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diff --git a/19109-8.txt b/19109-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cd314c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/19109-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5547 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Hattie Howard + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems + Vol. IV + +Author: Hattie Howard + +Release Date: August 23, 2006 [EBook #19109] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Joseph R. Hauser and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +[Illustration: In Celestial realms where knowledge hath no end. + HARRY HOWARD, + STUDENT. + "Blessed are the pure in heart."] + + + + +POEMS + +BY + +HATTIE HOWARD. + +AUTHOR OF "POVERTY VS. PAUPERISM," "OUR GIRLS," "VIVE LA +REPUBLIQUE," "KEEPING A SECRET," "LITTLE JO," +AND OTHER STORIES. + +VOL. IV. + + + Happy whoever writes a book + On which the world shall kindly look, + And who, when many a year has flown-- + The volume worn, the author gone-- + Revere, admire, and still read on. + + +HARTFORD PRESS: +THE CASE, LOCKWOOD & BRAINARD COMPANY. +1904. + + + + +EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES OF A FORMER VOLUME. + + "We find these poems of sentiment by Hattie Howard entirely + natural, spontaneous, direct, rhythmical, and free from ambitious + pretense. Many of the fanciful verses have a laugh at the end; and + the collection has altogether a sunny, hopeful spirit and will be + welcome in this time of generally morbid expression." + + "This author's verse shows a hearty, wholesome, _human_ spirit, + sometimes overflowing into downright fun, and a straightforward + directness always. It is a pleasant book, sure to be welcomed by + all." + + "These garnered gems reveal a genuine poetic faculty, and are + worthy their attractive setting. We give the book a hearty + welcome." + + "Many of the poems abound in playful humor or tender touches of + sympathy which appeal to a refined feeling, and love for the good, + the true, and the beautiful." + + "This poet's ear is so attuned to metric harmony that she must have + been born within sound of some osier-fringed brook leaping and + hurrying over its pebbly bed. There is a variety of subject and + treatment, sufficient for all tastes, and these are poems which + should be cherished." + + "Lovers of good poetry will herald with pleasure this new and + attractive volume by the well-known authoress of Hartford. A wooing + sentiment and genial spirit seem to guide her in every train of + thought. Her book has received, and deserves, warm commendations of + the press." + +Copyright, 1904, BY HATTIE HOWARD. + + + + +Contents. + +_FRONTISPIECE._ + PAGE. + + EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES, 2 + + "THE SALT OF THE EARTH," 7 + + NOT GONE, 9 + + LET US GIVE THANKS, 10 + + SONNET, 11 + + A RAINY DAY, 12 + + THE SUBWAY, 16 + + THE APPLE TREE, 18 + + TWO ROSES, 21 + + THE TAXIDERMIST, 23 + + EPITHALAMIUM, 25 + + A FOWL AFFAIR, 28 + + HOLIDAY HOME, 31 + + RUTHA, 34 + + THE STUDENT GONE, 36 + + THE TOURIST, 38 + + THE ANTIQUARIAN, 40 + + POOR HOUSEKEEPING, 45 + + GOING TO TOBOG, 47 + + "PASSER LE TEMPS," 49 + + THE TORPEDO, 50 + + MARGARET, 51 + + CHRISTMAS BELLS, 53 + + BY THE SEA, 54 + + A SONG, 55 + + IS IT APRIL? 56 + + CHRISTMAS-TIDE, 57 + + JANUARY, 1885, 59 + + SWEET PEAS, 61 + + THE SUMMER HOUSE, 62 + + TO DIE IN AUTUMN, 65 + + APPLE BLOSSOMS, 67 + + WITHOUT A MINISTER, 68 + + INDIAN SUMMER, 70 + + AUTUMN-TIME, 72 + + THE BEAUTY OF NATURE, 74 + + "ALL THE RAGE," 76 + + MY MOTHER'S HAND, 79 + + A LEAP YEAR EPISODE, 80 + + IF, 83 + + PERFECT CHARACTER, 84 + + THE MIRACLE OF SPRING, 85 + + BERMUDA, 86 + + THE CHARTER OAK, 88 + + BLOSSOM-TIME, 90 + + "ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE," 92 + + LIGHTNING-BUGS, 94 + + OF HER WHO DIED, 96 + + THANKSGIVING, 98 + + RECEIVING SIGHT, 100 + + REVENGE, 102 + + ON THE COMMON, 104 + + WOMAN'S HELP, 106 + + TOBOGGANING, 108 + + THE WOODS, 110 + + LIKE SUMMER, 112 + + SHERIDAN'S LAST RIDE, 114 + + A BIT OF GLADNESS, 116 + + THE CHARITY BALL, 118 + + THE BELL(E) OF BALTIMORE, 120 + + CHRISTMAS AT CHURCH, 122 + + MYSTERIOUS, 124 + + "BE NOT ANXIOUS," 126 + + MOUNT VERNON, 128 + + A PRISONER, 130 + + CUBA, 131 + + THE SANGAMON RIVER, 133 + + SYRINGAS, 135 + + STORM-BOUND, 137 + + THE MASTER OF THE GRANGE, 139 + + A FRIEND INDEED, 142 + + THE NEEDED ONE, 143 + + "THY WILL BE DONE," 145 + + SNOWFLAKES, 147 + + MONADNOCK, 149 + + NEVER HAD A CHANCE, 151 + + SORROW AND JOY, 153 + + WATCH HILL, 155 + + SUPPLICATING, 157 + + "HONEST JOHN," 159 + + BUSHNELL PARK, 161 + + AT GENERAL GRANT'S TOMB, 164 + + "BE COURTEOUS," 166 + + A NEW SUIT, 168 + + THE LITTLE CLOCK, 170 + + IMPROVEMENT, 173 + + ON BANCROFT HEIGHT, 175 + + A REFORMER, 178 + + + +Poems. + + + + +"The Salt of the Earth." + + + The salt of the earth--what a meaningful phrase + From the lips of the Saviour, and one that conveys + A sense of the need of a substance saline + This pestilent sphere to refresh and refine, + And a healthful and happy condition secure + By making it pure as the ocean is pure. + + In all the nomenclature known to the race, + In all appellations of people or place, + Was ever a name so befitting, so true + Of those who are seeking the wrong to undo, + With naught of the Pharisee's arrogant air + Their badge of discipleship humbly who wear? + + Do beings, forsooth, fashioned out of the mold, + So secretly, strangely, those elements hold + That may be developed in goodness and grace + To shine in demeanor, in form and in face + Till they, by renewal of heavenly birth, + Shall merit their title--the salt of the earth? + + To the landsman at home or the sailor at sea, + With nausea, scurvy, or canker maybe, + 'Tis never in language to overexalt + The potent preservative virtue of salt-- + A crystal commodity wholesome and good, + A cure for disease, and a savor for food. + + Ah, the beasts of the wood and the fowls of the air + Know all of the need of this condiment rare, + Know well where the springs and the "salt-licks" abound, + Where streams salinaceous flow out of the ground; + And their cravings appease by sipping the brine + With more than the relish of topers at wine. + + Our wants may be legion, our needs are but few, + And every known ill hath its remedy true; + 'Tis ours to discover and give to mankind + Of hidden essentials the best that we find; + 'Tis ours to eradicate error and sin, + And help to make better the place we are in. + + If ever this world from corruption is free, + And righteousness reign in the kingdom to be, + Like salt in its simple and soluble way + Infusing malodor, preventing decay. + So human endeavor in action sublime + Must never relax till the finale of time. + + To thousands discouraged this comforting truth + Appeals like the promise of infinite youth: + To know, as they labor like bees in the hive, + Yet do little more than keep goodness alive-- + To know that the Master accredits their worth + As blessed disciples--"the salt of the earth." + + + + +Not Gone. + + + They are not gone whose lives in beauty so unfolding + Have left their own sweet impress everywhere; + Like flowers, while we linger in beholding, + Diffusing fragrance on the summer air. + + They are not gone, for grace and goodness can not perish, + But must develop in immortal bloom; + The viewless soul, the real self we love and cherish, + Shall live and flourish still beyond the tomb. + + They are not gone though lost to observation, + And dispossessed of those dear forms of clay, + Though dust and ashes speak of desolation; + The spirit-presence--this is ours alway. + + + + +Let Us Give Thanks. + + + If we have lived another year + And, counting friends by regiments + Who share our love and confidence, + Find no more broken ranks, + For this let us give thanks. + + If, since the last Thanksgiving-time, + Have we been blessed with strength and health, + And added to our honest wealth, + Nor lost by broken banks, + For this would we give thanks. + + If through adversity we trod, + Yet with serene and smiling face, + And trusted more to saving grace + Than charlatans and cranks, + For this let us give thanks. + + If we have somehow worried through + The ups and downs along life's track, + And still undaunted can look back + And smile at Fortune's pranks, + For this would we give thanks. + + If every page in our account + With God and man is fairly writ, + We care not who examines it, + With no suspicious blanks, + For this let us give thanks. + + + + +Sonnet. + + + Upon my smile let none pass compliment + If it but gleam like an enchanting ray + Of sunshine caught from some sweet summer day, + In atmosphere of rose and jasmine scent + And breath of honeysuckles redolent, + When, with the birds that sing their lives away + In harmony, the treetops bend and sway, + And all the world with joy is eloquent. + + But in that day of gloom when skies severe + Portend the tempest gathering overhead, + If by my face some token shall appear + Inspiring hope, dispelling darksome dread, + Oh, be the rapture mine that it be said, + "Her smile is like the rainbow, full of cheer." + + + + +A Rainy Day. + + + Oh, what a blessed interval + A rainy day may be! + No lightning flash nor tempest roar, + But one incessant, steady pour + Of dripping melody; + When from their sheltering retreat + Go not with voluntary feet + The storm-beleaguered family, + Nor bird nor animal. + + When business takes a little lull, + And gives the merchantman + A chance to seek domestic scenes, + To interview the magazines, + Convoke his growing clan, + The boys and girls almost unknown, + And get acquainted with his own; + As well the household budget scan, + Or write a canticle. + + When farmer John ransacks the barn, + Hunts up the harness old-- + Nigh twenty years since it was new-- + Puts in an extra thong or two, + And hopes the thing will hold + Without that missing martingale + That bothered Dobbin, head and tail, + He, gentle equine, safe controlled + But by a twist of yarn. + + When busy fingers may provide + A savory repast + To whet the languid appetite, + And give to eating a delight + Unknown since seasons past; + Avaunt, ill-cookery! whose ranks + Develop dull dyspeptic cranks + Who, forced to diet or to fast, + Ergo, have dined and died. + + It is a day of rummaging, + The closets to explore; + To take down from the dusty shelves + The books--that never read themselves-- + And turning pages o'er + Discover therein safely laid + The bills forgot and never paid-- + Somehow that of the corner store + Such dunning memories bring. + + It gives a chance to liquidate + Epistolary debts; + To write in humble penitence + Acknowledging the negligence, + The sin that so besets, + And cheer the hearts that hold us dear, + Who've known and loved us many a year-- + Back to the days of pantalets + And swinging on the gate. + + It gives occasion to repair + Unlucky circumstance; + To intercept the ragged ends, + And for arrears to make amends + By mending hose and pants; + The romping young ones to re-dress + Without those signs of hole-y-ness + That so bespeak the mendicants + By every rip and tear. + + It is a time to gather round + The old piano grand, + Its dulcet harmonies unstirred + Since Lucy sang so like a bird, + And played with graceful hand; + Like Lucy's voice in pathos sweet + Repeating softly "Shall we meet?" + Is only in the heavenly land + Such clear soprano sound. + + It is a time for happy chat + _En cercle tête-à-tête_; + Discuss the doings of the day, + The club, the sermon, or the play, + Affairs of church and state; + Fond reminiscence to explore + The pleasant episodes of yore, + And so till raindrops all abate + As erst on Ararat. + + Ah, yes, a rainy day may be + A blessed interval! + A little halt for introspect, + A little moment to reflect + On life's discrepancy-- + Our puny stint so poorly done, + The larger duties scarce begun-- + And so may conscience culpable + Suggest a remedy. + + + + +The Subway. + + + Oh, who in creation would fail to descend + That wonderful hole in the ground?-- + That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend + In sinuous fashion, seems never to end; + While thunder and lightning abound. + + Oh, who in creation would dare to go down + That great subterranean hole-- + The tunnel, the terror, the talk of the town, + That gives to the city a mighty renown + And a shaking as never before? + + A serpent, a spider, its mouth at the top + Where the flies are all buzzing about; + Down into its maw where the populace drop, + Who never know where they are going to stop, + Or whether they'll ever get out. + + Why is it, with millions of acres untrod + Where never the ploughshare hath been, + That man must needs burrow miles under the sod, + As if to get farther and farther from God, + And deeper and deeper in sin? + + O Dagos and diggers, who can't understand + That the planet you'll never get through-- + Why, there is three times as much water as land, + And but for the least little seam in the sand + Your life is worth less than a _sou_. + + Come up out of Erebus into the day, + There's plenty of room overhead; + No boring or blasting of rocks in the way, + No stratum of sticky, impervious clay-- + All vacuous vapor instead. + + Oh, give us a transit, a tube or an "el--", + Not leagues from the surface below; + As if we were never in Heaven to dwell, + As if we were all being fired to--well, + The place where we don't want to go! + + + + +The Apple Tree. + + + Has ever a tree from the earth upsprung + Around whose body have children clung, + Whose bounteous branches the birds among + Have pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung-- + Was ever a tree, or shall there be, + So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see, + So welcome a boon to the family, + Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree? + + How he loves to be digging about its root, + Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot, + The daintiest palate that he may suit + With the fairest and finest selected fruit. + How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size; + His delicate Greenings--made for pies; + His Golden Pippins that take the prize, + The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies. + + How he learns of the squirrel a thing or two + That the wise little rodents always knew, + And never forget or fail to do, + Of laying up store for the winter through; + So he hollows a space in the mellow ground + Where leaves for lining and straw abound, + And well remembers his apple mound + When a day of scarcity comes around. + + By many a token may we suppose + That the knowledge apple no longer grows, + That broke up Adam and Eve's repose + And set the fashion of fig-leaf clothes; + The story's simple and terse and crude, + But still with a morsel of truth imbued: + For of trees and trees by the multitude + Are some that are evil, and some that are good. + + The more I muse on those stories old + The more philosophy they unfold + Of husbands docile and women bold, + And Satan's purposes manifold; + Ah, many a couple halve their fare + With that mistaken and misfit air + That the world and all are ready to swear + To a mighty unapple-y mated pair. + + The apple's an old-fashioned tree I know, + All gnarled and bored by the curculio, + And loves to stand in a zigzag row; + And doesn't make half so much of a show + As the lovely almond that blooms like a ball, + And spreads out wide like a pink parasol + Set on its stem by the garden-wall; + But I love the apple tree, after all. + + "A little more cider"--sings the bard; + And who this juiciness would discard, + Though holding the apple in high regard, + Must be like the cider itself--very hard; + For the spirit within it, as all must know, + Is utterly harmless--unless we go + Like the fool in his folly, and overflow + By drinking a couple of barrels or so. + + What of that apple beyond the seas, + Fruit of the famed Hesperides? + But dust and ashes compared to these + That grow on Columbia's apple trees; + And I sigh for the apples of years agone: + For Rambos streaked like the morning dawn, + For Russets brown with their jackets on, + And aromatic as cinnamon. + + Oh, the peach and cherry may have their place, + And the pear is fine in its stately grace; + The plum belongs to a puckery race + And maketh awry the mouth and face; + But I long to roam in the orchard free, + The dear old orchard that used to be, + And gather the beauties that dropped for me + From the bending boughs of the apple tree. + + + + +Two Roses. + + + I've a friend beyond the ocean + So regardful, so sincere, + And he sends me in a letter + Such a pretty souvenir. + + It is crushed to death and withered, + Out of shape and very flat, + But its pure, delicious odor + Is the richer for all that. + + 'Tis a rose from Honolulu, + And it bears the tropic brand, + Sandwiched in this friendly missive + From that far-off flower-land. + + It shall mingle _pot-à-pourri_ + With the scents I love and keep; + Some of them so very precious + That remembrance makes me weep. + + While I dream I hear the music + That of happiness foretells, + Like the flourishing of trumpets + And the sound of marriage bells. + + There's a rose upon the prairie, + Chosen his by happy fate, + He shall gather when he cometh + Sailing through the Golden Gate. + + Mine, a public posy, growing + Somewhere by the garden wall, + Might have gone to any stranger, + May have been admired by all. + + But the rose in beauty blushing, + Tenderly and sweetly grown + In the home and its affections, + Blooms for him, and him alone. + + Speed the voyager returning; + His shall be a welcome warm, + With the Rose of Minnesota + Gently resting on his arm. + + Love embraces in his kingdom + Earth and sea and sky and air. + Hail, Columbia! hail, Hawaii! + It is Heaven everywhere. + + + + +The Taxidermist. + + + From other men he stands apart, + Wrapped in sublimity of thought + Where futile fancies enter not; + With starlike purpose pressing on + Where Agassiz and Audubon + Labored, and sped that noble art + Yet in its pristine dawn. + + Something to conquer, to achieve, + Makes life well worth the struggle hard; + Its petty ills to disregard, + In high endeavor day by day + With this incentive--that he may + Somehow mankind the richer leave + When he has passed away. + + Forest and field he treads alone, + Finding companionship in birds, + In reptiles, rodents, yea, in herds + Of drowsy cattle fat and sleek; + For these to him a language speak + To common multitudes unknown + As tones of classic Greek. + + Unthinking creatures and untaught, + They to his nature answer back + Something his fellow mortals lack; + And oft educe from him the sigh + That they unnoticed soon must die, + Leaving of their existence naught + To be remembered by. + + Man may aspire though in the slough; + May dream of glory, strive for fame, + Thirst for the prestige of a name. + And shall these friends, that so invite + The study of the erudite, + Ever as he beholds them now + Perish like sparks of light? + + Nay, 'tis his purpose and design + To keep them: not like mummies old + Papyrus-mantled fold on fold, + But elephant, or dove, or swan, + Its native hue and raiment on, + In effigy of plumage fine, + Or skin its native tawn. + + What God hath wrought thus time shall tell, + And thus endowment rich and vast + Be rescued from the buried past; + And rare reliques that never fade + Be in the manikin portrayed + Till taxidermy witness well + The debt to science paid. + + Lo! one appeareth unforetold-- + This re-creator, yea, of men; + Making him feel as born again + Who looketh up with reverent eyes, + Through wonders that his soul surprise, + That great Creator to behold + All-powerful, all-wise. + + + + +Epithalamium. + + +I. + + "Whom God hath joined"--ah, this sententious phrase + A meaning deeper than the sea conveys, + And of a sweet and solemn service tells + With the rich resonance of wedding-bells; + It speaks of vows and obligations given + As if amid the harmony of heaven, + While seraph lips approving seem to say, + "Love, honor, and obey." + + +II. + + Is Hymen then ambassador divine, + His mission, matrimonial and benign, + The heart to counsel, ardor to incite, + Convert the nun, rebuke the eremite? + As if were this his mandate from the throne: + "It is not good for them to be alone; + Behold the land! its fruitage and its flowers, + Not mine and thine, but ours." + + +III. + + Did not great Paul aver, in lucid spell, + That they of conjugal intent "do well"? + But hinted at a better state,--'tis one + With which two loving souls have naught to do. + For, in well-doing being quite content, + Be there another state more excellent + To which the celibate doth fain repair, + They neither know nor care. + + +IV. + + And does the Lord of all become High Priest, + And with his presence grace the wedding-feast? + Then must the whole celestial throng draw nigh, + For nuptials there are none beyond the sky; + So is the union sanctified and blest, + For Love is host, and Love is welcome guest; + So may the joyous bridal season be + Like that of Galilee. + + +V. + + Sweet Mary, of the blessed name so dear + To all the loving Saviour who revere, + Madonna-like be thou in every grace + That shall adorn thee in exalted place, + And thine the happy privilege to prove + The depth, the tenderness of woman's love; + So shall the heart that honors thee today + Bow down to thee alway. + + +VI. + + O radiant June, in wealth of light and air, + With leaf and bud and blossom everywhere, + Let all bright tokens affluent combine, + And round the bridal pair in splendor shine; + Let sweethearts coy and lovers fond and true + On this glad day their tender vows renew, + And all in wedlock's bond rejoice as they + Whom God hath joined for aye. + + + + +A Fowl Affair. + + + I hope I'm not too orthodox + To give a joke away, + That took me like the chicken-pox + And left a debt to pay. + + Let argument ignore the cost, + If it be dear or cheap, + And only claim that naught be lost + When it's too good to keep. + + The proverb says "All flesh is grass," + But this I do deny, + Because of that which came to pass, + But not to pass me by. + + A body weighing by the pound + Inside of half a score, + In case and cordage safely bound, + Was landed at my door. + + What could it be? for friends are slack, + And give, I rather trow, + When they are sure of getting back + As much as they bestow. + + My hair, at thought of dark design, + Or dynamitish fate, + Stood up like quills of porcupine, + But more than twice as straight. + + Anon, I mused on something rare, + Like duck or terrapin, + But dreamed not, of the parcel, there + Might be a pullet-in. + + A mighty jerk,--the string that broke + The fowl affair revealed, + The victim of a cruel choke, + Its neck completely peeled. + + The biped in its paper cof- + Fin, cramped and plump and neat, + Had scratched its very toenails off + In making both ends meat. + + The only part I always ate, + That never made me ill, + Had gone away decapitate + And carried off the bill. + + I pondered o'er the sacrifice, + The merry-thought, the wings, + On giblet gravy, salad nice, + And chicken-pie-ous things. + + In heat of Fahrenheit degree + Two hundred twelve or more, + Where its grandsire, defying me, + Had crowed the year before, + + I thrust it with a hope forlorn,-- + I knew what toughness meant, + And sighed that ever I was born + To die of roasting scent. + + But presto! what _dénouement_ grand + Of cookery sublime! + 'Twas done as by the second hand, + The drumsticks beating thyme. + + And now the moral--he who buys + Will comprehend its worth,-- + Look not so much to weight and size + As to the date of birth. + + In fowls there is a difference; + "The good die young," they say, + And for the death of innocence + To make us meat, we pray. + + + + +Holiday Home. + + + Of all the sweet visions that come unto me + Of happy refreshment by land or by sea, + Like oases where in life's desert I roam, + Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home. + + I climb to the top of the highest of hills + And look to the west with affectionate thrills, + And fancy I stand by the emerald side + Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride. + + In distant perspective unruffled it lies, + Except for the packet that paddles and plies, + And puffing its way like a pioneer makes + Its daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes. + + Untroubled except for the urchins that come + From many a haunt that is never a home, + Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade, + Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made. + + All placid except for the dip of the oar + Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore, + While merry excursionists shout till the gale + Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail. + + How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shines + Like a salver of silver encompassed with vines, + In crystal illusion reflecting the skies + And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise. + + There stands a great house on a summit so high, + Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky; + And I think of the rest and the comfort up there + To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air. + + Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood + Can never be written, nor be understood, + Except by the weary and languid who come + To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home. + + From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear, + From attic and alley, from labor severe, + For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare + A world of diversion and excellent fare. + + To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze, + To lie in the shade of magnificent trees-- + Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowl + The life-giving essence for body and soul! + + Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind + The influence gentle, the ministry kind; + While gratitude fondly enhallows the thought + Of a home and a holiday never forgot. + + Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men + To lovely Geneva who comes not again; + Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod, + Humanity's helper, companion of God. + + In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed, + As unto a hospice by Providence led, + Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude + Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good? + + Who of their abundance have cheerfully given + Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven-- + To brighten conditions too hard and too sad + And make the unhappy contented and glad. + + Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown + Thus scatter such largesse o'er country and town, + Their monument building in many a dome + Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home. + + + + +Rutha. + + + The days are long and lonely, + The weary eve comes on, + And the nights are filled with dreaming + Of one beloved and gone. + + I reach out in the darkness + And clasp but empty air, + For Rutha dear has vanished-- + I wonder, wonder where. + + Yet must it be: her nature + So lovely, pure, and true; + So nearly like the angels, + Is she an angel too. + + The cottage is dismantled + Of all that made it bright; + Beyond its silent portal + No love, nor life, nor light. + + Where are the hopes I cherished, + The joys that once I knew, + The dreams, the aspirations? + All, all are perished too. + + Yes, love's dear chain is broken; + From shore to shore I roam-- + No comfort, no companion, + No happiness, no home. + + Oh could I but enfold her + Unto my heart once more, + If aught could e'er restore me + My darling as before; + + If God would only tell me-- + Such myriads above-- + Why He must needs have taken + The one I loved to love; + + If God would only tell me + Why multitudes are left, + Unhappy and unlovely, + And I am thus bereft; + + If--O my soul, be silent + And some day thou shalt see + Through mystery and shadow, + And know why it must be. + + To every cry of anguish + From every heart distressed, + Can be no other answer + Than this--God knoweth best. + + + + +The Student Gone. + + + So soon he fell, the world will never know + What possibilities within him lay, + What hopes irradiated his young life, + With high ambition and with ardor rife; + But ah! the speedy summons came, and so + He passed away. + + So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plans + By others misapplied, misunderstood; + And doors are barred that wait the master-key-- + That wait his magic Open Sesame!-- + To that assertive power that commands + The multitude. + + Too soon he fell! Was he not born to prove + What manhood and integrity might be-- + How one from all base elements apart + Might walk serene, in purity of heart, + His face the bright transparency of love + And sympathy? + + The student ranks are closed, there is no gap; + Of other brave aspirants is no dearth; + Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on, + And few shall miss or mourn the student gone, + Reposing in the all-protecting lap + Of Mother Earth. + + Too soon--O God! was it thy will that one + Of such endeavor and of noble mien, + Enrapt with living, should thus early go + From all he loved and all who loved him so, + Mid life's activities no longer known, + No longer seen? + + Oh, not for aye should agonizing lips + Quiver with questionings they dare not frame; + Though in the dark penumbra of despair + Seemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere-- + All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse, + No more the same. + + Could we but know, in that Elysian lore + Of happy exercise still going on + Could we but know of glorious heights attained, + Of his reward, of mysteries explained,-- + Ah! but to know were to lament no more + The student gone. + + + + +The Tourist. + + + Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land, + And prove the touring season actively begun; + His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand, + For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand-- + The fool-ish one! + + By caravan and car, from country and from town, + A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land; + Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down, + Impossible it is to curb or scare or drown + The tourist band. + + With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot, + To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout, + The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute, + And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute-- + To roam about. + + From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade, + From high society's luxurious stately homes, + From lounging places by the park or promenade, + From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade, + The tourist comes. + + To every mountain peak within the antipodes, + To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows; + To every island fair engirt by sunny seas, + To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees, + The tourist goes. + + For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed, + Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom, + And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest, + Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest + For ampler room. + + What is it prompts the roving mania--is it love + Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd? + Is it to be in fashion, and to others prove + One's social standing, that impels the madness of + The tramp abroad? + + The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer, + Importunate, but powerless response to bring; + Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere-- + They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their + Vacationing. + + So is the world's eccentric round of joy complete + When happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam, + His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeat + To impecunious, luckless multitudes who greet + The tourist home. + + + + +The Antiquarian. + + + Millions have been and passed from view + Benignity who never knew; + No aspiration theirs, nor aim; + Existence soulless as the clay + From whence they sprang, what right have they + To eulogy or fame? + + So multitudes have been forgot-- + But drones or dunces, good for naught; + Like clinging parasites or burrs + Taking from others all they dared, + Yet little they for others cared + Except as pilferers. + + Not so with that majestic man + The all-round antiquarian-- + No model his nor parallel; + From selfishness inviolate + Are his achievements good and great, + And thus shall ages tell. + + A love for the antiquities + His honest hold, his birthright is! + And things unheard of or unread, + Defaced by moth or rust or mold, + To him are treasures more than gold, + Ay, than his daily bread. + + At neither ghost nor ghoul aghast + He echoes voices of the past, + And tones like melancholy knells + Of years departed to his ear + Are sweeter than of kindred dear, + Sweeter than Florimel's. + + He delves through centuries of dust + To resurrect some unknown bust, + A torso, or a goddess whole; + Maybe like Venus, minus arms-- + Haply to find those missing charms; + But not the lost, lost soul. + + He dotes on aborigines + Who lived in caves and hollow trees, + And barters for their trinkets rare; + Exchanging with those dusky breeds + For arrow-heads and shells and beads + A scalplock of his hair. + + Had he been born--thus he laments-- + Along with other great events, + Coeval say with Noah's flood, + A proud relationship to trace + With Hittites--or with any race + Of blue archaic blood! + + Much he adores that Pilgrim flock, + The same that split old Plymouth rock, + Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing. + Devoid of metre, sense, and tune, + Who but a Puritanic loon + Could have devised the thing? + + He revels in a pedigree, + The sprouting of a noble tree + 'Way back in prehistoric times; + And for the "Family Record" true + Of scions all that ever grew + Would give a billion dimes. + + There is a language fossils speak: + 'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek, + But quite as dead and antiquate + Its silent syllables, and cold; + But ah, what meanings they unfold, + What histories relate! + + The earthquake is his best ally-- + It shows up things he cannot buy, + And gives him raw material + For making mastodons and such, + Enough to beat that ancient "Dutch + Republic's Rise and Fall." + + A piece of bone can never lie: + A rib, a femur, or a thigh + Is but a dislocated sign + Of something hybrid, half and half + Betwixt a crocodile and calf-- + Maybe a porcupine. + + The stately "Antiquarium" + Is his emporium, his home. + He wonders if when he is gone + Will people look with mournful pride + On him done up and classified, + And the right label on. + + He dreams of an emblazoned page, + The calendar of every age + Down from Creation's primal dawn; + With archetypes of spears and bones, + And tons of undeciphered stones + Its illustrations drawn. + + Labor a blessing, not a curse, + His hunting ground the Universe, + So much the more his nature craves + To sound the fathoms of the sea: + What mighty wonders there must be + Down in those hidden caves! + + So toils this dauntless man, alert + Amid the ruins and the dirt, + That other men to endless day + Themselves uplifted from the clod + May see, and learn and know that God + Is greater far than they. + + And thus, of mighty ken and plan, + The all-round antiquarian + Pursues his happy ministry; + And on the world's progressive track + Advances, always going back-- + Back to antiquity. + + + + +Poor Housekeeping. + + + If there is one gift that I prize above others, + That tinges with brightness whatever I do, + And gives to the sombre a roseate hue, + 'Tis a legacy mine from the nicest of mothers, + Who haply the beauty of housewifery knew, + And taught me her neatness and diligence too. + + So is my discomfort a house in disorder: + The service uncleanly, the linen distained, + The children like infantry rude and untrained; + The portieres dusty and frayed at the border, + By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained, + And miseries numberless never explained. + + I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy, + A wrapper all hole-y, a buttonless shoe, + A slatternly matron with nothing to do; + And all the ill-luck charged to ominous Friday + Can never compare with the ills that ensue + On wretched housekeeping and cookery too. + + There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner, + Gets up from the table with look of despair, + And something akin to the growl of a bear; + Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner-- + One driven to fasting but not unto prayer-- + Till epitaphed thus--"Indigestible Fare." + + There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal, + A scene of distraction or dullness severe, + With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer, + That comes like the spring-time refreshing and vernal, + Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career, + Returning, if ever, not many a year. + + O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper, + Though faultless in figure and charming of face, + In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of lace + Usurping the part of a common street-sweeper, + You never can pose as a type of your race + In frowsy appearance mid things out of place. + + O fashion-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter, + Until you have learned how to manage a broom, + If never you know how to tidy a room, + Manipulate bread or decide about butter, + The duties of matron how dare you assume, + Or ever be bride to a sensible groom? + + I covet no part with that army of shirkers + All down at the heels in their slipper-y tread, + Who hunt for the rolling-pin under the bed, + Who look with disdain on intelligent workers + And take to the club or the circus instead + Of mending a stocking or laying the spread. + + Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping, + Where mistress and helper together compete + In excellent management, quiet and neat; + And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping, + Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweet + And home an ideal, idyllic retreat. + + + + +Going to Tobog. + + + Into my disappointment-cup + The snowflakes fell and blocked the road, + And so I thought I'd finish up + The latest style of Christmas ode; + When she, the charming little lass + With eyes as bright as isinglass, + Before a line my pen had wrought + In strange attire came bounding in, + As if she had with Bruno fought, + And robbed him of his shaggy skin. + + She came to me robed _cap-à-pie_ + In her bewitching "blanket-suit," + In moccasin and toggery, + All ready for "that icy chute," + And asked me if I thought she'd do; + I shake with love of mischief true: + "For what?--a polar bear?--why, yes!" + "No, no!" she said, with half a pout. + "Why, one would think so, by your dress-- + Say, does your mother know you're out?" + + "No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed; + "Because the storm so wildly raged-- + But for the first delightful ride + For half a year I've been engaged." + "Engaged to what?--an Esquimau? + To ride a glacier, or a floe?" + "Why, don't you know"--her color glowed, + In expectation all agog-- + "The reason why I'm glad it snowed? + Because--I'm going to tobog." + + + + +"Passer Le Temps." + + + So _that's_ the way you pass your time! + Indeed your charming, frank confession + Betrays no sort of heinous crime, + But marks a wonderful digression + From puritanic views, less bold, + That we were early taught to hold. + + "_Passer le temps_," of course, implies + A little cycle of flirtations, + Wherein the actors never rise + To sober, serious relations, + But play just for amusement's sake + A harmless game of "give and take." + + While moments pass on pinions fleet, + And youth in beauty effloresces, + The joy that finds itself complete + In honeyed words and soft caresses, + Alas! an index seems to be + Of perilous inconstancy. + + It may be with disdainful smile + You greet this comment from a stranger, + Your pleasure-paths pursuing while + A siren voice discounts the danger, + Until, some day, in sadder rhyme + You rue your mode of "passing time." + + + + +The Torpedo. + + + Valiant sons of the sea, + All the vast deep, your home, + Holds no terror so dread + As this novel and unseen foe, + Lurking under the foam + Of some dangerous channel-- + As the torpedo, the scourge of ships. + + Through the rigging may roar + Æolus' thousand gales, + Yet the mariner's heart + Shrinketh not from the howling blast; + Though with battle-rent sails, + Flames and carnage around him, + Cowardice never shall pale his lips. + + But when powers concealed, + Threatening with death the crew, + Pave each eddy below, + E'en the bravest are chilled with fear, + Lest yon wizard in blue, + Who their progress is spying, + Touch but the key with his finger-tips. + + Lo! with thunderous boom + Towers a column bright, + And the vessel is gone! + In that ocean of blinding spray + Sink her turrets from sight, + By thy potency broken, + O irresistible scourge of ships! + + --_Harry Howard._ + + + +Margaret. + + + I saw her for a moment, + Her presence haunts me yet, + In oft-recurring visions + Of grace and gladness met + That marked the sweet demeanor + Of dainty Margaret. + + Like gossamer her robe was + Around her lightly drawn, + A filmy summer-garment + That fairy maidens don + To make them look like angels + Croqueting on the lawn. + + The mallet-sport became her + In hue of exercise + That tinged her cheek with roses; + And, dancing in her eyes, + Were pantomime suggestions + Of having won--a prize. + + No more to me a stranger + Is she who occupies + A place in all my musings; + And brings in tender guise + A thought of one so like her-- + Long years in Paradise. + + Dear Margaret! that "pearl-name" + Is thine--and may it be + The synonym of goodness, + Of truth and purity, + And all ennobling graces + Exemplified in thee. + + + + +Christmas Bells. + + + Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime! + Again we hail the Christmas time; + In melting, mellow atmosphere, + The crown and glory of the year. + + When bitterness, distrust, and awe + Dissolve, like ice in winter's thaw, + Beneath the genial touches of + Amenity, good will, and love. + + When flowers of affection grow, + Like edelweiss mid alpine snow, + In lives severe and beautiless, + Unused to warmth or tenderness. + + Let goodness, grace, and gratitude + Revive in music's interlude, + And pæan notes, till time shall cease, + Proclaim the blessed reign of peace. + + Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound + Sweet memories of Him abound + Who laid aside a diadem + To be the babe of Bethlehem. + + + + +By the Sea. + + + I am longing to dwell by the sea, + And dip in the surf every day, + And--height of subaqueous glee-- + With the sharks and the porpoises play. + + To novelty ever inclined-- + Instead of a calm evening sail, + 'Twould suit my adventurous mind + To ride on the back of a whale. + + I want to disport on the rocks + Like a mythical mermaiden belle, + And comb out my watery locks, + Then dive to my cavernous cell. + + I want to discover what lends + Such terror to all timid folks-- + That serpent whose mystery tends + To make one believe it a hoax. + + They say he's been captured at last; + The news is too good to be true-- + He's slippery, cunning, and fast, + And likes notoriety too. + + Once had I such longings to be + A sailor--those wishes are o'er, + But ever in dreams of the sea + My horoscope rests on the shore. + + Oh, give me a home by the sea-- + A cottage, a cabin, a tent! + Existence should ecstasy be + Till summer were joyfully spent. + + + + +A Song. + + + Oh, sing me a merry song! + My heart is sad tonight; + The day has been so drear and long, + The world has gone awry and wrong, + Discouragements around me throng, + And gloom surpassing night. + + Oh, sing again the song for me + My mother used to sing + When I, a child beside her knee, + Looked up for her sweet sympathy, + Nor ever thought how I might be + Her little hindering thing. + + Oh, sing, as eventide draws near, + The old-time lullabys + Grandmother sang--forever dear, + Though in her grave this many a year + She lies who "read her title clear + To mansions in the skies." + + Oh, sing till all perplexing care + Has vanished with the day! + And angels ever bright and fair + Come down the melody to share, + And on their pinions lightly bear + My happy soul away. + + + + +"Is It April?" + + + No, this is January, dear, + The almanac's untrue; + For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear, + In sleet and snow and atmosphere, + Will be the monarch of the year, + And terror, too. + + "Is it a blessing in disguise?" + Of course, things always are; + But Arctic blasts with ardent skies + Somehow do not quite harmonize, + That try to cheat by weather-lies + The calendar. + + Old Janus must be double-faced; + He promised long ago + The maple syrup not to taste, + Nor steal the roses from the waist + Of one, a damsel fair and chaste + As April snow. + + O winter of our discontent! + Your reign was for a day; + Behold! a scene of wonderment, + A thousand tongues are eloquent, + For spring, in bud and bloom and scent, + Is on the way. + + + + +Christmas-Tide. + + + Let working-clothes be laid aside, + And Industry in festal garb arrayed; + Let busy brain and hand from toil and trade + Relax at Christmas-tide. + + As moments pass by dial, so + Let gifts go round the happy circle where + In giving and receiving each may share, + And mutual kindness show. + + The meaning deep, like mystery, + That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe, + May thousands never fathom--yet who know + And hail the Christmas-tree. + + So strong a hold on human thought + Has this glad day that seasons all the year + With the rich flavoring of hearty cheer, + It ne'er shall be forgot. + + It is the milestone on life's road + Where we may lay our burdens down, and take + A look at souvenirs, for love's dear sake + So prettily bestowed. + + Upon its shining tablet we may write-- + If, like the good Samaritan, in deed-- + A record that the angel band shall read + With impulse of delight. + + And this is why on Christmas morn + The world should smile and wear its brightest glow: + Because some nineteen hundred years ago + A little child was born. + + + + +January, 1885. + + + These winter days are passing fair! + As if a breath of spring + Had permeated all the air, + And touched each living thing + With thankfulness for such a boon-- + Discounting with a scoff + The almanac's report that "June + Is yet a long way off!" + + We quarrel with the calendar-- + For May has been misplaced-- + And doubt the tale oracular + Of "Janus, double-faced;" + For this "ethereal mildness" looks + Toward shadowy delights + Of roseate bowers, of cosy nooks, + Of coming thermal nights. + + Let robes diaphanous succeed + Dense garments made of fur, + And overcoats maintain the lead-- + Among the things that were! + The wisely-rented sealskin sacque, + By many a dame possessed, + Be quickly relegated back + To its moth-haunted chest! + + While every portly alderman, + In linen suit arrayed, + Manipulates the palm-leaf fan + And seeks the cooling shade; + And he perspires who not in vain + Suggests his funny squibs, + By poking his unwelcome cane + In other people's ribs. + + Who dares to fling opprobrium + On January now? + As to a potentate we come + With reverential bow, + Because it doth not yet appear + That Time hath ever seen + The ruler of th' inverted year + In more benignant mien. + + O Boreas! do not lie low-- + That is, if "lie" thou must-- + Upon our planet; do not blow + With fierce and sudden gust, + But come so gently, tenderly-- + As come thou surely wilt-- + That we may have sweet dreams of thee, + Beneath "our crazy quilt!" + + + + +Sweet Peas. + + + By helpful fingers taught to twine + Around its trellis, grew + A delicate and dainty vine; + The bursting bud, its blossom sign, + Inlaid with honeyed-dew. + + Developing by every art + To floriculture known, + From tares exempt, and kept apart, + Careful, as if in some fond heart + Its legume germs were sown. + + So thriving, not for me alone + Its beauty and perfume-- + Ah, no, to rich perfection grown + By flower mission loved and known + In many a darkened room. + + And once in strange and solemn place, + Mid weeping uncontrolled, + Upon the crushed and snowy lace + I saw them scattered 'round a face + All pallid, still, and cold. + + Oh, some may choose, as gaudy shows, + Those saucy sprigs of pride + The peony, the red, red rose; + But give to me the flower that grows + Petite and pansy-eyed. + + Thus, meditation on Sweet Peas + Impels the ardent thought, + Would maidens all were more like these, + With modesty--that true heartsease-- + Tying the lover's knot. + + + + +The Summer House. + + + Midway upon the lawn it stands, + So picturesque and pretty; + Upreared by patient artist hands, + Admired of all the city; + The very arbor of my dream, + A covert cool and airy, + So leaf-embowered as to seem + The dwelling of a fairy. + + It is the place to lie supine + Within a hammock swinging, + To watch the sunset, red as wine, + To hear the crickets singing; + And while the insect world around + Is buzzing--by the million-- + No wingèd thing above the ground + Intrudes in this pavilion. + + It is the place, at day's decline, + To tell the old, old story + Behind the dark Madeira vine, + Behind the morning glory; + To confiscate the rustic seat + And barter stolen kisses, + For honey must be twice as sweet + In such a spot as this is. + + It is the haunt where one may get + Relief from petty trouble, + May read the latest day's gazette + About the "Klondike" bubble: + How shanties rise like golden courts. + Where sheep wear glittering fleeces, + How gold is picked up--by the quartz-- + And all get rich as Croesus. + + Here hid away from dust and heat, + Secure from rude intrusion, + While willing lips the thought repeat, + So grows the fond illusion: + That happiness the product is + Of lazy, languid dozing, + Of soft midsummer reveries, + Half-waking, half-reposing. + + And here in restful interlude, + Life's fallacies forgetting, + Its frailties--such a multitude-- + The fuming and the fretting, + Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew, + The happy soul at even + May walk abroad, and interview + Bright messengers from Heaven. + + + + +To Die in Autumn. + + + The melody of autumn + Is the only tune I know, + And I sing it over and over + Because it thrills me so; + It stirs anew the happy wish, + So near to perfect bliss, + To live a little longer in + A world like this. + + The sound was never sweeter, + The voice so nearly mute, + As beauty, dying, loses + Her hold upon the lute; + And like the harmonies that touch + And blend with those above, + Forever must an echo wake + The heart of love. + + Her robe of brown and coral + And amber glistens through + Rare jewels of the morning, + The opals of the dew, + Like royal fabrics worn beneath + The tinselry of pearls, + Or diamond dust by fashion strewn + On sunny curls. + + If I could wrap such garments + In true artistic style + About myself departing, + And wear as sweet a smile + And be as guileless as the flowers + My friends would never sigh; + 'Twould reconcile them to my death + To see me die. + + And why should there be sorrow + When dying is no more + Than 'twixt two bright apartments + The opening of a door + Through which the freed, enraptured soul + From this, a paradise, + May pass to that supremely fair + Beyond the skies? + + Oh, 'twere not hard to finish + When earth with tender grace + Prepares for her dear children + So sweet a resting place; + And though in dissolution's throe + The melody be riven, + The song abruptly ended here + Goes on in Heaven. + + + + +Apple Blossoms. + + + Of all the lovely blossoms + That decorate the trees, + And shower down their petals + With every breath of breeze, + There is nothing so sweet or fair to me + As the delicate blooms of the apple tree. + + A thousand shrubs and flow'rets + Delicious pleasure bring, + But beautiful Pomona + Must be the queen of spring; + And out of her flagon the peach and pear + Their chalices fill with essence rare. + + Oh, is it any wonder, + Devoid of blight or flaw, + The peerless blooms of Eden + Our primal mother saw + In redolent beauty before her placed + So tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste? + + But woman's love of apples, + Involving fearful price, + And Adam's love for woman + That cost him Paradise, + By the labor of hands and sweat of brow, + Have softened the curse to a blessing now. + + If so those pink-eyed glories, + In fields and orchards gay + Develop luscious fruitage + By Horticulture's way, + Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes, + Shall luxury follow the apple blooms. + + + + +Without a Minister. + + + The congregation was devout, + The minister inspired, + Their attitude to those without + By every one admired, + And all things so harmonious seemed, + Of no calamity we dreamed. + + But, just in this quiescent state + A little cloud arose + Portentous of our certain fate-- + As everybody knows; + Our pastor took it in his head + His "resignation" must be read. + + In every eye a tear-drop stood, + For we accepted it + Reluctantly, but nothing could + Make him recant one bit; + And soon he left for distant parts, + While we were left--with broken hearts. + + And next the "patriarch" who led + For nearly three-score years + Our "Sabbath school"--its worthy head-- + Rekindled all our fears + By saying, with a smile benign, + "Since it's the fashion, I'll resign!" + + And so he did; but promptly came + Forth one, of good report-- + "Our Superintendent" is his name-- + Who tries to "hold the fort" + With wisdom, tact, and rare good sense, + In this, his first experience. + + The world looks on and says, "How strange! + They hang together so, + These Baptists do, and never change, + But right straight onward go + While other flocks are scattering all, + And some have strayed beyond recall!" + + + + +Indian Summer. + + + Is it not our bounden duty + Harsh and bitter thoughts to quell, + Wild, ambitions schemes repel, + And to revel in the beauty + Of this Indian summer spell, + Bathing forest, field, and dell + As with radiance immortelle? + + None can paint like nature dying; + Whose dissolving struggle lent + Wealth of hues so richly blent + That, through weary years of trying, + Artist skill pre-eminent + May not copy or invent + Such divine embellishment. + + Knights of old from castles riding + Scattered largesse as they went + Which, like manna heaven-sent, + Cheered the poverty-abiding; + But, when 'neath "that low green tent" + Passed the hand benevolent, + Sad were they and indigent. + + Monarchs, too, have thus delighted + Giving unto courtiers free, + Costly robes and tinselry; + And, as royal guests, invited + Them to sumptuous halls of glee, + Banqueting and minstrelsy, + Bacchus holding sovereignty. + + Then, perchance, in mood capricious + Stripped and scorned and turned away + Those who tasted for a day + Pleasure sweet and food delicious; + Nor might any say them nay-- + Lest his head the forfeit pay + Who a king dared disobey. + + But our own benignant Giver, + Almoner impartial, true, + Constantly doth gifts renew; + Nor would fitfully deliver + Aught unto the chosen few, + But to all the wide world through, + Who admire his wonders, too. + + Never shall the heart be poorer, + Never languish in despair, + That such affluence may share; + For than this is nothing surer-- + He hath said, and will prepare + In those realms of upper air + Glories infinitely fair. + + + + +Autumn-Time. + + + Like music heard in mellow chime, + The charm of her transforming time + Upon my senses steals + As softly as from sunny walls, + In day's decline, their shadow falls + Across the sleeping fields. + + A fair, illumined book + Is nature's page whereon I look + While "autumn turns the leaves;" + And many a thought of her designs + Between those rare, resplendent lines + My fancy interweaves. + + I dream of aborigines, + Who must have copied from the trees + The fashions of the day: + Those gorgeous topknots for the head, + Of yellow tufts and feathers red, + With beads and sinews gay. + + I wonder if the saints behold + Such pageantry of colors bold + Beyond the radiant sky; + And if the tints of Paradise + Are heightened by the strange device + Of making all things die. + + Yea, even so; for Nature glows + Because of her expiring throes, + As if around her tomb + Unmeet it were,--the look severe + That designates a common bier + Enwreathed in deepest gloom. + + And so I meditate if aught + Can be so fair where death is not; + If Heaven's loveliness + Is born of struggle and decay; + And, but for funeral array, + Would it be beautiless? + + Oh solemn, sad, sweet mystery + That Earth's unrivaled brilliancy + Is but her splendid pall! + That Heaven were not what it is + But for that crown of tragedies, + The sacrifice for all. + + So not a charm would Zion lose + Were it bereft of sparkling hues + In gilded lanes and leas; + It would be bright though not a flower + Unclosed in its celestial bower, + And void of jeweled trees. + + Yet, lily-like, one bloom I see, + Its name is his who died for me; + Whose matchless beauty shows + Perfection on its bleeding stem, + The blossom-bud of Bethlehem, + The Resurrection Rose. + + + +The Beauty of Nature. + + + Oh bud and leaf and blossom, + How beautiful they are! + Than last year's vernal season + 'Tis lovelier by far; + This earth was never so enchanting + Nor half so bright before-- + But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime, + For forty years or more. + + What luxury of color + On shrub and plant and vine, + From pansies' richest purple + To pink of eglantine; + From buttercups to "johnny-jump-ups," + With deep cerulean eyes, + Responding to their modest surname + In violet surprise. + + Sometimes I think the sunlight + That gilds the emerald hills, + And makes Aladdin dwellings + Of dingy domiciles, + Is surplus beauty overflowing + That Heaven cannot hold-- + The topaz glitter, or the jacinth, + The glare of streets of gold. + + In "Cedar Hill," the city + Of "low green tents" of sod, + I read the solemn record + Of those gone home to God; + While from their hallowed dust arising + The fragrant lilies grow + As if their life was all the sweeter + For those who sleep below. + + And so 'tis not in sadness + I dwell upon the thought, + When I am dead and buried + That I shall be forgot. + Because the germ of reproduction + Doth this poor body hold, + Perchance to add to nature's beauty + A rose above the mold. + + + + +"All the Rage." + + + A common wayside flower it grew, + Unhandsome and unnoticed too, + Except in deprecation + That such an herb unreared by toil, + Prolific cumberer of the soil, + Defied extermination. + + Its gorgeous blooms were never stirred + By honey-bee nor humming-bird + In their corollas dipping; + But they from clover white and red + Delicious nectar drew instead + In dainty rounds of sipping. + + No place its own euphonious name + Within the catalogue might claim + Of any flora-lover; + For, in the scores of passers-by, + As yet no true artistic eye + Its beauty could discover. + + The reaper with his sickle keen + Aimed at its crest of gold and green + With spiteful stroke relentless, + And would have rooted from the ground + The "Solidago"--blossom-crowned, + But gaudy, rank, and scentless. + + But everything must have its day-- + And since some fickle _devotée_ + Or myrmidon of Fashion + Declares that this obnoxious weed, + From wild, uncultivated seed, + Shall be the "ruling passion," + + Effusive schoolgirls dote on it; + Whose "frontispieces" infinite + That need no decoration + Are hid beneath its golden dust, + Till many a fine, symmetric bust + Is lost to admiration. + + Smart dudes and ladies' men--the few + Who wish they could be ladies too-- + Display a sprig of yellow + Conspicuous in their buttonhole, + To captivate a maiden soul + Or vex some other fellow. + + And spinsters of uncertain age + Are clamoring now for "all the rage" + To give a dash of color + To their complexions, which appear + To be the hue they hold so dear-- + Except a trifle duller. + + That _négligée_ "blue-stocking" friend, + Who never cared her time to spend + On mysteries of the toilet, + Now wears a sumptuous bouquet + And shakes your hand a mile away + For fear that you will spoil it. + + Delightful widows, dressed in black, + Complain with modest sighs they lack + That coveted expression, + That sort of Indian Summer air + Which "relicts" always ought to wear + By general concession; + + And so lugubrious folds of crape + Are crimped and twisted into shape + With graceful heads of yellow, + That give a winsome toning down + To sombre hat and sable gown-- + In autumn tintings mellow. + + Alas, we only hate the weed! + And think that it must be, indeed, + The ladies' last endeavor + To match the gentlemen, who flaunt + That odious dried tobacco plant + At which they puff forever. + + + + +My Mother's Hand. + + + My head is aching, and I wish + That I could feel tonight + One well-remembered, tender touch + That used to comfort me so much, + And put distress to flight. + + There's not a soothing anodyne + Or sedative I know, + Such potency can ever hold + As that which lovingly controlled + My spirit long ago. + + How oft my burning cheek as if + By Zephyrus was fanned, + And nothing interdicted pain + Or seemed to make me well again + So quick as mother's hand. + + 'Tis years and years since it was laid, + In her own gentle way, + On tangled curls of brown and jet + Above the downy coverlet + 'Neath which the children lay. + + As bright as blessed sunlight ray + The past comes back to me; + Her fingers turn the sacred page + For a little group of tender age + Who gather at her knee. + + And when those hands together clasped + Devout and still were we; + To whom it seemed God then and there + Must surely answer such a prayer, + For none could pray as she. + + O buried love with her that passed + Into the Silent Land! + O haunting vision of the night! + I see, encoffined, still, and white, + A mother's face and hand. + + + + +A Leap Year Episode. + + + Such oranges! so fresh and sweet, + So large and lovely--and so cheap! + They lay in one delicious heap, + And added to the sumptuous feast + For each and all in taste expert + The acme of all fine dessert; + So, singling out the very least + As in itself an ample treat, + While sparkling repartee and jest + Exhilarated host and guest, + Of rarity so delicate + In dreamy reverie I ate, + By magic pinions as it were + Transported from this realm of snows + To be a happy sojourner + Away down where the orange grows; + Amid the bloom, the verdure, and + The beauty of that tropic land, + While redolence seemed wafted in + From orchard-groves of Mandarin. + + In dinner costume _a la mode_, + Expressing from the spongy skin + The nectar that ran down her chin + In little rills of lusciousness, + Sat Maud, the beautiful coquette; + Her dainty mouth, like "two lips" wet + With morning dew, her crimson dress, + A sad discoloration showed + Where orange-juice--it was a sin!-- + A polka-dot had painted in; + Which moved the roguish girl to say + Half-ruefully (half-_décolleté_)-- + "I'm glad it's Leap Year now, for I--" + Her voice was like a moistened lute + "Shall wear the flowers, by and by-- + I do not like this leaky fruit!" + And looking straight and saucily + At cousin Ned, her _vis-a-vis_; + While Will, who never dared propose, + Was blushing like a red, red rose. + + The company was large, and she + Touched elbows with the exquisite, + Gay Archibald, who took her wit + And pertness all as meant for him; + Who, thereby lifted some degrees + Above less-favored devotees, + With rainbow sails began to trim + His craft of sweet felicity; + So mirth in reckless afterlude + Convulsed the merry multitude, + Who laughed at Archie's self-esteem, + And pitied Will's long-cherished dream; + While all declared, for her and Ned-- + His face was like a silver tray-- + The wedding-banquet should be spread + Before a twelvemonth passed away. + But, ah, the sequel--blind were we + To woman and her strategy! + For he so long afraid to speak + Bore off the bride within a week. + + + + +If. + + + If all the sermons good men preach + And all the precepts that they teach + Were gathered into one + Unbroken line of silver speech, + The shining filament might reach + From earth unto the sun. + + If all the stories ever told + By wild romancers, young or old, + Into a thread were drawn, + And from its cable coil unrolled, + 'Twould span those misty hills of gold + That heaven seems resting on. + + If every folly, every freak, + From day to day, from week to week, + Is written in "The Book," + With all the idle words we speak, + Would it not crimson many a cheek + Upon the page to look? + + If all the good deeds that we do + From honest motives pure and true + Shall there recorded be, + Known unto God and angels too, + Is it not sad they are so few + And wrought so charily? + + + + +Perfect Character. + + + He lives but half who never stood + By the grave of one held dear, + And out of the deep, dark loneliness + Of a heart bereaved and comfortless, + From sorrow's crystal plentitude, + Feeling his loss severe, + Dropped a regretful tear. + + Oh, life's divinest draught doth not + In the wells of joy abound! + For the purest streams are those that flow + Out of the depths of crushing woe, + As from the springs of love and thought + Hid in some narrow mound, + Making it holy ground. + + He hath been blessed who sometimes knelt + Owning that God is just, + And in the stillness of cypress shade + Rosemary's tender symbol laid + Upon a cherished shrine, and felt + Strengthened in faith and trust + Over the precious dust. + + So perfect character is wrought, + Rounded and beautified, + By the alchemy of that strange alloy, + The intermingling of grief and joy; + So nearer Heaven the spirit, brought + Bleeding, so sorely tried, + Finds its diviner side. + + + + +The Miracle of Spring. + + + What touch is like the Spring's? + By dainty fingerings + Such rare delight to give, + 'Tis luxury to live + Amid florescent things. + + Through weary months of snow + When Boreas swept low, + How many an anxious hour + We watched one little flower, + And tried to make it grow; + + And thrilled with ecstasy + When, half distrustfully, + A timid bud appeared, + A tender scion reared + In window greenery. + + But lo! Spring's wealth of bloom + And richness of perfume + Comes as by miracle; + Then why not possible + Within a curtained room? + + Ah, no! that everywhere + The earth is passing fair, + And strange new life hath caught, + Is but the marvel wrought + By sunlight, rain, and air. + + + + +Bermuda. + + + O charming blossom of the sea + Atlantic waters bosomed in! + Abiding-place of gayety, + Elysian bower of "Cora Linn," + The sprightly, lively _débiteuse_ + Recounting all she sees and does. + + Oh, how it makes the northern heart, + With sluggish current half-congealed, + In ecstasy and vigor start + To read about this tropic field; + The garden of luxuriousness, + In winter wearing summer's dress. + + With gelid sap and frozen gum + In maple trees and hackmatack, + While waiting for the spring to come + Of life's necessities we lack; + And sip the nectar that we find + In luscious fruit with golden rind. + + But down the street we dread to walk, + For all the teachings of our youth + Receive an agonizing shock; + _Do_ tempting labels lie, forsooth? + For "out of Florida," she says, + "Come our Bermuda oranges." + + To speed the penitential prayer + Our rosary we finger o'er, + A yellow necklace rich and rare-- + 'Twas purchased at the dollar store; + But oh, it makes us sigh to see + That land of amber _bijouterie_! + + Oh, ocean wave and flying sail + Shall never waft us to its shore! + But if some reckless cyclone gale + Should drop Bermuda at our door, + 'Twould warm our February sky + And bring the time of roses nigh! + + + + +The Charter Oak. + + + I seem to see the old tree stand, + Its sturdy, giant form + A spectacle remembered, and + A pilgrim-shrine for all the land + Before it met the storm. + + Unnumbered gales the tree defied; + It towered like a king + Above his courtiers, reaching wide, + And sheltering scions at its side + As with protecting wing. + + Revered as one among the trees + To mark the seasons born, + To watchful aborigines + It told by leafy indices + The time of planting corn. + + The landmark of the past is gone, + Its site is overgrown; + A mansion overlooks the lawn + Where history is traced upon + A parapet of stone. + + Shall e'er Connecticut forget + What unto it we owe-- + How Wadsworth coped with Andros' threat, + And tyranny, in council met, + Outwitted years ago? + + Aye, but it rouses loyal spunk + To think of that old tree! + Its stately stem, its spacious trunk + By Nature robbed of pith and punk + To guard our liberty. + + But of the oak long-perished, why + Is earth forever full? + For, like the loaf and fish supply, + Its stock of fiber, tough and dry, + Seems inexhaustible. + + Rare souvenirs the stranger sees-- + Who never sees a joke-- + And innocently dreams that these, + From knotty, gnarly, scraggy trees, + Were once the Charter Oak! + + + + +Blossom-time. + + + Yes, it is drawing nigh-- + The time of blossoming; + The waiting heart beats stronger + With every breath of Spring, + The days are growing longer; + While happy hours go by + As if on zephyr wing. + + A wealth of mellow light + Reflected from the skies + The hill and vale is flooding; + Still in their leafless guise + The Jacqueminots are budding, + Creating new delight + By promise of surprise. + + The air is redolent + As ocean breezes are + From spicy islands blowing, + Or groves of Malabar + Where sandal-wood is growing; + Or sweet, diffusive scent, + From fragrant attar-jar. + + Just so is loveliness + Renewed from year to year; + And thus emotions tender, + Born of the atmosphere, + Of bloom, and vernal splendor + That words cannot express, + Make Spring forever dear. + + Can mortal man behold + So beautiful a scene, + Without the innate feeling + That thus, like dying sheen + The sunset hues revealing, + Glints pure, celestial gold + On fields of living green? + + + + +"One of the Least of These." + + + 'Twas on a day of cold and sleet, + A little nomad of the street + With tattered garments, shoeless feet, + And face with hunger wan, + Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful, + Hedged in by features pinched and dull, + Betraying lines so pitiful + By sorrow sharply drawn; + + Ere yet the service half was o'er, + Approached the great cathedral door + As choir and organ joined to pour + Their sweetness on the air; + Then, sudden, bold, impelled to glide + With fleetness to the altar's side, + Her trembling form she sought to hide + Amid the shadows there, + + Half fearful lest some worshiper, + Enveloped close in robes of fur, + Had cast a scornful glance at her + As she had stolen by, + But soon the swelling anthem, fraught + With reverence, her spirit caught + As rapt she listened, heeding not + The darkness drawing nigh. + + 'Mid novelty and sweet surprise + Her soul, enraptured, seemed to rise + And tread the realms of Paradise; + Her shivering limbs grew warm, + And as the shadows longer crept + Across the chancel, angels kept + Their vigils o'er her as she slept + Secure from cold and storm. + + No sound her peaceful slumber broke, + But one, whose gentle face bespoke + True goodness, took her costly cloak + In tender, thoughtful way, + And as the sleeper sweetly smiled, + Perchance by dreams of Heaven beguiled, + O'erspread the passive, slumbering child, + And softly stepped away. + + So rest thee, child! since Sorrow's dart + Has touched like thine the Saviour's heart, + Thou hast a nearer, dearer part + In his great love for thee; + And when life's shadows all are gone, + May Heaven reveal a brighter dawn + To thee who, unaware, hast drawn + Our hearts in sympathy. + + + + +Lightning-bugs. + + + Around my vine-wreathed portico, + At evening, there's a perfect glow + Of little lights a-flashing-- + As if the stellar bodies had + From super-heat grown hyper-mad, + And spend their ire in clashing. + + As frisky each as shooting star, + These tiny electricians are + The Lampyrine Linnæan-- + Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleam + Like scintillations in a dream + Of something empyrean. + + They brush my face, light up my hair, + My garments touch, dart everywhere; + And if I try to catch them + They're quicker than the wicked flea-- + And then I wonder how 'twould be + To have a _dress_ to match them. + + To be a "princess in disguise," + And wear a robe of fireflies + All strung and wove together, + And be the cynosure of all + At Madame Haut-ton's carnival, + In fashion's gayest feather. + + So, sudden, falls upon the grass + The overpow'ring light of gas, + And through the lattice streaming; + As wearily I close my eyes + Brief are the moments that suffice + To reach the land of dreaming. + + Now at the ball, superbly dressed + As I suppose, to eclipse the rest, + Within an alcove shady + A brilliant flame I hope to be, + While all admire and envy me, + The "bright electric lady." + + But, ah, they never shine at all! + My eyes _ignite_--I leave the hall, + For wrathful tears have filled them; + I could have crushed them on the spot-- + The bugs, I mean!--and quite forgot + That _stringing_ them had killed them. + + + + +Of Her who Died. + + + We look up to the stars tonight, + Idolatrous of them, + And dream that Heaven is in sight, + And each a ray of purest light + From some celestial gem + In her bright diadem. + + Before that lonely home we wait, + Ah! nevermore to see + Her lovely form within the gate + Where heart and hearthstone desolate + And vine and shrub and tree + Seem asking: "Where is she?" + + There is the cottage Love had planned-- + Where hope in ashes lies-- + A tower beautiful to stand, + Her monument whose gentle hand + And presence in the skies + Make home of Paradise. + + In wintry bleakness nature glows + Beneath the stellar ray; + We see the mold, but not the rose, + And meditate if knowledge goes + Into yon mound of clay, + With her who passed away. + + Of sighs, and tears, and joys denied + Do echoes reach up there? + Do seraphs know--God does--how wide + And deep is sorrow's bitter tide + Of dolor and despair, + And darkness everywhere? + + Dear angel, snatched from our caress, + So suddenly withdrawn, + Alone are we and comfortless; + As in a dome of emptiness + The old routine goes on, + Aimless, since thou art gone. + + Oh, dearer unto us than aught + In all the world beside + Of thee to cherish blessed thought; + So early thy sweet mission wrought, + As friend, as promised bride, + Who lived, and loved, and died. + + + + +Thanksgiving. + + + Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereft + Of her supernal charm; + And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left, + Like crape upon her arm, + In boreal hints, and sudden gusts + That fan the glowing ember, + By multitude of ways fulfills + The promise of November. + + Upon the path where Beauty, sylvan priestess, sped away, + Lies the rich afterglow + Of Indian Summer, bringing round the happy holiday + That antedates the snow: + The glad Thanksgiving time, the cheer, + The festival commotion + That stirs fraternal feeling from + The mountains to the ocean. + + O Hospitality! unclose thy bounty-laden hand + In generous dealing, where + Is gathered in reunion each long-severed household band, + And let no vacant chair + Show where the strongest, brightest link + In love's dear chain is broken-- + A symbol more pathetic than + By language ever spoken. + + Into the place held sacred to the memory of some + Beloved absentee, + Perchance passed to the other shore, oh, let the stranger come + And in gratuity + Partake of festal favors that + Shall sweeten hours of labor, + And strengthen amity and love + Unto his friend and neighbor. + + Let gratitude's pure incense in warm orisons ascend, + A blessing to secure, + And gracious impulse bearing largesse of good gifts extend + To all deserving poor; + So may the day be hallowed by + Unstinted thanks and giving, + In sweet remembrance of the dead + And kindness to the living. + + + + +Receiving Sight. + + + In hours of meditation fraught + With mem'ries of departed days, + Comes oft a tender, loving thought + Of one who shared our youthful plays. + + In gayest sports and pleasures rife + Whose happy nature reveled so, + That on her ardent, joyous life + A shadow lay, we did not know; + + And bade her look one summer night + Up to the sky that seemed to hold, + In dying sunset splendor bright, + All hues of sapphire, red, and gold. + + How strange the spell that mystified + Us all, and hushed our wonted glee, + As sadly her sweet voice replied, + "Why, don't you know I cannot see?" + + Too true! those eyes bereft of sight + No blemish bare, no drop-serene, + But nothing in this world of light + And beauty they had ever seen. + + + A dozen years in gentle ruth + Their impress lent to brow and cheek, + When precious words of sacred truth + Led her the Saviour's face to seek. + + Responsive unto earnest prayers + Commingling love and penitence, + A blessing came--not unawares-- + In new and strange experience. + + And all was light, as Faith's clear eye + A brighter world than ours divined; + For never clouds obscured the sky + That she could see, while _we_ were blind. + + Oh, it must be an awful thing + To be shut out from light of day!-- + From summer's grace, and bloom of spring + In gladness words cannot portray. + + But haply into every heart + May enter that Celestial Light + That doth to life's dark ways impart + A radiance hid from mortal sight. + + + + +Revenge. + + + Beside my window day and night, + Its tendrils reaching left and right, + A morning glory grew; + With blossoms covered, pink and white + And deep, delicious blue. + + Its care became my daily thought, + Who to the sweet diversion brought + A bit of florist skill + To guide its progress, till it caught + The meaning of my will. + + When through the trellis in and out + It bent and turned and climbed about + And so ambitious grew, + O'erleaped a chasm beyond the spout + Where raindrops trickled through, + + Then, in caressing, graceful way, + Around a door knob twined one day + With modest show of pride; + All unaware that danger lay + Just on the other side. + + An awkward, verdant "maid of work," + Who dearly loved her tasks to shirk, + While rummaging among + Unused apartments, with a jerk + The door wide open flung. + + And lo! there lay, uprooted quite, + The object of my heart's delight-- + I did not weep or rant, + And yet a grain or two of spite + My secret thoughts would haunt. + + So when at night her favorite beau + Beside his charmer sat below-- + That is, _dans le cuisine_-- + Occurred, as all the neighbors know, + A semi-tragic scene. + + The garden hose, obscured from view, + Turned on itself and drenched the two-- + A hapless circumstance + That lengthened out her "frizzes" new, + But shrunk his Sunday pants. + + Remember this was years agone-- + The madcap now hath sober grown + And hose is better wrought, + And neither now would run alone + The risk of being caught. + + + + +On the Common. + + + We met on "Boston Common"-- + Of course it was by chance-- + A sudden, unexpected, + But happy circumstance + That gave the dull October day + A beautiful, refulgent ray. + + Like wandering refugees from + A city of renown, + Impelled to reconnoiter + This Massachusetts town, + Each by a common object urged, + Upon the park our paths converged. + + Good nature, bubbling over + In healthy, hearty laughs, + And little lavish speeches + Like pleasant paragraphs, + The kind regard, unstudied joke, + His true felicity bespoke. + + A bit of doleful knowledge + Confided unto me, + About the way the doctors-- + Who never could agree-- + His knees had tortured, softly drew + My sympathy and humor, too. + + I hoped he wouldn't lose them, + And languish in the dumps + By having to quadrille on + A pair of polished stumps-- + But a corky limb, though one might dread, + Isn't half as bad as a wooden head. + + He censured those empirics + Who never heal an ill, + Though bound by their diplomas + To either cure or kill, + Who should, with ignominy crowned, + Their patients follow--under ground. + + I left him at the foot of + "The Soldiers' Monument," + With incoherent mutterings-- + As though 'twere his intent + To turn the sod, a rod or two, + And sleep beside the "boys in blue." + + In Hartford's charming circles + His bonhommie I miss, + And having never seen him + From that day unto this, + I think of him with much regret + As lying--with the soldiers--yet. + + + + +Woman's Help. + + + Sometimes I long to write an ode + And magnify his name, + The man of honor, on the road + To opulence and fame, + On whom was never aid bestowed + By any helpful dame. + + To all the world I fain would show + That talent widely known, + Rare eloquence, of burning glow + To melt a heart of stone, + That all his gifts, a dazzling row, + Are his, and his alone. + + But him, of character and mind + Superb, alert, and strong, + I never study but to find + The subject of my song, + Some paragon of womankind, + Has helped him all along. + + He may not know, he may not guess, + How much to her he owes, + How every scion of success + That in his nature grows, + Developed by her watchfulness, + Becomes a blooming rose. + + From buffetings in humble place, + And labors ill begun, + To proud achievement in the race + And laurels grandly won, + His trials all she dares to face + As friend and champion. + + The bars that hinder his advance + And half obscure the goal, + The stubborn bond of circumstance + That irritates his soul, + The countershafts of arrogance, + All yield to her control. + + He builds a tower--she below + Is handing up the bricks; + His light is brilliant just as though + Her hand had trimmed the wicks; + He prays for daily bread--the dough + A woman deigns to mix. + + + + +Tobogganing. + + + Oh, the rare exhilaration, + Oh, the novel delectation + Of a ride down the slide! + Packed like ice in zero weather, + Pleasure-seekers close together, + On a board as thin as wafer, + Barely wider, scarcely safer, + At the height of recreation + Find a glorious inspiration, + Ere the speedy termination + In the snowy meadow wide, + Sloping to the river's side. + + Oh, such quakers we begin it, + Timorous of the icy route! + But to learn in half a minute + What felicity is in it, + As we shoot down the chute, + Smothered in toboggan suit, + Redingote or roquelaure, + Buttoned up (and down) before, + Mittens, cap, and moccasin, + Just the garb to revel in; + So, the signal given, lo! + Over solid ice and snow, + Down the narrow gauge we go + Swifter than a bird o'erhead, + Swifter than an arrow sped + From the staunchest, strongest bow. + + Oh, it beats all "Copenhagen," + Silly lovers' paradise! + Like the frozen Androscoggin, + Slippery, and smooth, and nice, + Is the track of the toboggan; + And there's nothing cheap about it, + Everything is steep about it, + The insolvent weep about it, + For the biggest thing on ice + Is its tip-top price; + But were this three times the money, + Then the game were thrice as funny. + + Ye who dwell in latitudes + Where "the blizzard" ne'er intrudes, + And the water seldom freezes; + Ye of balmy Southern regions, + Alabama's languid legions, + From the "hot blast" of your breezes, + Where the verdure of the trees is + Limp, and loose, and pitiful, + Come up here where branches bare + Stand like spikes in frosty air; + Come up here where arctic rigor + Shall restore your bloom and vigor, + Making life enjoyable; + Come and take a jog on + The unparalleled toboggan! + Such the zest that he who misses + Never knows what perfect bliss is. + So the sport, the day's sensation, + Thrills and recreates creation. + + + +The Woods. + + + I love the woods when the magic hand + Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys + Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth; + When beauty and song in the gladness of birth + Awaken the heart of the desolate land, + And carol its rapture to every breeze. + + In summer's still solstice my steps are drawn + To the shade of the forest trees; + To revel with Pan in his secret haunts, + To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance, + Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faun + And fascinate strange wild birds and bees. + + I love the woods when autumnal fires + Are kindled on every hill; + When dead leaves rustle in grove and field, + And trees are known by the fruits they yield, + And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspire + A mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill. + + There's a joy for which I would fling to the air + My petty portion of wealth and fame, + In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow, + The ways of the 'coon and opossum to know, + To capture squirrels when branches are bare + As the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame. + + Oh, I long to explore the woods again + In my own aboriginal way, + As before I knew how culture could frown + On a hoydenish gait and a homespun gown + Or dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten" + Would smile at rusticity's _naïveté_. + + I sigh for the pleasures of long ago + In youth's sweet halcyon time; + When better beloved than the thoroughfare + By multitudes trod were the woodlands, where + Was never a path that I did not know, + Nor thrifty sapling I dared not climb. + + Alas for lost freedom! Alas for me! + For oh, Society's lip would curl, + Propriety's self with scornful eye + And gilt-edged Fashion would pass me by + To know that sometimes I'm dying to be + The romp, the rover, the same old girl. + + + + +Like Summer. + + + November? 'tis a summer's day! + For tropic airs are blowing + As soft as whispered roundelay + From unseen lips that seem to say + To feathered songsters going + To sunnier, southern climes afar, + "Stay where you are--stay where you are!" + + And other tokens glad as these + Declare that Summer lingers: + Round latent buds still hum the bees, + Slow fades the green from forest trees + Ere Autumn's artist fingers + Have touched the landscape, and instead + Brought out the amber, brown, and red. + + The invalid may yet enjoy + His favorite recreation, + Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy + In outdoor sports the time employ, + And happy consummation + Of prudent plans the farmer know + Ere wintry breezes round him blow. + + And they by poverty controlled-- + Good fortune shall betide them + As scenes of beauty they behold, + And seem to revel in the gold + Which Plutus has denied them; + For, ah! the poor from want's despair + Oft covet wealth they never share. + + + + +Sheridan's Last Ride. + + + While Phoebus lent his hottest rays + To signalize midsummer days, + I stood in that far-famed enclosure + By thousands visited, + Where, in the stillness of reposure, + Are grouped battalions dead. + + Where, round each simple burial stone, + The grass for decades twain has grown, + Protecting them in dreamless slumber + Who perished long ago, + The multitudes defying number, + A part of war's tableau. + + Along the winding avenue + A vast procession came in view; + The mourners' slow, advancing column + With reverent step drew near, + The "Dead March" playing, sad and solemn, + Above a soldier's bier. + + There were the colonels, brigadiers, + Comrades in arms of other years, + Civilians, true and loyal-hearted + To him their bravest man, + Who seemed to say to those departed, + "Make room for Sheridan!" + + Anon, beside the new-made mound, + The warworn veterans gathered round, + And spake of Lyon and of Lander, + And others ranked as high, + Recalling each his old commander, + One not afraid to die. + + Thus, silent tenants one by one + Are crowding in at Arlington; + Thus Sheridan, the horseman daring, + Has joined the honored corps + Of those, their true insignia wearing, + Who battle nevermore. + + Potomac's wave shall placid flow, + And sing his requiem soft and low, + His terrace grave be sweet with clover, + And daisies star his bed, + For Sheridan's last ride is over-- + The General is dead! + + + + +A Bit of Gladness. + + + As I near my lonely cottage, + At the close of weary day, + There's a little bit of gladness + Comes to meet me on the way: + Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated, + Innocent as angels are, + Like a smiling, straying sunbeam + Is my Stella--like a star. + + Soon a hand of tissue-softness + Slips confidingly in mine, + And with tender look appealing + Eyes of beauty sweetly shine; + Like a gentle shepherd guiding + Some lost lamb unto the fold, + So she leads me homeward, prattling + Till her stories are all told. + + "Papa, I'm so glad to see you-- + Cousin Mabel came today-- + And the gas-man brought a letter + That he said you'd better pay-- + Yes, and _awful_ things is happened: + My poor kitty's drowned to death-- + Mamma's got the 'Pigs in Clover'--" + Here she stops for want of breath. + + I am like the bold knight-errant, + From his castle who would roam, + Trusting her, my faithful steward, + For a strict account of home; + And each day I toil, and hazard + All that any man may dare, + For a resting-place at even, + And the love that waits me there. + + And sometimes I look with pity + On my neighbor's mansion tall: + There are chambers full of pictures, + There are marbles in the hall, + Yet with all the signs of splendor + That may gild a pile of stone, + Not a living thing about it + But the owner, grim and lone. + + I believe that all his millions + He would give without repine + For a little bit of gladness + In his life, like that in mine; + This it is that makes my pathway + Beautiful, wherever trod, + Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin, + Keeps me nearer to my God. + + + + +The Charity Ball. + + + There was many a token of festal display, + And reveling crowds who were never so gay, + And, as it were Æolus charming the hours, + An orchestra hidden by foliage and flowers; + There were tapestries fit for the home of a queen, + And mirrors that glistened in wonderful sheen; + There was feasting and mirth in the banqueting-hall, + For this was the annual Charity Ball. + + There were pompous civilians, in wealth who abide, + Displaying their purses, the source of their pride; + And plethoric dealers in margins and stocks, + And owners of acres of elegant blocks, + And tenement-landlords who cling to a cent + When from the poor widow exacting her rent-- + Immovable, stern, as an adamant wall-- + And yet, who "came down" to this Charity Ball. + + There was Beauty whose toilet, superb and unique, + Cost underpaid industry many a week + Of arduous labor of eye, and heartache, + Its starving inadequate pittance to make; + There were mischievous maidens and cavaliers bold, + Whose blushes and glances and coquetry told + A tale of the monarch who held them in thrall-- + Who met, as by chance, at the Charity Ball. + + There were delicate viands the poor never taste, + And dollars were lavished in prodigal waste + To pamper the palate of epicures rich; + Who drew from the wine cellar's cavernous niche + "Excelsior" brands of the rarest champagnes + To loosen their tongues--though it pilfered their brains-- + Oh, sad if a step in some woeful downfall + Should ever be traced to a Charity Ball! + + Outside of the window, pressed close to the pane, + And furrowed by tears that had fallen like rain, + Was the face of a woman, so spectral in hue, + With great liquid eyes, like twin oceans of blue, + And cheeks in whose hollows were written the lines + That pitiless hunger so often defines, + Who muttered, as closer she gathered the shawl, + "Oh, never for me is this Charity Ball!" + + From liveried hirelings who bade her begone, + By uniformed minions compelled to move on, + Out into the street again driven to roam-- + For friends she had none, neither fortune nor home; + While carnival-goers in morning's dull gray + As homeward returning, fatigued and _blasé_, + A vision encountered their hearts to appall, + And banish all thought of the Charity Ball. + + As if seeking warmth from the icy curb-stone, + A form half-reclining, half-clad, and unknown. + Dead eyes looking up with a meaningless stare, + Lay close to the crowded and broad thoroughfare; + A form so emaciate the spirit had fled-- + But the pulpit and press and the public all said, + As society's doings they sought to recall, + That a "brilliant success" was the Charity Ball. + + + + +The Bell(e) of Baltimore. + +[One of the notable features of Baltimore is the big bell that hangs in +the city hall tower, to strike the hour and sound the fire alarm. It is +called "Big Sam," and weighs 5,000 pounds] + + + A million feet above the ground + (For so it seemed in winding round), + A million, and two more, + The latter stiff and sore, + While perspiration formed a part + Of every reeking pore, + I viewed the city like a chart + Spread out upon the floor. + + And said: "Great guide Jehoiakin, + To me is meagre pleasure in + The height of spires and domes, + Of walls like ancient Rome's; + Nor care I for the marts of trade, + Or shelves of musty tomes, + Nor yet for yonder colonnade + Before your palace homes; + + "But curiosity is keen + To know the city's reigning queen, + Who suiteth well the score + Of suitors at her door; + Oh, which of your divinities + Is she whom all adore? + Embodiment of truth, _who is_ + The belle of Baltimore?" + + Veracity's revolving eyes + Looked up as if to read the skies: + "Why, Lor'-a-miss, see dar-- + De bell is in de air! + Lan' sakes! of all de missteries + Yo' nebber learn before! + Why, don' yo' know 'Big Sam'? _He_ is + De bell of Baltimore!" + + + + +Christmas at Church. + + + 'Twas drawing near the holiday, + When piety and pity met + In whisp'ring council, and agreed + That Christmas time, in homes of need, + Should be remembered in a way + They never could forget. + + + Then noble generosity + Took youth and goodness by the hand, + And planned a thousand charming ways + To celebrate this best of days, + While hearts were held in sympathy + By love's encircling band. + + So multitudes together came, + Like wandering magi from the East + With precious gifts unto the King, + With every good and perfect thing + To satisfy a shivering frame + Or amplify a feast. + + The angels had looked long and far + The happy scene to parallel, + When through the sanctuary door + Were carried gifts from shop and store, + The treasures of the rich bazaar, + To give--but not to sell. + + As once the apostolic twelve + Of goods allotment made, + So equity dealt out with care + The widow's and the orphan's share, + And of the aged forced to delve + At drudging task or trade. + + Oh, could the joy which tears express + That out of gladness come + Be mirrored in its tender glow, + Before the beautiful tableau + Ingratitude and selfishness + Would shrink abashed and dumb! + + If every year and everywhere + Could kindness thus expand + In bounteous gratuity, + To all her children earth would be + A flowery vale like Eden fair, + A milk-and-honey land. + + + + +Mysterious. + + + The morning sun rose bright and fair + Upon a lovely village where + Prosperity abounded, + And ceaseless hum of industry + In lines of friendly rivalry + From day to day resounded. + + Its shaded avenues were wide, + And closely bordered either side + With cottages or mansions, + Or marked by blocks of masonry + That might defy a century + To loosen from their stanchions. + + Its peaceful dwellers daily vied + To make this spot, with anxious pride, + A Paradise of beauty, + Recounted its attractions o'er, + And its adornment held no more + A pleasure than a duty. + + But, ere the daylight passed away, + That hamlet fair in ruins lay, + Its hapless people scattered + Like playthings, at the cyclone's will, + And scarce remained one domicile + Its fury had not shattered. + + Few moments of the tempest's wrath + Sufficed to mark one dreadful path + With scenes of devastation; + While over piles of wild débris + Rose shrieks of dying agony + Above the desolation. + + Oh, mystery! who can understand + Why, sudden, from God's mighty hand + Destructive bolts of power + Without discrimination strike + The evil and the good alike-- + As in that dreadful hour! + + Alas for aching hearts that wait + Today in homes made desolate + By one sharp blow appalling-- + For all who kneel by altars lone, + And strive to say "Thy will be done," + That awful day recalling! + + We dare not question his decrees + Who seeth not as mortal sees, + Nor doubt his goodness even; + Nor let our hearts be dispossessed + Of faith that he disposeth best + All things in earth and Heaven. + + + + +"Be not Anxious." + +"Be careful for nothing," Phil. iv. 6. Revised version, "Be not anxious." + + + Of all the precepts in the Book + By word of inspiration given, + That bear the import, tone, and look + Of messages direct from heaven, + From Revelation back to Genesis + Is nothing needed half so much as this. + + Ah, well the great apostle spake + In admonition wise and kind, + Who bade humanity forsake + The petty weaknesses that bind + The spirit like a bird with pinioned wings, + That to a broken bough despairing clings. + + Were all undue anxiety + Eliminated from desire, + Could feverish fears and fancies be + Consumèd on some funeral pyre, + Like holy hecatomb or sacrifice, + 'Twould be accepted up in Paradise. + + Could this machinery go on + Without the friction caused by fret, + What greater loads were lightly drawn, + More easily were trials met; + Then might existence be with blessings rife, + And lengthened out like Hezekiah's life. + + Oh, be not anxious; trouble grows + When cherished like a secret grief; + It is the worm within the rose + That eats the heart out leaf by leaf; + And though the outer covering be fair, + The weevil of decay is busy there. + + In deep despondency to pine, + Or vain solicitude, + Is to deny this truth divine + That God is great and good; + That he is Ruler over earth and Heaven, + And so disposes and makes all things even. + + + + +Mount Vernon. + + + Subdued and sad, I trod the place + Where he, the hero, lived and died; + Where, long-entombed beneath the shade + By willow bough and cypress made, + The peaceful scene with verdure rife, + He and the partner of his life, + Beloved of every land and race, + Are sleeping side by side. + + The summer solstice at its height + Reflected from Potomac's tide + A glare of light, and through the trees + Intensified the Southern breeze, + That dallied, in the deep ravines, + With graceful ferns and evergreens, + While Northern cheeks so strangely white + Grew dark as Nubia's pride. + + What must this homestead once have been + In boundless hospitality, + When Greene or Putnam may have met + The host who welcomed Lafayette, + Or when Pulaski, honored guest, + Accepted shelter, food and rest, + While rank and talent gathered in + Its banquet hall of luxury! + + What comfort, cheer, and kind intent + The weary stranger oft hath known + When she, its mistress, fair and good, + Reigned here in peerless womanhood, + When soft, shy maiden fancy gave + Encouragement to soldiers brave, + And Washington his presence lent + To grace its bright hearthstone! + + O beautiful Mount Vernon home, + The Mecca of our long desire; + Of more than passing interest + To North and South, to East and West, + To all Columbia's children free + A precious, priceless legacy, + Thine altar-shrine, as pilgrims come, + Rekindles patriot fire! + + + + +A Prisoner. + + + Where I can see him all day long + And hear his wild, spontaneous song, + Before my window in his cage, + A blithe canary sits and swings, + And circles round on golden wings; + And startles all the vicinage + When from his china tankard + He takes a dainty drink + To clear his throat + For as sweet a note + As ever yet was caroled + By lark or bobolink. + + Sometimes he drops his pretty head + And seems to be dispirited, + And then his little mistress says: + "Poor Dickie misses his chickweed, + Or else I've fed him musty seed + As stale as last year's oranges!" + But all the time I wonder + If we half comprehend + In sweet song-words + The thought of birds, + Or why so oft their raptures + In sudden silence end. + + They do not pine for forest wilds + Within the "blue Canary isles," + As exiles from their native home, + For in a foreign domicile + They first essayed their gamut-trill + Beneath a cage's gilded dome; + But maybe some sad throbbing + Betimes their spirits stirs, + Who love as we + Dear liberty, + That they, admired and petted, + Are only--prisoners. + + + + +Cuba. + + + As one long struggling to be free, + O suffering isle! we look to thee + In sympathy and deep desire + That thy fair borders yet shall hold + A people happy, self-controlled, + Saved and exalted--as by fire. + + Burning like thine own tropic heat + Thousands of lips afar repeat + The story of thy wrongs and woes; + While argosies to thee shall bear, + Of men and money everywhere, + Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes. + + Hispaniola waves her plume + Defiant over many a tomb + Where sleep thy sons, the true and brave; + But, lo! an army coming on + The places fill of heroes gone, + For liberty their lives who gave. + + The nations wait to hear thy shout + Of "Independence!" ringing out, + Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou? + Buffets and gyves from your effete + Old monarchy dilapidate, + Or freedom's laurels for thy brow? + + In man's extremity it is + That Heaven's opportunities + Shine forth like jewels from the mine; + Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need, + With vision clear the tokens read + And trust for aid that power divine. + + + + +The Sangamon River. + + + O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me, + Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody, + Familiar is since adolescent years + As household phrases ringing in my ears; + Its measured cadence sounding to and fro + From the dim corridors of long ago. + + There was a time in happy days gone by, + That rosy interval of youth, when I + The scholar ardent early learned to trace + Great tributaries to their starting place; + And thine some prairie hollow obsolete + Whose name how few remember or repeat. + + Like thee, meandering, yet wafted back + From distant hearth and lonely bivouac, + From strange vicissitudes in other lands, + From half-wrought labors and unfinished plans + I come, in thy cool depths my brow to lave, + And rest a moment by thy silver wave. + + But, ah! what means thy muddy, muggy hue? + I thought thee limpid as yon ether blue; + I thought an angel's wing might dip below + Thy sparkling surface and be white as snow; + And of thy current I had dared to drink + If not as one imbibing draughts of ink. + + Has some rough element of horrid clay + That spoils the earth like lava beds, they say, + Come sliding down, as avalanches do, + And thy fair bosom percolated through? + Or some apothecary's compound vile + Polluted thee so many a murky mile? + + Why not, proud State, beneficence insure, + Selling thy soil or giving to the poor? + For sad it is that dust of Illinois, + With coal and compost its conjoint alloy, + A morceau washed from Mississippi's mouth, + Should build up acres for our neighbors south. + + River! I grieve, but not for loss of dirt-- + Once stainless, just because of what thou wert. + Thus on thy banks I linger and reflect + That, surely as all waterways connect, + Forever flowing onward to the sea, + Shall the great billow thy redemption be. + + And now, dear Sangamon, farewell! I wait + On that Elysian scene to meditate + When, separated from the dregs of earth, + Life's stream shall sweeter be, of better worth; + And, like the ocean with its restless tide, + By its own action cleansed and purified. + + + + +Syringas. + + + The smallest flower beside my path, + In loveliness of bloom, + Some element of comfort hath + To rid my heart of gloom; + But these, of spotless purity, + And fragrant as the rose, + As sad a sight recall to me + As time shall e'er disclose. + + Oh, there are pictures on the brain + Sometimes by shadows made, + Till dust is blent with dust again, + That never, never fade; + And things supremely bright and fair + As ever known in life + Suggest the darkness of despair, + And sanguinary strife. + + I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain-- + The battle-field appears, + And one among the thousands slain + In manhood's brilliant years; + An elbow pillowing his head, + And on the crimson sand + Syringa-blooms, distained and dead, + Within his rigid hand. + + Could she foresee, who from the stem + Had plucked that little spray + Of flowers, that he would cherish them + Unto his dying day? + "Give these to M----;--'tis almost night-- + And tell her--that--I love--" + Alas! the letter he would write + Was finished up above. + + And so, with each recurring spring, + On Decoration day, + When to our heroes' graves we bring + The blossom-wealth of May, + While martial strains are soft and low, + And music seems a prayer, + Unto a hallowed spot I go, + And leave syringas there. + + + + +Storm-bound. + + + My careful plans all storm-subdued, + In disappointing solitude + The weary hours began; + And scarce I deemed when time had sped, + Marked only by the passing tread + Of some pedestrian. + + But with the morrow's tranquil dawn, + A fairy scene I looked upon + That filled me with delight; + Far-reaching from my own abode, + The world in matchless splendor glowed, + Arrayed in spotless white. + + The surface of the hillside slope + Gleamed in my farthest vision's scope + Like opalescent stone; + Rich jewels hung on every tree, + Whose crystalline transparency + Golconda's gems outshone. + + Beyond the line where wayside posts + Stood up, like fear-inspiring ghosts + Of awful form and mien, + A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride, + A seeming castle fortified, + Uprose in wondrous sheen. + + The evergreens loomed up before + My staunch and storm-defying door, + Like snowy palaces + That one dare only penetrate + With reverence--as at Heaven's gate, + Awed by its mysteries. + + The apple trees' extended arms + Upheld a thousand varied charms; + The curious tracery + Of trellised grapevine seemed to me + A rare network of filigree + In silver drapery. + + And I no longer thought it hard + From favorite pursuits debarred, + Nor gazed with rueful face; + For every object seemed to be + Invested with the witchery + Of magic art and grace. + + And, though a multitude of cares, + Perplexing, profitless affairs, + Absorbed the hours, it seems + That on the golden steps of thought + I mounted heavenward, and wrought + Out many hopeful schemes. + + Thus every day, though it may span + The gulf wherein some cherished plan + Lies disarranged and crossed, + If, ere its close, we shall have trod + The path that leads us nearer God, + Cannot be counted lost. + + + + +The Master of the Grange. + + + The type of enterprise is he, + Of sense and thrift and toil; + Who reckons less on pedigree + Than rich, productive soil; + And no "blue blood"--if such there be-- + His veins can ever spoil. + + And yet on blood his heart is set; + He has his sacred cow, + Some Alderney or Jersey pet, + The mistress of the mow; + His favorite pig is (by brevet) + "Lord Suffolk"--of the slough. + + To points of stock is he alive + As keenest cattle king; + A thoroughbred he deigns to drive, + But not a mongrel thing; + The very bees within his hive + Are crossed--without a sting. + + If apple-boughs drop pumpkins and + Tomatoes grow on trees, + It is because his grafting hand + Has so diverted these + That alien shoots with native stand + Like twin-born Siamese. + + No neater farm a nabob owns, + Its care his chief employ, + To find fertility in bones + And briers to destroy, + Where once he lightly skipped the stones + A whistling, happy boy. + + The ancient plough and awkward flail + He banished long ago; + The zigzag fence with ponderous rail + He dares to overthrow; + And wields, with sinews strong and hale, + The latest style of hoe. + + The household, founded as it were + Upon the Decalogue, + He classes with the minister, + The rural pedagogue, + And as a sort of angel-cur + Regards his spotted dog. + + His wife reviews the magazines, + His children lead the school, + He tries a thousand new machines + (And keeps his temper cool), + But bristles at Kentucky jeans, + And her impressive mule. + + With Science letting down the bars, + Enlightening ignorance, + Enigmas deeper than the stars + He solves as by a glance, + And raises cinnamon cigars + From poor tobacco plants! + + By no decree of fashion dressed, + And busier than Fate, + The student-farmer keeps abreast + With mighty men of state, + And treasures, like his Sunday vest, + The motto "Educate!" + + Beyond encircling hills of blue, + Where I may never range, + This monarch in his realm I view, + Of title new and strange, + And make profound obeisance to + "The Master of the Grange." + + + +A Friend Indeed. + + + If every friend who meditates + In soft, unspoken thought + With winning courtesy and tact + The doing of a kindly act + To cheer some lonely lot, + Were like the friend of whom I dream, + Then hardship but a myth would seem. + + If sympathy were always thus + Oblivious of space, + And, like the tendrils of the vine, + Could just as lovingly incline + To one in distant place, + 'Twould draw the world together so + Might none the name of stranger know. + + If every throb responsive that + My ardent spirit thrills + Could, like the skylark's ecstasy, + Be vocal in sweet melody, + Beyond dividing hills + In octaves of the atmosphere + Were music wafted to his ear. + + If every friendship were like one, + So helpful and so true, + To other hearts as sad as mine + 'Twould bring the joy so near divine, + And hope revive anew; + So life's dull path would it illume, + And radiate beyond the tomb. + + + + +The Needed One. + + + 'Twas not rare versatility, + Nor gift of poesy or art, + Nor piquant, sparkling _jeux d'esprit_ + Which at the call of fancy come, + That touched the universal heart, + And won the world's encomium. + + It was not beauty's potent charm; + For admiration followed her + Unmindful of the rounded arm, + The fair complexion's brilliancy, + If form and features shapely were + Or lacked the grace of symmetry. + + So not by marked, especial power + She grew endeared to human thought, + But just because, in trial's hour, + Was loving service to be done + Or sympathy and counsel sought, + She made herself the needed one. + + Oh, great the blessedness must be + Of heart and hand and brain alert + In projects wise and manifold, + Impending sorrow to avert + That duller natures fail to see, + Or stand aloof severe and cold! + + And who shall doubt that this is why + In womanhood's florescent prime + She passed the portals of the sky? + As if a life thus truly given + To purpose pure and act sublime + Were needed also up in Heaven. + + + + +"Thy Will Be Done." + + + Sometimes the silver cord of life + Is loosed at one brief stroke; + As when the elements at strife, + With Nature's wild contentions rife, + Uproot the sturdy oak. + + Or fell disease, in patience borne, + Attenuates the frame + Till the meek sufferer, wan and worn, + Of energy and beauty shorn, + Death's sweet release would claim. + + By instant touch or long decay + Is dissolution wrought; + When, lost to earth, the grave and gay, + The young and old who pass away, + Abide in hallowed thought. + + In dear regard together drawn, + Affection's debt to pay, + Fond greetings we exchange at dawn + With one who, ere the day be gone, + Is bruised and lifeless clay. + + O thou in manhood's morning-time + With health and hope elate, + For whom in youth's enchanting prime + The bells of promise seemed to chime, + We mourn thy early fate! + + To us how sudden--yet to thee + Perchance God kindly gave + Some warning, ere the fatal key + Unlocked the door of mystery + That lies beyond the grave. + + Then let us hope that one who found + Such favor, trust, and love, + And cordial praise from all around, + For rare fidelity renowned, + Found favor, too, above. + + So "all is well," though swift or slow + God's will be done; and we + Draw near to him, for close and low + Beneath his chastening hand, the blow + Will fall less heavily. + + + + +Snowflakes. + + + Of specious weight like tissue freight + The snowflakes are--in sparkle pure + As the rich _parure_ + A lovely queen were proud to wear; + As volatile, as fine and rare + As thistle-down dispersed in air, + Or bits of filmy lace; + Like nature's tear-drops strewn around + That beautify and warm the ground, + But melt upon my face. + + A ton or more against my door + They lie, and look, in form and tint, + Like piles of lint, + When war's alarum roused the land, + Wrought out by woman's loyal hand + From linen rag, and robe, and band-- + From garments cast aside-- + In hospital, on battle-field + The shattered limb that bound and healed, + Or stanched life's ebbing tide. + + I see the gleam of lake and stream, + The silver glint in frost portrayed + Of the bright cascade; + They bear the moisture of marshes dank, + The dew of the lawn, or river bank, + The river itself by sunlight drank; + All these in frigid air, + That strange alembic, crystallize + In odd, fantastic shape and size + Like gems of dazzling glare. + + Oh, of the snow such fancies grow, + 'Till thought is lost in wandering, + And wondering + If portions of their drapery + The angel beings, sad to see + So much of earth's impurity, + Have dropped from clearer skies + As snowflakes, hiding stain and blot + To make this world a fairer spot, + And more like Paradise. + + + + +Monadnock. + + + One summer time, with love imbued, + To climb the mount, explore the wood, + Or rove from pole to pole, + Upon Monadnock's brow I stood-- + A lone, adventurous soul. + + Beyond the Bay State border-line + A sweeping vista, grand and fine, + Embraced the Berkshire hills; + Embosomed hamlets, clumps of pine, + And country domiciles. + + Afar, Mount Tom, in verdantique, + And Holyoke, twin companion peak, + Appeared gigantic cones; + The burning sunlight scorched my cheek, + And seemed to melt the stones. + + Beneath a gnarled and twisted root + I loosed a pebble with my foot + That leaped the precipice, + And like an arrow seemed to shoot + Adown the deep abyss. + + Beside the base that solstice day + A city chap who chanced to stray + Was shooting somewhat, too; + Who, when the nugget sped that way, + His firelock quickly drew. + + While right and left he sought the quail, + Or the timid hare that crossed his trail, + Rang out a wild "Ha! ha!" + That might have turned the visage pale + Of a red-skinned Chippewa. + + The game was his--for it made him quail; + He flung his gun and fled the vale, + The mountain-dwellers say, + As though pursued by a comet's tail-- + And disappeared for aye. + + + + +Never Had a Chance + + + Fresh from piano, school, and books, + A happy girl with rosy looks + Young Plowman wooed and won; despite + Her pretty, pouting prejudice, + Her deep distaste for rural bliss + Or countryfied delight. + + Romance through all her nature ran-- + Indeed, to wed a husband-man + Suffused her ardent maiden thought; + But lofty fancy dwelt upon + A new "Queen Anne," a terraced lawn, + A city's corner lot. + + Her lily fingers that so well + Could paint a scene--in aquarelle-- + Or broider plush with leaves and vines, + No more of real labor knew + Than waxen petals of the dew + On native eglantines. + + Anon, with lapse of tender ways + That emphasized the courting days, + The housewife in her apron blue, + As mistress of her new abode, + By frequent lachrymations showed + Her grief and blunders too. + + The butter-making, bread and cheese, + The old folks difficult to please, + The harvest hands--voracious bears!-- + The infantry, a parent's pride, + By duos proudly classified: + So multiplied her cares. + + The treadmill round of duties that + Makes any life inane and flat, + Without diversion sandwiched in, + The drudgery, the overplus + Of toil and trouble arduous, + Were rugged discipline. + + What time for books and music, when + The lambs were bleating in their pen, + The chickens peeping at the door; + The rodent gnawing at the churn, + The buckwheat wafers crisped to burn, + The kettle boiling o'er? + + To _hers_, so far between and few, + What resting-spells the farmer knew! + What intervals for culture! and + When intellect assumed the race, + He peerless held the foremost place-- + No nobler in the land. + + By virtue of exalted rank + "The brilliant senator from----" + Adorns society's expanse; + While by his side with folded hands, + Her beauty gone, the woman stands + Who "never had a chance." + + + + +Sorrow and Joy. + + + In sad procession borne away + To sound of funeral knell, + Affection's tribute thus we pay, + And in earth's shelt'ring bosom lay + The friend to whom but yesterday + We gave the sad farewell. + + But scarce the melancholy sound + Has died upon the ear, + Before the mournful dirge is drowned + By wedding-anthems' glad rebound, + That stir the solemn air around + With merry peals and clear. + + Within our home doth gladness tread + So closely upon grief + That, in the tears of sorrow shed + O'er our beloved, lamented dead, + We see reflected joy instead + That gives a blest relief. + + A father and a daughter gone + Beyond our fireside-- + For one we loved and leaned upon + The skillful archer Death had drawn + His bow; and one in life's sweet dawn + Went out a happy bride. + + We gave to Heaven, in manhood's prime, + Him whose brave strength and worth + Life's rugged steeps had taught to climb; + And her, for whom a tuneful rhyme + The bells of promise sweetly chime, + We consecrate to earth. + + Thus each a mystic path, untried, + Has entered--God is just! + We leave with him our friend who died, + With him we leave our fair young bride + Who shall no more with us abide, + And in His goodness trust. + + Oh, life and death, uncertainty, + Bright hopes and anxious fears, + Commingle so bewilderingly, + That perfect joy we may not see + Till all shall reunited be + Beyond this vale of tears! + + + + +Watch Hill. + + + Fair summer home peninsula, + Enriched by every breeze + From fragrant islands, wafted far + Across the sunny seas! + + A profile rare! a height of land + Outlined 'gainst heaven's blue + With bolder touch than skillful hand + Of artist ever drew. + + In "mountain billows" that parade + The grandeur of the deep, + Is His supremacy displayed + Whose hands the waters keep. + + No sweep of waves, in broad expanse, + With wild, weird melody, + Shall thus an unseen world enhance-- + "There shall be no more sea!" + + A wealth of joy-perfected days, + Where glorious sunset dyes, + Resplendent in declining rays, + Surpass Italia's skies! + + Proud caravansaries that compete + In studied arts to please + The multitude, with restless feet, + From earth's antipodes! + + A motley company astray: + The sojourner for health, + The grave, serene, the _devotée_ + Of fashion and of wealth. + + Artistic cottages upreared + In beauty, strength, and skill-- + The happy, healthful homes endeared + To lovers of Watch Hill! + + A golden crown adorns the spot; + Forever blessed be + The hand beneficent that wrought + "A temple by the sea!" + + A star in some bright diadem + In glory it shall be, + For truly, "I will honor them," + Saith God, "who honor me." + + When Christians meet to praise and pray, + May feet that never trod + The sanctuary learn the way + Unto the house of God. + + Glad pæans down the centuries + With joy the world shall thrill: + "The Lord, revered and honored, is + The glory of Watch Hill!" + + + + +Supplicating. + + + One morn I looked across the way, + And saw you fling your window wide + To welcome in the breath of May + In breezes from the mountain-side, + And greet the sunlight's earliest ray + With happy look and satisfied. + + The pansies on your window-sill + In terra cotta flowerpot, + Like royal gold and purple frill + Upon the stony casement wrought, + Adorned your tasteful domicile + And claimed your time and care and thought. + + In cherry trees the robins sang + Their sweetest carol to your ear, + And shouts of merry children rang + Out on the dewy atmosphere, + But to my heart there came a pang + That my salute you did not hear. + + I envied then the favored breeze + That dallied with your flowing hair, + Begrudged the songsters in the trees + And longed to be a flow'ret fair-- + Some favorite blossom like heartease-- + Within your miniature parterre. + + O heart, that finds such ample room + Within thy confines broad and true, + For song and sunshine and perfume + And all benign impulses--go, + I pray thee, dissipate my gloom-- + And take in thy petitioner too! + + + + +"Honest John." + + + He was a man whose lot was cast, + As some might think, in lines severe; + In humble toil whose life was passed + From week to week, from year to year; + And yet, by wife and children blessed, + He labored on with cheerful zest. + + As one revered and set apart, + A quaint, unusual name he bore + That well became the frugal heart; + While plain habiliments he wore + Without a tremor or a chill + At thought of some uncanceled bill. + + A king might not disdain to wear + The title so appropriate + To one who never sought to share + Exalted station 'mong the great, + Nor cared if on the scroll of fame + Were never traced his worthy name. + + As bound by honor's righteous law + In strictest rectitude he wrought-- + The man who calmly, clearly saw + His duty, and who dallied not-- + To garner life's necessities + For those whose comfort heightened his. + + The parent bird its brood protects + As fledglings in their downy nest, + Until a Power their flight directs + From trial trips to distant quest, + Through trackless zones of ether blue, + For bird companions strange and new. + + But ere his babes from prattlers grew, + Upon his knee or by his side, + To womanhood and manhood true-- + Too soon we thought--the father died; + How could we know, when Death was nigh + Those little wings were taught to fly? + + Another name his boyhood knew, + So seldom heard that lapse of years + Had made it seem a thing untrue, + Unmusical to friendly ears; + And thus his appellation odd + His passport was where'er he trod. + + So long, on every lip and tongue + As if by universal whim, + To him had his cognomen clung, + And like a garment fitted him, + That angels even must have heard + Of one, like them, in love preferred. + + And when he came to Heaven's door, + To Peter's self or acolyte, + The holy warder looking o'er, + "'Tis 'Honest John!'" he said aright; + And his pilgrim spirit passed within + Because his walk with God had been. + + + + +Bushnell Park. + + + Sweet resting place! that long hath been + A boon Elysian 'mid the din + Of city life, 'mid city smoke; + Where weary ones who toil and spin + Have turned aside as to an inn + Whose swinging sign a welcome spoke; + Where misanthropes find medicine + In peals of laughter that begin + With ancient, resurrected joke, + Or ready wit of harlequin; + Where children, free from discipline, + Take on Diversion's easy yoke. + + Fair oasis! to view aright + Its charming paths, its sloping height, + Its beautiful and broad expanse, + Must one approach in witching night + When, like abodes of airy sprite + Revealed unto the wondering glance, + O'erflooded with electric light + Than Luna's beams more dazzling bright, + Illumined nooks the scene enhance; + While zephyrs mischievous unite + The timid stroller to affright + By swaying boughs in shadow dance. + + The Capitol that crowns the hill + Where Boreas sweeps with icy chill, + A masterpiece of studied art + Conceived by genius versatile + And fashioned with unerring skill, + O'erlooks the busy, crowded mart, + And, like a kingly domicile, + Its burnished dome and sculpture thrill + With admiration every heart; + And strangers pause beyond the rill + To view its grandeur, lingering still, + And with reluctant steps depart. + + O Bushnell Park, memorial soil! + That marks success (though near to foil) + Of one who with prophetic ken, + With honest zeal and ceaseless toil, + Opposed the vandal wish to spoil + This lovely bit of vale and glen; + Who, 'mid discussion and turmoil + Of adverse minds, did not recoil + From vigorous stroke of tongue and pen; + And then, till passion ceased to boil, + On troubled waters poured out oil + And to his plans won other men. + + So when, fatigued and overwrought, + In summer time when skies are hot + We seek its verdant, velvet sward, + Oh may we hold in reverent thought + The debt we owe, forgetting not + The spirit passed to its reward + Of one whose giant soul was fraught + With true benignity--who sought + To touch humanity's quick chord + With fire from Heaven's altar brought, + That love and zeal and being caught + As inspiration from the Lord. + + + + +At General Grant's Tomb. + + + Afar my loyal spirit stirred + At mention of his name; + Afar in ringing notes I heard + The clarion voice of fame; + So to his tomb, hope long deferred, + With reverent step I came. + + The pilgrim muse revivified + A half-forgotten day: + A slow procession, tearful-eyed, + In funeral array, + And from MacGregor's lonely side + A hero borne away. + + Here sleeps he now, where long ago + Hath nature raised his mound: + A mighty channel far below, + Divided hills around, + Where countless thousands come and go + As to a shrine renowned. + + With awe do strangers' eyes discern + A casket mid the green + Luxuriance of flower and fern; + Airy and cool and clean, + Unchanged from spring to spring's return, + This charnel chamber scene. + + His country's weal his care and thought, + Beloved in peace was he; + Magnanimous in war--shall not + The nation grateful be, + And render at his burial spot + A testimonial free? + + Oh, let us, ere the days come on + When energy is spent, + To him, the silent soldier gone, + Statesman and President, + On Riverside's majestic lawn + Uprear a monument. + + + + +"Be Courteous." + + + Ah, yes; why not? Is one more adventitious born + Than others--shekels richer, honors fuller, and all that-- + That he can pass his fellows by with lofty scorn, + Nor even show this slight regard--the lifting of the hat? + + Why prate of social status, class, or rank when earth + Is common tenting-ground, the heritage of all mankind? + Except in purity is there no royal birth, + No true nobility but nobleness of heart and mind. + + Life is so short--one journey long, a pilgrimage + That we cannot retrace, nor ever pass this way again; + Then why not turn for some poor soul a brighter page, + And line the way with courtesies unto our fellow-men? + + To give a graceful word or smile, or lend a hand + To one downcast and trembling on the borders of despair, + May help him to look up and better understand + Why God has made the sky so bright and put the rainbow there. + + Be courteous! is nothing helpful half so cheap + As kind urbanity that doth so much of gladness bring; + More precious too than all the treasures of the deep, + Making the winter of discomfort seem like joyous spring. + + Be courteous and gentle! be serene and good! + Those grand ennobling and enduring virtues all may claim; + Of each may it be said, of the great multitude: + Oh that my life were more like such an one of blessed fame! + + Is it that over-crowding, care, anxiety, + Vortex of pleasure, the incessant round of toil and strife, + Beget indifference, repressing love and sympathy, + Till we forget the beautiful amenities of life? + + Then cometh a sad day, when with a poignant sting + Lost opportunities shall speak to us reproachfully; + And ours shall be the disapproval of the King-- + "Discourteous to these, my creatures, ye have wounded Me." + + + + +A New Suit. + + + The artist and the loom unseen, + In textures soft as _crepe de chine_ + Spring weaves her royal robe of green, + With grasses fringed and daisies dotted, + With furzy tufts like mosses fine + And showy clumps of eglantine, + With dainty shrub and creeping vine + Upon the verdant fabric knotted. + + Oh, winter takes our love away + For ashen hues of sober gray! + So when the blooming, blushing May + Comes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle, + With arbutus her corsage laced, + And roses clinging to her waist, + We crown her charming queen of taste, + Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle. + + For eighteen centuries and more + Her fairy hands have modeled o'er + The same habiliments she wore + At her primeval coronation; + And still the pattern exquisite, + For every age a perfect fit, + In every land the favorite, + Elicits world-wide admiration. + + Gay butterflies of fashion, you + Who wear a suit a year or two, + Then agitate for something new, + Look at Regina, the patrician! + Her cleverness is more than gold + Who so transforms from fabrics old + The things a marvel to behold, + And glories in the exhibition. + + Why worry for an overdress, + The acme of luxuriousness, + Beyond all envy to possess, + Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces! + Why flutter round in pretty pique + To follow style's capricious freak, + To match _pongee_ or _moire antique_, + And break your peace in hopeless pieces? + + O mantua-maker, costumer, + And fair-robed wearer! study _her_ + And imitate the conjurer + So prettily economizing, + Without demur, regret, or pout, + Who always puts the bright side out + And never frets at all about + The world's _penchant_ for criticizing. + + + + +The Little Clock. + + + Kind friend, you do not know how much + I prize this time-ly treasure, + So dainty, diligent, and such + A constant source of pleasure. + + The man of brains who could invent + So true a chrono-meter + Has set a charming precedent, + And made a good repeater. + + It speaks with clear, commanding clicks, + Suggestive of the donor; + And 'tends to business--never sick + A bit more than the owner. + + It goes when I do; when I stop + (As by the dial showing) + It never lets a second drop, + But simply keeps on going. + + It tells me when I am to eat, + Which isn't necessary; + When food with me is obsolete, + I'll be a reliquary. + + It tells me early when to rise, + And bother with _dejeuner_; + To sally forth and exercise, + And fill up my _porte-monnaie_. + + I hear it talking in the night, + As if it were in clover: + You've never lost your appetite, + You've never been run over. + + It makes me wish that I might live + More faithful unto duty, + And unto others something give + Like this bijou of beauty. + + It holds its hands before its face, + So very modest is it; + So like the people in the place + Where I delight to visit. + + Sometimes I wonder if it cries + The course I am pursuing; + Because it has so many I-s + And must know what I'm doing. + + Sometimes I fear it makes me cry-- + No matter, and no pity-- + Afraid at last I'll have to die + In some far, foreign city. + + It travels with me everywhere + And chirrups like a cricket; + As if it said with anxious air, + "Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!" + + Companion of my loneliness + Along my journey westward, + It never leaves me comfortless, + But has the last and best word. + + I would not spoil its lovely face, + And so I go behind it, + And hold it like a china vase, + So careful when I wind it. + + A clock is always excellent + That has its label on, + And proves a fine advertisement + For Waterbury, Conn. + + Those Yankees--ah! they never shun + A chance to make a dime, + And counterfeit the very sun + In keeping "Standard Time." + + Ah, well! the little clock has proved + The best of all bonanzas; + And thus my happy heart is moved + To these effusive stanzas. + + + + +Improvement. + + + Along the avenue I pass + Huge piles of wood and stone, + And glance at each amorphous mass, + Whose cumbrous weight has crushed the grass, + With half resentful groan. + + Say I: "O labor, to despoil + Some lovely forest scene, + Or at the granite stratum toil, + And desecrate whole roods of soil, + Is vandal-like and mean! + + "Than ever to disfigure thus + Our prairie garden-land, + Let me consort with Cerberus, + Be chained to crags precipitous, + Or seek an alien strand." + + But while this pining, pouting Muse + The interval ignores, + Deft industry, no time to lose, + Contrives and carries, hoists and hews, + And symmetry restores. + + Behold! of rock and pile and board + A modern miracle, + My neighbor's dwelling, roofed and floored, + That rapid grew as Jonah's gourd, + And far more beautiful. + + The artisan's receding gait + Has brushed the chips away, + Where innocence shall recreate, + Or like the flowers grow, and wait + The balminess of May. + + An arid spot, where careless feet + Have long been wont to roam, + Where cattle grazed, as if to eat + Were life's delicious, richest treat, + Becomes a charming home. + + O man primeval! hadst thou known, + Ere rude hands scooped thy grave, + Of Homestead Act, or Building Loan, + Thou wouldst have quite disdained to own + A rugged cliff or cave. + + And now I see how skill and art + May cleave fair nature through, + Disintegrate her breathing heart, + And to the tissues torn impart + A use and beauty new. + + And this improvement is, to turn + The things which God has given + To their best purpose, as we learn + To make the place where we sojourn + Homelike and more like Heaven. + + + + +On Bancroft Height. + + + On Bancroft height Aurora's face + Shines brighter than a star, + As stepping forth in dewy grace, + The gates of day unbar; + And lo! the firmament, the hills, + And the vales that intervene-- + Creation's self with gladness thrills + To greet the matin queen. + + On Bancroft height the atmosphere + Is but an endless waft + Of life's elixir, pure and clear + As mortal ever quaffed; + And such the sweet salubrity + Of air and altitude, + Is banished many a malady + And suffering subdued. + + On Bancroft height the sunset glow + When day departing dies + Outrivals all that tourists know + Of famed Italian skies; + And happy dwellers round about + Who view the scene aright + In admiration grow devout + And laud the Lord of light. + + Round Bancroft height rich memories + Commingle earth's affairs, + Among the world's celebrities, + Of him whose name it bears; + The scholar-wise compatriot + Who left to later men + The grand achievements unforgot + Of that historic pen. + + Fair Bancroft height revisited + When all the land is white, + A halo crowns its noble head + Impelling fresh delight; + The daring wish in winter-time + The blizzard to defy + Those shining slippery slopes to climb + Up nearer to the sky. + + Though Boreas abrade the cheek + With buffetings of snow, + He gives a vigor that the weak + And languid never know; + And with rejuvenescent thrill, + Like children everywhere, + Bestirs the rhapsody, the will + To make a snow-man there. + + On Bancroft height and Bancroft tower + Such vistas charm the eye + 'Twere life's consummate, glorious hour + But to behold--and die; + Yet in the sparkle and the glow + Is earth so very fair + The spirit lingers, loath to go, + And dreams of heaven--up there. + + + + +A Reformer. + + + When I was young, my heart elate + With ardent notions warm, + I thirsted to inaugurate + A spirit of reform; + The universe was all awry, + Philosophy despite, + And mundane things disjointed I + Was bound to set aright. + + My mind conceived a million plans, + For Hope was brave and strong, + But dared not with unaided hands + Combat a giant wrong; + So with caress I sought to coax + Those who had humored me + In infancy--the dear old folks-- + And gain their sympathy. + + But quarreling with extant laws + They would have deemed a shame + Who clung to error, just because + Their fathers did the same. + I sought in Pleasure's gilded halls, + Where grace and beauty stirred + At revelry's impetuous calls, + To make my projects heard. + + Then turned to stately palaces + Of luxury and ease, + Where wealth's absorbing object was + The master's whim to please; + And spoke of evils unredressed, + Of danger yet to be-- + They only answered, like the rest: + "But what is that to me?" + + And even pious _devotées_ + Whom sacred walls immure + Condemned me (as by feeble praise)-- + What more could I endure? + Down by the stream, so pure and clear + That sunbeams paused to drink, + In loneliness and grief sincere + I pressed its grassy brink. + + Thick darkness seemed to veil the day; + Beyond a realm of tears + Utopia's land of promise lay; + And not till later years + I learned this lesson--that to win + Results from labor sure, + "Reformers" always must begin + Among the lowly poor. + + For they whose lot privation is + And whose delights are few, + Whose aggregate of miseries + Is want of something new, + The measure of whose happiness + Is but an empty cup, + For every novelty will press + Alert to fill it up. + + +Transcriber's Notes: +Page 27: Changed Galiee to Galilee (Printer's Error) +Page 47: Indented 1st stanza to match others +Page 173: Changed prarie to prairie (Printer's Error) + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Hattie Howard + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 19109-8.txt or 19109-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/1/0/19109/ + +Produced by Joseph R. 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