diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-08 00:56:39 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-08 00:56:39 -0800 |
| commit | 5cb4d809750a0b627f2b158302e8308ad9a3740e (patch) | |
| tree | 80cf5f77a2889264f367ff4f0a506664038caa81 /42422-0.txt | |
| parent | 66e407b8ffaedba5e1371dc432cffa65820cadcc (diff) | |
Diffstat (limited to '42422-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 42422-0.txt | 4056 |
1 files changed, 4056 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/42422-0.txt b/42422-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8891f91 --- /dev/null +++ b/42422-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4056 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42422 *** + +Transcriber's note: + The original hyphenation, spelling, and use of accented words has + been retained. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. + + + + + _THE PASSING OF THE STORM + AND OTHER POEMS_ + +[Illustration: + "The mountains lay in calm repose + Slumbering 'neath their robes of white." + + _See page 17._] + + + + + _The Passing of the Storm_ + + _AND OTHER POEMS_ + + BY + + ALFRED CASTNER KING + +[Illustration] + + NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO + Fleming H. Revell Company + LONDON AND EDINBURGH + + + Copyright, 1907, by + FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY + + + New York: 158 Fifth Avenue + Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue + Toronto: 25 Richmond St., W. + London: 21 Paternoster Square + Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street + + + + +DEDICATION + + TO A RAPIDLY DISAPPEARING CLASS, THE PIONEER PROSPECTORS, WHOSE + BRAVERY, INTELLIGENCE AND INDUSTRY BLAZED THE TRAILS IN THE + WESTERN WILDERNESS FOR ADVANCING CIVILIZATION, AND MADE POSSIBLE + THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE GREAT WEST, THIS VOLUME IS VERY + RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED + + + + +_PREFACE_ + + Oh that my words were now written! + Oh that they were inscribed in a book!--JOB xix, 23. + + +Books have, from time immemorial, been the conservators of human +wisdom, the repositories of information, the mentors of youth and +adolescence, the counsellors of manhood, the comfort and companionship +of age. + +The experience of an individual, school or era, when committed to book +form, becomes the common property of all succeeding time, and the +accumulated knowledge of the past, transmitted from generation to +generation, through the medium of books, may with justice be regarded +as the most valuable of human heritages. + +But they have not always been unmixed blessings; they have both led +and misled; they have elucidated, yet have mystified. + +They have dissipated the shadows of ignorance and superstition, but in +some instances have confused and obscured the searchlight of truth. In +the economy of human affairs, books have been factors of no small +importance. They have proved the most potent expositors of iniquitous +systems, and when properly directed against crying evils have +accomplished speedy reforms. They have precipitated wars, incited +revolts and seditions in the cause of progress, yet have intensified +prejudice, political, religious and racial. With silent eloquence, +they have cried out against the wrongs of those who had none to plead +their cause, while in other cases, their influence has tended to +perpetuate existing abuses. In some instances they have taught men to +be content with servitude, in others have ignited the beacon fires of +liberty. Though they are usually found enlisted under the banners of +justice, yet no cause has ever been so unworthy, and no institution so +unholy, that books have not been written in their defence. In verity, +they have sown both wheat and tares. + +Books have been written on every conceivable subject, under all +conditions, by all sorts of writers, and from an endless variety of +motives. The recompense of those who have written them has been +equally various. Some have been apotheosized and worshipped, others +have been the recipients of orders and decorations of honor at the +hands of kings and potentates, while others have received the ovations +of admiring multitudes. Some have anonymously contributed their mite +toward the enrichment of literature, others have appeared, from whence +we know not, and after placing their offerings upon the altars of +poesy and art have departed unrewarded into the shadows of obscurity, +leaving as footprints innumerable quotations which have become +proverbial. Some, as the bards and minnesingers of old who in +mediæval castles ate their bread by the sufferance of the feudal lords +and barons, have in more recent years been dependent upon the bounty +of some munificent, and usually titled patron, to whom they, as a +matter of policy, dedicated their strains and panegyrics, consequently +wielding mercenary pens. Some who have presumed to write in a manner +displeasing to those who sat in high places have met with +vilification, exile, imprisonment, decapitation, and have not been +strangers to the pillory. Criticism and ridicule are the patent +rewards of incipient authorship, while want, neglect and starvation +have terminated the career of more than one name afterwards great in +the world of letters. + +Aside from motives common to all who with reverent steps humbly strive +to follow where the great lights of poesy have led, the author of +these unpretentious pages has been actuated by a desire to portray, in +his correct light, a very frequently misrepresented character, viz.: +the pioneer prospector. It has long been customary for writers of +western fiction to picture this character as a large-hearted but rough +and untutored individual, expressing himself in a vernacular +consisting of equal parts of slang, profanity and questionable +grammar, possessing no ambitions above the card table or the strong +waters which cause all men to err who drink them. An intimate +acquaintance with this class, extending from the years of infancy to +middle age, convinces the writer that the common description is +manifestly unjust and misleading. + +The men who flocked to the early gold excitements, and who +subsequently prospected the western mountain ranges for their hidden +wealth, were the cream of American and European manhood; men possessed +of more than ordinary endowments of intellect, education and physique, +while their industry, bravery and hardihood have never been +questioned. + +Proof of this exists in the names which have lingered behind them as a +matter of record, for it was the prospector who christened the +mountains, gulches and mining locations of the west. A cursory perusal +of the maps of mineral surveys in any western mining district, will +reveal in abundance such names as Hector, Ajax, Golden Fleece, Atlas, +Pegasus, etc.; indicating that those who applied them were, if not +college graduates, men not unfamiliar with the classics. The use of +such names as Cleopatra, Crusader or Magna Charta, by a prospector +unversed in history, would naturally be unexpected. One without +knowledge of literature would hardly grace his location stakes with +such names as Dante, Hamlet or Mephistopheles, while one entirely +unlettered could not by chance hit upon such names as Pandora, Medusa +or Sesostris. + +Of the pioneer prospectors but few remain; many have fallen asleep, +others tiring of the privation and uncertainty incident to a miner's +life, are pursuing other vocations, while many have become prosperous +ranch and cattle-men and may now be found in almost any western +valley. A few, a very few in comparison with the less fortunate +majority, acquiring a competence, removed to other localities, and in +not a few instances, have become conspicuous figures in the world of +business, politics and finance. + +In the mountainous districts of the west, you may still occasionally +see a veteran prospector of the old school, living the life of a +hermit in his log cabin, situated in some picturesque park or gulch, +near his, sometimes valuable but more frequently worthless, mining +locations. There he lives winter and summer, his only companion a cat +or dog; the ambitions of his youth still unrealized, but at three +score and ten, hopeful and expectant. His bent form, white hair, and +venerable bearing impress you strangely at first, but it is only when +you overcome the reticence peculiar to those who have long dwelt in +solitude, and engage him in conversation, that his mental status +becomes apparent. To your surprise you discover that he can converse +entertainingly on any subject, from the Mosaic dispensation, to the +latest inventions in the world of mechanism. You may find him to be, +not only a Shakspearean scholar, but a deep student of that volume +which, whether considered from a sacred or secular point of view, +stands preeminently forth as the Book of Books. You may find him able +to translate Homer, or Virgil, and that the masterpieces of literature +are as familiar to him as his own cabin walls. A glimpse at the +interior of his cabin discloses an ample stock of newspapers and +magazines, while books are not strangers. There is something pathetic +about his loneliness; you leave him with the feeling that society has +been the loser by his voluntary banishment, and are reminded of Gray's +immortal lines: + + "Full many a gem of purest ray serene. + The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; + Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, + And waste its sweetness on the desert air." + +You speculate upon the story of his life, for you feel that it has a +secret, if not a tragedy, connected with it, into which you may not +probe. You ask yourself the question, "Has not his life been wasted?" +and if he alone is to be considered, there is none but an affirmative +answer. But his life has not been barren of results. He has been a +contributory factor in the upbuilding of an empire, for he is one of +the class who laid the foundations of western prosperity. + +These men came west for various reasons, some actuated by the spirit +of adventure, some to acquire fortunes or to retrieve vanished ones, +others possibly to outlive the stigma of youthful mistakes. In the +lives of many of them are sealed chapters. It is with such that these +pages have to do. + + ALFRED CASTNER KING. + + OURAY, COLO., 1907. + + + + +_CONTENTS_ + + + _The Passing of the Storm_ _Page_ + + _I._ _The Storm_ _17_ + + _II._ _A Chapter from an Old Man's Life_ _28_ + + _III._ _The Prisoner_ _36_ + + _IV._ _A Sequel of the Lost Cause_ _49_ + + _V._ _The Avalanche_ _58_ + + _VI._ _The Rescue_ _65_ + + _VII._ _The Blight of War_ _72_ + + _VIII._ _The Story of an Exile_ _93_ + + _IX._ _Conclusion_ _115_ + + _Dolores_ _120_ + + _Great Shepherd of the Countless Flocks + of Stars_ _122_ + + _The Ruined Cabin_ _123_ + + _An Idyll_ _124_ + + _The Borderland of Sleep_ _125_ + + _Stellar Nocturne_ _126_ + + _Father, at Thy Altar Kneeling_ _127_ + + _Dreams_ _128_ + + _Nocturne_ _129_ + + _The True Faith_ _131_ + + _A Fragment_ _131_ + + _Mortality_ _132_ + + + + +_LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_ + + + _Facing Page_ + + _"The mountains lay in calm repose + Slumbering 'neath their robes of white."_ _Title._ + + _"As stormy cowls their summits hid."_ _17_ + + _"Exceeding the tremendous height + Of brother peaks, on left and right."_ _26_ + + _"Beseamed with countless scars and rents + From combat with the elements."_ _30_ + + _"He towered with mute and massive form + A challenge to the gathering storm."_ _40_ + + _"With swift and spoliating flow, + Uprooting many a noble tree, + To strew the desert's waste below, + With scattered drift-wood and debris."_ _50_ + + _"Arrayed in Nature's pristine dress + This was, indeed, a wilderness."_ _62_ + + _"We grew as two twin pines might grow, + Upon some isolated edge, + Of some lone precipice or ledge."_ _70_ + + _"The noble spruce and stately fir + Stood draped in feathery garniture."_ _114_ + + _"From the mountain peaks crested with snow."_ _120_ + + _"High up on the cliffs in their dwellings + Which were apertures walled up with rocks, + Lived this people, sequestered and happy; + Their dwellings now serve the wild fox."_ _126_ + + _"As it fearlessly leaps o'er the rocky wall + From the mountain peaks stern and hoary."_ _130_ + + _"I love the lake in the mountain's lap."_ _134_ + + +[Illustration: + "As stormy cowls their summits hid." + + _See page 19._] + + + + +_The Passing of the Storm_ + + +I. THE STORM + + Reflecting, in their crystal snows, + The glittering jewels of the night, + The mountains lay in calm repose + Slumbering 'neath their robes of white. + + The stars grew dim,--a film instead, + The twinkling heavens overspread, + Through which their eyes essayed to peer, + Each moment less distinct and clear, + Till, when the stellar beacons failed, + A darkness unrelieved, prevailed. + + Out of the ambient depths of gloom, + Bereft of its accustomed bloom, + Came day-break, comfortless and gray. + Sped the nocturnal shades away, + Unveiling, with their winged retreat, + A twilight sad and incomplete. + Reluctantly, as dawn aspired, + The shadows lingered, then retired + As vanquished armies often yield + Upon a well-contested field, + And sullenly retrace their course + Before an overwhelming force. + + Within the east no purple light + Proclaimed the passing of the night; + No crimson blush appeared to warn + The landscape of returning morn. + Discarding all the gorgeous dyes, + Wherewith the sunset tints the skies, + And mingling with the azure blue, + The warp and woof of sober hue; + The fairies of the air, I wist, + Had spun a silvery web of mist, + Whose texture, ominous and gray, + Obscured the glories of the day. + + Such was the dreary winter's day, + Which dawned with dull and leaden sky; + No cheerful penetrating ray + Flashed from the sun's resplendent eye. + In vain, through rift and orifice, + He strove with radiant beam to kiss + Each mountain peak and dizzy height, + Apparelled in their garbs of white, + And crown each brow, so bleak and cold, + With burnished diadem of gold. + + Ascending in aërial flight, + The wheel of fire did not appear, + To dissipate the fogs of night + And clarify the atmosphere. + Seeking with fervent ray and fierce, + The canopy of cloud to pierce, + The orb of day, stripped of his flame, + A circle, ill-defined, became, + As through the ever-thickening haze, + His feeble outline met the gaze. + This faded till his glowing face + Left no suggestive spot or trace, + No corollary on the pall + Which settled and pervaded all. + + As stormy cowls their summits hid, + In turret, tower and pyramid, + Of stately and majestic mien, + Was nature's architecture seen. + From yawning chasm and abyss, + Rose minaret and precipice, + Carved by the tireless hand of time, + In forms fantastic, yet sublime, + While spires impregnable and high, + Were profiled on the lowering sky. + + Exceeding the tremendous height + Of brother peaks, on left and right, + In his commanding station placed, + The giant of the rocky waste + With awe-inspiring aspect stood, + The sentry of the solitude, + Guarding the mountainous expanse + With his imposing battlements. + In rock-ribbed armor panoplied, + With rugged walls on every side, + Beseamed with countless scars and rents, + From combat with the elements, + He towered with mute and massive form, + A challenge to the gathering storm. + + This overshadowing mountain peak + In solemn silence seemed to speak + A prophecy of arctic doom; + As in his frigid splendor dressed, + He reared aloft his frozen crest, + Surmounted by a snowy plume. + His wrinkled and forbidding brow + A sombre shadow seemed to throw + O'er other crags as wild and stern, + Which frowned defiance in return. + + The wind, lugubrious and sad, + In doleful accents, soft and low, + Mourned through the dismal forests, clad + In weird habiliments of snow, + As if, forsooth, the sylvan ghosts + Had mobilized in pallid hosts, + To haunt their rugged solitudes, + The spectres of departed woods. + And with uninterrupted flow + The streamlet, underneath the snow, + Answered the wind's despondent moan + With plaint of gurgling monotone; + Or, locked in winter's stern embrace, + No longer trickled in its bed, + But found a frigid resting place + In stationary ice, instead. + The crystal snowflakes gently fell, + Enrobing mountain, plain and dell, + In mantle spotless and complete, + As nature in her winding sheet. + Layer upon layer fell fast and deep + Till every cliff, abrupt and steep, + Was crowned with coronal of white. + Capricious gusts, which whirl and sift, + Built comb and overhanging drift, + From feathery flakes so soft and light. + + More thickly flew the snow and fast; + The wind developed and the blast + Soon churned the tempest, till the air + Seemed but a white and whirling glare, + Through which the penetrating eye + No shape nor contour might descry. + + The poor belated traveller, + Who braved the rigor of that day, + Might thank his bright protecting star,-- + If orbs of pure celestial ray, + Far in the scintillating skies, + Preside o'er human destinies,-- + That he, bewildered and distressed, + Had warded off exhaustion's rest, + And in that maze of pine and fir + Escaped an icy sepulchre. + + When driving snows accumulate, + They yield to the tremendous weight. + And down the mountain's rugged sides + The mass with great momentum slides, + Cleaving the fragile spruce and pine, + Which stand in its ill-fated line, + As bearded grain, mature and lithe, + Goes down before the reaper's scythe. + Or, when the cyclone's baleful force, + In flood of atmospheric wrath, + Pursues its devastating course, + Leaving but ruin in its path; + Despoiling in a moment's span + The most exalted works of man; + Or waters, suddenly set free, + When some black thunder cloud is rent, + Rush down a wild declivity + With irresistible descent, + Depositing on every hand + A layer of sediment and sand; + With swift and spoliating flow, + Uprooting many a noble tree, + To strew the desert wastes below + With scattered drift-wood and debris; + Such is the dreadful avalanche, + Which rends the forest, root and branch. + + From dangers in such varied form, + And the discomforts of the storm, + Small wonder 'twas the mountaineer + Left not his fireside's ruddy cheer; + But from behind the bolted door + Discerned the tempest's strident roar, + Or heard the pendent icicle, + Which, from the eaves, in fragments fell, + As some more formidable blast + In paroxysmal fury passed. + It shook with intermittent throes, + Of boisterous, spasmodic power, + A most substantial hut, which rose, + As summer breeze sways grass or flower + And e'en the dull immobile ground + Trembled in sympathy profound. + + Such was the fury of the storm, + As if the crystal flakes had met + With militating hosts, to swarm + In siege about its parapet. + + When every rampant onslaught failed, + The blast in wanton frenzy wailed. + As if with unspent rage the wind + Felt much disgruntled and chagrined, + And though of nugatory force, + Could vent its spleen with accents hoarse. + As some beleaguered tower of old + Besieged by warriors stern and bold, + Who dashed against its walls of stone, + Which were not swayed nor overthrown; + As vicious strokes delivered well, + Innocuous and futile fell. + Then watched the walls withstand the strain, + And cursed and gnashed their teeth in vain. + + Beneath a massive pinnacle, + Whose weird, forbidding shadows fell, + And gulch and forest overcast + With mantle ominous and vast, + Nestling amid the spruce and pine, + Which fringe the edge of timberline, + This miner's cabin, quaint and rude, + From the surrounding forest hewed, + With primitive, yet stable form, + Withstood the onslaught of the storm, + And at the entrance of a dell + Stood as a rustic sentinel. + + Beneath a pine's protecting skirt, + It reared its modest roof of poles, + Laid close, then overlaid with dirt, + To cover up the cracks and holes; + The intervals between the logs + Were daubed with mud from mountain bogs. + The ground did service as a floor + In this, as many huts before; + So beaten down beneath the tread, + It more resembled tile instead. + + The plastic clay, compressed and sleek, + Was level and as hard as brick. + Protruding boulders, smooth and bare, + Exposed their faces here and there; + And with their surfaces displayed, + A primitive mosaic made. + And, terminating in a stack, + Some feet above the cabin's roof, + The fireplace, comfortless and black, + Arose the dingy form uncouth. + This object of depressing gloom, + Built in the corner of the room, + When filled with lurid tongues of flame, + A cheerful cynosure became. + + The furnishings within were crude; + A table fastened to the wall + Had been with some exertion hewed + From aspen timbers straight and tall, + And was, in lieu of table legs, + Supported by protruding pegs. + A cracker box, with shelves inside, + The leading corner occupied, + And made an ample cupboard there, + Where tin supplanted chinaware. + A frying pan, which from a nail + Suspended, dripped a greasy trail. + Framed from the hemlock's poles and boughs, + The rustic bunks within the house + Were not elaborate affairs; + While boxes filled the place of chairs. + + Tacked on the unpretentious wall + Were advertisements, great and small, + While lithograph and crayon scenes, + Clipped from the standard magazines, + Comprised a mimic gallery, + Which broke the wall's monotony. + No carpets were upon that floor, + But at the bottom of the door + The rug, against its yawning crack, + Consisted of a gunny-sack. + Nor was there lock upon that door, + The guardian of sordid pelf; + The traveller, distressed and sore, + Might enter there and help himself. + + Within this weather-beaten hut + Of logs, by many a tempest tried, + With doors and windows closely shut, + To keep the genial warmth inside; + A group of hardy mountaineers, + Blockaded by the winter's snow, + Sat by the fireside's ruddy glow. + Some old, and old beyond their years, + As disappointments, toil and strife, + Which constitute the miner's life, + Must operate with process sure, + Toward age, unduly premature; + [Blank Page] + For years, in stern privation spent, + Are traced in seam and lineament, + Which gives the patriarchal face + Its rugged dignity and grace. + +[Illustration: + "Exceeding the tremendous height + Of brother peaks, on left and right." + + _See page 19._] + + Although by fond illusions led, + Through phantasies of empty air, + Which mark an ultimate despair, + The miner still sees hope ahead. + The prospector could never cope + With dangers and realities, + But for the visionary hope + Which both deceives and mollifies, + Alluring him with siren song + Her vague uncertain paths along. + + Yet some, this stalwart group among, + Were adolescent,--even young. + For hearts, which youthful breasts conceal, + Oft burn with energetic zeal, + To ope, with labor's patient key, + The mountain's hidden treasury. + + Most furiously it blew and snowed, + Most cheerily the firelight glowed, + And as the forkèd tongues of flame, + In fierce combustion, writhed and burned, + Nor moment's space remained the same, + The conversation swayed and turned. + + For tales were told of avalanche, + Of army scenes, of mine and ranch, + Of wily politician's snares, + Of gold excitements, smallpox scares, + Of England's debt and grizzly bears. + + When all but three their stories told + Of tropic heat, or arctic cold, + The conversation dragged at length, + An interim for future strength. + Outspoke a voice: "Let Uncle Jim + Some past experience relate, + For Fate has kindly granted him, + At least, diversity of fate." + + +II. A CHAPTER FROM AN OLD MAN'S LIFE + + As ample wreaths of curling smoke + From his time-honored meerschaum broke, + A kindly-faced, gray-bearded man + Rose up and sadly thus began,-- + "You ask a tale,--well, I'll express + The reason why in manhood's prime + I left a more congenial clime + And sought this rugged wilderness." + But, gentle reader, don't expect + A tale in mongrel dialect, + For "Uncle Jim," or James T. Hale, + Who lived as anchorite or monk, + Once led the senior class at Yale, + And had his sheepskin in his trunk. + There, while the crackling flames leaped high, + And serpentine gyrations played + Around the logs of hemlock, dry, + And with the tempest seethed and swayed, + As curled the drowsy wreaths of smoke + Above his pipe, the old man spoke: + + "'Twas on a day about like this, + When, fresh from youthful haunts and scenes, + I first beheld yon precipice, + And sought these gulches and ravines, + To pan, despite the frost and cold, + For shining particles of gold; + And hewed the rocker and the sluice + From out the native pine and spruce. + Arrayed in nature's pristine dress + This was indeed a wilderness. + Nor eye of eagle ever viewed + A more forbidding solitude, + Nor prospect more completely drear + Confronted hardy pioneer. + + Why came I here? My simple tale + Goes back to a New England vale. + It is, though simple tale it be, + A life's unwritten tragedy: + A story, with few incidents, + But many years of penitence. + As one, for some foul crime pursued, + Doth flee, in frenzy rash and blind + To wilderness or solitude, + I fled, to leave my past behind. + + I loved a maid, both fair and true, + Just where, it matters not, nor who. + For forty years, with silent tread, + Have silvered many a raven head, + Since on her wealth of auburn hair + The moonlight shimmered, soft and fair, + As where the pine and hemlock stood + And sighed in answer to the breeze, + With but the stars as witnesses, + Our troth was plighted in the wood; + A simple rustic tale in truth, + Of love and sentimental youth. + +[Illustration: + "Beseamed with countless scars and rents + From combat with the elements." + + _See page 20._] + + Love is the subtle mystery, + The charm, the esoteric spell, + Which lures the seraph from on High. + To leave the Throne of Light,--for Hell,-- + And with resistless shackles binds, + In viewless thrall, the captive minds. + For who can fathom love's caprice, + Supplant her fervid wars with peace, + And passion's ardent flame command? + Or who presume to understand + And read with cabalistic art + The hieroglyphics of the heart? + [Blank Page] + Nor eye of regent, skilled to rule, + Nor sage from earth's profoundest school, + Nor erudite philosophy + On wisdom's heights, pretend to see + The fervent secrets of the breast, + Which rankle mute and unexpressed. + Nor the angelic hosts above + In their exuberance of love, + Nor demons from the pit can span + The depths of woman's love for man. + And men, of love's sweet flame bereft, + Have but the brutal instincts left. + + She, too, my youthful love returned, + Each breast with throb responsive yearned, + The oracles of passion sweet, + All augured happiness complete. + But, ere the nuptial knot was bound, + A whispered rumor crept around, + A whispered rumor, such as rise + From nothing to colossal size; + Though none their origin can trace, + Nor ferret out the starting place, + Which start sometimes, in idle jest, + When knowing looks imply the rest. + The lightest rumor, or the worst, + May be discredited at first, + But oft repeated and received + Is soon unconsciously believed. + Though inconsistent and abstract, + Fanned by insinuating tongues, + Imaginary faults and wrongs + Soon gain the currency of fact. + The purest acts are misconstrued + By the lascivious and lewd, + And envy loves to lie in wait + With fangs imbrued in venomed hate. + This slander, born of jealousy, + Was told as solemn truth to me, + By tongues I deemed immaculate. + + Alas! that shafts from falsehood's bow + Should undetected cleave the air, + Or wanton hands in malice sow + The tares of discord and despair. + For every seed of falsehood sown + Brings forth a harvest of its own, + And ears, most ready to believe, + Are difficult to undeceive. + Alas! that shafts from falsehood's tongue + Should fall suspicious ears among, + And be received, and nursed, forsooth, + As arrows of unblemished truth: + Maligning spotless innocence, + With grave impeachments of offence. + Their crime, of heinous crimes the worst, + With multiplied damnation cursed, + Who, lost to every sense of shame, + Assassinate a woman's name. + For such, with trumped-up calumnies, + Would drag an angel from the skies, + And stain its vestal robes of white + With slander's sable hues of night, + Holding to ridicule and shame + The ruins of a once fair name. + + Who so, from slander's chalice sips, + May greet you with a friendly kiss, + Nor may the foul, envenomed lips + Betray the adder's sting and hiss. + The fairest flowrets of the field + The rankest poisons often yield, + And falsehood loves to hide her tooth + 'Neath the habiliments of truth. + This scandal, venomous and vile, + Had no foundation but a smile, + But on it wagging tongues had built + A massive pyramid of guilt. + + In evil hour, I, too, believed + For fabrications more absurd + Than the aspersions I had heard + Have wiser ears than mine deceived. + I fought suspicion, vainly tried + To cast each rising doubt aside. + But he who lists to tales of ill + Believes in part, despite his will. + Then in my face, as in a book, + She read one sad distrustful look, + A look of pity, yet of doubt, + For silence cries most loudly out, + And who can smile with visage bright + To shield misgivings black as night? + + Unhappy trait that in us lies! + We doubt the verdict of our eyes; + We doubt each faculty and sense, + Yet credit sham and false pretence. + We question Truth, and much prefer + To list to Falsehood, than to her: + And that, which most substantial seems, + We doubt, yet place our faith in dreams. + We doubt the pearl of purest white, + We doubt the diamond clear and bright, + And yet accept the base and flawed, + Yes, revel in all forms of fraud. + + That moment's lack of confidence, + The shadow of remote offence, + Cost each the sweetest joys of life, + Cost her a husband, me a wife. + + Ere yet that month its course had spent, + In time's continuous descent, + Her face had been forever hid + Beneath the sod and coffin lid. + Then slanderous tongues forgot their lies, + And wagged in glowing eulogies. + + Though tears, the pearls of sorrow be, + And many o'er her grave were shed, + Mine was a tearless agony, + A deeper, dry-eyed grief instead. + + That rumor, void of fact or proof, + Too late betrayed the cloven hoof. + Too late, alas! 'twas given me + To recognize its falsity. + + Within a rural burial place, + A rude, though quaint, necropolis, + Where, through the growth of hemlock trees, + Is borne the requiem of the breeze; + Where stand the funeral pines as plumes, + Above the scattered graves and tombs, + And sigh, with drooping branches spread, + In sylvan dirges for the dead; + Beneath a fir tree's sombre shade, + My last adieu to her was made. + + Close by the slab of graven stone, + Which marks her place of silent rest, + I knelt at midnight, and alone, + Then rose and started for the West." + + * * * * * + + The wind in temporary lull, + Had dwindled to a plaintive moan; + As if in mournful monotone, + Her cup of anguish being full, + Sad nature's fountain-heads of bale + Had overflowed with plaint and wail. + In palpitating throbs of woe, + It now arose and whirled the snow + With triple energy renewed, + Filling the dismal solitude + With woeful shriekings of despair, + As demon orgies in the air, + And culminated in a roar + More violent than aught before. + + * * * * * + + At length another timely lull + Made human voices audible. + As Uncle Jim resumed his seat, + A voice cried out for Russian Pete. + + * * * * * + + +III. THE PRISONER + + Of Russian Pete but little had been known, + He liked to read and be so much alone; + No more his close associates could tell, + Save that he spoke the English language well. + About this stranger with the clever tongue, + An air of mystery and sadness clung. + His name, so long and unpronounceable, + Which none could frame, much less presume to spell, + Waiving abridgment, partial or complete, + Was, by the boys, transformed to "Russian Pete." + + Now Russian Pete was tall and strong of limb, + Nor more than half as old as Uncle Jim, + Of noble stature and commanding brow, + With knees which in no genuflections bow. + His face was sad, the index of a breast + Where memory's fires were raging unsuppressed. + With eyes which search in closest scrutiny, + Nor yet offend the object they would see. + One, who from feature, act and equipoise, + Had known life's sorrows better than its joys. + A man whom you would notice in the street, + And know the second time if you should meet. + + This man of mystery and intellect + Arose, and stood in manhood's poise erect. + In tone of voice so musical and clear + It might have charmed the most exacting ear, + And wealth of language few can hope to reach, + Nor trace of foreign accent in his speech, + He forthwith spake: "My simple tale shall be, + Not one of love, but dire captivity. + Like Uncle Jim's, however, it contains + The cause why I forsook my native plains. + No tender web of sentiment, but one + By treachery and machination spun. + + Across the sea, in distant realms afar, + In the remote dominions of the Czar, + Past where the Dnieper rolls his murky flood, + Surcharged with fertilizing silt and mud, + Past the dark forests and productive plains, + Which he with many a tributary drains; + Within that city whose inhabitants, + With flaming torch, withstood the arms of France, + Preferring ruin to the victor's boast, + Or occupation by an alien host. + Fair Moscow, which became a funeral pyre, + And perished in her self-ignited fire, + That her invaders, chilled by snow and sleet, + Might sink in irretrievable defeat. + A few years since, the date concerns us not, + A minor detail readily forgot, + Beneath the shadow of her noblest spire, + There dwelt two students, children of one sire. + + With prospects fair at manhood's budding edge, + In caste esteemed of no base parentage; + Two students, versed in languages, and planned + For consul service in a distant land, + As foreign usages are studied most, + When one aspires to diplomatic post. + Thus eagerly, did we acquire the tongue + Of you, whom I address and live among. + With lucubrations diligent, we sought + Our ways up varied avenues of thought, + Until by prejudice no longer bound, + We stood at last upon dissenting ground; + Or wavered, where reluctant doubts confuse, + In that strange zone of ruminating views, + Where progress and established custom meet; + Yes, crossed its boundaries with reckless feet. + + In that stern Empire, on disruption's brink, + Some things you may,--and some you may not,--think; + Express yourself, and instantly disgraced, + Your steps may point toward a Siberian waste; + Your substance confiscated by a court + Where equity is but a theme for sport; + Extol your theories, proffer your advice, + And chains or banishment may be the price. + + For despot hands, since might's initial sway, + Have fashioned chains for worthier hands than they; + And oftentimes beneath the tyrant's heel + Are crushed the lives which strive for human weal; + Who dare to hold the gonfalon aloft + For human rights and progress, yes, how oft + Since Cain that fratricidal murder wrought, + Have death and durance been the price of thought! + + He who espouses radical reform + Invites upon his head the gathering storm; + Each forward step from Custom's hackneyed school, + Draws forth the floods of scorn and ridicule; + Witness the dungeon, guillotine and rack, + Chains for the feet and scourges for the back; + Bestrewn with insult, diatribe and cuff, + The pathway of reform was ever rough; + And when reforms, as tidal waves have come, + The foremost breakers dash to martyrdom. + + Perhaps, in youth's enthusiastic heat + We may have been a little indiscreet, + When we, thus inexperienced and young, + Against oppression dared to raise the tongue. + Perhaps 'twere best to tarnish manhood's brow + With servile adulation, and to bow + With craven salaam and obeisance, down + In sycophantic homage to a crown. + What, though the diadem its blazon rears + Above a population's groans and tears! + What, though the paths of tyranny be strew'd + With suspirations of the multitude! + If one but bask within the regal smile, + Why strive against injustice, fraud and guile? + Or, why enlist the sympathetic pen, + Though thrones may crush the liberties of men? + + One inadvertent hour, some chance remark + Was misconstrued with application dark; + For little is required as an excuse + When private ends are furthered by abuse; + Suspicion's tunes are played with greatest ease, + When jealousy manipulates the keys. + What followed, it were wearisome to tell, + Save that we found ourselves within a cell, + Charged with sedition and conspiracy, + By those more likely to conspire than we. + +[Illustration: + "He towered with mute and massive form + A challenge to the gathering storm." + + _See page 20._] + + Three days were we, in custody detained, + In stern abeyance formally constrained. + Within a court, where no protesting word + From prisoner or counsel may be heard; + A court, where no forensic eloquence + May quash the allegations of offence; + Our doom was sealed, by a capricious judge + Who thereby satisfied a family grudge. + + The sentence passed, the stalwart Cossack guard + Straightway transferred us to a prison yard. + There parted we, before its grated door; + They dragged him in,--and he was seen no more. + + Another door, with dull metallic sound + Was closed, and I was hurried underground, + Through labyrinth of passages and halls, + Past dingy arches and protruding walls, + Where gloom perpetual the eye obscures, + Through damp recesses, nooks and apertures, + With foul effluvia and odors filled, + By darkness, dampness and decay distilled. + For noisome vapors float in gaseous waves, + In cavern depths of men-created caves, + And generate in humid warmth or cold + The loathsome mildew and corrupting mould. + + At length, through cruel maze of grate and stone, + By paths circuitous and ways unknown, + We reached the cell,--as hideous a den, + As ever held unwilling beasts or men. + And soon with manacles securely bound, + Myself its only occupant I found. + A dungeon, dimly lighted and obscure, + With pools of water, stagnant and impure, + Whose noxious exhalations permeate + The deadened air, which could not circulate: + And laden with malignant slime and ooze, + Upon the walls discharged in baneful dews: + Or else precipitate, with vapory loss, + Enrobed the cruel stones with pendent moss. + And water, foul as e'er offended lip, + Fell from the roof with intermittent drip. + Remote from daylight, dismal and unsunned, + Decompositions stored a teeming fund + Of molecules and organisms strange, + In an invisible but constant change. + As stagnant waters generate a froth, + These, with spontaneous and fungous growth, + Had draped the dungeon's limited expanse + With toadstool, bulb and foul protuberance. + These from the air its milder virtues drank, + Supplanting ichors, venemous and dank, + Whose essence deleterious, the while, + Exudes in savors and miasmas vile. + + High on the wall, a double-grated slit + A slender ray of sunshine would admit + On pleasant mornings, when the sky was clear + From leaden fogs and hazy atmosphere. + A ray of sunlight, yes, a welcome ray, + A wholesome beam, but just too far away. + Although I tugged at the remorseless chain + And strove to reach that sunbeam, 'twas in vain; + The lambent gleam which broke into the cell + Alone on toad and savage rodent fell. + In vain I wrenched the manacles, in vain + I sought to rend the cruel gyves in twain, + Strove, with contortions painful and extreme, + To lay my head within this gladsome beam, + Or even touch it with the finger-tip; + In vain,--no galling chain relaxed its grip. + + A ray of sunlight just beyond my reach, + Like Tantalus, as ancient classics teach, + When for duplicity and theft immersed, + In rippling waters, doomed to ceaseless thirst,-- + For as his parching lips essayed to drink, + The mocking waters would recede, or sink; + Though luscious fruits hung pendent in his sight, + To coax the palate and the appetite, + Whene'er his hand reached forth with eager thrust, + Those selfsame fruits resolved to baleful dust. + That sunbeam, though an aggravation fair, + Still closed the floodgates of complete despair. + As dykes constrain, in distant lowland realms, + The deluge, which engulfs and overwhelms. + With final resource and expedient + And all her vials of expectation spent, + Fate, in her changeable kaleidoscope, + Evolves new turns to reëstablish hope. + That ray of sunshine, as an angel's smile, + Beaming in love amid surroundings vile, + Came, morn by morn, to mitigate and bless; + A benediction in my bitterness. + + Time after time, when the approaching night + Had banished every modicum of light, + And clothed each outline with her sable guise, + I watched the greenish glow of reptile eyes, + Nor dared to slumber, till exhaustion's sleep + Benumbed my senses with its stupors deep. + Then, conjured by the witcheries of night, + Came pleasant dreams and visions of delight, + Those iridescent phantasies of air, + Which mock the troubled breast in its despair; + Then waking, the delusive phantoms flown, + A prisoner upon a floor of stone. + My fare was still the captive's mouldy crust, + My chains still reeked with clotted gore and rust, + The rigid shackles still retained their clutch, + And clammy walls repulsed the friendly touch. + + Day after day, besmeared with filth and slime, + In foul monotony I passed the time, + Battling with vermin foes, a teeming brood, + Prolific and not easily withstood: + An evil pest, ubiquitous and rife, + In the fecundity of insect life. + In agony of body and of brain, + Each breath a stifling gasp and twinge of pain, + Cursing my fortune, though each fevered curse + Redounding, made my agony the worse; + For fits of anger seldom mollify, + When vacancy reiterates the cry, + Or walls of cold, unsympathetic stone + Respond but hollow echoes of a groan. + Though limbs as free and restless as the wind + Are not to shackles readily resigned, + Complaint, with oath and bitterness replete, + In prisoner is doubly indiscreet. + The imprecation, born of righteous wrath, + Subtracts no obstacle from any path. + + Bereft of star or luminary bright, + No night so dark as artificial night; + No glittering constellations kindly throw + Their twinkling beacons o'er the void below; + No satellite with pale invasive beam + Breaks through the darkness awful and extreme; + No comet, through the vast sidereal waste, + Pursues its orbit with unbridled haste; + No silvery moon, through the dissembling shroud, + May shine or burst through orifice of cloud + In mellow radiations, soft and sweet; + Darkness most dense, oppressive and complete. + + No friendly voice might penetrate the gloom, + Nor break the silence of that fetid tomb, + With genial converse, which in some degree + Makes men forget their depth of misery. + Silence, most tragic, horrible, profound, + Except the sharp and intermittent sound + Of rodent feet, and noise of creeping things, + The squeak of vampires and their whirr of wings; + Or cries of swift pursuit, or of despair, + Rang out upon the pestilential air, + As ever and anon a dying squeak + Told of the strong prevailing o'er the weak; + For might obtains along the selfsame plan + With ruthless vermin and enlightened man. + Yet man in his dominion absolute, + Removed above the province of the brute, + From social claims and attributes released, + Has little to distinguish from the beast. + With all associative wants denied, + And his gregarious longings unsupplied, + By human comradeship, affection springs + Well up in effluent love for baser things. + For 'neath the polish and embellishments + Of cultivation and intelligence, + There lies a basic bond of sympathy, + For man and beast are friends in misery. + Yes, friends, the most ill-favored shape which squirms + In reptile folds, repulsive snakes and worms, + Soon lose their dread repugnance, one and all, + To solitary man in prison thrall. + Through the long hours of physical distress, + In my extremity of loneliness, + I felt companionship in this abode, + For e'en the vicious rat and sluggish toad. + + Thrice sixty days of corporal decay + And mental anguish, slowly wore away; + Thrice sixty nights of filthy durance passed, + Each day and night more hopeless than the last. + My limbs, no longer brawny and alert, + Were famine-wasted, loathsome and inert. + With shaggy beard and matted unkempt hair, + With face no longer rubicund and fair, + Which haggard and emaciated shone, + And through the sallow skin disclosed the bone. + Thus languished nature in enforced decay, + Till hope's last beacon light had burned away. + + Though never exculpated from offence, + Time brought conditional deliverance; + A writ of amnesty, the Czar's decree, + Within its gracious scope included me. + Released at last by ukase absolute, + But famished, homeless, sick and destitute. + What followed would be tedious to recite, + The sequel, but the incidents of flight. + Alone, an outcast from my native hearth, + An aimless wanderer upon the earth, + Blown as the desert shifts a grain of sand, + Borne by each wanton gale, from land to land. + + A keen observer of the play of life, + Withal a nether factor in its strife. + Watching existence as a game of chess, + Where love, hate, smile, tear, insult and caress + Hold us by turns in various forms of check; + Some sort of yoke is worn by every neck. + Kings, queens and knights, exalted castles see, + Undone by pawns and powers of base degree. + Positions gained at a tremendous cost, + By one false move may be forever lost; + Each studied movement, each strategic course, + Is shaped by contact with opposing force, + And moves which seem fortuitous and blind + Are often those most cunningly designed. + In devious ways we may not understand, + Our steps are ordered by an Unseen Hand. + Proud queens, subservient pawns, with varied rôle, + Are vain components of the wondrous whole; + Life's pantomime, in figures complicate; + Men are but puppets on the wires of fate. + + * * * * * + + My native land, henceforth no longer mine, + My footsteps, seeking an adopted shrine, + Have found a home, within the mountain West, + Where Truth may preach her gospel unsuppressed." + + * * * * * + * * * * * + + All eyes were now on Russian Pete, + Who quietly resumed his seat. + + At the conclusion of his tale + The wind had risen to a gale, + And mourned as though in sympathy + With human woe and misery. + Or as the winds, for some offence + To man, or his creations done, + Now wailed a frenzied penitence + In anguish-laden orison. + The elements petitioning + The pardon of their stormy king, + E'en as the supplicating cries + Might from the damned in torment rise, + And cleave the palpitating air + With hopeless accents of despair. + + * * * * * + + As Uncle Jim stirred up the fire + With observation taciturn, + All watched the crackling hemlock burn + Till some one called for Dad McGuire. + + +IV. A SEQUEL OF THE LOST CAUSE + + Now, Dad McGuire was old, and bent of form, + Tanned by exposure to the sun and storm; + Of grizzled beard and seam-indented brow, + The furrows traced by Time's remorseless plough; + Hardy and gnarlèd as the mountain oak, + Bent by the hand of Time but still unbroke; + Bowed by the weight of years and labors done, + A man whose course had neared the setting sun; + His face a blending of the calm and sad, + Paternal-looking, so they called him "Dad." + + * * * * * + + This man, so near his journey's close, + With great deliberation rose, + Coughed once or twice and scratched his nose; + Then, as became a veteran, + Surveyed his hearers and began; + "Since Uncle Jim and Russian Pete + Declared the reasons why their feet + This rugged wilderness have trod, + And left for aye their native sod, + I, too, will recapitulate + That chapter, from my book of fate. + + Where Rappahannock's silver stream + Reflects the moon's resplendent beam, + And sheds a mellow lustre o'er + The trees and shrubs that fringe the shore; + Where Nature's lavish hand bestows + The crystal dews and generous showers; + Where lily, hollyhock and rose, + And many-tinted herbs and flowers + Combining, form a floral scene + On background of eternal green; + Where through the solemn night is heard + The warbling plaint of feathered throats, + As whippoorwill and mockingbird + Pour forth their wealth of liquid notes, + [Blank Page] + While the accompanying breeze + Sighs through the underbrush and trees, + And rippling waters blend their tune, + In salutation to the moon; + Where singing insects, bugs and bees + Mingle their droning harmonies, + With croakings of loquacious frogs + In the adjacent swamps and bogs; + Where from the water, air and ground, + Rises a symphony of sound; + Mid nature's fond environment, + My boyhood's happy hours were spent. + + But now, my narrative begins: + I had a brother, we were twins, + Sunburnt and freckled, light of heart, + Resembling each other so + That few could tell the two apart. + We grew, as two twin pines might grow, + Upon the isolated edge + Of some lone precipice or ledge, + That overlooks the vale below; + Remote from every wooded strip, + With but each other's fellowship, + In solitary station placed, + With branches locked and interlaced, + As sworn to cherish and defend + Each other, to the bitter end. + +[Illustration: + "With swift and spoliating flow, + Uprooting many a noble tree, + To strew the desert's waste below, + With scattered drift-wood and debris." + + _See page 22._] + + The course of uneventful life + Ran smoothly on, unmarred by strife, + Till childish fancy disappeared, + As manhood's sterner age was neared; + Then in a city's bustling mart, + The cords of fate drew us apart, + Through paths of accident and chance, + Environment and circumstance; + Within their complicated maze, + We reached that parting of the ways, + Where sentiment is nipped by frost, + Where ties of consanguinity + Disrupt, and often disagree, + Or, through indifference are lost. + + We happened that eventful spring, + To hold a family gathering, + To reunite each severed tie + So soon to be dissolved for aye. + + As famines, with their blight respond, + When some vile genius waves his wand, + And leave a ghastly aftermath + Of bleaching bones to mark their path; + Or demon hands, in foul offence, + Pour out the vials of pestilence, + To reap, with desolating breath, + A harvest of untimely death; + The throes of internecine war + Now rent the nation to its core, + And smote, with decimating hand + The best and bravest of the land, + Estranging, never to amend, + Father from son and friend from friend; + Dissolving many sacred cords + Of love in bitterest enmity. + Lips once replete with friendly words + Now challenged as an enemy; + We, who had never quarrelled before, + Parted in wrath, and met no more. + + His firm convictions led him where + A banner floated in the air, + In silken corrugations curled, + The admiration of a world; + Beneath its constellated stars, + Its azure field and crimson bars, + Although no message ever came + To tell his fate, or spread his fame, + I know that 'mid the shot and shell + He served the cause he fought for, well. + For aught I know, his manly form + Went down before some leaden storm, + And lay with mangled flesh and bone + Among the numberless unknown, + Who filled the trenches where they died, + Uncoffined, unidentified. + + The voice of duty led me where + The strains of Dixie filled the air, + Where curling smoke in graceful rings + Rose on the evening's silent wings, + And hovering o'er the mist and damp, + Betrayed the presence of the camp. + I pass the story of the war,-- + The cause we lost, but struggled for + Through four long years, in southern fens,-- + To wiser tongues and abler pens. + Through four long years of tragedy, + I fought, bled, marched and starved with Lee, + Till Appomattox's final day, + I, in a uniform of gray, + Before the cannon's yawning mouth, + Defended my beloved South. + + The struggle ending, in complete, + Although most honorable defeat, + Footsore and hungry, broken, sad, + In ragged regimentals clad, + Towards Rappahannock's silver flood, + I plodded homeward through the mud, + To find a desolated home, + The final page in war's red tome. + + That day, as I remember well, + The splashing rain in torrents fell; + The pregnant clouds discharged their debt + Of moist, apologetic tears, + As if in passionate regret + For rain withheld in famine years, + And from exuberance of grief + In drizzling penance found relief; + Or, as if tears from unseen eyes + Were wafted downward from the skies, + In tardy expiation for + The carnage of remorseless war: + The sorrow of the elements + For human woe and violence. + The roads which thread the country lanes, + Had turned to sheets of liquid mud, + As if to cover up the stains + Of civil war and human blood. + + That evening, as a pall of cloud + Enveloped nature as a shroud, + Bedraggled and dispirited, + My footsteps to the old home led: + Again I stood before the door + I left in wrath, four years before: + But what a change! The vandal torch + Had long devoured the roof and porch: + The gray disintegrating walls + Still swayed and tottered in the air, + Or lay in heaps within its halls, + In melancholy ruin there: + The towering chimney, black and tall, + Stood, as if mourning o'er its fall: + And through the dismal mist and rain, + The windows, void of sash and pane, + Seemed staring at the gathering night, + In wild expression of affright. + The fields my infancy had known, + With briar and weed were overgrown; + The sunlight, heralding the morn, + No longer smiled on waving corn. + + I wandered, aimlessly around, + Yet heard not one familiar sound, + No stamp of hoof nor flap of wing, + No low of cow, nor bleat of sheep, + Nor any tame domestic thing; + Silence, most horrible and deep. + No pony whinnied in its stall, + Nor neighed in answer to my call; + No purr of cat, nor bark of dog, + Naught but the croaking of the frog; + No voice of relative or kin, + No father paused and stroked his chin, + Then rushed with recognizing grasp + To hold his son within his clasp; + No mother, with her silvered hair, + Rocked in the same old rocking chair. + + First at the ruins, then the ground, + I gazed in turn, mechanically, + Till, startled by a mournful sound, + A piteous and plaintive cry, + I turned, and peering through the storm, + Discerned the outlines of a form, + Bewailing o'er the ruins there + In accents of complete despair. + I knew her voice, and felt her woe, + She was my nurse, poor Aunty Chloe! + Between her sobs disconsolate, + This freed, but ever faithful slave, + Told of my agèd parents' fate, + Then led me to the double grave. + + I, who through four long tragic years, + Had never yielded once to tears, + Clasping her hand, so kind and true, + Wept with the rain, and she wept too. + + * * * * * + + Ere daybreak, with increasing light, + Evolved from disappearing night + The morn, in radiant splendor dressed, + I, too, had started for the West." + + * * * * * + * * * * * + + Ere the conclusion of the narrative, + Through every crack and cranny of the door + The snow had sifted in, as through a sieve, + And piled in little cones upon the floor. + Without, the raging tempest still assailed; + Within, the fire to glowing coals had failed. + All smoked, and with their eyes on Dad McGuire, + Waited for some one else to build the fire. + Such close attention had his tale received, + It seemed as if 'twas partially believed; + Few of the tales which we enjoy the most + In verity, may that distinction boast. + + The dying embers shed their mellow glow + Upon the agèd face of Dad McGuire, + As he swept out the little piles of snow + And laid a hemlock log upon the fire. + Then followed disconnected colloquies + And witticisms in the form of jest; + The joke is always where the miner is, + The form of levity he loves the best, + For cutting truths have thereby been conveyed, + Where delicacy all other forms forbade. + + As some fierce gale that bows the gnarlèd oak, + Sinks till it scarcely sways the underbrush, + The laughter, incident to jest and joke, + Subsided to a calm and tranquil hush. + All husbanded their energy and strength + And smoked in silence for a moment's length. + + * * * * * + + +V. THE AVALANCHE + + Just then a crashing sound was heard, + That caused each ruddy cheek to blanch, + Though no one moved nor spoke a word, + All listening to the avalanche + With apprehensive ears intent, + Knew what a mountain snowslide meant. + Nor marvel that each visage paled, + Nor that the hardy sinews quailed; + These terrors of the solitude + The mountain's timbered slopes denude, + Sweeping the frozen spruce and fir + As with a snowy scimitar; + Nor can the stately pines prevent + Its irresistible descent; + A foe admitting no defence. + A moment passed in dire suspense, + And at its expiration brief, + Each heaved a breath of deep relief; + The snowslide, terrible and vast, + Had precipice and chasm leapt, + And down the rugged mountains swept, + Missing the cabin as it passed. + + * * * * * + + The cabin clock had indicated five + When due composure was at length restored; + As evidence that all were still alive, + Queries were made about the "festive board," + As sailors shipwrecked on some barren rock, + After the first excitement of the shock, + Mingle their words of gratitude and prayer + With speculations on the bill of fare. + No depth of danger man is called to face, + No exultation nor extreme disgrace, + No victory nor depression of defeat + Can shake recurrent Hunger from her seat. + + The cabin oracle so often used, + A pack of playing cards, was soon produced. + A turn at whist the afternoon before, + Told who should cut the wood and sweep the floor. + As one of the disasters of defeat, + Washing the dishes fell to Russian Pete. + A game of freeze-out, played with equal zeal, + Decided who should cook the evening meal; + Conspiring cards electing Uncle Jim, + The culinary task devolved on him. + + Accordingly, with acquiescent nod, + Abiding by the fortunes of the game, + This patriarch, so venerable and odd,-- + Whose skill in cooking was of local fame, + Knocked out the ashes from his meerschaum pipe + And laid it tenderly upon the shelf, + Took a preliminary wash and wipe, + And squinting in the mirror at himself, + Like most of those possessed of little hair, + Brushed what he still had left with greatest care. + Small use for comb or brush had Uncle Jim, + His capillary wealth, a grayish rim + Or hirsute chaplet, as it had been called + By other miners less completely bald, + Fringing his head an inch above the ears, + Marked off his shining pate in hemispheres. + His flowing beard, of venerable air, + Enjoyed a strict monopoly in hair, + As if the raven curls that once adorned + His occiput, that habitation scorned + And took, as an expression of chagrin, + A change of venue to his ample chin. + + When Uncle Jim was duly washed and groomed, + The running conversation was resumed, + And as the veteran his task pursued, + Mixing the biscuit dough with judgment good, + All smoked and talked, excepting Dad McGuire, + Who, helping Uncle Jim, stirred up the fire, + Raking the embers in a little pile, + Then warmed the old Dutch oven up a while, + And after greasing with a bacon rind, + The biscuit dough was to its depths consigned. + + Soon from within the oven, partly hid + By embers piled upon the cumbrous lid, + The baking powder biscuits nestling there + With wholesome exhalations charged the air. + A pot of beans suspended by a wire + Swung like a pendulum above the fire, + And answered every flame's combustive kiss + With roundelay of bubble and of hiss, + While in the esculent commotion swam + The residue of what was once a ham. + Though epicures, who yearn for fowl and fish, + May scorn this plain and inexpensive dish, + So free from the extravagance of waste, + Yet succulent and pleasant to the taste, + Of all the varied products of the soil, + The bean is most esteemed by those who toil. + Removed, in place less prominent and hot, + One might have seen the old black coffee pot, + And watched the puffs of aromatic steam + Rise on the background of the firelight's gleam. + A pleasant sibilation filled the room, + As with an unctuous savor or perfume + The bacon sizzled in the frying-pan, + The bane and terror of dyspeptic man; + But those who labor for their daily bread + Of sedentary ills have little dread. + + The simple yet salubrious repast + Was on the rustic table spread at last. + No cut-glass flashed and sparkled in the light, + Nor burnished silver service met the sight. + No butter dish, nor sugar bowl was seen, + The grains of sugar, white and saccharine, + Imprisoned in a baking powder can, + Rose in a wilderness of pot and pan. + The butter firkin stood upon a shelf + Where every one could reach and help himself. + The nibbling rodent and destructive moth + Found naught to lure them in the shape of cloth. + No tablespread of costly linen lent + Its white disguise or figured ornament + To catch the bacon or the coffee stain. + Nor was there cup or plate of porcelain, + For empty cans, stripped of their labels, bare, + And pie tins held the same positions there. + + * * * * * + + All congregated 'round the simple spread + And ate the beans and baking powder bread, + [Blank Page] + With all the satisfaction and delight + That crown the hungry miner's appetite; + Not gluttony, that enemy to health, + That often follows in the trail of wealth, + But wholesome relish, which the laboring poor + Enjoy, who eat their fill, but eat no more. + +[Illustration: + "Arrayed in Nature's pristine dress + This was, indeed, a wilderness." + + _See page 29._] + + The final course was ushered in at last, + When apple sauce around the board was passed; + As Uncle Jim stretched forth his hand across + The table to the dish of apple-sauce, + And on his ample pie tin placed some more, + A hurried knock resounded from the door, + And Steve McCoy, a miner in the camp, + With brow from snow and perspiration damp, + Rushed in, from out the white and whirling waste, + In the excitement incident to haste, + And waiving further ceremony cried:-- + "Our cabin has been taken by a slide!" + + Steve as a snowy Santa Claus appeared, + Pulling the icicles from off his beard, + Relating, in his intervals of breath, + His tale of dire disaster and of death; + He, and his partner "Smithy," were on shift + Within the tunnel working in a drift, + Chasing a stringer in their search for ore, + Within the hill a thousand feet or more. + The rock was hard and both of them were tired, + The holes were blasted as the work required; + Then to their consternation and surprise, + Upon emerging from the tunnel's mouth, + No hospitable cabin met their eyes + Upon the hillside, sloping toward the south; + The hut of logs where they had cooked and slept + Had been from human eyes forever swept. + Their partners, it were reason to presume, + Were suffocating in a snowy tomb. + + "Smithy" had gone to Uncle Bobby Green, + Whose cabin lay the nearest to the scene, + To summon help, and get the boys to go + To probe with poles and shovels in the snow, + To find the living, or if life had sped, + To make the avalanche yield up its dead. + Of partners, Steve and Smithy had but two, + "Daddy" McLaughlin and young Dick McGrew, + Uncle and nephew, patriarch and youth, + Both men of strict integrity and truth. + Four other miners on another lease + Dwelt with the boys in harmony and peace. + Two strangers, who arrived the night before, + Had been invited, till the storm was o'er, + To share their hospitality. Their fate + Had raised the list of dead, perhaps, to eight. + + Ere Steve had panted forth his final word, + The boys had risen up with one accord; + The rescue must be tried at any cost, + The chance, however slight, must not be lost. + + Steve as a runner who has reached his goal, + Leaned half exhausted on his snowshoe pole, + The while his sturdy auditors began + To don their caps and mittens, to a man, + Then wrapping mufflers 'round their ears and throats, + Put on their clumsy, canvas overcoats. + Thanks to the providence of Dad McGuire, + Who always kept a stock of baling wire + And odds and ends of everything around, + Their feet were quickly and securely bound + With canvas ore sacks or with gunny-sacks, + A thing the miner's wardrobe seldom lacks. + + +VI. THE RESCUE + + Forth to the rescue went the miners bold, + Regardless of the tempest wild and brisk, + Regardless of the driving snow and cold, + Regardless of the hazard and the risk; + Facing with stalwart resolution brave + The snowy fate of those they strove to save. + + One form of courage nerves the soldier's arm, + Excitement overcomes the wild alarm + Which at the onset e'en the bravest feel, + Though self-possession may that fear conceal. + The unromantic dangers of the storm + Require another and a sterner form, + For no emotion nerves the craven breast + To tempt the snowslide on the mountain's crest; + That noblest element unnoticed thrives + Beneath the surface in unnumbered lives; + At danger's call the sympathetic bond + Leaps to the surface, as the waves respond + When one has tossed a pebble in a pond; + For man has ever since the world began + Laid down his life to save his fellow-man; + Heroes are they, no praise commensurate, + Who do their duty in the face of fate. + + Through gloomy forests, intricate and dark, + Which skirt the confines of the mountain park, + With arduous climb and hazardous ascent + Up through the gulch precipitous and wild + To where the avalanche its force had spent, + In silent haste the rescue party filed. + + On such occasions little may be said, + The sternest use subdued and whispered breath, + For silence seems contagious from the dead, + A vague, unconscious reverence for death. + Facing the inconvenience of the blast, + Which whirled the drifting snowflakes as it passed, + The party shovelled; and with one accord + Abstained from converse, no one spoke a word + Till hours of strenuous search disclosed to sight + Six corpses from their sepulchre of white. + The other two, who by some wondrous means, + Escaped with but some trifling cuts and sprains, + Were in the meantime by their fellows found, + Dazed and exhausted in the gulch below, + For storm-bewildered men will grope around + Describing circles in the blinding snow, + Until they sink, their vital forces spent, + And crystal snowflakes weave their cerement. + + Six pairs of skies,[1] each improvised a sled, + On which were placed the stark and staring dead; + As flickering lanterns flashed a ghostly glow + Upon them in their winding-sheets of snow, + The sad procession now retraced its course + Back through the dismal forest, while the blast + Wailed forth a requiem in accents hoarse, + Which shuddering pines re-echoed as it passed. + + * * * * * + + With sorely overtaxed and waning strength, + As some spent swimmer struggling to the shore, + The weary party found its way at length, + Back through the forest to the cabin's door. + As Uncle Jim, whose life was ever spent + In ministering to others, had been sent + Ahead, the dying coals had been renewed + With fresh supplies of pine and aspen wood, + And blazed a cheery invitation forth + To those who sought the comfort of the hearth. + + [1] Norwegian snowshoes. + + The two survivors were the strangers who + Had just arrived the afternoon before; + Their names nor antecedents no one knew, + But western miners do not close the door + On weary travellers, whosoe'er they be, + No matter what their race or pedigree; + The one credential needed in the west + Is--human being, storm-bound and distressed. + The rescued miners, much benumbed and chilled, + To show some signs of conscious life began; + So Dad McGuire, in therapeutics skilled + To cure the maladies of beast or man, + Pursuant of his self-appointed task, + From out some secret depths produced a flask, + Which to the rescued miners he applied + As guaranteed to warm them up inside. + By way of chance digression, should you ask + The nature of the liquid in the flask, + Which, evidently, the boys had used before, + We must admit, the empty bottle bore, + Like most of bottles used in mining camps, + The revenue collector's excise stamps. + + The senior of the rescued men appeared + In age to crowd the three-score years and ten; + Of stalwart form, with whitened hair and beard, + The peer of multitudes of younger men, + In matters appertaining to physique; + He first recovered and essayed to speak. + As Dad McGuire and kind old Uncle Jim + Were ministering as best they could to him, + In kindly interest they inquired his name, + "John T. McGuire," the labored answer came. + As Dad McGuire leaned over him to hear, + His gaze descried a mole behind his ear, + Then with an exclamation of surprise, + As one who scarcely can believe his eyes, + He turned the stranger over on his back, + Found two more moles,--and cried--"My brother Jack!" + + * * * * * + * * * * * + + Erratic as the vacillating wind, + Are the mysterious wanderings of the mind. + When reason lays her golden veil aside, + What vagaries and aberrations glide + Through the disordered precincts of the brain! + What phantoms rise and disappear again! + What curious blendings of reality + And fact, with wildest flights of phantasy! + The flickerings of reason's feeble light + And relaxation into mental night, + Seem as a beacon on some rock-bound coast, + Which flutters, wanes and disappears almost, + Then with a flash illuminates the shore, + Gleams for a moment and is seen no more; + Or on some starless midnight, when the storm + Dissolves in chaos each familiar form, + And robes the landscape in cimmerian pall, + The lightnings play,--then darkness covers all. + + Unlocked by fever and delirium, + The cautious tongue becomes no longer dumb, + And with the nervous tension overwrought, + Oft gives expression to the secret thought. + 'Twas thus the junior of the rescued men, + A modern Hercules, both fair and young, + With accent truly cosmopolitan, + Raved both in English and some unknown tongue. + His accents wild and unintelligible, + Devoid of meaning, on his hearers fell, + With the exception of the practised ear + Of Russian Pete, who stood beside him there, + And seemed from his expression to detect + Some most familiar tongue or dialect. + + When reason, with a penetrating gleam, + Burst through the canopy of mental gloom, + As one awakening from a hideous dream, + He started up and stared about the room, + Until he chanced to catch the kindly eyes + Of Russian Pete, which kindled with surprise. + A look of mutual recognition passed + Between the men, so strangely joined at last. + All that the congregated miners heard + Was one, presumably a Russian word, + And Russian Pete, with joy-illumined face, + Held his lost brother in his kind embrace. + + * * * * * + * * * * * + + Dazed by exhaustion, comatose and deep, + The two survivors, while the tempest roared, + Were through the gentle ministry of sleep + To normal strength unconsciously restored. + +[Illustration: + "We grew as two twin pines might grow, + Upon the isolated edge, + Of some lone precipice or ledge." + + _See page 57._] + + 'Tis human nature to review again The stirring incidents of joy or + pain; So on the eve of the succeeding day, When four-and-twenty hours + had passed away, The party grouped around the blazing light Which from + the fireplace streamed into the night, And in its glow, so comfortable + and warm, Recounted the disasters of the storm. Like some informal + gathering, at first All spoke at once, as with a common burst; Then as + the intermittent tempest wailed, The talk subsided and a calm + prevailed. All watched the pitch ooze from the knots and burn, Or + smoked their pipes in silent unconcern. + + Some moments passed, when Uncle Jim arose, Nudged Dad McGuire, who + seemed inclined to doze, And as he started up and rubbed his eyes + Addressed him and the Russian in this wise: "Two days ago the three of + us confessed The reasons, that impelled us to come West; Now if it + please your brethren to relate The strange caprice of fortune or of + fate, Which led them hither,--after all these years, The boys will + listen with attentive ears." + + +VII. THE BLIGHT OF WAR + + All eyes now sought the brother of McGuire, + Who sat apart, some distance from the fire + Smoking in silence, while the flickering light + Mingled its crimson with his locks of white; + He, with his flowing, patriarchal beard, + A sage, from some forgotten age, appeared, + Or wrinkled seer from some enchanted clime, + Whose eye could pierce the veil of future time. + There in the ever thickening haze of smoke, + He, being three times importuned,--awoke. + + As from his corncob pipe and nostrils broke + The spiral wreaths of blue tobacco smoke, + Which formed a smoky halo, as they spread + A foot above his venerable head, + Resembling halos which the artist paints + O'er angel heads, or mediæval saints, + This man of years, so calm and circumspect, + Stroked his long beard, yawned twice and stood erect. + + Like to a wizard, or magician old, + With some mysterious secret to unfold, + This man, whose bearing would command respect, + Stepped forth and eyed his listeners direct; + Then waiving preludes or apologies, + Addressed his auditors in terms like these: + "These lips, which now their secret shall reveal, + For more than forty years have worn a seal. + For years as hunter, pioneer and scout, + I roamed the western solitudes about, + Not caring whether fortune smiled or not, + If memory's painful twinges were forgot. + I sought, as many other men have done, + Within the wilderness,--oblivion. + Work is the only sure iconoclast + For the unpleasant memories of the past; + So as a placer miner, prospector, + And half a dozen avocations more, + Within the city, and the solitude, + The star-eyed Goddess of Success I wooed. + Twice was I numbered with the men of wealth, + Twice lost I all, including strength and health. + For wealth, when fortune's fickle wheel revolves + Adversely, into empty air dissolves. + Till fate so strangely led my footsteps here, + Mine was, indeed, a versatile career. + Yet none my antecedents ever guessed, + Nor learned from me the cause that led me west. + + This hair and beard which envy not to-night + The drifting snowbanks their unbroken white, + Methinks, as memory scans the backward track, + Vied with the raven's glossy coat of black, + When I, with some adventurous emigrants, + First crossed the plain's monotonous expanse, + To leave my former history behind. + But who can regulate his peace of mind, + Or drop the morbid burdens of the breast + By simply going east or coming west? + + 'Way down upon the Rappahannock's shore, + Enshrined in memory, though seen no more, + There lies an old plantation. There I drew + My infant breath, and into manhood grew. + Its fields are overgrown with willows now, + For more than forty years unturned by plough, + While war's red desolation razed to earth + The old stone manor-house that claimed my birth. + + Ah, yes! 'Tis forty years ago, or more, + Since, standing near the old paternal door, + One pleasant morning in the early spring, + With some few friends and kinfolks visiting, + Two mounted neighbors stopped in passing by, + And reining up their horses hurriedly + Told us the news, which like a cannon ball + Sped through the land, announcing Sumter's fall. + The animus with which their comments fell, + I heard months later in the rebel yell. + + In civil war or fratricide is found + No place for such as seek a middle ground. + Though lines of demarcation intervene, + No peaceful neutral zone may lie between. + 'Tis not an easy thing to breast the tide + Of public sentiment, and to decide + In opposition, though the cause be right, + When crossing public sentiment means fight. + 'Tis easier to let the moving throng + Without resistance carry you along. + When he who hesitates, or turns around, + May in the grist of public wrath be ground. + But men there are you cannot drive in flocks; + They dash like breakers, or resist like rocks. + + Within my breast I fought my sternest fight, + I could not view the southern cause as right, + And yet I loved the people of the south; + Debating thus I opened not my mouth. + Both in my waking hours and in my dreams, + I heard the arguments of two extremes. + My conscience said: 'A uniform of blue + Awaits your coming, wear it and be true.' + My interests argued: 'Though the cause be wrong, + Your people have espoused it right along. + Your worthy family has for many years + Seen sorrow only in the white man's tears. + Desertion means to wear the traitor's brands, + And face your friends with muskets in their hands, + To slay them with the bayonet and ball, + Or by, perhaps, your brother's hand to fall.' + + I heard the clarion accents of the fife + Fan into flames the dormant coals of strife. + With blast prophetic and reverberant swell, + I heard the bugle's echoing voice foretell + The coming conflict, while the brazen notes + Were answered by the cheers from many throats. + I heard the measured rattle of the drum, + Proclaiming that the day of wrath had come. + I heard harangues, incendiary and loud, + Meet with the approbation of the crowd. + I saw the faltering and irresolute, + Greeted with jeer and deprecating hoot. + I saw the threatening clouds of war increase, + Yet prayed for peace, where there could be no peace. + The winds of slavery their seed had sown; + That seed to rank maturity had grown; + The cup was full, and now from branch and root, + The whirlwind came to strip its lawful fruit. + + I saw my friends and neighbors march away + With martial tread, in uniforms of gray. + I saw them raise their caps in passing by + And fair hands wave their kerchiefs in reply. + Then I, who had in military schools + Received some insight into army rules, + And, being of a martial turn of mind, + Was offered a commission, and,--declined. + My declination was a shock to all, + 'Coward!' said they, 'to shun your country's call,-- + Then stay at home, from wounds and scars exempt, + But pay the price,--your former friends' contempt.' + + That action was, for me, the Rubicon, + Which crossed, I had no choice but follow on. + But what a change! The penalty was high, + My childhood's friends now passed me coldly by. + I, who had been a social favorite, + Received no salutation when we met. + Fair ones, who used to smile, now looked askance, + Or eyed me with a cold indifference. + My action seemed base cowardice in their eyes, + They knowing not my secret sympathies. + Though of a family rich and widely known, + I stood in the community, alone, + Like a pariah none would recognize, + Inaction was enough to ostracize. + I seemed to see, like Hagar's fated son, + Against me raised the hand of every one. + + The time had come when I must make my choice, + Defend one side with musket and with voice; + Then I, to conscience and convictions true, + Seemed an apostate,--for I chose the blue. + + There are inscriptions on the scrolls of fate + Which seem too bitter even to relate. + I waive the details,--better to conceal + The secret skeletons, than to reveal. + I shall not tell you how my brother stormed, + When he of my intentions was informed. + I pass the story, how my ringing ears + Were filled with threats, entreaties and with sneers. + And how with tear-stained face the maiden came, + Who was to be my bride and bear my name; + How she appealed to sentiment and pride, + Plead, supplicated,--then forsook my side; + And how one evening, in an angry burst, + My sire pronounced his favorite son accurst; + And how a mother, clinging to her child, + Saw son and father still unreconciled; + And how that father, pointing to the door, + Forbade that son to cross the threshold more; + 'Go, go!' said he, 'but never more return! + Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn! + But never while the golden sun doth shine, + Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.' + I state not what in anger I replied, + For anger in my breast has long since died. + Renounced, despised and disinherited, + I trod the path of duty where it led, + And ten days later, in the rain and damp, + Stood as a sentry near a Union camp. + + * * * * * + + Fain from my recollections would I blot + These images, which time erases not, + And leave to history's undying page, + The recitation of those acts of rage. + Incarnadined with human blood appears + The record of the four succeeding years. + Black with the ruins of the vandal flame, + A carnival of misery and shame. + I must abridge, and if my hearers please, + Confine myself to generalities. + + From first Manassas to the Wilderness, + A period of some four years,--more or less, + But anyway, till long in sixty-four, + A musket or a shoulder-strap I bore. + Though years have passed, I have remembrance yet + Of musketry and glistening bayonet. + As retrospective moods attune the ear + To memory's voice, again I seem to hear + The cannon's deep and minatory roar, + Like breakers dashing on a rock-bound shore. + The bursting bomb and fulminating shell, + Again their stories of destruction tell. + + Again to-night, with memory's eye I view + The sanguinary scenes of sixty-two, + The march of infantry, the reckless dash + Of cavalry, with onslaught fierce and rash; + I see their sabres, glittering and bare, + Flash from their scabbards in the smoky air; + I hear the clatter of the horses' hoofs, + And see the smoke expand in greyish puffs; + As rifles flash and speed the deadly ball, + I see the riders from their horses fall; + Yet forward moves the furious attack, + The opposing column wavers and falls back; + I see the impact, combat hand to hand, + Horses and riders writhing on the sand; + I see the steeds with perspiration wet, + Sink on the well-directed bayonet; + I see them, wounded by the fatal lunge, + Become unmanageable and madly plunge; + Foaming and snorting with the sudden pain, + They trample on the wounded and the slain; + I see their riders in the stirrups stand + And grasp their pistols with the bridle hand; + I see the pistols flash and sabres thrust, + A scene of wild confusion, smoke and dust; + I hear the bugle sounding a retreat, + They now retire, their victory complete; + But mark the price paid for their brief success; + Horses with blood-stained saddles,--riderless. + + I see an army bivouac on the field, + To nature's obdurate demands they yield, + And on the ground, from sheer exhaustion spent, + They lie without protecting roof or tent. + So silently their prostrate forms are spread, + One may not tell the sleeping from the dead. + I see, before the campfire's fitful gleam, + The sentry pace, as in a waking dream, + Yet manfully subduing the fatigue + Of battle, and the march of many a league, + For no excitement or emotion serves + To buoy his spirits or sustain his nerves. + Weak from the loss of their accustomed rest, + With heavy eyes and aching bones distressed, + The while their weary comrades soundly sleep, + The sentinels their lonely vigils keep, + As from the glittering expanse of skies, + The stars look down with cold, impassive eyes. + + I see brigades, magnificent and large, + With bristling bayonets prepare to charge; + I see their banners in the distance gleam, + Reflecting back the sun's resplendent beam; + Within the shelter of the rifle pits, + Another army with composure sits, + While ever and anon a rifle's crack + Seems to invite the spirited attack. + From a commanding, wooded eminence, + By nature calculated for defence, + Upon the advancing regiments I see + The murderous belching of artillery; + I see their proud and militant array, + Before the deadly grapeshot melt away; + Before the rifle's supplementing breath, + Whole columns sink in ghastly heaps of death; + I see them close their gaps and press ahead, + But only to augment the list of dead; + I see them, stretched upon the burning sands, + Clutching the air with lacerated hands; + From underneath the mutilated heap, + The wounded, with great difficulty, creep; + Dragging a helpless arm, or shattered limb, + With reeling brain and sight confused and dim, + They grope, they crawl, or limp with painful tread; + Their uniforms no longer blue, but red; + And pinioned underneath the ghastly pile, + I hear them struggle for release the while; + But fainter, ever fainter grow their cries, + Fainter, and fainter still, their groans arise; + Weaker and weaker are their throes, until + With one last quivering throb, they too, are still. + + I see the vultures, as they scent afar + Their portion in the reeking spoils of war; + Far in the distance scattering specks appear, + Which multiply in size as they draw near, + Until they balance with their pinions spread, + Or circle 'round the dying and the dead. + + This is the realistic side of war, + Which most men overlook and all abhor, + Which differs from the sentiments conveyed + By spotless uniforms on dress parade. + + * * * * * + + War is a crucible that tries men's souls, + A drama, stern in all its various rôles; + Though saturated with all forms of crime, + 'Tis celebrated in heroic rhyme; + Though opposite to every humane thought, + With murder, pillage and destruction fraught, + In literature, in history and art, + It forms the theme, or plays a leading part; + Though at the best, deplorable and bad, + 'Tis yet with sentiment and romance clad; + Thus are the gory deeds of sword and fire, + Commemorated by the bardic lyre. + + Its eras, though with tragedy replete, + Form stepping-stones whereon ambitious feet + May mount to prominence, perhaps to fame, + And write in crimson an illustrious name. + 'Tis said that heroes are the fruits of war, + No matter what the struggle may be for, + As men will fight to make, or unmake laws, + Will fight for, or against the worthiest cause. + They must have heroes, though to make them drains + The life-blood from the nation's noblest veins. + And though no vocal adulations rise, + Their heroes many men apotheosize. + Man is so strangely constituted, he + Must hero-worshipper, or hero be,-- + So give him heroes, let the armies bleed, + And he will worship them with word and deed; + Though down within their breasts most men prefer + To be the hero, than the worshipper. + + To gain the plaudits of the multitude, + The warrior, with ambitious zeal imbued, + Climbs upward, and accomplishing his ends + To take his share of worship condescends, + Forgetting that his honors are bedewed + With human tears and based on human blood. + + Some streaks, in military pomp, we see, + That savor much of pride and vanity, + As thirst for notoriety and fame + Has often fanned the patriotic flame. + Though one might think that men would be content + To pluck one star from glory's firmament, + Yet, when they mount the ladder a few rounds, + Their envy and ambition know no bounds. + To wear the epaulette and strut with pride, + Makes men forget that war is homicide. + + Some call it fate, some call it destiny, + Some call it accident; what'er it be, + It seems that some have been created for + The honors, some, the sacrifice of war. + + * * * * * + + When I enlisted as a raw recruit, + Promotion was no object of pursuit, + But liking honor more than sacrifice, + On shoulder-straps I soon cast envious eyes. + For one rash act,--'twas counted bravery, + Good fortune made a corporal of me. + Soon, as if favored by some lucky charm, + I wore a sergeant's stripes upon my arm. + Twice was I wounded, twice resumed the field + Before my wounds had been completely healed. + I carry yet, and shall until I die, + A musket ball, encysted in my thigh. + Twice was I captured, twice as prisoner + Drank I the dregs from out the cup of war. + As if some guardian star my course arranged, + Once I escaped, and once was I exchanged. + Then, as lieutenant, rose I from the ranks, + Received a medal and a vote of thanks. + + The ladder of promotion, round by round, + I soon ascended and henceforth was found + Among the few selected favorites + Whom fortune decks with stars and epaulettes. + Though liking not the rôle of matador, + Within the ruthless theatre of war, + From private soldier every part I played, + Until my sword directed a brigade. + I wore, the night before I started west, + Four medal decorations on my breast. + + The war progressed, for time rolls on the same + In peace or war, and sixty-three became + A chapter in the annals of the past. + When sixty-four was ushered in at last, + To write in characters of blood and fire + Its page of human immolation, dire, + The waiting army lay encamped, before + The Rapidan's inhospitable shore. + The first few weeks, devoid of incident, + Were in the army's winter quarters spent, + Until the winter, on his snowy wing, + Retired before the genial breath of spring. + In speculation on the moves to come, + The tongue of prophecy remained not dumb, + But showered prognostications of defeat, + Succeeded by the usual retreat, + When rumors of offensive action planned + As spring approached, were spread through each command. + Until the troops were mobilized and massed, + Until the final orders had been passed, + The veterans, who had remembrance still, + Recounted Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. + + But soon the dreadful Wilderness campaign, + With its long lists of wounded and of slain, + Vied with the carnage of the year before, + If it be possible to measure gore. + The tactics had been changed, for no retreat + Was ordered, as the sequel of defeat; + Instead of faltering or turning back, + There came another furious attack, + Another movement with invasive tread, + And, Spottsylvania claimed its heaps of dead. + Defeated, but uncrushed and undismayed, + The weakened corps, including my brigade, + With sadly thinned and decimated ranks, + Was hurled once more against the rebel flanks. + There in a hurricane of shot and shell, + One-half of its surviving numbers fell; + 'Twas thus Cold Harbor's quarry made complete + The trio of victorious defeat. + + Three Southern victories, yet like a knell + Upon the Southern ear these triumphs fell; + For those who perished in that dismal waste, + Had fallen and could never be replaced. + Though stubbornly contested inch by inch, + The lines were tightened like a horse's cinch. + We watched the Southern forces day by day, + From natural abrasion, wear away. + + * * * * * + + One evening as the disappearing light, + Unveiled the beauties of a cloudless night, + With much diminished numbers, my brigade + Its camp beside the Rappahannock made, + Some five miles distant from the spot of earth + Associated with my humble birth. + + Next morning, ere the twinkling stars had set, + While officers and men were sleeping yet, + A courier rode up to my command, + And placed a cipher message in my hand; + Then spurring well his horse of dapple grey, + With parting salutation rode away. + This was the import of that message stern: + 'Lay waste the district. All the fences burn. + Leave not a house or stable unconsumed.' + My father's house among the rest was--doomed. + I read that message and my anger blazed, + My home to be, by my own orders, razed! + + A vision rose before my swimming brain, + I saw the old parental roof again, + I saw my father, as in days of yore, + Smoking his pipe beside the open door; + I saw his gaze, with penetrating look, + Fixed on the pages of some wholesome book; + I saw my mother sit beside him, there, + Recumbent in her old reclining chair. + The vision changed,--I saw her parting tears, + My father's parting curse rang in my ears; + 'Go! Go!' said he, 'but nevermore return, + Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn, + But never while the golden sun doth shine + Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.' + + I felt but little longing to return, + And less desire to pillage, sack and burn. + And yet,--those cruel orders I must give, + No power had I to voice the negative. + In commonplace affairs of life, 'tis true, + Men may elect to do, or not to do. + In military operations, they + Have no alternative, but to obey. + + Ah! Fain, from that impending holocaust + Would I have snatched them! Rather had I lost + The tinselled honors and the epaulettes, + And doffed my uniform without regrets, + Than harm by word or deed that agèd sire; + Yet I must start, who fain would quench the fire. + I read and read that cipher message there, + How many times, I have not to declare, + But over and again I scanned the lines, + And pondered well its symbols and its signs; + Ironclad were they, from every standpoint viewed, + Admitting not of choice or latitude; + So, to the officers of my command, + I gave their orders, with a trembling hand, + And swift as horseflesh ever travelled, went + To seek the corps commander in his tent, + To crave this boon, or favor, at his hand,-- + My father's house be still allowed to stand. + + 'Twas long before I gained an audience; + I felt, but cannot picture the suspense + Of that long hour's involuntary wait; + Too late, my heart would beat, too late, too late! + I took a seat and pulled my watch out once; + 'Too late, too late,' the timepiece ticked response! + I paced the ground with quick, impatient tread; + 'Too late, too late, too late,' my footsteps said! + 'Too late, too late, too late!' With fluttering beat + My heart responded to my echoing feet. + + The General, who a kindly heart possessed, + No sooner heard, than granted my request; + 'Twas but a moment's work to mount my steed, + And spur him to his maximum of speed; + The faithful creature seemed to understand + And needed little urging from my hand, + As down the turnpike, toward my childhood's home, + He fairly flew, his bridle white with foam; + His hoofbeats, as we clattered o'er the ground, + Returned a dull, premonitory sound, + Which seemed to echo and accentuate + The burden of my heart, 'Too late! Too late!' + + The fences, near the turnpike, as we passed, + Were by my orders disappearing fast; + The rails were piled in heaps and soon became + A prey to war's red ally,--vandal flame. + Houses, familiar to my childish sight, + Glowed strangely with an unaccustomed light, + While from adjacent barns and hay-ricks broke + Incipient tongues of flame and clouds of smoke. + The orders, ruthless and inflexible, + Were by the soldiers executed well. + + Still down the turnpike dashed my sweating horse, + I plied the cruel spurs with double force, + When in the distance there appeared to view + The old stone manor-house my childhood knew. + My spirit sank,--though I was not surprised, + My worst misgivings had been realized, + For from the roof and upper windows came + Dense clouds of smoke and lurid sheets of flame. + It had its portion in the common fate, + 'Too late!' the mocking hoof-beats rang, 'Too late!' + + We passed a company, on their return + From executing those instructions stern; + It was the company of my brigade + Wherein I first was a lieutenant made; + Its officers and men I knew by name; + They cheered me when their captain I became; + They cheered me when I left a major's tent, + To be the colonel of their regiment. + + They did my bidding. How could I condemn! + They honored me and I respected them; + And yet, these favorites of my command + Had not one hour before applied the brand + Which was transforming with its wand of fire + My father's house into--his funeral pyre. + + That they had met resistance, I could see, + For wounded men, in number two or three, + Were by their comrades carted in advance, + While one more limped behind the ambulance. + Upon a stretcher carried in their van, + The soldiers bore the body of a man; + He was their captain, and my bosom friend; + He plied that torch,--and met a bloody end. + + I plunged the spurs, but not without remorse, + Into his steaming flanks and urged my horse, + Which I disliked to tax beyond his strength; + Such speed had he maintained, that now, at length, + He was compelled to pant and hesitate; + With labored effort we dashed through the gate, + Or where the gate had been an hour before, + For gate and fence alike, were seen no more, + Save in the scattered bonfires, while at most + All that remained was here and there a post. + + There was a fascination in that sight + Which seemed to conquer and unnerve me, quite; + A sense of horror, not akin to fear, + Possessed my being as we galloped near; + All sorts of evil pictures filled my mind, + As one who seeks, yet dreads what he may find; + As we drew nearer, I remember well, + With hissing crash the roof collapsed and fell; + Dismounting, I the premises surveyed, + And viewed the havoc and destruction made; + Crushed by the disappointment, the suspense, + And failure of my planned deliverance, + I moved about with apprehensive tread, + To seek my relatives, alive or dead; + And, near a haystack's smouldering ruins found + My father's body, weltering on the ground; + A musket tightly clenched within his hand, + Slain by the troopers of my own command; + His whitened locks were streaked with crimson stains, + The same red blood then coursing through my veins. + + Close by his side, a form with silvered hair, + Caressed his brow, with dazed, abstracted air; + 'Twas she who nursed my being into life, + The highest type of mother and of wife; + Our glances met, yet e'er I framed to speak, + She started up, then with a piercing shriek + Fell back, expiring on the speechless clay + Of him whose life so lately ebbed away. + + * * * * * + + As campfires gleamed, and heaven's orb, serene + With borrowed radiance, o'erflowed the scene, + Within a grave, beneath the crimson sands, + I laid them both to rest with my own hands. + In lieu of prayer, or solemn dirge, was heard + The twittering cadence of the mockingbird, + Uniting with the sentry's muffled tread, + Which seemed a measured requiem for the dead, + As, side by side, in death's eternal sleep, + I laid them tenderly, nor paused to weep, + For feelings which in tears find no relief + Had dried the very fountainheads of grief. + I shaped a double mound above their clay, + Planted a wooden cross,--and went my way. + + * * * * * + + That night I tore the medals from my breast, + Resigned my sword and started for the West." + + +VIII. THE STORY OF AN EXILE + + Such was the tragic story told, + And, tired from standing on his feet, + This patriarch so gray and old + Relit his pipe and took a seat. + As one, inert and overtaxed + From strenuous toil, he soon relaxed + Into that dull composure, which + Fatigue accords to poor and rich. + + The observation could detect + No levity nor disrespect, + Nor through his story was there heard + Remark or interruptive word, + His voice and bearing as he spoke, + Admitting not of jest or joke. + The common feeling seemed to be + Respect and deepest sympathy. + + As childish incidents recurred + In memory to Dad McGuire, + As one who neither saw nor heard + He sat, intent upon the fire; + Yet watched the ever-changing blaze + With that intensity of gaze + Which shows the things the eyes have caught + Are not the subjects of the thought, + But far beyond their metes and bounds + The vision rests on other grounds. + + This story of a life rehearsed, + Left other eyes bedimmed and blurred; + Each with his silent thoughts conversed + And none presumed to speak a word, + Lest sympathy the tears provoke. + Old Uncle Jim forgot to smoke + And though he had replenished it, + Still left his meerschaum pipe unlit, + Till as the watchdog suddenly + Wakes up with apprehensive sniff, + He started from his reverie + And took an unsuccessful whiff; + But embers which the fire supplied + Soon changed the fragrant charge inside + With alternating draw and whiff, + Into a meerschaum Teneriffe. + + All smoked, excepting Dad McGuire, + Who stirred the embers of the fire, + And placed thereon what seemed to be, + The remnants of a hemlock tree; + 'Twas one of those ungainly stumps, + Composed of twisted knots and bumps, + Which every boy or even man, + In chopping wood, skips if he can; + 'Twas such a chunk as may be seen + After the woodpile's chopped up clean; + The log they split the blocks upon + And leave when all the rest is gone. + This chunk, which none of them could split, + Though many had attempted it, + By divers and ingenious ways, + Was soon enveloped in a blaze, + Which shed its glare into the night, + As beacons radiate their light. + + Reclining by his brother's side, + Abstracted and preoccupied, + The Russian, rubicund and hale, + Was importuned to tell his tale, + And slightly coughing from the smoke, + Forthwith in faultless diction spoke: + "My brother's story you have heard, + The same should mine be, word for word, + Up to that dismal dungeon grate, + Which he presumed had sealed my fate. + I doubt not he related well + The horrors of that loathsome cell, + So that description, now by me, + Would fruitless repetition be. + Sufficient be it to declare + That brief was my detention there. + + Though discontent the action was + Which constituted my offence, + I felt the weight of Russian laws + When chained to other malcontents. + Before the chains had time to rust + I plodded through the mud and dust + As many exiles erst had trod, + Their footprints often stained with blood. + With clanking chains and painful stride, + With Cossack guards on either side, + We marched in silence, in the reach + Of sabres that discouraged speech. + A sad procession, for full well + Our destinations could we tell. + Down country lane and village street + We limped with bruised and blistered feet, + In single file, as some infirm + Though monstrous centipede or worm, + Beset by some tormenting foe, + Might move with locomotion slow, + And tortured by its enemy, + Propel its foul dimensions by. + + Past where the Urals, bleak and high, + Invade the cerulean sky + With summits desolate and gray, + With weary tread we wound our way. + Where intertwining branches made + A vernal canopy of shade, + The song-birds, from their arches high + Mocked at our chains, as we passed by; + The only forms of earth or air, + Deprived of rightful freedom there. + + At night in forest depths profound, + We lay upon the cheerless ground, + Where on our route we chanced to be, + Nor couch nor coverlet had we + Between us and the turf or stones, + To soothe our tired and aching bones. + Our limbs emaciated grew, + Ragged were we and dirty, too, + As o'er the trans-Slavonian plains, + We dragged our grievous weight of chains. + + As passed the autumn months away + Six leagues we measured every day, + Six leagues our loads were daily borne, + On shoulders galled and callous-worn. + Each morning was our march begun, + Before the advent of the sun, + While every evening in the west + He sank, before we paused for rest. + Time and again upon the road, + The weaker dropped beneath their load, + And fainting from fatigue and pain, + They sank, but rose not up again. + + Where the Pacific's broad expanse + Of sleeping waters, calm and fair, + Divide the mighty continents + With their pelagic barrier; + Upon the Asiatic shore, + Some twelve leagues from the sea or more, + In course of time, our weary line + Was halted at a penal mine. + 'Twas there within a log stockade + Constructed in a manner crude, + That we our habitation made + Through many months of servitude. + + A mine's a mine the world around, + A cheerless place wherever found, + Dismal and dark beyond compare + And charged with foul, unwholesome air, + Which fills the lungs at every breath + With germs of an untimely death. + In caverns subterranean, + With limbs not bound by gyve or chain, + Of those who toil, few are the men + Who reach the threescore years and ten. + Such was the smoke-polluted mine + Wherein we slaved from morn till night, + Or when the sun had ceased to shine + We toiled till his returning light, + Then dragged each one his ball and chain + Back to his bed of straw again. + Day after day could there be seen + The same monotonous routine; + Such was the drudging life we led + Till hope from every bosom fled, + And each became as time rolled on + A spiritless automaton. + + The details of a captive's lot + I fear would interest you not, + So your forbearance I beseech, + While, in impromptu forms of speech, + I strive in simple terms to shape + The narrative of my escape. + + * * * * * + + From out the realms of tropic heat, + Invading with contagious feet, + Came there a plague, one summer-tide. + Up from the south with fatal stride + It stalked, and poured its vials forth + Upon the sparsely settled North; + A wave of pestilence and fear + Swept o'er the northland far and near; + The frenzied peasants, in their fright, + Sought safety in promiscuous flight; + In consternation and alarm, + To seek immunity from harm, + They left the sick in their distress, + And fled into the wilderness; + As if, within the solitude, + The Nemesis, which had pursued, + Might satiate its deadly wrath, + And deviate or change its path, + And its malignant steps retrace + Back to the southern starting-place. + + The able-bodied left behind + The paralyzed, the halt and blind; + The well in abject terror fled, + Forsook the dying, while the dead, + Unburied in the summer breeze, + Became a nidus of disease, + Wherefrom fresh seeds of pestilence + Were scattered by the elements. + + Of those who felt its loathsome breath, + But few escaped a speedy death; + So rapid were the ravages + Of that distemper or disease, + That many, stricken in the night, + Expired before the dawn of light; + For some, who in the morning time + Stood well and strong in manhood's prime, + The noontide brought the fatal scourge, + And evening zephyrs played the dirge; + Those who survived the plague direct + Oft died from hunger and neglect; + The convalescents woke and found + No ministering forms around, + No watcher sitting by the bed, + Alone were they, save for the dead; + They called, but Echo's voice alone + Answered the supplicating moan; + They prayed, but no one heard their prayer, + Then perished from the want of care. + + The suffering of the stricken then, + Defies descriptive word or pen; + I see with memory's vision yet + The beads of suppurating sweat + Stand on the burning brows of those + Smitten with agonizing throes; + As racking tortures permeate + Each swollen and distorted shape, + With thirst which none may mitigate, + They call for drink with mouths agape; + Yet naught may succor such distress, + Save coma and unconsciousness; + When these the intellect benumb, + The sense and feeling overcome, + Within its tuneful cavern hung + No longer rests the fluent tongue, + But swollen by the pain and drouth, + Protrudes from out the parching mouth; + The burning and discolored lip + Imagined moisture tries to sip; + Again they vainly strive to speak + Their fevered incoherencies, + But vocal organs parched and weak + Respond but labored gasp and wheeze. + + I scent the putrefying air, + And see the horror and despair + Depicted on the lineaments + Of every stricken countenance; + I see them writhe, then suddenly, + With ghastly leer convulse and die. + + As stagnant waters generate + A fungous and unsightly freight + Of morbid scum and slimy moss, + Of origin spontaneous; + So latent germs, unnoticed, lurk + In readiness for deadly work; + When these the right conditions find, + And spread infection to the wind, + Chronologers, both far and near, + Record an epidemic year. + + Within the bounds of our stockade, + The plague its foul appearance made, + And soon inoculated there, + Its virus to the very air, + Till e'en the genial summer breeze + Seemed a dispenser of disease; + Then, as impartial lightnings strike + The nobleman and serf alike, + Within this filthy prison yard, + It smote both prisoner and guard; + The difference of race, of lot, + Of rank was speedily forgot, + As discipline succumbed to dread + And officers and soldiers fled, + Save such as, fallen by the way, + Helpless and unattended lay, + Till death brought silence and relief, + From agony intense, though brief. + + Within the walls of the stockade + Not one unstricken person stayed, + Except some convicts who remained + For one good reason:--we were chained. + Our dingy quarters, floor and bed, + Were filled with dying and with dead; + The only shelter we could claim, + A fetid lazar-house became. + I need not tell you how the air + Was filled with accents of despair, + How clamor and entreaty smote + The air, from blistered tongue and throat, + As burning rash and ghastly rheum + Supplanted nature's ruddy bloom; + How moan and outcry, curse and prayer + Were mingled with each other there; + Some raved in dialects unknown, + Or terms provincial, while the groan, + The common tongue of suffering men, + Was echoed ever and again. + + Some, with reluctant clutch and gasp, + Saw life receding from their grasp; + And some, with stoic countenance, + Maintained a stern indifference, + For what are death's abstruse alarms, + When life is shorn of all its charms; + As zealots, when they come to die, + Lift their enraptured gaze on high, + And clasp to the expiring breast + Some crucifix or icon blest, + And mutter with stertorious breath + Some sacred word or shibboleth, + Then sink expectant and resigned, + As if in death a boon to find, + Some in excruciating pain, + Welcomed its foul destroying breath + And sought from cruel gyve and chain + Emancipation, though in death. + + 'Tis not my purpose to declare + The horrors which befell us there, + As passed the fatal hours away, + Of that most memorable day. + Each hour increased our dire distress, + Yet found our numbers less and less, + Till when the shadows overspread, + The major number were the dead. + But three survived that awful night, + To gaze upon the morning light; + And when the noonday breezes blew, + That three had been reduced to two; + And ere the setting of the sun + I was the sole remaining one. + A silence strangely mute and dumb + Succeeded pandemonium. + + There when my last companion died, + Chained to a corpse on either side, + Strange as may seem the miracle, + I never felt more strong and well, + Nor held my life in less esteem; + In that position most extreme, + By silent death surrounded, I + Enjoyed a weird immunity. + + 'Twould serve no purpose to recite + My feelings, as approaching night, + With his impenetrable pall, + Descended and enveloped all. + I sat alone in fear and dread, + Chained to the floor,--and to the dead. + A gruesome and revolting sight + Is horrifying in the light, + But when dissembling night conceals, + The breast a double terror feels. + That darkness, black beyond compare, + Seemed a fit mantle for despair. + Few are the words when hope has failed; + An awful quietude prevailed; + I sat, a mute and helpless lump, + And felt my heart's pulsating thump, + With movement regular and strong, + Propel life's crimson flood along, + But made no sound until the spell + Of silence was unbearable. + + I spoke, but all the ears in reach + Were deaf to every charm of speech; + I shouted till the roof, the floor + And walls resounded with the roar; + I called the dead men at my side, + But Echo's voice alone replied; + I was alone, nor man nor brute + Was there, save those so stark and mute; + My voice upon my listening ear + Fell, most unnatural and queer, + As if with weird, uncanny sound + The walls responsive voices found, + And echoed back the tones at will, + To mock those tongues so cold and still; + Though these vociferations made + My spirit none the less afraid, + The silence seemed more terrible; + Words fail me as I strive to tell + How in my desperation, I + Abandoned hope, yet could not die. + + I never craved the morning light, + As through that terrifying night, + For gentle but erratic Sleep + Withheld her respite soft and deep, + As in that charnel house I lay, + Till twilight ushered in the day. + + When daylight had returned again + I strove with the relentless chain, + Twisted and tugged until at length + A more than ordinary strength + Possessed my arm, and at one stroke + The rivets weakened, bent and broke; + One master wrench and from the floor, + The ring which held the chain I tore; + I dragged the dead men o'er the ground + Till forge and anvil I had found; + There with the hammer, rasp and file + I wrought with diligence the while; + At some expense of time and pains, + I disengaged the cruel chains, + And stood once more erect and free: + Thus ended my captivity. + + * * * * * + + A guard lay prostrate on the sand, + His rifle in his lifeless hand; + I wrenched it from his rigid clutch, + Then played the ghoul in self-defence, + For clothing and accoutrements + Escaped not my despoiling touch; + I breathed the air of liberty, + Alone I stood, but armed and free. + To mislead any watchful eyes, + I donned a militant disguise, + And, in the dead man's uniform, + Was soon prepared for strife or storm. + + Unseen, unhindered, unpursued, + I soon was in the solitude, + Contending with impediments, + Which every wilderness presents. + Primeval forests, through which poured + Rivers unknown to bridge or ford; + Swamps, overgrown with weeds and moss, + Almost impossible to cross; + A waste of fallen trees and logs, + Rank vegetation, stagnant bogs; + Decaying leaves, profusely spread, + Which rustled at the slightest tread, + While underbrush and thicket made + A thorny maze or barricade, + Through which 'twas difficult to force + A passage or retain one's course. + + There my experience began, + Along the lines of primal man; + My fare, as I remember well, + Was strictly aboriginal, + For stupid grouse and ptarmigan + Were easily approached and slain; + And, as a relish for such food, + I had the berries of the wood. + + Through arches of umbrageous shade + I journeyed onward undismayed, + And undisturbed by man or beast, + Made daily progress toward the east, + Till viewing the Pacific shore, + Northward along the coast I bore. + I kept that course for many days, + Where none but savage eyes might gaze; + Full many a mile my footsteps led + Through regions uninhabited, + Till where Kamschatka's barren rocks + Resist the sea's aggressive shocks, + One gloomy afternoon, I stood + And watched the wide and trackless flood. + + 'Twould make a tedious tale, I fear, + Not meet for recitation here, + Should I endeavor to relate + The details of a hermit's fate. + To all appearance I was free; + A plethora of liberty + Is little consolation, where + One lonely recluse breathes the air; + For solitary mortals find + But little joy and peace of mind; + When freedom is enjoyed alone, + Its fondest attributes are flown; + Men of companions destitute + Sink to the level of the brute; + Their sacred essence seems to be + Dependent on community. + + Each morning, in the reddening skies, + Alone, I watched the sun god rise, + While every evening in the west, + Alone, I watched him sink to rest. + To catch a passing ship, in vain + I hourly scanned the watery plain, + Till one fair morn a distant sail + Brought the conclusion of my tale. + + The whaler, such she proved to be, + Steered landward through a rippling sea, + And made directly for the shore; + She anchored, then I saw them lower + The ship's long-boat; at a command + I saw them row, then saw them land. + Fearing occasion might require + The service of a signal fire, + A mass of driftwood I had heaped; + Behind that pile I hid and peeped. + From that concealed position, I, + Watching with closest scrutiny, + Discovered that the squad of ten + Were not my fellow-countrymen. + + Their purpose I could now discern; + One had a spade, which turn by turn + Each wielded till their willing hands + Had delved a grave within the sands. + Six of the party I espied + Returning to the long-boat's side, + Where from its bottom they began + To raise the body of a man, + In canvas strips securely sewed, + All ready for its last abode; + From every motion it would seem + The object of sincere esteem. + From my location I could see + Them balance it most tenderly, + As on six shoulders broad and strong, + They bore it sorrowfully along, + While wind and ever-restless surge + Joined in a requiem or dirge. + + The sun through hazy Autumn skies + Shone on the simple obsequies, + As round the open grave they stood, + In reverential attitude, + And shovelled in the brown sea sand; + One, with a prayer-book in his hand, + Essayed the rôle of corybant; + Omitting the accustomed chant, + He read a burial service there, + Concluding with its words of prayer: + 'Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!' + These words of that abiding trust, + In life beyond the fleeting span + Which heaven has accorded man; + Elysian fields, where perfect peace + Succeeds life's transitory lease; + The inextinguishable fire + Of faith, the daughter of desire, + Glows brightest, when the faltering breath + Is conscious of approaching death; + Bent 'neath the weight of many years, + The form of hoary age appears, + E'en as the failing hourglass shows + That life is drawing to its close, + And when the final sands are spent, + The trembling limbs make their descent + Into the shadows, while the ray + Of faith illuminates the way. + Vain introspection, which descries + No light behind the mysteries + Of death, engenders in the breast + But vacant yearnings and unrest; + Relying on the eye of hope, + We look beyond our mundane scope, + And with enraptured vision see + The fore-gleams of futurity. + + With eager eyes I watched them stand, + Upon that barren waste of sand, + Until the final words of prayer + Had died away upon the air. + Their words, euphonious and clear, + Were wafted to my listening ear, + Borne on a favorable breeze + Which blew directly from the seas; + My breast, with deep emotion stirred, + I recognized their every word, + An English burial ritual read, + On this wild shore, above the dead. + This dissipated every fear, + I knew deliverance was near; + My secret would be safe among + The scions of the English tongue. + + Forever from the light of day + They laid his pallid form away, + While every word and action proved + Their rites were over one they loved. + Soon from the level of the ground, + There rose another silent mound, + To teach, beside that northern sea, + Its lesson of mortality. + + Death on that dismal northern main, + In binding with its silent chain + Forever their lamented mate, + Had freed me from a sterner fate. + Leaving my earstwhile hiding place, + I stood before them face to face; + Then in their own vernacular, + Gave proper salutation there. + 'Twas plain that they regarded me + As human salvage, which the sea + Had, in some evil moment, tossed + Upon that bleak and barren coast, + Like broken wreckage or debris, + Cast up by the capricious sea. + With frank but sympathetic eyes, + They watched me with no small surprise, + While I rehearsed without delay, + My story as a castaway. + + Repairing to the ship's long-boat, + Which soon was in the surf afloat, + I bade farewell to Russian soil + In language not intensely loyal. + They ministered to my distress, + From ample stores of food and dress, + Performed such acts of kindness then + As might beseem large-hearted men; + Nor was there aught perfunctory + In their solicitude for me; + Their acts were of their own accord, + Without suspicion of reward. + +[Illustration: + "The noble spruce and stately fir + Stood draped in feathery garniture." + + _See page 119._] + + Although possessed of little skill + In nautical affairs, to fill + [Blank Page] + A seaman's watch I volunteered, + As we toward Arctic waters steered, + Pursuant of the spouting whale; + I plied each task with rope and sail, + And ere we reached a harbor bar, + Was rated as a first-class tar; + By sufferance of as brave a crew + As ever sailed a voyage through, + The two succeeding years I passed + In northern seas before the mast; + Two years from that eventful day + We moored in San Francisco Bay. + I bade the sea farewell for aye, + Bade my deliverers good-bye, + With fervent pressure of the hand, + Then straight betook myself to land. + + * * * * * + + Seeking a home with freedom blest, + I've cast my fortunes with the West." + + +IX. CONCLUSION + + Concluding, he resumed his seat + Beside his brother, Russian Pete; + Yet ever and anon expressed + His views on points of interest, + And details, which this narrative + In its abridgment may not give, + As Dad McGuire and Uncle Jim + By turns interrogated him. + + To say his hearers listened well, + Were too self-evident to tell, + For some who dozed before he spake, + Woke up and then remained awake. + + As all the inclination felt, + To play a game, the cards were dealt; + The winners, it was understood, + To be exempt from chopping wood; + While he who made the lowest score + Must build the fire and sweep the floor. + Time spread his wings, the moments flew + Unheeded for an hour or two, + Until at length the measured stroke + Of twelve, in timely accents broke + From an old clock upon the shelf, + As old as Uncle Jim himself; + A good old clock, as old clocks go, + But usually too fast or slow, + But near enough the proper time + To serve the purpose of this rhyme. + + The honors passed to Russian Pete, + When Dad McGuire sustained defeat, + As mighty warriors often do, + In some Chalons, or Waterloo; + The fortunes of the final game, + Adding fresh laurels to his fame; + Then all abstained from further play, + And forthwith put the cards away. + + * * * * * + + 'Twas passing late, the dying fire + Served as the summons to retire, + And soon the gentle wand of sleep, + Which works the dream god's drowsy will, + Laden with slumbers soft and deep, + Passed over them and all was still. + + * * * * * + * * * * * + + The storm was over, far and near, + The heavens shone, so cold and clear + That nebulæ and satellites, + Unseen on ordinary nights, + Now filled the broad expanse of sky + With unaccustomed brilliancy; + The astral vacuums and voids, + Were filled with discs and asteroids; + Dissevering the firmament, + The Milky Way disclosed to sight + Its pearly avenue of white + With planetary crystals blent; + Transparently it shone, and pale, + As some celestial gauze or veil; + A silvery baldric o'er the gold + Of constellations manifold. + + A silence, undisturbed, prevailed, + The wind no longer moaned and wailed, + The elements had worked their will + And now were motionless and still; + From forest growth or underbrush + No whisper broke the solemn hush; + The tempest king on airy waves, + Retreated to his secret caves, + And chained the winds, which his behest + Had lately stirred to wild unrest. + + The clouds had vanished, not a trace + Remained upon the arch of space, + To interpose a curtain rude + Between earth and infinitude; + Pellucid as the vault o'erhead, + The snows a layer of beauty spread, + Save where the genii of the storm + Had fashioned in fantastic form, + With alternating whirl and sift, + The pendent comb and massive drift. + + The wilderness of ice and snow, + Transfigured with a mellow glow, + Received from the translucent skies + The stellar groups and galaxies; + A record of the starry waste, + By Nature's faultless pencil traced; + The vernal phalanxes of pine, + In cassocks clear and crystalline, + Seemed as a mirror, in whose sheen + The glimmering lamps of night were seen. + The replica of pearl and gem, + In heaven's twinkling diadem; + Golconda's treasury displayed, + On background of the forest shade. + + Divested of their transient green, + By Autumn winds in wanton rage, + The aspen's leafless limbs were seen + Festooned with frosty foliage; + As fell upon their vestal white, + The placid moon's aspiring light, + The noble spruce and stately fir, + Stood draped with feathery garniture; + Configurated and embossed, + With lace and tapestry of frost, + In quaint and curious design, + The willows and the underbrush, + Were crystallized in silvery plush, + And shimmered in the cold moonshine. + + * * * * * + + The azure dome of space o'erhead, + With scintillating grandeur spread, + Looked down with cold inquiring eyes, + On earth with all her mysteries; + The while reflecting in their snows, + These glittering jewels of the night, + The mountains lay in calm repose, + Slumbering 'neath their robes of white. + +[THE END] + + + + +DOLORES + + + I will sing of a quaint old tradition, + A legend romantic and strange, + Which was whispered to me by the pine trees + High up on the wild mountain range. + Far away in the mystical Westland, + From the mountain peaks crested with snow, + Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow, + Dolores, the river of woe. + + Time was when this river of sorrow + Had never a thought to be sad, + But meandered in joy through the meadows, + With bluebell and columbine clad. + Her ripples were ripples of laughter, + And the soft, dulcet voice of her flow + Was suggestive of peace and affection, + Not accents of anguish and woe. + + Long ago, ere the foot of the white man + Had left its first print on the sod, + A people, both free and contented, + Her mesas and cañon-ways trod. + Then Dolores, the river of sorrow, + Was a river of laughter and glee, + As she playfully dashed through the cañons + In her turbulent rush to the sea. + + High up on the cliffs in their dwellings, + Which were apertures walled up with rocks, + Lived this people, sequestered and happy; + Their dwellings now serve the wild fox. + They planted the maize and potato, + The kind river caused them to grow, + So they worshipped the river with singing + Which blent with its musical flow. + + This people, so artless and peaceful, + Knew nothing of carnage and war, + But dwelt in such quiet and plenty + They knew not what weapons were for. + They gathered the maize in its season, + Unmindful of famine or foe + And chanted their thanks to the spirits + That dwelt in the cañons below. + + But one evil day from the Northland + Swept an army in battle array, + Which fell on this innocent people + And massacred all in a day. + Their bodies were cast in the river, + A feast for the vultures, when lo! + The laughter and song of the river + Were changed to the wailing of woe. + + Gone, gone are this people forever, + Not a vestige nor remnant remains + To gather the maize in its season + And join in the harvest refrains; + But the river still mourns for her people + With weird and disconsolate flow, + Dolores, the river of sorrow, + Dolores--the river of woe. + +[Illustration: + "From the mountain peaks crested with snow."] + + + + +GREAT SHEPHERD OF THE COUNTLESS FLOCKS OF STARS + + + Great Shepherd of the countless flocks of stars, + Which range the azure province of the sky, + Who marked the course for Jupiter and Mars, + Nor leads the comet from its path awry; + Though flaming constellations at Thy call + Pass into being, or created, fall; + Thou, who hast caused the firmament to be, + In humbler pathways, Father, lead Thou me. + + Thou, who hast framed the eagle's wing to soar + Above the verdant prospects of the plain; + Whose law hath shaped the pebbles on the shore, + The stately forests and the bearded grain; + Whose hand hath formed the silvery satellite + To shed her tender moonbeams o'er the night; + Thou who hast placed the islands in the sea, + With that same Wisdom, Father, lead Thou me. + + + + +THE RUINED CABIN + + + There's a pathos in the solemn desolation + Of the mountain cabin sinking in decay, + With its threshold overgrown with vegetation, + With its door unhinged and mouldering away. + There's a weird and most disconsolate expression + In the sashless windows with their vacant stare, + As in mute appeal, or taciturn confession + Of a wild and inconsolable despair. + + With its ridgepole bent and broken in the centre, + From its roof of dirt and weight of winter snows; + Where the only voice to greet you as you enter + Is the wind which down the crumbling fireplace blows; + Where the chipmunk chatters in loquacious wonder, + As unwonted steps invade his solitude; + Where the mountain rat secretes his varied plunder + In the chimney corners, primitive and rude. + + Where the spider spins his web in grim seclusion, + To entrap the fly and vacillating moth; + From the rotten floor, in poisonous profusion + Spring the toadstools, with their foul and fungous growth. + Void of symmetry and semblance of equation, + Through the chinkless cracks, the silvery moon and stars + And the sun, at each matutinal invasion, + Shine as through a dismal dungeon's grated bars. + + But no predatory hand in wanton malice + Hath in vandal hour this dereliction wrought, + But the hand which crumbles pyramid and palace, + The hand of Time with rust and ruin fraught; + Thus the proud or unpretentious habitation + Shall succumb to age and melancholy mould; + All are subject to the same disintegration, + For the occupant and house alike grow old. + + + + +AN IDYLL + + + I love to sit by the waterfall, + And list to its laughing story, + As it fearlessly leaps o'er the rocky wall, + From the mountain peaks stern and hoary; + Or watch the spray as the colors play, + When the glorious sunlight kisses, + And tints confuse into rainbow hues + To embellish the wild abysses. + + I love the rose and the columbine, + Whose delicate beauty pleases; + I love the breath of the fragrant pine, + As it floats on the morning breezes; + + I love the sound from the depths profound, + When the Thunder-God is bringing + His crystal showers, to the tinted flowers, + In their sweet profusion springing. + + I love the lake in the mountain's lap; + Without a flaw or error + Recording the clouds, which the peaks enwrap, + And the trees, as a crystal mirror; + The wild delights of the mountain heights + Thrill my breast with a keen devotion, + As songbirds love the blue arch above, + Or the mariner loves the ocean. + + + + +THE BORDERLAND OF SLEEP + + + On the margin of the mystic shores of rest, + Where imagination mollifies the breast, + Where the fondest dreams their pleasant vigils keep, + In the vestibule of slumber, soft and deep, + Lies a neutral zone, salubrious and sweet,-- + Where the realms of lethargy and action meet,-- + 'Tis the borderland of sleep. + + Here the halcyon delights float by and fade, + Or the evil visions hover and invade; + Here the bosom entertains its secret guest, + With the silent plaint of agony suppressed, + As unwelcome thoughts rise from the dust and mould, + Of the vanished years in pantomime unrolled, + In this borderland of rest. + + Neither wakeful, nor in sentient repose, + Nor in apathy, complete and comatose; + As when Lethe with her mild nepenthic surge, + Doth in chaos of forgetfulness submerge, + But a drowsy consciousness, a blend of dreams, + With reality's extravagant extremes; + Such the zone on slumber's verge. + + + + +STELLAR NOCTURNE + + + Speeds the day in silent flight, on the sombre wings of night, + As the dying sunlight glimmers in the west; + Soon the shadows cease to creep, for the sun has gone to sleep, + And the scene is wrapped in somnolence and rest. + + From a solitary star, in the realms of space afar, + Faintly twinkling through the shadows of the night, + See the stellar force increased, till the scintillating east + Seems a galaxy of constellations bright. + + With its glittering display, see the gorgeous Milky Way, + Which in twain the vaulted universe divides, + As the bridal veil serene of some fair celestial queen, + Who, in jewelled state, o'er astral space presides. + + All the heavens seem in tune, and the vacillating moon + Bathes the landscape with her floods of silvery light; + Though the scenes of day are fair, naught in splendor can compare + With the grandeur of the firmament at night. + +[Illustration: + "High up on the cliffs in their dwellings, + Which were apertures walled up with rocks, + Lived this people, sequestered and happy; + Their dwellings now serve the wild fox." + + _See page 121._] + + + + +FATHER, AT THY ALTAR KNEELING + + + Father, at Thy altar kneeling, + Sin-defiled; + Seeking there the balm of healing, + To Thy Fatherhood appealing, + See Thy child. + + I am weary of transgressions; + I have sinned; + Prone to vice and indiscretion, + Vacillation, misimpression, + As the wind. + + Neither sins nor imperfections + I conceal; + Evil thoughts, impure reflections, + Faults in manifold directions, + Can I feel. + + I am tired of life's illusion, + I would rest; + Leave its turmoil and confusion, + Fain would know the blest seclusion + Of Thy breast. + + Through the shadows of the valley + As I speed, + Bid my faltering courage rally, + To resist each adverse sally; + Wilt Thou lead? + + For I know that Thou art reigning + Over all; + With this confidence remaining, + Let me feel Thy Hand sustaining + Lest I fall. + + + + +DREAMS + + + A dream is the ghost of a fond delight, + An echo of former smiles or tears, + Wafted to us on the wings of night + From the silent bourne of the vanished years. + + A dream is a perished joy, restored + From the mystical regions beyond our ken, + Which we fain would press as a thing adored, + To our breasts, ere it fades and is lost again. + + A dream is a buried hope exhumed, + 'Tis an iridescent thing of air, + Which mocks at the spirit, by fate entombed + In the catacombs of a mute despair. + + A dream is a reflex view of life, + A blending of fancy with solemn truth, + A retrospection of mundane strife, + Old age re-living the scenes of youth. + + Our dreams are but mirrors for our desires; + The proud ambition, the lofty aim + Achieved in our sleep, but the night expires + And the dull existence plods on the same. + + A dream is a feeble ray of light, + A rift in the shadows through which we grope, + An evidence that eternal night + Can never extinguish the star of hope. + + + + +NOCTURNE + + + As fall the dews of slumber soft and deep, + On wilderness and populated town, + Bound by the sweet influences of sleep, + Proud reason abdicates her golden crown; + Dark Lethe, of oblivious renown, + Fain would I quaff from thy forgetful streams, + In willing thralldom would I lay me down, + To court the fair companionship of dreams, + And bask within their iridescent beams. + + Or linger in the vestibule of sleep, + Where blow the winds of memory from the past, + Ere yet the languid shades of slumber deep + Have o'er the sense their dormant shadows cast; + Or muse upon the infinite and vast, + Till speculations various confuse, + And thought, unmerciful iconoclast, + With shattered images the path bestrews, + Yet leads to chaos of conflicting views. + + Now vanish all remembrance of the day, + Complete immunity pervade the mind, + Let fond imagination hold her sway, + With rule uncircumscribed and unconfined; + Or soaring on the wings of fancy, wind + Through mystic realms of interstellar space, + Where visions of supernal beauty bind + The drowsy consciousness in sweet embrace; + But dreamland fades, and morning comes apace. + +[Illustration: + "As it fearlessly leaps o'er the rocky wall + From the mountain peaks stern and hoary." + + _See page 124._] + + + + +THE TRUE FAITH + + + That faith is true whatever it may be, + What ethics or traditions it may teach, + Whose whispers soothe the secret misery + And mollify with soft, persuasive speech. + + That faith is true that lightens pain and care, + That false, which adds one burden to the load, + Whate'er its ornaments of psalm and prayer, + A travesty on reason and on God. + + That faith is true that buoys the sinking breast, + When in the throes of some great agony, + That comforts the afflicted and distressed, + And reconciles the trembling soul to die. + + That faith is true that when the chilling blasts + Of final dissolution overwhelm + Life's fragile bark, and shiver hull and masts, + Sees but the hand of Love upon the helm. + + + + +A FRAGMENT + + + The bard who versifies for hire, + When no exalted thoughts inspire, + Tho' rhyme and metre be exact, + Conveys a sense of something lacked; + When moved by no poetic fire, + He twangs a dull and tuneless lyre. + + + + +MORTALITY + +_A Dissertation_ + +"If a man die, shall he live again?"--Job xiv. 14. + + + Thou man of Uz,-- + The query which thy fevered organs framed, + Unanswered still re-echoes in our ears. + Thy desolate interrogating cry, + Born of affliction, grievous and extreme, + Bridging the gulf of fleeting centuries, + Finds our weak tongues as impotent as thine, + To voice reply in accents void of doubt. + Though in our breasts awakening response, + 'Tis but a repetition of thy plaint, + A faint reverberation of thy cry. + We peer into the darkness, but descry + Nor form, nor semblance, with our bootless gaze; + We call and list with ears attuned to hear; + No sound is wafted, and no glimmering ray + Breaks from that night, unlit by moon or star; + Nor gleam, nor spark, nor modicum of light + Is flashed from out the precincts of the tomb. + + Death is the final principle of life, + The culmination of vicissitude, + The silent archer, whose unerring shaft + Doth pierce at last the most unyielding breast; + The reaper after whose fell harvesting, + No gleaner bends nor follows in his wake. + The gold of Ophir, and the pearls of Ind, + The sapphires and the rubies of the East, + Or all the treasures, which the fabled Gnomes, + In subterranean vaults and passages + Have guarded, multiplied by countless sums, + With Euclid's most exalted numeral + In computation, as the multiple + Of least proportion, for the passing breath + Can purchase neither respite nor reprieve, + Nor can prolong it, by one feeble gasp. + + Nor fragrant balm, nor sweet preservative, + Nor caustic alkaloid, nor bitter herb + From Nature's various dispensary, + Elixir, lotion, nor restorative, + Nor prophylactic nor catholicon + Nor pharmacy's most potent stimulant + Can long retard the swift but viewless flight, + Of that mysterious thing we call the Soul. + Nor exorcism, nor the mystic power + Of incantation, nor of talisman, + Nor words of solemn theurgy pronounced, + Can break or dissipate that pallid spell; + Nor necromancy, nor phylactery, + Nor touch of magic wand, nor subtle force + Of conjuration, nor of sorcery, prevails + Against the shadows of the tomb; + Nor all the baleful arts of witchery, + Nor amulet withstand the charm of death. + + Yea, man who rules the passive elements, + Enchaining them to service at his will, + Himself to death must yield obedience. + Yea, man who, through all disadvantages + And obstacles, has hewed his way aloft, + From out the labyrinth of ignorance, + Who sways the sceptre over conquered realms, + Of latent energy and unseen force, + Without condition or conceding term, + Surrenders to that sombre potentate. + + Nor can in earth's remotest solitude, + In forest depths or undiscovered isle, + In dismal cavern or secretive cave + Escape the mandate of that grizzly King. + Nor wing of eagle, nor the fabled wings + Of hippogrif, of such velocity + As clothes the lightning and the thunderbolt, + Outstrip in speed the shadowy wings of death. + + We pass along an ever-travelled road, + Worn by the silent and continuous tread + Of throngs innumerable, of every clime; + The countless generations of the past, + The uncomputed hosts and multitudes + Who trod the earth in ages most remote, + And those whose pale emaciated forms + The generous earth hath recently received, + The myriads of every race and tongue + Who have preceded us, have sent no word + [Blank Page] + Of cheer or comfort from that silent strand, + And no directions for our timorous steps. + +[Illustration: + "I love the lake in the mountain's lap." + + _See page 125._] + + Grim Dissolution knows no favorites, + But in his multiplicity of shapes + Invades alike, with stern resistless step, + The squalid hovel with its noisome air, + And palace most replete with opulence; + Those of exalted station, and the hordes + To whom existence means but servitude, + Who see the golden sun arise and bring + No intermission from their ceaseless toil, + Who hope for respite only with the night; + Those who in dread reluctance shrank from death, + And those who neither knew nor cared the hour, + To life and death alike indifferent, + Or fain themselves would snap the fragile thread; + Mankind in all conditions and degrees + Of culture, affluence and penury, + Of multiform endowments and desires, + With differing talents and proclivities, + Yea, all varieties and types of men, + With pathways various and diversified, + Have found their paths converging at the grave. + + Each, as the gathering shadows of the night, + In solemn chaos of unfathomed gloom, + Descend in sombre, melancholy pall, + And mark apace life's transitory eve, + Must quaff, alike, the bitter draught of death, + The one libation in which all who breathe + May in all equity participate. + Each, at the expiration of his span, + Has found the same relentless terminal, + And faltering on dissolution's brink, + With what of strength, or guilt or innocence + Did mark the tenor of his brief career, + Has passed up to the margin of the grave, + Then disappeared forever. + + What is Death? + We know not, yet in verity we feel + That, though of most immediate concern, + And shrouded deep in sable mystery, + Though most abstruse, intangible and strange, + 'Tis not of our volition and control! + It therefore proves, as life doth ever prove, + With all abundant plenitude of proof, + A Force superior to human strength, + And should afford no premises for fear. + +[FINIS] + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Passing of the Storm and Other +Poems, by Alfred Castner King + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42422 *** |