave in faith with Him, And in His time, it will be understood.

These labyrinths wherein many souls are lost-- These waters, whereon some barks lose the shore, But draw me nearer to the Heavenly Host, But make me love and worship God the more. There is enough that I do see and know-- There is enough that I can understand, And sometime Christ shall take me by the hand. Explaining all that seems so strange below.

1870

WHAT THE WINDS TOLD ME

The winds come from the West, Come softly, mildly, "What tidings do you bring?" I questioned wildly. They sang a tender tune, And answered lightly-- "Your darling's path is fair! The sun shines brightly."

The winds came from the West, Came shrieking, groaning. "What tidings now, oh wind?" My heart cried moaning. They answered loud, and wild, "When danger stalketh-- And death is waiting, near, Your darling walketh."

The winds came from the West, Came weeping, wailing. "Oh, tell me, tell me, winds!" My heart cried, failing. "Where none are near to soothe," They answered sighing, "In loneliness and pain, Your love is dying!"

The winds came from the West! Came sadly sobbing. And with an awful fear, My heart was throbbing. I wildly questioned them Amidst my weeping, "All still, and white," they said, "Your love is sleeping."

1870

SOMETIMES

Sometimes when I am all alone, Away from noise and strife, The many faults and weaknesses, That rule my daily life Seem to die out. And as I sit From worldliness apart, All that is good and pure obtains The mastery of my heart.

And then my soul turns heavenward. And I commune with God. I long to tread the narrow path That Christ before me trod. I long to see his precious face-- To go where angels go, To leave the fleeting, fading things That make up life below.

My soul expands with ecstasy, My heart grows brave, and strong, To meet whatever lies ahead-- To battle down the wrong. No sorrow can affright my soul, No earthly ill, I fear, While in that blessed trance I sit And feel that God is near.

And then I mingle with the world, And falter day by day. Until at last I walk within The olden, sinful way. O, shall I even grow in grace, O shall I ever be, Ready to meet the judgment day-- Fit for eternity?

1869

BLIND SORROW

One bitter time of mourning, I remember, When day, and night, my sad heart did complain, My life, I said, was one cold, bleak December, And all its pleasures, were but whited pain.

Nothing could rouse me from my sullen sorrow, Because you were not near, I would not smile. And from a score of joys refused to borrow One ray of light, to gild the weary while.

But all the blessing God has given, scorning, I wept because we were so far apart, And spent my time in idle, aimless mourning, That only kept the grief fresh in my heart--

God pity me! I know now we were nearer. With all these intervening miles of space-- That life was sweeter, and the future dearer. Than when to-day I met you, face to face!

God meant to break it gently--ease my anguish, But I rebelled, and caviled at His will. Now, seeing His great wisdom, though I languish, In bitter pain, I trust His mercy still.

"BE NOT WEARY"

Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary, All tired out, with working long, and well, And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary, And heart and soul are all too sick to tell, These words have come to me, like angel fingers, Pressing the spirit eyelids down in sleep. "Oh, let us not be weary in well doing, For in due season, we shall surely reap."

Oh, blessed promise! when I seem to hear it, Whispered by angel voices on the air, It breathes new life, and courage to my spirit, And gives me strength to suffer and forbear. And I can wait most patiently for harvest, And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep, If I know surely, that my work availeth, And in God's season, I at last shall reap.

When mind and body were borne down completely And I have thought my efforts were all vain, These words have come to me, so softly, sweetly, And whispered hope, and urged me on again. And though my labor seems all unavailing, And all my strivings fruitless, yet the Lord Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter, And sometime, sometime, I shall reap reward.

1870

TO THOSE WHO NEVER PRAY

O! you who never bend the knee, And never lift the heart, How do you live from year to year, And living, act your part.

How do you rise up in the morn, And pass the whole day through, Without the Saviour at your side To guide and strengthen you.

How do you meet the daily ills That try the temper so! That fret the heart and wear the soul More than some master woe.

How do you close your eyes and sleep, And how your crosses bear; (Each has a cross, or small, or large) Without the aid of prayer?

How do you meet the mighty griefs, That rush upon the soul, Engulfing it in bitterness. As angry waters roll?

How do you live at all, is one Deep mystery to me. Oh, you who never lift the heart And never bend the knee.

1870

HUNG

Nine o'clock, and the sun shines as yellow and warm, As though 'twere a fete day. I wish it would storm: Wish the thunder would crash, And the red lightning flash, And lap the black clouds, with its serpentine tongue-- The day is too calm, for a man to be hung. Hung! ugh, what a word! The most heartless, and horrible, ear ever heard.

He has murdered, and plundered, and robbed, so "they say," Been the scourge of the country, for many a day. He was lawless and wild; Man, woman, or child Met no mercy, no pity, if found in his path. He was worse than a beast of the woods, in his wrath. And yet--to be hung, Oh, my God! to be swung By the neck to, and fro, for the rabble to see-- The thought sickens me.

Thirty minutes past nine. How the time hurries by, But a half hour remains, at ten he will die. Die? No! he'll be killed! For God never willed Men should die in this way. "Vengeance is mine," He saith, "I will repay." Yet what could be done, With this wild, lawless one! No prison could hold him, and so--he must swing, It's a horrible thing.

Outcast, Desperado, Fiend, Knave; all of these And more. But call him whatever you please I cannot forget, He's a mortal man yet: That he once was a babe, and was hushed into rest, And fondled, and pressed, to a woman's warm breast. Was sung to, and rocked, And when he first walked With his weak little feet, he was petted, and told He was "mamma's own pet, worth his whole weight in gold." And this is the end Of a God-given life. Just think of it, friend!

Hark! hear you that chime? 'tis the clock striking ten. The dread weight falls down, with a sound like "amen." Does murder pay murder? do two wrongs make a right? Oh, that horrible sight! I am shut in my room, and have covered my face; But the dread scene has followed me into this place. I see that strange thing, Like a clock pendulum swing To and fro, in the air, back and forth, to and fro. One moment ago 'Twas a man, in God's image! now hide it, kind grave! What a terrible end, to the life that God gave.

1871

COMPASSION

There is a picture, that I sometimes see, Of Jesus, with a child upon his breast. And other children clustered at his knee-- The little lambs of God, that he had blest. And this one--lying on the Saviour's arm Looks up and smiles, in that most sainted face, And knowing he is well secured from harm He falls asleep in that safe resting place.

To-night I am so weary, heart, and soul. So worn out, with a thousand nameless ills. My spirit longs intensely for its goal And every fibre of my being thrills With mighty yearning. "Oh, to be that child-- To lie upon my Saviour's breast." I weep, "And looking on that face so meekly mild. Forget my tears, and sweetly fall asleep."

It is not always so: sometimes the earth And earthly friends, can satisfy my heart. But now--to-night--I feel their shallow worth, And feel, Oh, Christ my Saviour, that Thou art And Thou alone, the only faithful friend Who knowing all my sins, and seeing me Just as I am, will pity to the end And in compassion, judge me tenderly.

I am so weak, and sinful--every day The sins and failings that I most condemn, And most abhor in others--I straightway Go forth, and wickedly walk into them. But Christ, who was in mortal form one time And dwelt upon the earth, will understand. And through a love and pity most sublime, Will write me out a pardon with His hand.

1869

FAME

If I should die, to-day. To-morrow, maybe, the world would see-- Would waken from sleep, and say, "Why here was talent! why here was worth! Why here was a luminous light o' the earth. A soul as free As the winds of the sea: To whom was given A dower of heaven. And fame, and name, and glory belongs To this dead singer of living songs. Bring hither a wreath, for the bride of death!" And so, they would praise me, and so they would raise me Mayhap, a column, high over the bed Where I should be lying, all cold and dead.

But I am a living poet! Walking abroad in the sunlight of God, Not lying asleep, where the clay worms creep, And the cold world will not show it, E'en when it sees that my song should please; But sneering says: "Avaunt, with thy lays! Do not sing them, and do not bring them Into this rustling, bustling life. We have no time, for a jingling rhyme, In this scene of hurrying, worrying strife." And so, I say, there is but one way To win me a name, and bring me fame. And that is, to die, and be buried low, When the world would praise me, an hour or so.

1870

HER MOTHER'S BEAUTIFUL EYES

I met a young girl on the street; I was a stranger to her, no more. But the glance of her brown eyes, shy and sweet, Set me to dreaming of days of yore. Ah! she does not know, but long ago When life was as cloudless as June's blue skies, Her mother was all the world to me; And she Has her mother's beautiful eyes.

She lifted her lashes, and let them fall; Raised them and dropped them as I passed by. A grizzled old stranger, that was all She saw, for she could not know that I In the dear, dear past Too sweet to last Had found my Eden, my paradise. In her mother's beautiful eyes.

I loved, and was loved. But a word was said In thoughtless jest, and the work was done. The hopes I had cherished, lay blasted, dead-- My rival pleaded his suit, and won. And their child--ah me! is fair to see; I wonder if she's as good and wise, As sweet and kind, and pure of mind As the one who bequeathed her those beautiful eyes.

She has her father's step, and air. Her father's brow, and his pale, dark cheek. And her father's tawny, curling hair. And her father's mouth, half sweet, half weak. All very true. And "she's like her father through and through," I said when we met on the street that day, "And not like her mother in any way." Then I caught my breath with a start of surprise, (That she did not see) For the child of my rival glanced up at me With her mother's beautiful eyes.

1871

OLD TIMES

Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times; Of the long-lost golden hours. When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes, And "Summer" wreaths of flowers. Life has grown old, and cold, my friend, And the winter now, means death. And summer blossoms speak all too plain Of the dear, dead forms beneath.

But let us talk of the past to-night; And live it over again, We will put the long years out of sight. And dream we are young as then. But you must not look at me, my friend, And I must not look at you, Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks, Will prove our dream untrue.

Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last. And yet too sweet to die. Let us read tales, from the book of the past, And talk of the days gone by. We will turn our backs to the West, my friend, And forget we are growing old. The skies of the Present are dull, and gray, But the Past's are blue, and gold.

The sun has passed over the noontide line And is sinking down the West. And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne, Full half have gone to rest. And the few that are left on earth, my friend Are scattered far, and wide. But you and I will talk of the days Ere any roamed, or died.

Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes-- Blue eyes and tresses of gold. Winds joy laden, and azure skies, Belong to those days of old. We will leave the Present's shores awhile And float on the Past's smooth sea. But I must not look at you, my friend, And you must not look at me.

1871

THIS WORLD

This world is a sad, sad place I know; And what soul living can doubt it. But it will not lessen the want and woe, To be always singing about it. Then away with the songs that are full of tears, Away with dirges that sadden. Let us make the most of our fleeting years, By singing the lays that gladden.

The world at its saddest is not all sad-- There are days of sunny weather. And the people within it are not all bad, But saints and sinners together. I think those wonderful hours in June, Are better by far, to remember, Than those when the world gets out of tune In the cold, bleak winds of November. Because we meet in the walks of life Many a selfish creature, It does not prove that this world of strife Has no redeeming feature. There is bloom, and beauty upon the earth, There are buds and blossoming flowers, There are souls of truth, and hearts of worth-- There are glowing, golden hours.

In thinking over a joy we've known, We easily make it double. Which is better by far, than to mope and moan, Over sorrow and grief and trouble. For though this world is sad, we know, (And who that is living can doubt it,) It will not lessen the want, or woe, To be always singing about it.

1872

GOING AWAY

Walking to-day on the Common, I heard a stranger say To a friend who was standing near him, "Do you know I am going away?" I had never seen their faces: May never see them again, But the words the stranger uttered, Stirred me with nameless pain.

For I knew some heart would miss him, Would ache at his "going away," And the earth would seem all cheerless, For many and many a day. No matter how glad my spirit, No matter how light my heart, If I hear these two words uttered. The tear drops always start.

They are so sad and solemn, So full of a lonely sound: Like dead leaves rustling downward, And dropping upon the ground. Oh, I pity the naked branches, When the skies are dull and gray, And the last leaf whispers softly, "Good bye, I am going away."

In the dreary, dripping Autumn, The wings of the flying birds As they soar away to the southland, Seem always to say these words. Where ever they may be uttered, They fall with a sob, and sigh; And heart-aches follow the sentence, "I am going away--Good bye."

Oh, God, in Thy blessed kingdom No lips shall ever say, No ears shall ever hearken. To the words "I am going away." For no soul ever wearies Of the dear, bright, angel band, And no saint ever wanders, From the sunny, golden land.

1872

GOOD BYE

He rose, and passing, paused by her. They stood a moment in the door. His dark eyes made her pulses stir As they had never stirred before; How soft the night bird sang above The dull brown heath. Oh, Life, Oh, Love!

He took her hand, and said "Good bye." Then, singing blithely, went across The sodden fields: nor heard the cry Her heart sent up, nor knew her loss. How bleak, and wild, and desolate, The wind blew down. Oh, Love, Oh, Fate!

The west turned suddenly aflame; Striped here and there with blue and gold. She shook with chills she could not name. The air seemed strangely harsh, and cold. How keen the winds were, and how rife With wintry sounds. Oh, Love, Oh, Life!

She waited till she saw him pass Across the meadow, out of sight. His shadow fell upon the grass; The winds were talking of the night. How high they whirled the withered leaf; How swift it flew. Oh, Love, Oh, Grief.

She shut the door, and turned away. Some task was waiting for her hand. She shut another door, where lay, Her sweet dead hope. You understand. "And they shall weep no more," God saith, "Nor taste of pain." Oh, Life, Oh, Death.

JAMIE

In through the kitchen, the boys came trooping: Will, and Sammy, and Bob and Fred, And Johnny and Jamie, the twins, came after, Setting the rafters, a-ring with laughter. Woe for the words I said! I looked at the floor I had swept and dusted, And saw the litter the twelve feet brought; And I sighed, and frowned, on the six bright blossoms, And frowning, spoke my thought.

"Oh, was there ever so weary a woman! I have been only twelve years wed. But I've never a moment of peace or quiet. Six rough boys, with their noise and riot, Are wearing me out," I said. "Six rough boys to mend and work for, To clothe and feed--it is hard at best; There's never an end to my weary labors, There is no time for rest."

Dark fell the shadows around my little cottage, Weeping I leaned over one little bed, Vain were the tears on the tiny face falling; In the dim distance I heard a voice calling-- "Come unto me," it said. And down through the starlight an angel descended, And stood by my Jamie's low bedside. "Come! there is room with the angels," she whispered, "Heaven is fair and wide."

"Fair are its meadows, and wide are its mansions, And thousands of children are gathered there." Vain were the prayers that I prayed, leaning o'er him, Up to the mansions of heaven she bore him. Woe for my heart's despair! Oh, to recall the harsh words that I uttered! Oh, for his litter and noise to-day! Oh, for the labor his hands would make me! Hands that are turned to clay.

Five sturdy boys troop into my cottage, John, Will, Sammy, and Bob and Fred-- Five brave boys as e'er blessed a mother. But always and ever I miss the other, The dear, dear boy that is dead. I miss the ring of his childish laughter, Miss him and mourn for him night and day, But wide are the mansions, and fair are the meadows Where the feet of my Jamie stray.

1872

A MOTHER'S REVERIE

The shadows drop down o'er the fields tinged with brown, Where the snow-drifts were gleaming of late, And the day shuts her eyes, while th' red western skies Make ready the chambers of state. How still the house seems! while round about gleams Th' last mellow rays of th' sun. There's no step on the stair--no voice anywhere, Crying, "Mother, the last task is done!"

Can it be I'm alone? can it be there are none Left of eight, who have called me that name? Four boys and four girls, with their tresses and curls, Four brave boys, four fair girls, that came To my home one by one, like lost rays from the sun, And where are they all now? I pray; Like birds from the nest, the babes on my breast Took wing, and have fluttered away.

There was John, my first child; as gentle and mild As the maiden that grew at his side,-- First to come, last to stay; but death called him away, It is two years, to-day since he died. Hope, Mary, and Joe are all married, and so Have gone into homes of their own; Mark is over the sea, and Flora--hush! we Never speak of the one who has flown.

My Will, bonny Will, fell at Champion Hill-- My dark-eyed, my raven-tressed son; There was one at his side fell too; and Kate died Of grieving for Will--and that one! Yet bravely we try, my life-mate and I, To be happy and cheerful alway. God knows best what to do; yet I think if we knew She were dead, 'twould seem better to-day.

1871

THE TWO GLASSES

There sat two glasses, filled to the brim, On a rich man's table, rim to rim. One was ruddy, and red as blood, And one was as clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother, "Let us tell tales of the past to each other; I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth, Where I was king, for I ruled in might. And the proudest and grandest souls on earth Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. From the heads of kings, I have torn the crown, From the heights of fame, I have hurled men down; I have blasted many an honored name, I have taken virtue, and given shame; I have tempted the youth, with a sip, a taste, That has made his future a barren waste. Far greater than any king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky. I have made the arm of the driver fail, And sent the train from its iron rail. I have made good ships go down at sea, And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me; For they said, 'Behold, how great you be! Fame, strength, wealth, genius, before you fall, And your might and power are over all.'" "Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine, "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the water glass, "I cannot boast Of a king dethroned or a murdered host; But I can tell of hearts that were sad, By my crystal drops made light and glad. Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I've laved; Of hands I have cooled, and souls I've saved. I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain; Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain. I have burst my cloud fetters, and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye. I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain; I can tell of the powerful wheel o' the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will; I can tell of manhood, debased by you, That I have uplifted, and crowned anew. I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the chained wine-captive free, And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other, The glass of wine, and its paler brother, As they sat together, filled to the brim, On the rich man's table, rim to rim.

1872

TWILIGHT THOUGHTS

The God of the day has vanished The light from the hills has fled, And the hand of an unseen artist, Is painting the West all red. All threaded with gold and crimson, And burnished with amber dye, And tipped with purple shadows, The glory flameth high.

Fair, beautiful world of ours! Fair, beautiful world, but oh. How darkened by pain and sorrow, How blackened by sin and woe, The splendor pales in the heavens And dies in a golden gleam, And alone in the hush of twilight, I sit, in a checkered dream.

I think of the souls that are straying, In shadows as black as night, Of hands that are groping blindly In search of the shining light; Of hearts that are mutely crying, And praying for just one ray, To lead them out of the shadows, Into the better way.

I think of the Father's children Who are trying to walk alone, Who have dropped the hand of the Parent, And wander in ways unknown. Oh, the paths are rough and thorny, And I know they cannot stand. They will faint and fall by the wayside, Unguided by God's right hand.

And I think of the souls that are yearning To follow the good and true; That are striving to live unsullied, Yet know not what to do. And I wonder when God, the Master, Shall end this weary strife, And lead us out of the shadows Into the deathless life.

1869

ONLY A KISS

Once, when the summer lay on the hilltops, And the sunshine fell like a golden flame, Out from the city's dust and turmoil A gallant, fair-faced stranger came-- Came to rest in our humble cottage Till the winds of autumn should blow again, To walk in the meadow and lie by the brooklet, And woo back the strength, that the town had slain.

I was young, with the foolish heart of a maiden That had never been wooed, and the stranger bland Awoke that heart from its idle dreaming, And swept the strings with a master-hand. I remember the thrill, and the first wild tremor, That stirred its depths with a sweet surprise, When I glanced one day at the handsome stranger, And caught the gaze of his deep, dark eyes.

My cheek grew red with its tell-tale blushes, And the knitting dropped from my nerveless grasp; He stooped, and then, as he gracefully gave it, He held my hand in a loving clasp; We said no word, but he knew my secret, He read what lay in my maiden heart, No vain concealing was needed longer To hide the tremor his voice would start.

We walked in the meadow and by the brooklet, My sun-browned hand in his snowy palm; He said my blushes would shame the roses, And my heart stood still in a blissful calm. He stroked my tresses, my raven ringlets, And twined them over his finger fair; My eyes' dark splendor was full of danger, He said, for Cupid was lurking there.

And once he held me close to his bosom, And pressed on my lips a loving kiss; Oh! how I tremble with shame and anger, Even now, as I think of this-- But in that moment, I thought that heaven Had suddenly opened and drawn me in, And kissed with passion the lips, so near me, Nor dreamed I was staining my soul with sin.

But there came a letter one quiet evening To the man who was dearer to me than life-- "A picture," he said, as he tore it open, "Look, sweet friend, at my fair young wife." A terrible anguish, a seething anger, Heaved my bosom and blanched my cheek, And he who stood there holding the letter, He watched me smiling, but did not speak.

I took the picture and gazed upon it-- A sweet young creature with sunny hair And eyes of blue. "May the good Lord keep you," I said aloud, "in his tender care-- You who are wedded and bound forever Unto this man," and I met his eyes-- "This soulless villain, this shameless coward, Whose heart is blackened with acted lies."

My heart swelled full of a terrible hatred, And something of murder was burning there, But a better feeling stole in behind it As I looked on the picture sweet and fair; I turned and left him, and never saw him-- Never looked on his face again, And time has tempered my shame and sorrow, And soothed and quieted down my pain.

But I always tremble, in awful anger, That wears and worries my waning life, When I think how he clasped me close to his bosom, He--with a lawfully wedded wife. When I think how I answered his fond caresses, And clung to his neck in a trance of bliss, And the tears of a life time and all my sorrow Can never remove the stain of his kiss.

1869

WHEN I AM DEAD

When I am dead, if some chastened one, Seeing the "item," or hearing it said That my play is over, and my part done, And I lie asleep in my narrow bed-- If I could know that some soul would say, Speaking aloud or silently, "In the heat, and burden of the day, She gave a refreshing draught to me;"

Or, "when I was lying nigh unto death, She nursed me to life, and to strength again, And when I labored and struggled for breath, She soothed and quieted down my pain;" Or, "when I was groping in grief and doubt, Lost, and turned from the light o' the day, Her hand reached me and helped me out, And led me up to the better way."

Or, "when I was hated and shunned by all, Bowing under my sin and my shame, She, once, in passing me by, let fall Words of pity and hope that came Into my heart, like a blessed calm Over the waves of the stormy sea, Words of comfort like oil and balm. She spake, and the desert blossomed for me."

Better by far, than a marble tomb-- Than a monument towering over my head; (What shall I care, in my quiet room, For head board or foot board, when I am dead) Better than glory, or honors, or fame, (Though I am striving for those to-day) To know that some heart will cherish my name, And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.

1870

DON'T TALK WHEN YOU'VE NOTHING TO SAY

It is well to be free in conversing, It is well to be able to chat With a friend on a subject of interest-- With a stranger on this thing or that. Don't aim to be cold or reticent, But listen to reason I pray, And remember this wisest of mottos, "Don't talk when you've nothing to say."

A gay, lively friend, or companion, With wits that are ready and quick, Is better by far, than a stupid, And unconversational stick. Yet speech at the best is but silver, While silence is golden alway. And remember at all times and places, Don't talk when you've nothing to say.

I like to see well informed people Who know what to say, how and when. And a little good nonsense and jesting Is not out of place, now and then. But I dread the approach of a Magpie, Who chatters from grave themes to gay, Who talks from the morn to the midnight, And always with nothing to say.

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 deck you in new garments-- I will clothe 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 silent fairy Moved her shuttle to and fro.

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

1871

FLORABELLE

Did you see Florabelle? Has she passed you this morning? A tall, slender Maiden, with hair like spun gold. She has? then I pray you, dear sir, heed my warning, It is just the old, oft rehearsed story re-told:

Florabelle is a jilt--a coquette--a deceiver. She angles for hearts, with soft words and sweet smiles. Forewarned is forearmed, don't you trust or believe her, Be deaf to her cooing, be blind to her wiles.

She has eyes, like the heart of a blue morning glory, She has lips like a rose-bud just sprinkled with dew, 'Tis the old hackneyed tale, 'tis the same wretched story, A woman all fair, yet all false, and untrue.

With her soft silken hair, in its meshes and tangles, With her pink and white cheek, and her full ruby lips, With her eyes shining clear, like the heaven's bright sparkles, She has wrecked as strong hearts as the ocean has ships.

Those blue eyes are ever on watch for a stranger; She thirsts for fresh conquests, and she has marked you, I warn you, my friend, that your peace is in danger, Take heed, lest the day that you met her, you rue.

Don't bask in her smiles, for one moment, but leave her, Before you're entangled, and find it too late. Florabelle is a jilt--a coquet--a deceiver, I have given you warning! now choose your own fate!

1871

THE DOOMED CITY'S PRAYER

(After the Burning of Chicago.)

I heard a low sound, like a troubled soul praying: And the winds of the winter night brought it to me. 'Twas the doomed city's voice: "Oh, kind snow," it was saying, "Come, cover my ruins, so ghastly to see, I am robbed of my beauty, and shorn of my glory; And the strength that I boasted--where is it to-day? I am down in the dust; and my pitiful story Make tearless eyes weep, and unpious lips pray.

"I--I, who have reveled in pomp and in power, Am down on my knees, with my face in the dust. But yesterday queen, with a queen's royal dower, To-day I am glad of a crumb or a crust. But yesterday reigning, a grand mighty city, The pride of the nation, the queen of the West; To-day I am gazed at, an object of pity, A charity child, asking alms, at the best.

"My strength, and my pride, and my glory departed, My fair features scorched by the fire fiend's breath, Is it strange that I'm soul-sick and sorrowful hearted? Is it strange that my thoughts run on ruin and death? Oh, white, fleecy clouds that are drooping above me, Hark, hark to my pleadings, and answer my sighs, And let down the beautiful snow, if you love me, To cover my wounds from all pitying eyes,

"I am hurled from my throne, but not hurled down forever, I shall rise from the dust; I shall live down my woes-- But my heart lies to-day, like a dumb, frozen river; When to thaw out and flow again, God only knows. Oh, sprites of the air! I beseech you to weave me A mantle of white snow, and beautiful rime To cover my unsightly ruins; then leave me In the hands of the healer of all wounds--'Old Time.'"

November, 1871

ONE WOMAN'S PLEA

Now God be with the men who stand In Legislative halls, to-day. Those chosen princes of our land-- May God be with them all, I say, And may His wisdom, guide, and shield them, For mighty is the trust we yield them.

Oh, men! who hold a people's fate, There in the hollow of your hand. Each word you utter, soon, or late, Shall leave its impress on our land,-- Forth from the halls of legislation, Shall speed its way, through all the Nation.

Then may The Source of Truth, and Light, Be ever o'er you, ever near. And may He guide each word aright; May no false precept, greet the ear, No selfish love, for purse, or faction, Stay Justice's hand, or guide one action.

And may no one, among these men Lift to his lips, the damning glass, Let no man say, with truth, again, What has been said, in truth, alas, "Men drink, in halls of legislation-- Why shouldn't we, of lower station!"

Oh, men! you see, you hear this beast, This fiend that pillages the earth. Whose work is death--whose hourly feast, Is noble souls, and minds of worth-- You see--and if you will not chain him, Nor reach one hand forth, to detain him.

For God's sake, do not give him aid, Nor urge him onward. Oh, to me, It seems so strange that laws are made To crush all other crimes, while he Who bears down through Hell's gaping portals The countless souls, of rum wrecked mortals,

Is left to wander, to, and fro, In perfect freedom through the land. And those who ought to see, and know, Will lift no warning voice, or hand. Oh, men in halls of legislation. Rise to the combat, save the Nation!

January, 1871

DECORATION POEM

Gather them out of the valley-- Bring them from moorland and hill, And cast them in wreaths and in garlands. On the city so silent and still-- So voiceless, so silent, and still; Where neighbor speaks never to neighbor, Where the song of the bird, and the brown bee is heard, But never the harsh sounds of labor.

Bring them from woodland and meadow-- As fresh, and as fair, as can be. Bring them, all kinds, and all colors. That grow upon upland and lea-- That spring in wild grace on the lea. And rifle the green earth's warm bosom Of each flower, and blow, till "God's acre" shall glow And bloom, like a garden in blossom.

Bring them from vase, and from hot-house, And strew them with bountiful hand. There is nothing too rare for the soldier, Who laid down his life for his land-- Who laid down all things for his land; And turned to the duty before him, And how now can we prove, our thanks and our love But by casting these May blossoms o'er him.

We know they will soon fade, and wither-- We know they will soon droop, and die; But one time, I read, how an angel Came down from the mansions on high-- In the night, from God's kingdom on high-- Came down where a poor faded flower Lay crushed by rude feet, in the dust of the street, And he carried it up to God's bower;

And laid it before the Good Master, Who kissed it, and passed it to Christ, On the throne at His side; and He kissed it, And the touch of those kisses sufficed-- The caress of the God-head sufficed-- And it bloomed out in wonderful splendor, A thing of delight, and most fair in God's sight-- 'Tis a fable, I know; but so tender;

So sweet that I like to believe it-- And I have been thinking, to-day, That mayhap these soldiers, now angels, Will come, when these wreathes fade away-- When they wither, and shrivel away-- And will bear the crushed things up to heaven, And God, and His Son will kiss them, each one, And new beauty, and bloom will be given.

And odd fancy, perhaps, yet dispute it. And prove it untrue if you can. There are strange, subtle ways, in God's workings Now veiled from the knowledge of man, Shut out from the vision of man.-- By a dark veil of deep, mortal blindness; But when God deems it right, He will give us our sight, And remove the thick veil, in His kindness;

And when we have entered His kingdom, And all his strange ways understand, Who knows but these very same flowers, We shall find there abloom, in His land, All fresh, and all fair, in His land; And these soldiers, who went on before us, As we wander and stray, through God's gardens, shall say: "These are the wreathes you cast o'er us."

Then, strew ye the best, and the brightest Of buds, and of blossoms full blown, Over the graves, of the loved ones-- Over those labelled "Unknown!" Oh! the pathos of that word, "Unknown!" Bring hither the brightest, and rarest! We reck not, if the clay, wore the blue garb, or gray! We will give them the best, and the fairest.

For somebody mourned for the "missing," And wept for them hot, scalding tears, And hoped against hope, for their coming; And watched, and waited, months and years, Such long, and such desolate years! But the hearts are so patient, that love them, And some now watch and weep, for the soldiers who sleep With the slab labeled "Unknown" above them.

Then gather from meadow, and woodland, From garden, and hot-house, and vase, The brightest and choicest of blossoms, And scatter them here in this place; This holy and hallowed place-- This city of rest, not of labor, Where only the bird, and th' brown bee is heard, And neighbor, speaks never to neighbor.

Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30, 1871.

A BABY IN THE HOUSE

I knew that a baby was hid in that house, Though I saw no cradle, and heard no cry, But the husband went tiptoeing 'round like a mouse, And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby; And there was a look on the face of that mother That I knew could mean only one thing, and no other.

"The mother," I said to myself; for I knew That the woman before me was certainly that, For there lay in the corner a tiny cloth shoe, And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat; And the beard of the husband said plain as could be, "Two fat, chubby hands have been tugging at me."

And he took from his pocket a gay picture book, And a dog that would bark if you pulled on a string; And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look; And I said to myself, "There is no other thing But a babe that could bring about all this, and so That one is in hiding here somewhere, I know."

I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more, And heard not a sound, yet I knew I was right; What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor-- The book and the toy, and the faces so bright? And what made the husband as still as a mouse? I am sure, very sure, there's a babe in that house.

1872

POEM

[Read at the Reunion of the Society of the "Grand Army of the Tennessee," at Madison, Wisconsin, July 4th, 1872.]

After the battles are over, And the war drums cease to beat, And no more is heard on the hillside The sound of hurrying feet, Full many a noble action, That was done in the days of strife, By the soldier is half forgotten, In the peaceful walks of life.

Just as the tangled grasses, In summer's warmth and light, Grow over the graves of the fallen And hide them away from sight, So many an act of valor, And many a deed sublime, Fades from the mind of the soldier, O'ergrown by the grass of time.

Not so should they be rewarded, Those noble deeds of old; They should live forever and ever, When the heroes' hearts are cold. Then rally, ye brave old comrades, Old veterans, re-unite! Up root time's tangled grasses-- Live over the march, and the fight.

Let Grant come up from the White House, And clasp each brother's hand, First chieftain of the army, Last chieftain of the land. Let him rest from a nation's burdens, And go, in thought, with his men, Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh, And save the day again.

This silent hero of battles, Knew no such word as defeat. It was left for the rebels learning. Along with the word retreat. He was not given to talking, But he found that guns would preach In a way that was more convincing Than fine and flowery speech.

Three cheers for the grave commander Of the grand old Tennessee! Who won the first great battle-- Gained the first great victory. His motto was always "Conquer," "Success" was his countersign, And "though it took all summer," He kept fighting upon "that line."

Let Sherman, the stern old General, Respond to the reveille, Let him march with his boys through Georgia, From "Atlanta down to the sea." Oh, that grand old tramp to Savannah! Three hundred miles to the coast! It will live in the heart of the Nation, Forever its pride and boast.

As Sheridan went to the battle. When a score of miles away, * He has come to the feast and banquet. By the iron horse to-day. Its space is not much swifter Than the pace of that famous steed That bore him down to the contest And saved the day by his speed.

Then go over the ground to-day, boys, Tread each remembered spot. It will be a gleesome journey, On the swift-shod feet of thought; You can fight a bloodless battle, You can skirmish along the route, But it's not worthwhile to forage, There are rations enough without.

Don't start if you hear the cannon; It is not the sound of doom, It does not call to the contest-- To the battle's smoke and gloom. "Let us have Peace," was spoken. And lo! peace ruled again; And now the nation is shouting, Through the cannon's voice, "Amen."

Oh, boys, who besieged old Vicksburg, Can time e'er wash away The triumph of her surrender, Nine years ago to-day? Can you ever forget the moment, When you saw that flag of white, That told how the grim old city Had fallen in her might?

Ah, 'twas a bold, brave army, When the boys with a right good will, Went gayly marching and singing To the fight at Champion Hill. They met with a warm reception, But the soul of "Old John Brown" Was abroad on that field of battle, And our flag did NOT go down.

Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain, Of Corinth and Donelson, Of Kenesaw and Atlanta, And tell how the day was won! Hush! bow the head for a moment-- There are those who cannot come. No bugle call can arouse them-- No sound of fife, or drum.

McPherson fell in the battle, When its waves were surging high. Brave Ransom sank by the wayside; 'Twas a lonely death to die. They walk God's fair, green meadows, They dwell in a land of bliss, Yet I think their spirits are with us In such an hour as this.

Oh, boys who died for the country, Oh, dear and sainted dead! What can we say about you That has not once been said? Whether you fell in the contest, Struck down by shot and shell, Or pined 'neath the hand of sickness, Or starved in the prison cell--

We know that you died for Freedom, To save our land from shame, To rescue a periled Nation, And we give you deathless fame. 'Twas the cause of Truth and Justice That you fought and perished for, And we say it, oh, so gently, "Our boys who died in the war."

Saviours of our Republic, Heroes who wore the blue, We owe the peace that surrounds us-- And our Nation's strength, to you. We owe it to you that our banner, The fairest flag in the world Is to-day unstained, unsullied, On the summer air unfurled.

We look on its stripes and spangles, And our hearts are filled the while With love for the brave commanders, And the boys of the rank and file. The grandest deeds of valor, Were never written out, The noblest acts of virtue, The world knows nothing about.

And many a private soldier, Who walks his humble way, With no sounding name or title, Unknown to the world to-day, In the eyes of God is a hero; All such he will reward, No deed however secret, Is hidden from the Lord.

Brave men of a mighty army, We extend you friendships hand! I speak for the "Loyal Women," Those pillars of our land. We wish you a hearty welcome, We are proud that you gather here To talk of old times together On this brightest day in the year.

And if peace, whose snow-white pinions, Brood over our land to-day, Should ever again go from us, (God grant she may ever stay). Should our Nation call in her peril For "Six hundred thousand more," The loyal women would hear her, And send you out as before.

We would bring out the treasured knapsack. We would take the sword from the wall, And hushing our own heart's pleadings, Hear only the country's call. For next to our God, is our Nation: And we cherish the honored name, Of the bravest of all brave armies Who fought for that Nation's fame.

* This stanza was written after arriving at the hall, and finding Sheridan among the Generals present, which may serve as an explanation for the change of tense in that verse. Not knowing that General Sheridan was a member of the Society, no mention had been made of him when the poem was written.

THE PEOPLE'S FAVORITE

[A tribute to Ex-Governor Fairchild.]

God bless the hero of my song! Six years the chieftain of our State! We've held him, in our hearts, so long, And proved him good, and true, and great. That now, we could not let him go, Even if he would have it so.

I hear the praises of his name From east and west, and north and south, His foes are silenced from sheer shame: His deeds have silenced Slander's mouth, And all the little imps of spite He's crushed beneath the heel of Right.

He dropped an arm one bloody day, In beating down the walls of wrong, But no strength went with it away; His other grew full thrice as strong. Few men, with their two hands, have done As noble deeds as he with one.

His soul speaks through his eye of blue, And all men know him one to trust, Because his heart is kind and true, And all his actions prove him just. I speak for thousands when I cry, "The people's favorite for aye!"

May God be with him all his days-- With him and all he holds most dear; And if my little song of praise Should chance to fall upon his ear, May he accept the offering, And know that from my heart I sing.

1872

DREAM-TIME

Throughout these mellow autumn days, All sweet and dim, and soft with haze, I argue with my unwise heart, That fain would choose the idler's part.

My heart says, "Let us lie and dream Under the sunshine's softened beam. This is the dream-time of the year, When Heaven itself seems bending near.

"See how the calm still waters lie And dream beneath the arching sky. The sun draws on a veil of haze, And dreams away these golden days.

"Put by the pen--lay thought aside, And cease to battle with the tide, Let us, like Nature, rest and dream And float with th' current of the stream."

So pleads my heart. I answer "Nay, Work waits for you and me to-day. Behind these autumn hours of gold, The winter lingers, bleak and cold.

"And those who dream too long or much, Must waken, shivering, at his touch, With naught to show for vanished hours, But dust of dreams and withered flowers.

"So now, while days are soft and warm, We must make ready for the storm." Thus, through the golden, hazy weather, My heart and I converse together.

And yet, I dare not turn my eyes To pebbly shores or tender skies, Because I am so fain to do E'en as my heart pleads with me to.

October, 1872

LINES WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES BUELL

Something is missing from the balmy spring. There is no perfume in its gentle breath; And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing. And all the bees chant of the grave and death, Something is missing from the earth. One morn The angels called a new name on the roll; A spirit soldier to their ranks was borne, And all Christ's army welcomed the pure young soul.

He died. Two little words, but only God Can understand the awful depths of woe They hold for those who pass beneath the rod, Praying for strength, from Him who aimed the blow. He died. The soldier who fought long and well, Who walked with Death upon the battle-field, Among the bellowing guns--the shrieking shell-- In poison prison dens--and would not yield.

A six month three times told, he languished there, And yet he lived; oh, young heart, strong and brave! Thank God, who heard the oft repeated prayer; Thank God, he does not fill a Southern grave; That when he died, the loved ones gathered round, And eased the anguish of those last, sad hours. That gentle hands can keep the precious mound All green with mosses, and abloom with flowers.

He was so young and fair; and life was sweet. Christ give the mourners strength to drain the cup! He went to make the Heavenly ranks complete, God sent the angel Death, to bear him up. So young, and fair and brave; beloved by all; The lisping child--life's veteran, bent and gray-- And eyes grow dim, and bitter tear-drops fall Upon the mound where lies the soldier's clay.

Oh! it is sweet to feel that God knows best, Who called in youth this brother, friend and son, And sweet to lean upon the Saviour's breast, And looking upward, say, "Thy will be done." But something is missing from the balmy spring; There is no perfume in its gentle breath, And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing, And all the bees chant of the grave, and death.

UNDER THE WILLOW

Under the willow, you and I Walked in the gloaming, when love ran high; That wild first love, that was almost pain, That we never on earth can know again.

The winds were soft, and the night was calm; You held my hand in your throbbing palm. With the fire of passion your dark eyes glowed, And the tide of my pulses madly flowed.

You drew me closely against your side-- You asked me softly to be your bride. I trembled, and flushed, and could not speak, But you knew my answer, and kissed my cheek.

"When earth has perished, and time is dead. Our love will still live on," we said. "It shall have a steady and quenchless ray, Though youth and strength, and life decay."

The night-bird warbled a song just then; It sounded to us like a glad amen, As we built our castles, and made our vows, Under the willow's drooping boughs.

* * * * *

Under the willows, to and fro We walked in the gloaming, when love ran low. The tide had ebbed, the current dried, And our wild, mad passion had slowly died.

I know not wherefore, but widely apart We had steadily drifted, heart from heart. Something invisible came between-- I know not what--it was fate, I ween.

The scales had dropped from our youthful eyes, And we viewed each other in strange surprise; And she you deemed an angel before, You found was a woman--and nothing more.

And the idol I worshiped for gold, alway, I found was the poorest kind of clay. And so it perished, at one cold breath, The passion we said would live through death.

And under the willow again we strayed, And sundered the vows that once were made. We felt no sorrow--we knew no woe-- Since love had perished, 'twere better so.

We have dreamt our dream; we have reached the end. You said so calmly, "farewell, my friend." The night-bird uttered a wailing cry; It sounded to me like a last good-bye.

I am glad that we sundered our vows, that night. My pathway is pleasant, my heart is light. But I feel, my friend, as the days flow on, That something of youth from my life is gone.

And never, on earth, can we know again, That first, mad passion, so near to pain, When under the willow, you and I Walked in the gloaming, and love ran high.

DOUBTING

Sometimes we mortals, writhing in bitter anguish, Crushed by great griefs, that seem too hard to bear, And led to doubt God's goodness and his wisdom, And will not lift our burdened hearts in prayer. I think these moments are the very darkest, The blackest and the coldest that we know, And I think God, and Christ, and all the angels, Pity us most, in this phase of our woe.

I had a little child I fondly cherished; A winsome, playful, tender-hearted boy, Strong willed, yet gentle, gay, yet mild and loving. He was our household idol and our joy. We lavished on him stores of pure affection; We gave him the best love our hearts possessed, We dressed him in rich robes of finest texture, And gazing on him, felt this earth life-blest.

We taught him all things good, and true, and noble; We told him of the dear Lord crucified; We planned for him a bright and happy future; We guarded him from danger--yet he died. Not all the gold and riches we might lavish, Not all our gold could save him from the tomb. He died! and when the sweet eyes closed forever, They shut the sunshine in, and left but gloom.

To-day I saw a drunkard's child--a vagrant; Ill-clad, ill-fed, uncombed, unwashed, and wild; His home the street--his lessons vice and sorrow-- His garments rags--his youthful lips defiled With rum, tobacco, lies and loud blaspheming; What can his future be, but one of crime? And thinking of this, and of my boy who slumbered, My heart felt hard, just for a little time.

It seemed so strange, that he, a homeless vagrant, Unloved, unloving, treading the road to sin, That he was spared; and mine so fondly cherished-- Mine so beloved, whose life seemed so twined in And round our heart strings, that when he was taken, It left them torn and bleeding--he should die; Ah me, it seemeth strange; and yet God's wisdom I can not doubt, nor must I question why.

He, being all-wise, Father, King, Creator, It would be strange, if you, or I should know All that He knows, or understand His wisdom, All things He does, or why He does them so. Were all this plain, unto our mortal vision, There would be nothing new to learn above; So, though the cross be great, and the prize hidden, I need not doubt His wisdom or His love.

1871

AT SUNSET

I sit at my cottage window, In the light of the sun's last rays, And the hill-tops glow with splendor, And the west is all ablaze. My room is flooded with glory, My soul, with a wild delight, And my heart is filled with poems, That I can not speak, or write.

O, darker, and deeper, and grander, The glory flames on high. And I trace the walls of a city, In that beautiful western sky: A city all gold and crimson-- All purple and amber red; And the streets are paved with crystal, Where the feet of angels tread.

O, soulless pen and pencil. Thy efforts are weak and vain; The pen of the poet falters. And his heart is full of pain: And the artist drops his pencil, And weeps in mute despair, For he cannot paint the glory That lies in the sunset there.

But the city fadeth--fadeth; The glory turns to grey; The golden lights are dying, And the splendor melts away. And I know it was only the shadow Of the city built on high-- Only the poor, pale shadow, That I saw in the sunset sky.

And I long for that other city-- The city that God hath made, Where the glory never paleth. And the splendors never fade. O, there at the feet of Jesus, In anthems of praise, I know My soul shall utter the poems That fill it to overflow.

1869

A TWILIGHT THOUGHT

The sweet maid, Day, has pillowed her head On the breast of her dusky lover Night; The sun has made her a couch of red, And woven a cover of dim twilight; And the lover kisses the maiden's brow, As low on her couch she sleepeth now.

Here at my window, above the street, I sit, as the day lies in repose; And I list to the ceaseless tramp of feet. And I watch this human tide that flows, Upward and downward, to and fro. As the waves of an ocean, ebb and flow.

Over and over the busy town, Hither and thither, through all the day; One goes up, and another down-- Each in his own allotted way. Strangers and kinsmen pass and meet, And jar, and jostle upon the street.

People that never met before-- People that never will meet again: A careless glance of the eye--no more, And both are lost in the sea of men. Strangers, divided by miles in heart, Under my window meet and part.

But whether their feet pass up, or down, Over the river, east or west, Whether it's in or out of the town, To a haunt of sin, or a home of rest, We are journeying to a common goal-- There is one last point for every soul.

Strangers and kinsmen, friend and foe, Whether their aims are great or small, Whether their paths lie high, or low-- There is one last resting place for all. Then upward, and downward, go surging by-- Under my window--you all must die.

1870

TRUE WARRIORS

Not always those who walk on steadily, In the straight path, where martyr's feet have trod, Whose raiments seem of spotless purity, Not always are they most beloved of God. Although he sees, and knows their righteousness, And from his throne, with loving eyes, looks down, And hovers near, to comfort and to bless, And holds for each fair brow a starry crown--

Yet there are those, who sometimes wander out Into forbidden paths of sin, and grief, Who sometimes hover on the brink of doubt, Crying, "Oh, God, help thou mine unbelief!" Whose lives are one long battle with their sins, Who long for righteousness, yet cling to earth; And he who battles thus, and battling wins, God holds, and prizes, as of truer worth.

For greater is he, fighting this good fight, Falling repeatedly, and prone to wrong, Than he who walketh calmly in the light, And never falls, because he is so strong. Who never sins, because sin tempts him not. To him who fights temptation one by one, How sweet God's words when the last fight is fought, "Beloved servant, well, and nobly done."

1870

ONE OF THESE

Some have robes, of silk and velvet, Cast like manna, down; Others toil through wind and weather, For a homespun gown. Some are born to ride in coaches, Sitting at their ease; Others plod foot-sore and weary. (I am one of these.)

Some have sounding name and title, Here upon the earth; Others dwell apart from glory-- No one knows their worth. Some have wealth, and fame, and beauty, All the things that please; Some are poor, and plain and lonely. (I am one of these.)

Some complain, in midst of pleasures, Of a hard, sad lot, Doubting God, denying heaven, Loving, trusting not. Others, hedged about with sorrows, Do, on bended knees, Praise and bless the Lord forever. (I am one of these.)

A FANCY

Drop down the crimson curtains, And shut out the dazzling snow, The cold white mantle that covers The hills, where the grasses should grow; And stir up the fire till it burneth, With a heat like the midsummer sun, And hang up the cage by the window, And bring in the plants, one by one.

Till they perfume the air with a fragrance As rare as the summer can bring. And call to the bird, till he trilleth The sweetest of notes he can sing. And let me lie here, while you fan me, Till the lazy air stirs, like a breeze, That comes o'er the hills in the summer, And rustles the tops of the trees.

Then sing me a song of the summer, A song full of warmth and sunlight, And I will forget that the winter Stalks over the earth in his might. I will dream that I lie in the clover, And your voice is the voice of the breeze, And the bird in the cage is the robin, That sends down his song from the trees.

1871

TIRED

My heart and soul are all too tired to tell; So weary, Lord, Of this long, ceaseless work of doing well, Without reward.

Oh, I have been thy servant now for years, Nor made complaint, Though my life cup has been abrim with tears, But now I faint.

And I have worked for thee, with all my strength, In pain and woe. My Master, canst thou chide me, if at length I ask to go?

Oh, if the soul is purified by fire, Then I am blest. The laborer is worthy of his hire-- Lord, give me rest.

I know that I have sinned in many ways-- A sinner made. But I have tried to serve thee all my days-- I'm not afraid.

I know full well my record is not clear, Nor white as snow; But better meet it than to linger here. Lord, let me go.

NEVER

I said, last winter, When the grasses grow, And there are flowers abloom in every place, And soft south winds have melted all the snow, Then I shall meet my darling face to face; And I shall clasp, and hold her hand in mine, And I shall see her blue eyes glow and shine.

And now the grass is green on moor and lea; The snow has vanished, and the spring is here, The robins shout from every forest tree, The meadow larks are singing loud and clear, And there are flowers abloom in every place-- And yet I do not see my darling's face.

All soft and mild, the gentle south wind blew, The snow clouds vanished, and the sunshine fell Upon the meadow, and the daisies grew, And violets and pansies graced the dell. The bees are busy, while they softly hum, And yet--and yet--my darling does not come.

Alas! for never will she come again, She sleepeth, sleepeth, still and silent now; Her couch is hollowed from the grassy plain, And daisies bloom and blow above her brow; And I can never hold her hand in mine, And I can never see her blue eyes shine.

1869

TRUE LOVE

I think true love is something like a tree; The oak, that lifts its branches to the sky. The woodman's axe may strike it fatally, Or it may fall, when mighty winds sweep by. And where it grew, the flowers may bloom instead, And all may seem as though the tree were dead.

But underneath the grass, and flowers, there lies, Hid from the gaping world, a tiny root, A little living germ, that never dies; And ever and anon its branches shoot Up through the earth, and mock, and strive to be The mighty forest king--the parent tree.

So love may wither, at the hand of Fate, Or fall beneath the killing winds that blow; And other loves may spring up, soon or late, And flowers of forgetfulness may grow, Over the spot where love once grew instead, And we may think the old-time passion dead.

And still the little germ lies in the heart, So closely hidden that it is not known; And ever and anon its branches start-- Vain mimics of the passion that has flown. Though love, once slain, can live not, as of yore, I think its ghost will haunt us evermore.

1871

HIS SONG

A poet wandered the city street, With tattered garments, and aching feet; Want and hunger had dimmed his eye, And the children jeered him, as he passed by.

But one of the children sang, at play, A song his mother had sung that day. The poet listened, with cheeks aflame, For the song was his own, and this was fame!

But his heart was lightened. The song of the boy Had thrilled the strings, with a strange, sweet joy. "Though I may lie with the nameless dead, The songs I have written will live," he said.

1872

WHEN YOU GO AWAY

When you go away, my friend, When we say our last good-bye, Then the summer time will end, And the winter will be nigh. Though the green grass decks the heather, And the birds sing all the day, There will be no summer weather, After you have gone away.

When I look into your eyes, I shall thrill with sharpest pain; Thinking that beneath the skies, I may never look again. You will feel a moment's sorrow-- I shall feel a lasting grief; You forgetting on the morrow-- I, to mourn with no relief

When we say the last, sad words, And you are no longer near, All the winds, and all the birds, Can not keep the summer here. Life will lose its full completeness, Lose it, not for you, but me; All the beauty and the sweetness Earth can hold, I shall not see.

1870

BLEAK WEATHER

Dear love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew, The white snows are falling; And all through the wood, where I wandered with you, The loud winds are calling; And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune, Neath the elm--you remember, Over tree-top and mountain has followed the June, And left us--December.

Has left, like a friend that is true in the sun, And false in the shadows. He has found new delights, in the land where he's gone, Greener woodlands and meadows. What care we? let him go! let the snow shroud the lea, Let it drift on the heather! We can sing through it all; I have you--you have me, And we'll laugh at the weather.

The old year may die, and a new one be born That is bleaker and colder; But it cannot dismay us; we dare it--we scorn. For love makes us bolder. Ah Robin! sing loud on the far-distant lea, Thou friend in fair weather; But here is a song sung, that's fuller of glee, By two warm hearts together.

1870

THE TALE THE ROBIN TOLD

I walked to-day, in the grassy dell, Where the cunning ground-bird hides her nest, And just where the plum-tree's shadow fell, I sat me down for a while to rest. And a robin came, and sat in the tree, And told a long-lost tale to me.

Of a maiden, pure as the morning light, And fresh as a white rose, bathed in dew. Of a youth with eyes like a stormy night, And a heart that nothing of candor knew. And all through the valley, green and fair, The youth and the maiden wandered there.

He plucked the violets, blue and pale, The lily white, and the roses red, With every flower that decked the vale-- But the maid was fairest of all, he said. And the robin saw him kiss her cheek, And the maiden blushed, but did not speak.

And he held her hand, in a lover's way, And he saw the blush that his glance awoke, And with eye, and tone, he seemed to say The words that his false lips never spoke. And of her strength, and her life a part, Was the love that grew in the maiden's heart.

But the summer died, and the autumn came, And the maiden walked in the vale alone; And the hopeless love, like a scorching flame, Burned out her life, but she made no moan. And she drooped, and died, as the year grew old, And this was the tale that the robin told.

A MEMORY

Oh, do you remember that night, long ago, When I gave you the rose from my hair? And you whispered, "I'll wear it close over my heart, As I cherish the sweet giver there?"

'Twas a long time ago? you've forgotten, perhaps, That such a thing ever occurred. But to-night, as I sit in the firelight's glow, My heart's with the memory stirred.

And I seem to live over my girlhood again, When my life was as warm as the spring: Before it had read the sharp lesson of pain, And when you were my hero, arid king.

Oh! you were not worthy the love that I gave, Like the sun in midsummer, it burned; While a passionless fancy, an idle day-dream, Was the poor, shallow thing you returned.

Long ago--long ago! time has softened the pain, That threatened to shadow my life. I am older, and wiser I think, now, than then, And you have a beautiful wife--

As pure as the angels, as fair, too, they say, With her blue eyes and snowy-white lid. But I cannot help wondering, here to myself, If she loves you as well as I did.

Ah me! it can never harm you, or your bride, For me to dream over that night, When you whispered sweet words o'er the rose from my hair. And my foolish heart throbbed in delight.

1869

WAITING

The days flow on, and on, And never one comes back. Another year has vanished and gone, As the waves of the sea wash out the track On the shining sands o' th' shore. And patience waneth, and hope is spent, As I wait and watch for the one who went, And cometh to me no more.

The spring-time lived and died, And the summer followed fast; And I watched through both, with a heart that cried, For the one who vanished into the past, > Like a beautiful star from the sky; Who sailed in a good ship over the sea, And the ship came back: But "where is he, Oh, treacherous ship," I cry?

The autumn, gold and brown, Rose from the summer's grave, And the rain and my tears fell down and down, As day by day, I stood by the wave. And cried aloud in my pain. But what cares the sea for a tortured soul! It mocks at grief, and the breakers roll, Singing a loud refrain.

And never a word from thee, But a silence deep as death; Though the winter gleameth on moor and lea, And the cold, cold wind, with its cruel breath, Blows over the angry sea. Yet alway and ever, till life is done, Shall I watch, and wait, and weep for one Who cometh never, to me.

1869

DRIFTING APART

Farther apart, each day, our lives are drifting; Farther apart at every set of sun. The clouds between us show no signs of lifting, But droop, and gather shadows, one by one.

Drifting apart! the visions that I've cherished, Within my loving, foolish heart for years, At those two meaning words, have rudely perished, And in their place is naught but bitter tears.

I do not weep--I do not sigh, and languish, And murmur at the hard decree of fate. I walk my way, in silent, smiling anguish, Knowing remorse, and tears, are all too late.

But oh, my darling! I am only human, And though 'tis weakness, I do love you yet. Mine is the heart, of clinging, constant woman, Whose lot it is to love, and not forget.