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diff --git a/43612-0.txt b/43612-0.txt index ac3898f..65dd522 100644 --- a/43612-0.txt +++ b/43612-0.txt @@ -1,36 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Katydid's Poems, by Mrs. J. I. McKinney - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Katydid's Poems - -Author: Mrs. J. I. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Katydid's Poems - -Author: Mrs. J. I. McKinney - -Release Date: August 31, 2013 [EBook #43612] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATYDID'S POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by David Garcia, Matthew Wheaton and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by the Library of Congress) - - - - - - - -[Illustration: Katydid.] - - - - - Katydid's Poems - - WITH A LETTER BY - - Jno. Aug. Williams. - - - ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1887, BY - - MRS. J. I. McKINNEY ("KATYDID") - - IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN AT WASHINGTON. - - - PRINTED BY THE COURIER-JOURNAL JOB PRINTING COMPANY. - - - Dedicated - - TO - - J. I. McKINNEY. - - - To him whose every word is one of praise, - Who loves to linger where my thoughts have been, - And who delights in all my rhyming ways, - I offer first these efforts of my pen. - - - - -LETTER TO KATYDID. - - -DEAR KATYDID: - -I am more pleased with your lines than when I first read them; they -are intensely womanly, natural, musical and sweet--they are absolutely -free from affectation, only the restraint of rhyme and measure seem to -deprive your muse of perfect freedom and grace. There is also a -delicacy of thought and fancy, and of purity of sentiment that -pervades the whole like the sweetest perfume. - -No one can listen to your "Chirpings" and feel like touching the bough -from which you sing with a rude, critical hand; he would rather listen -through the live-long night to the end of your song. - -I remember well your first attempt at rhyme while a girl here at -school; even then, there was a pleasing promise of a beautiful and -useful pen; and I am glad that you have found time and opportunity to -improve your early gift. I am glad, too, that you have been persuaded -to give some of your sweet little poems to the press; the tender, the -true, and the pure of heart will read them with delight. - - Affectionately your friend, - - JNO. AUG. WILLIAMS. - - DAUGHTER'S COLLEGE, - Harrodsburg, Ky. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE. - To A Katydid 7 - A Day Dream 9 - The Old Ravine (Illustrated.) 11 - Some Day You'll Wish For Me 12 - To Hallie 13 - I've Asked You to Forget Me 14 - Little Blanche 15 - The Little Front Gate 16 - Drifting 16 - Looking Back 17 - Scotta 18 - The Lover and Flower 20 - My Cloud 22 - The Decision 23 - Autumn 25 - A Sister's Love 26 - In Memory of Nannie Johnson White 26 - The Heliotrope's Soliloquy 27 - A Problem 28 - My Palace (Illustrated.) 29 - Death of Summer 33 - Spring and Summer 34 - Under the Snow 35 - The Prettiest Girl in Town 36 - I Am Musing To-night 37 - A Curl 38 - Somebody's Face 39 - Good-bye, Maggie 40 - The Hermit's Farewell (Illustrated.) 41 - A Window I Love 43 - Thistle Down 44 - Bitter Memories 45 - An Acrostic 46 - My Angel Visitor 47 - Keep a Bright Face, Darling 48 - My Neighbor's Mill 49 - Dripping Springs 51 - In Memoriam 53 - The Old Orchard Trees 54 - On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies 55 - Ella Lee 56 - What is the West Wind Saying 58 - To a Mountain Stream 59 - Pen Pictures 60 - To Mother 62 - The Broken Heart 63 - A Year Ago 65 - A Christmas Peep 66 - Winnie's Christmas Eve 68 - My Heart's Little Room 69 - The Three Muses 71 - A Recollection 72 - Don't Question Him Why 73 - Why? 74 - A Sunset Longing 74 - Journeys 76 - The Lost Poem 78 - A Maple Leaf 80 - A Gallop With Santa Claus 81 - Home Memories 83 - Sunshine and Shadow (Illustrated.) 85 - Only a Fern Leaf 87 - A Dream 88 - Those Soft Airs She Played 89 - To Albert 91 - The Reunion of the Flowers 92 - Children of the Brain 94 - A Lily of the Valley 96 - Lines to the Old Year 97 - Why I Smile 98 - My Phantom Ships 99 - The Weight of a Word 101 - An Apology 103 - Speak Kindly 104 - Those Willing Hands 106 - Look Into the Past 107 - A Little Face 108 - The Canary and Rose 109 - A Sigh or a Tear 110 - Snow-flakes 112 - A Foot-print 113 - - - - -KATYDID'S POEMS. - - - - -To a Katydid. - - - Little friend among the tree-tops, - Chanting low your vesper hymns, - Never tiring, - Me inspiring, - Seated 'neath the swaying limbs, - Do you know your plaintive calling, - When the summer dew is falling, - Echoes sweeter through my brain - Than any soft, harmonic strain? - - Others call you an intruder, - Say discordant notes you know; - Or that sadness, - More than gladness, - From your little heart doth flow; - And that you awake from sleeping - Thoughts in quiet they were keeping, - Faithless love, or ill-laid schemes, - Hopes unanchored--broken dreams. - - No such phantoms to my vision - Doth your lullaby impart, - But sweet faces, - No tear traces, - Smile as joyous in my heart, - As when first at mother's knee - Learned I your sweet mystery. - I defend you with my praises, - For your song my soul upraises. - - Do you wonder that at twilight - Always by my cottage door - I am seated? - You've repeated - Oft'ner still those tunes of yore; - And I love them, love your scanning - And your noisy tree-top planning; - Though you struggle with a rhyme, - In due season comes the chime. - - Oft I fancy when your neighbors, - In some secret thicket hid, - Are debating, - Underrating - What that little maiden did, - That above their clam'rous singing - I can hear your accents ringing, - Like a voice that must defend - From abuse some time-loved friend. - - Though the nightingale and swallow - Through the poet's measures sing, - No reflection - Of dejection - Petrifies or palls your wing. - In the calm and holy moonlight, - On and on with hours of midnight, - In the darkness, in the rain, - Still you whisper your refrain. - - Dream I not of fame or fortune, - Only this I inward crave, - Sweet assurance, - Long endurance, - Of a love beyond the grave. - Should my songs die out and perish, - You'll my name repeat and cherish; - Though all trace is lost of me, - Still you'll call from tree to tree, - - KATYDID. - - - - -A Day-Dream. - - - I'm looking in a mirror, Belle, - The mirror of our past; - And many a bright reflection, Belle, - Into its depth is cast; - Reflections that are calm and clear, - And O! to us so very dear. - - I see a village--old Kirksville-- - Its long and narrow street, - And as it climbs upon the hill, - How many friends I meet! - And, Belle, your face smiles out to me-- - The sweetest face that I can see. - - There is my home hid 'mong the trees - Back of the village street, - A welcome rushes on the breeze, - And restless grow my feet; - My heart leaps forward, and I view - The dearest spot I ever knew. - - Home! home again! and, children, we - Skip through the pastures green; - Your eyes of blue I plainly see-- - "The sweetest ever seen;" - And on your cheek the rosy tinge; - And curls of gold your temples fringe. - - And see the dogs we used to pet; - Down through the lawn they run; - Not many passing by, forget - Their bark, or fail to shun - Old Carlo of the greyhound race, - And Lion with his vicious face. - - Yet us they follow to the hedge, - Where hours with them we've played; - And to the pond, along whose edge, - Barefooted, we would wade. - Decorum could not cramp the brain, - And Love unlocked his golden chain. - - We climb upon my father's barn, - Hide in the straw and hay; - We watch aunt "Silvy" spinning yarn - In the old-fashioned way. - She tells us tales by candle light, - That fill our hearts with wild delight. - - A shadow falls; I lose your face; - Lost is the fairy-tale; - And just before my eyes I trace - A kind of airy veil; - A network that is strangely planned, - Held by the Present's cunning hand. - - The shadow now has passed away; - I glance the meshes through, - And find strange children there at play - Beside your knee; one, two-- - The little faces both foretell - A happy future for you, Belle. - - Long, long I gaze. That pretty view - Dissolves away in air, - And still I'm looking, Belle, for you, - And still I'm standing there; - I strive your image to retrace-- - All, all has vanished but my face. - - And closing 'round me as before, - I see a figured wall, - A carpet blue upon the floor, - And sunlight over all. - Bewildered, yet entranced I seem, - And 'waken from a sweet day-dream. - - - - -The Old Ravine. - - - Just back of my dear old home it rolled, - With many a crumpled and rocky fold, - Hedged 'round with cherry and locust trees - Their strong arms toyed with the breeze-- - Like knights arrayed for march or fight - They stood with waving plumes of white. - - And O! that valley's inmost room - Was a mass of ivy and violet bloom; - The larkspur shook from its purple crest - A dew-drop down on the lily's breast; - The blue-bell dozed on the rivulet's brink, - And the myrtle leaned o'er the edge to drink. - - Even now, as I write, through the open door - I catch a sound of the cataract's roar, - And see the girls just out from school - Knee-deep in the ravine's limpid pool; - And the boys, ah, me! how plain can I see - Them stealing the bark from the slippery tree. - - The door slams back, it is scarce apart; - With steady eye and fluttering heart, - I watch the girls up the valley turn, - In search of peppermint and fern; - And the boys are waving their caps to me, - As they stand in that ragged and torn old tree. - - In some wild way, I never knew how, - I climbed to the swing on that elm tree's bough; - Was twitt'ring a song as I used to do, - And counting the clouds in the sky's soft blue, - When the girls came out from the valley's shade, - And earth into heaven seemed then to fade. - - 'Twas the Eden of old, and I was a child - (I have thought of it since and often have smiled); - Sitting there in the swing, with the girls at my feet, - And the boys overhead--my joy was complete; - What a mockery, then, to awaken and part - With the happy illusion--how hollow my heart! - - - - -Some Day You'll Wish for Me. - -FOR ---- ---- - - - Some day, my darling, when the rose has died, - That on your pathway throws its petals sweet, - When the sharp thorn is springing near your side - And nettles pierce the mould beneath your feet, - You'll wish for me. - - Some day, my darling, when the crystal cup - Of Beauty shattered lies, and spilled its wine; - When Pleasure's urn denies your lips one sup, - And you drink deep of Disappointment's brine, - You'll wish for me. - - Some day the wreath will wilt upon your head; - You'll smell the bud and find a worm within. - Some day, my darling, when your friends have fled, - And strangers mock your frequent tears, ah! then - You'll wish for me. - - Some day, my darling, when Death's dews fall cold - Upon your brow, you'll gladly let me come-- - When dreams present the shroud that must enfold - Your limbs, and your sweet lips grow chill and dumb, - You'll wish for me. - - You'll long for him whose hands were oft denied - To pluck a rose lest they the bush pollute-- - Yet he would come and stand a slave aside. - To grasp the bramble and the thorn uproot, - If you but wished for him. - - He'd kiss your limbs the hidden briar had torn, - And bathe the wounds with Pity's saddest tear; - He'd close your eyes that ne'er till death had worn - For him one look of love, and at your bier - He'd kneel and pray - - For strength to watch you hidden from his sight, - For strength to turn aside and leave you there - Clasped in the arms of everlasting night; - And yet, my darling, not as great despair - He'd feel than now. - - - - -To Hallie. - -WRITTEN FOR ---- - - - Sad and cheerless stands the homestead - In its grandeur as of old; - 'Tis a casket--lost, the jewel; - 'Tis a mine without its gold. - - Once a sunbeam at the doorway - Gilded room and gladdened hall; - Making life a golden summer, - Full of joy for each and all. - - But the sunshine that has vanished - Ne'er can brighten o'er us more, - Though I bow in meek submission - Yet my heart is sad and sore. - - I have lost my life's sweet treasure, - Earth holds nothing dear for me; - "Upward, onward," be my motto, - Onward, upward, still to thee. - - Hallie! be my guarding angel, - Teach my footsteps not to stray; - Spread your sainted wings above me, - Lead me in "the narrow way," - - So that you can come and meet me-- - Waft me heavenward on your breast, - "Where the wicked cease from troubling, - And the weary are at rest." - - - - -I've Asked You to Forget Me. - - - I've asked you to forget me, - To let our happy past - Ne'er be recalled; for ah! it was - Too sweet, too bright! to last. - - But yet you say that you're my friend, - And still as fond and true; - While I ne'er care to see thy face, - Or have one thought of you. - - Then ne'er again recall those days - When roguish Cupid played - At twining garlands 'round our hearts - Only to wilt and fade; - - For I have with a steady hand, - Not heeding Love's sweet art, - Unwound them from their resting place - And freed your faithless heart. - - - - -Little Blanche. - - - Gather up the broken playthings, - Scattered on the nursery floor; - Blanche is gone!--her little fingers - Ne'er will fondle with them more. - - Hide away the dolls, the dishes-- - Precious treasures! O! so dear! - Lay aside the little dresses-- - In each fold a mother's tear. - - God hath given--God hath taken, - Though it rends the heart in twain, - He but sends his frowns upon us, - To give back his smiles again. - - She hath gone to 'wait your coming, - Smiling where the angels stand; - Lingering there at heaven's gateway, - That she first may clasp your hand. - - - - -The Little Front Gate. - - - Away from the world and its bustle, - When the daylight grows pleasant and late; - In our own cosy cot, I am waiting - For the slam of the little front gate. - - The birds at the doorway are singing, - The roses their beauty debate; - But I sit here alone, and I listen - For the slam of the little front gate. - - Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight - Send the roving bird home to its mate, - I list for a hurrying footstep, - And the slam of the little front gate. - - O! you who are burdened with sorrow, - And believe that life is but fate, - Learn from me there is joy in waiting - For the slam of the little front gate. - - - - -Drifting. - - - Scotta, you are drifting from me, - O'er the billows of life's tide; - You and I have sailed together, - With our frail barks side by side. - - You are drifting with the current, - But my feeble oar is light, - Too light to follow; and, in anguish, - I must watch you drift from sight. - - Drifting, gliding, moving onward, - Tide and sky seem one deep blue; - All in vain my eyes are yearning, - You have drifted from my view. - - But there's yet a broader current, - Where our meeting barks will land; - You and I still bound together, - Heart to heart, and hand to hand. - - - - -Looking Back. - - - She opened a little worn package, - Scarred yellow by Time's ruthless hand; - Disclosing a bundle of letters - Tied up with a pale ribbon band. - - "These," she said, "are like leaves from a fernery, - Long pressed in a book with a flower; - And the memories wafted up from them, - Like perfume that follows a shower. - - "With no wormwood or gall in the essence, - Few tares in life's garden were sown; - The clouds partly hiding the sunshine, - Some weeds with the blossoms have grown. - - "But we loved"--here she held out a picture; - A tear-drop was dimming her eye, - As a cloud will o'ershadow the landscape, - Or shut out a star in the sky. - - I took up a ring and a locket, - Set deep with a ruby and pearl; - The clasp was all tarnished and broken, - And tear-stained the face of the girl, - - Whose eyes were awake in Hope's morning, - Love kindled their depths with his spark-- - Even then, from the red velvet lining, - They glowed like a gem in the dark. - - I turned to the sad little figure, - 'Round the package the faded cord tied; - Pressed my lips to her cheek--ah, how sadly - The roses had bloomed there and died. - - Long we sat in the lingering twilight, - Looking back o'er the vanishing years; - She sobbed out her grief on my bosom, - And moistened my brow with her tears. - - What comfort in words could I offer? - There was more in a soul-telling glance; - For each heart hath its season of springtime, - Each heart hath a buried romance. - - - - -Scotta. - - - I Saw her last night in a vision - (How often she comes when I dream!) - Through the garden of Heaven she loitered, - Then stood by a clear, placid stream. - - And out of the heart of the river - A bunch of white lilies she drew, - I scarce could discern from the blossoms - Her fingers, so waxen their hue. - - But her face wore the same quiet features, - And her smile was enhancing the light - That fell on this friend of my bosom, - This angel robed softly in white. - - I longed to reach upward and touch her, - To ask why the flowers she twined; - Wondered often for whom was the garland, - And the crown with the lily buds lined. - - So I cried and my voice soared onward - Farther than sight could extend-- - "For whom are you weaving this chaplet? - Speak, Scotta! sweet spirit and friend." - - "O! tell me just why from the portals - Of Heaven you've wandered away, - And sit here alone by the river - Wreathing these lilies to-day." - - Her lips parted, as if for an answer-- - Then a cluster of cherubim, came-- - They hovered about this sweet seraph, - And whispered in concert _a name_. - - It resounded along Heaven's archway, - But soft on my ear that word fell, - Soft as her accents of friendship, - Soft as a Sabbath eve bell. - - And the dewdrops and spray of the river - On the garlands to crystals had turned, - The crown she embedded with snow-drops, - One jewel there glittered and burned. - - Its luster was brilliant and sunlike, - As burnished as those in the throne, - But the name that her own gentle fingers - Had carved there, ah! me, was--_my own_. - - And what if Life's thorns pressed my temples - Or sorrow to midnight turns day, - I will press on alone through the darkness, - Believing her hand leads the way. - - I will traverse the chill "Swamp of Cypress" - Where the "Rivers of Death" slowly wind; - For she'll beckon me over with garlands, - And the crown with the lily buds lined. - - - - -The Lover and Flower. - - - I found it, one day, in a pretty shade - Which a vine and a maple together made; - 'Twas blooming away in a dress of white, - With eyes of a blue transparent light. - I knelt at its shrine, - And this heart of mine - Drank in the fragrance as one drinks wine. - - Then I said, "Sweet flower, this cooling shade - With the summer weather will dim and fade, - There's a place in my heart--a cozy room-- - Where you may nestle and grow and bloom." - Thus I wooed the flower, - In this shady bower, - And lovers we were that self-same hour. - - I carried it home, I pruned it with care, - I gave it the sun and the morning air. - The honey bees came its dew to sip, - But I drove them away with pouting lip; - For I loved my flower, - And with jealous power - I banished the bees from our curtained bower. - - A butterfly came on wings of lace, - And tried to fan my blossom's face; - But I brushed it away with cruel hands, - And tore from its wings the velvet bands; - Then I kissed my flower; - But a summer shower - Burst from the clouds with mesmeric power. - - Then the pale little blossom heaved a sigh, - And opened a blue and timid eye - To thank the cloud as it did in the shade, - Which the vine and the maple together made; - But my heart would rebel; - I could not quell - Its raging fire--it seemed from hell. - - I slammed the shutters with curses of doom; - I made it dark as a dungeon room, - Then I hurried away like a thief in the night; - But I strolled again in the warm sunlight, - And another flower - From Fashion's own bower - I culled, and nursed it only an hour. - - It proved but a weed with a gaudy bloom, - And a poisonous odor filled my room. - So I turned once more to my wildwood flower, - That I locked in my heart that sinful hour, - When the angel of love, - To its mansion above, - Had fluttered away like a wounded dove. - - How softly I turned the key in my heart; - One moment I faltered--the door swung apart-- - A faint, sweet essence, like heliotrope bloom, - Was sick'ning my senses; I moved through the room - With a staggering tread, - With a brain reeling head, - And swooned there--_a murd'rer_--my flower was--_dead_. - - - - -My Cloud--To Scotta. - - - There's a cloud on my life's horizon - Of wonderful shape and hue, - Like the feathery down of a snow-drift - 'Tis dimpled with changeful blue. - I gaze on its shadowy outline - And drink in the calm of the skies, - Till I fancy it floats out of heaven, - As an angel in disguise. - - No slumbering storm in its bosom, - No hint of the lightning's glare, - Only a feast for the heart and soul - Is this treasure of the air; - For I know from its silvery edges, - And glimpses of hidden gold, - That a picture of rare tranquility - Its tender depths enfold. - - Else whence is this mystic feeling - Of peace that's stealing o'er me? - Like the magic of summer moonlight - Enchanting a restless sea. - O! heavenly cloud! why are you - So calm? so angelic you seem, - My spirit escapes in its longing-- - I am lost in a beautiful dream. - - Up, up on the wings of a swallow - Piercing the heaven's deep blue, - O'er meadow and mount I am rising, - And floating, sweet spirit, to you; - Onward, in trance I am wafted, - Now into the cloudlet above; - And a face smiles out from its drapery, - And ah! 'tis a face that I love. - - - - -The Decision. - - - A dispute once arose in a bee-hive - As to which of the little brown bees - Could gather the sweetest nectar - From blossoms or budding trees. - - The queen tried in vain to discover - Some method the riot to quell; - But a challenge for war had been sounded, - And threatened was each honey cell. - - So she spoke in a voice most persuasive-- - "He shall sit on my throne for an hour, - Who brings from the store-house of nature, - The juice of the sweetest-lipped flower." - - Away flew the brown little workers, - Away out of sight o'er the hill; - Then backward and forward they flitted, - The honey-cups eager to fill. - - One famished the heart of a lily, - And drank from its milky bud; - One opened the vein of a rose leaf, - And licked up the crimson blood. - - To a poppy-bed still one hurried, - On a downy cot he crept, - But all-day in the silken blankets, - Unconscious there he slept. - - Another flew off to the meadow, - And punctured the daisy's cap; - A swarm had encompassed a fountain, - Where gurgled the sugar-tree sap. - - A fourth and a fifth to a mansion - Had followed a bridal pair; - One strangled the bud on her bosom, - One mangled the wreath on her hair. - - But the sixth one paused at a cottage, - Where a sick girl sleeping lay; - And there by the open window, - Blossomed a hyacinth spray. - - A youth stood near in the shadows, - And watching the dreamer's face, - A tear rolled down from his eyelid - And fell on the hyacinth vase. - - It was only the work of a moment - For a busy bee to do, - To flavor affections tear-drop - With the extract, "flower-dew." - - So he gathered this precious honey, - And, polishing up his sting, - He flitted out of the window, - With gold dust under his wing. - - Such a night in the little bee-hive - Before was never known; - For the hyacinth's rich moist pollen - Had paved the way to the throne. - - - - -Autumn. - - - Who is it that paints the woodlands - Like a gorgeous gown of gold; - Dropping, here and there, a ripple - Of vermilion in each fold? - Who is it that calls the robins - And the blackbirds into bands; - Pointing them with flaming fingers, - To the sunny, Southern lands? - - What has scorched the tender blossoms? - In our yards they're dying now. - Do you know who kissed the apple - Till it reddened on the bough? - Why so mute the little streamlet? - Down the hill it used to leap; - Now I faintly hear it sobbing-- - Sobbing out like one in sleep. - - Leaden clouds lay on the heavens, - Like a burden on the heart; - And the winds together whisper, - Sad as loved ones ere they part. - Then anon a dreamy dullness - Hovers over sky and earth; - Ah! my soul reflects the sadness, - And I seek my friendly hearth. - - You who love the Indian summer, - So renowned by pen and art, - Go, and revel in the gloaming, - While so sadly pants my heart. - But I can not watch the leaflets, - On the whirlwind as they ride, - For just so a hectic river - Bore my darling from my side. - - - - -A Sister's Love. - -TO IDA. - - - She knelt beside her brother's grave, - The day was near its close; - And where the cool, tall grasses wave, - She lay a fresh-cut rose. - Then, from a silver waiter near, - She drew a wreath of white, - Besprinkled with the twilight's tear, - O'ershaded with the night, - And placed them on the green-kept mound. - I watched her kneeling there, - Her face bent on the sacred ground, - In attitude of prayer; - And while a bird sang soft his hymn, - Down-looking from above, - We saw unveiled a picture dim-- - A statue true of love. - - - - -In Memory of Fannie Johnson White. - - - If I could blend into my verse - That soft and slumb'rous haze, - So faintly resting on the rose - Before the autumn days - Have chilled its heart, and numbed the leaves, - And drunk the precious dew, - Then could I melodize in song, - Her life so pure and true. - - Or could I weave into this song - Her smile, so rich and rare, - That found its way to every heart, - And left its halo there-- - Then earth would not seem desolate, - Or days be lone or long, - Since she would sweetly live again - In verse, and smile in song. - - All this is vain! both pen and voice, - Too weak to speak her worth; - Though memory writes in words of gold, - Her beauteous deeds on earth. - Heaven claimed our flower--there we may bloom, - If we the watchword keep: - "Whatsoever thou shall sow, - That also thou shall reap." - - - - -The Heliotrope's Soliloquy. - -TO MRS. T. R. WALTON. - - - Let others bring from foreign shore - The glittering gem, the shining ore, - Rare trophies from the coral caves, - And hidden wealth of ocean waves, - To grace the bridal hall. - - You floral queens! You roses white! - Bathed in the moonbeam's yellow light, - You'll smile in many a quaint design, - And help the banquet room to line-- - But not the diadem. - - My starry flowers--this purple heath-- - She'll gather for that trailing wreath; - For my faint breath of rare perfume - Is only for the bridal room-- - The bride--the bridal crown. - - To watch with me her trembling sigh, - The golden pansy's modest eye - Shall only glance from out my bower, - With me proclaim the nuptial hour, - And seal the holy bond. - - - - -A Problem. - - - My heart is perplexed, though I've tried to discover - An answer to solve what it is that I miss, - Though I've questioned myself more that twenty times over, - There seems no reply to a question like this. - My friends meet me gladly with words kindly spoken, - Salutations of praises and sometimes a kiss, - And looks sent along with a sweet flower token. - I find in my room--there is something I miss. - - The blaze up the chimney this evening is talking, - The wind and the shutter hum sad an old tune, - A cloud o'er the heavens is leisurely walking, - A few early snowflakes are vexing the moon. - Pale Luna! your countenance seemeth too sober, - But why should I murmur or wonder at this? - The flame of the woodland died out with October, - The birds, too, are gone--there is something I miss. - - I stir down the embers, and here in the firelight - I read the home paper a late train has brought, - And into the lives of the absent an insight - I take; do they ever of me have a thought? - How strange the words sound when no answer is given, - Ah! the tone of a friend would to-night insure bliss, - And the faces of loved ones would seem like a heaven - Of angels, alas! there is something I miss. - - Will it always be thus? Is this one missing measure - To cripple my verse and sadden my song? - What a joy it is to regain a lost treasure - And in the heart's casket the setting make strong. - But I have grown weary these figures of trying; - I wonder if others make failures like this? - A smile? Ah, you solved then the truth underlying - This problem, and _know_ what it is that I miss. - - MADISONVILLE, KY. - - - - -My Palace. - - - I built me a little palace, - Somewhere in the ether land, - Wherein my soul might revel - And rest at my command. - The spot, a royal summit, - I let my will select, - And Fancy came inspecting - With Thought, the architect. - - We went down to the quarry - For the foundation rock, - And purchased hewn and polished - Love's marble corner block. - For years we toiled together, - And one day warm and sweet - I woke and found my palace - Before me and complete. - - It was a gorgeous building-- - The window lights of red - Came from the sunset's furnace, - Or Northern light instead. - Each peak, each tower and turret - The sunlight's love had won, - And straight there came a voice - From heaven and said "well done." - - I planted a grove beyond it, - And hedged up the terraced yard, - And I dug a groove so a brooklet - Could play on the level sward. - I wanted a flower to cheer me, - And off on a breezy slope - I scattered the seed of roses - And the purple heliotrope. - - I peopled the rooms with volumes - Of men with talents rare, - Who climbed upon Fame's spire - And waved their banners there. - I purchased the costliest paintings, - And swung them from the walls; - And music, like harps of heaven, - Resounded throughout the halls. - - I gave a royal banquet, - The nuptial feast was spread, - And then, when all was ready, - There Love and I were wed. - But when the guests departed, - A rap came on the door, - And a gaunt figure faced me - I ne'er had seen before. - - "My name," she said, "is Envy; - I wish to stop with you; - Your dwelling just completed, - The inmates must be few." - Her breath, like fumes of sulphur, - Into my face was blown, - And like a demon's curses - Was her departing tone. - - The night came on, and fingers - Tapped on the beveled glass, - A face looked in the window - With eyes that shone like brass; - But Love beheld the visage, - And o'er the window drew - A shade that shut Suspicion - Forever from my view. - - And then a pond'rous knocking - Bombarded at the door, - And like an earthquake's tremor - Upheaved the palace floor. - I glanced into the key-hole, - And, like the brand of Cain, - I saw on Slander's forehead - A dark and bloody stain. - - I barred the palace entrance, - And turning in the hall - We faced another figure - More dreadful than them all; - He said: "My name is Ruin-- - Unbidden here I stand, - To curse your happy homestead - And desolate your land. - - "The lichen I have sprinkled - Upon your crumbling tower, - The ivy and the myrtle - Shall choke each blooming flower." - And then he smote the castle, - It trembled to its base, - And fell? No, no--I shouted - And laughed out in his face: - - "You can not wreck our palace, - Love is the corner stone, - And we are master workmen," - I said, in jocund tone. - He seized his trailing garments, - Departed with a groan, - And love and I together - Were once more left alone. - - Next day as they debated - What course to next pursue, - I heard a sweet voice calling-- - Love said the tone he knew. - The step, low as a mother's - Upon the nursery floor, - Was like advancing music - That halted at our door. - - As when a fairy's castle - Yields to a magic key, - Our door swung on the hinges - The guest was--_Sympathy_. - "Come in, our worthy sister," - I heard Love then repeat; - "For happiness without you - Could never be complete." - - And while we sat together, - Weaving our garland sweet, - For many a bridal altar, - For many a burial sheet, - We heard another footstep; - And, like an angel sent, - There came and smiled upon us - The face we loved--_Content_. - - The circle was completed-- - My palace stands sublime - Still on that cloudland summit, - And laughs at threats of Time. - No curses thunder o'er us, - No heavy rains can fall; - For heaven's open window - Slants sunshine over all. - - - - -Death of Summer. - - - Summer's dying, close the shutters, - Make the light subdued and sweet, - The last accent that she utters - I'll record here at her feet. - See, the pulses quiver faintly, - But her heart, alas! 'tis still; - See how pale she lies and saintly, - Feel her hands, they're white and chill. - - Close the eyes made sad from weeping, - Smooth the tangles from her head, - Leave her like an angel sleeping, - Friends are here to view the dead. - See, the rose a tear is dropping - As she leans above her face, - At the door the lily stopping, - Finds her handkerchief of lace. - - There the two like sisters sorrow, - As above the corse they bend, - Planning for the sad to-morrow-- - For the burial of a friend. - Then the daisy from the mountain, - That in mourning shawl was dressed, - Brought a snowdrow from the fountain, - Lay it on the summer's breast. - - To the pillow crept the lilacs, - But the flowers at her throat - Were the heliotrope and smilax-- - This was gained by casting vote-- - And the jasmine sought her fingers, - While the fuschias kissed her hair; - At her lip a violet lingers - To deny them, who would dare? - - Then the autumn's sunny treasure - Came the sturdy golden rod, - For the coffin took the measure, - For the grave removed the sod. - Long and mournful the procession - That I watched across the hill, - For to you I'll make confession, - Autumn doth my spirit kill. - - Drives me from the scene of sadness - While on poison nature feeds; - Decks her out in robes of gladness - To conceal the heart that bleeds; - At the summer's grave there lingers - None more sad to drop a tear - Than the friend whose trembling fingers - Write this in memoriam here. - - - - -Spring and Summer. - - - I heard a footstep on the hill, - The little brook began to trill, - I looked--a sweet and childlike face, - Reflected like a blooming vase, - Was smiling from the water clear, - With buttercups behind her ear. - - A flock of swallows hove in sight, - On came the summer clad in white, - With sunshine falling from her hair - Upon her shoulders white and bare, - And pressing through the tangled grass, - A daisy rose to watch her pass. - - - - -Under the Snow. - - - What have you hidden down under the snow, - So dear that you weep when the northern blasts blow? - Why your face pressed to the cold window pane, - Longing to mingle your tears with the rain-- - Is there something down under the snow? - - Is it only a blossom, a summer's delight, - That is freezing and dying this cold, bitter night? - That is only a fancy, the floweret is warm, - And the drift has enfolded it safe from the storm-- - Is there something yet under the snow? - - Something near to the heart down under the snow, - That has robbed the wan cheek of its once carmine glow, - That has stolen the beam of the eye--tears instead - Bespeak how in anguish the sore heart hath bled - For a little child under the snow. - - For a dear little prattler that littered the floor, - And laughed as he tumbled your work o'er and o'er - For a little gold head that made sunny the room, - Now bright'ning the darkness and chill of the tomb, - That is dreaming out under the snow. - - Only resting awhile in garments all white, - Away from the blackness and sin of to-night; - Away from the vice and the wrong of the street, - Not heeding the song of the rain or the sleet, - Still sleeping down under the snow. - - How many a mother her darling would lay - In the last, narrow home--hide her treasure away-- - If only to know its soul was at rest - With an innocent heart in an innocent breast, - Far, far down under the snow! - - - - -The Prettiest Girl in Town. - - - Have you e'er seen her, this beautiful girl - With that classical head and complexion of pearl? - So pale and enchanting that sometimes I deem - Her a sweet revelation as when in a dream, - Through wild variations of trouble and fear, - You suddenly feel that an angel is near. - Now guess, if you can, without half of that frown, - For to me she's the prettiest girl in the town. - - The poets all sing of these quaint Highland girls - With enchanting dimples and loose tangled curls; - Or they weave a love-tale from her budding lip's glow - While chasing the reindeer o'er mountains of snow; - This is only the skill of a well tinctured pen, - Dipped in Romance's cup for the praises of men, - Who value this maid in the coarse homespun gown - Something less than the prettiest girl in the town. - - You must all have watched the calm light of her eyes, - And ethereal figure with heavy drawn sighs; - Pondered often in secret of some magic gift - To win you this face--so like a snowdrift-- - I would whisper a secret: On Valentine's day, - With Cupid commune in a sly, cunning way, - Else only in dreams she is thine; for a crown - Could not purchase the prettiest girl in the town. - - - - -I am Musing To-Night. - - - I am musing to-night in the fire-light's glow, - And watching the pictures that come and go; - Like dissolving views on a magic screen - Is the witchery of this changing scene; - Though half I'm dreaming, though half awake, - I fear to move lest the spell I break, - Lest my fairy castles will break and fall, - And down will tumble each beautiful wall. - - Thus still in a stupor I sit and gaze - At the glowing embers and wanton blaze; - I am smiling at Fancy; she tries in vain - To lure me along with the mad'ning train - That follow her footsteps--that to her cling, - As flowers that garland the steps of spring; - In moody silence I sit apart, - Till memory conquers my sullen heart. - - Sweet Memory! sprite of my golden past! - Your tinseled veil o'er me is cast; - Subdued I yield like one enchained, - And yet my freedom is only feigned; - Back through the aisles of years that are gone, - A willing captive you lead me on, - Where I gleaned unbidden the joys of youth - While the world was blossoming with love and truth. - - Before my heart could interpret a sigh, - Or a tear-drop's shadow creep into my eye, - Ere I'd missed from the circle of friendship's chain - The link once lost that we ne'er regain, - The future to me was a vast expanse, - Its depth I could solve at a single glance, - Knew not of the troubles that torture the soul - Hidden away in its sober fold. - - Yet, to-night, as I dream in the gathering gloom, - Only friends that are dear softly enter my room, - Those who gladdened my life in its season of pain, - Like a gleam of the sunshine along with the rain; - These, _these_ are the guests that encircle my hearth, - Who come gliding like spirits back to the earth. - What communion we hold only those ever know - Who sit musing alone in the fire-light's glow. - - - - -A Curl. - - - To-night, as I turned back the pages - Of a book Time had fingered before, - And whose leaves held the odor of ages, - And the imprints of much usage wore, - A little brown curl I discovered, - That fell from the book to the floor. - - Had I sinned? Heaven grant me its pardon. - Did a lover's sad tear the page spot? - Who pressed there that gem of the garden-- - The sweet flower, "forget-me-not?" - It lay as if carved on a grave-stone, - And all of its sweetness forgot. - - I held the curl up to the lamplight, - And watching the gleam of its gold, - There I heard with the rush of the midnight, - A sad little story it told; - But I promised the sacred old volume - Its secret I would not unfold. - - But I would that the world knew its sorrow, - The story I must not reveal; - But go to your book case to-morrow. - And each to your own heart appeal; - And you'll know why the tattered old volume - The little curl tries to conceal. - - - - -Somebody's Face. - -TO M. A. B. - - - The blossoms are gone from the garden, - But 'tis not of them I would speak; - I want a sweet rose for my verses - Like one that's in somebody's cheek. - A red rose to kiss and to fondle, - Whose leaves will not wither or die-- - To gladden each moment and banish - The winter thoughts out of the sky. - - I want a low ripple of music - To flow through these lines of my choice, - Like a zephyr that moved through the summer, - Now dwelling in somebody's voice; - A song that will be full of fragrance - So sweet that its magic of words - Will bring back the balm of the June time, - Its memories glad, and the birds. - - The skies are so sunless and dreary, - Unless I can find a deep blue - To mix with the clouds of November - They'll still wear the dark, sober hue; - But memory shows a bright heaven - Reflected in somebody's eye, - And, thinking to-day of its beauty, - The grey becomes blue in the sky. - - My dear little friend of the summer, - Did you think in the meshes of song - Your sweet, rosy face would be tangled - By a memory cunning and strong? - That the eyes looking now on this pattern - Would find it so easy to trace? - And delight as I do in its beauty-- - The beauty of somebody's face? - - - - -Good-bye, Maggie. - - - Good-bye, Maggie, I must leave you, - Far away from you I roam, - Far away from friends and loved ones, - And your pretty cottage home. - O'er my soul a twilight gathers, - That is deep'ning into night, - But from out the shadowy distance - Shines a soft, familiar light. - - It is memory's beacon lantern, - O'er it arching is your name; - Round it recollections cluster, - As the moth about the flame. - Though the future tries to cheat us, - Throwing many miles between, - Brighter burns the little taper - As the distance intervenes. - - Good-bye, Maggie, will you miss me? - Absence conquers many a heart, - Plucks the roses from the garland, - Tears the evergreen apart; - Enters at the open lattice, - As a guest unbidden not, - Draws the curtain o'er the window, - Writes upon the door--"Forgot." - - Oh! what mean these idle sayings, - And whence come these idle fears? - As I fold you to my bosom - On my face I feel your tears; - Tears--they are a silent language - That interpret best the heart, - And I love you for them, darling-- - Good-bye, Maggie, we must part. - - - - -The Hermit's Farewell. - - - Farewell, that sad and bitter word - It stirs my soul to-night, - As I sit crouching in my cave - Above the faggot's light; - Strange, ghostly figures dance and flit - Along the cold, damp walls; - The black snake glares his drowsy eyes, - And from his dungeon crawls. - - The toad croaks near my humble fire, - Is loth to hop away, - And knows that ne'er again for him - Will I in ambush lay; - The bats flit idly to and fro, - The mice romp through my cell, - And e'en the wind that moans without - Repeats that word--farewell. - - I move, and think 'tis some weird dream - Then mutter "'tis my brain;" - For here around my throbbing brow - Seems clamped a heavy chain, - And like a prisoner doomed to die - To-morrow at the stake, - I count the hours as they fly, - And dread the morning's break. - - For friends will come to lead me forth, - Through frescoed hall and room, - To homes where kindred ties await; - I fear the hermit's doom. - They've tempted me--I fain would rest - Here on the dungeon mould, - Than dream on beds where curtains swing - With sunbeams in each fold. - - For beasts and birds and creeping things - Have owned me as their guest, - When man would turn me from his door - With cruel word or jest; - And as I served my scanty meal, - In supplicating lays, - The cricket and the katydid - Would join my evening praise. - - God pitied me, my loneliness - He made a sweet content; - I found companions in the stars - That from the heavens bent; - His flowers were friends, the golden rod - Smiled in its yellow hood, - A sentinel about my door - The purple thistle stood. - - But look! the morning's amber hue - Steals on the Easter skies, - Farewell! farewell! when Death has closed - These dim and longing eyes, - In peace to slumber here entombed, - Will be the boon I crave, - And those who spurned The Hermit's home - Shall shun The Hermit's grave. - - - - -A Window I Love. - - - There's an old-fashioned building somewhere in the town - That looks on a noisy street, - And no matter how often I pass up and down, - At the window sweet faces I meet. - Little faces that lit'rally beam on the street, - Untutored in Life's trying school, - That seem fashioned, my friends, as if just to repeat - For our lesson the sweet, golden rule. - - Oft they give us a smile, when a frown we return - A kiss prompts the pout of their lip, - And though we go by with a step proud and stern, - How lightly beside us they trip! - Catching the leaves that drift in at the door, - Those pretty leaves rusted with rain, - That sigh with our hearts when the summer is o'er, - And that seem to wear traces of pain. - - There is many a window with drapings of lace, - Where the clematis bloom is entwined, - Where the moss seems a part of the urn and the vase, - Where the awning with satin is lined, - Where Wealth sits aloof--garments dripping with pearls - Like a Mermaid's--sole god of the sphere, - But the faces I love with their billows of curls - You must ne'er think of looking for here. - - For the window I love has no hangings of plush, - Neither festooned as if for display, - And yet I have seen it at evening's soft hush - Decked out in a wond'rous array - Of cambrics and calicoes, sashes and curls, - Little aprons and many a toy-- - More plainly to speak--there are three little girls, - And the king of the house is a boy. - - How I love to halt here! With a satisfied look, - I have watched Corinne smoothing a curl, - I have seen little Richard lean over his book, - I have heard Mary singing with Pearl. - And O! I have thanked them again and again - For the problems of patience and love - That they solve unawares for my less practiced brain - When I pause by the window I love. - -RICHMOND, KY. - - - - -Thistle Down. - - - I saw a little child one day - Blowing some thistle down away. - How light they flew! The wings of thought - Grew weary as their course was sought, - And e'en the boy, with heart as light, - Sighed when he failed to trace their flight; - But as by chance, out of the air, - One fell upon his sunny hair. - - I saw the tiny sail unfurl, - And faintly fan a slender curl. - A fairy's boat it seemed to be, - And yet a pirate sailed the sea, - And anchored on a golden wave - That hid no evil deed--no grave. - That thought! Did Heaven foresee the doom? - From off his curl I shook the bloom. - - I know not where it chanced to fall, - In garden, park, or castle wall; - A desert's sand may scorch its root, - A crystal brook it may pollute; - A different course from mine it took, - And I the path at once forsook. - I only know that summer day, - Far from the child 'twas blown away. - - - - -Bitter Memories. - -TO REV. H. T. WILSON. - - - A picture is haunting my memory to-night, - While I dose in the warmth of an early fire-light. - As we strive to remove from the soul an old strain, - Thus the outline I've tried to erase from my brain; - But a specter stands near with sepulchral face. - And over my hearthstone the same scene doth trace-- - She colors the landscape and scoffs at my tears, - As I gaze on the wreck of scarce twenty-one years. - - 'Twas the home of my boyhood. In ruins it stood, - And autumn had saddened the meadow and wood; - The old locust grove, where the crows used to build, - The plowshare and harrow together had tilled. - Not a sprig of broomsedge did the hillside adorn, - But here and there stacked was the newly shocked corn. - Not a wild flower bloomed--through my heart ran a chill, - As I bowed by the spring at the foot of the hill. - - No trickle of water fell soft on my ear-- - Unless 'twas the sound of a swift falling tear-- - For Time in his raving had paused here to drink, - And I found only dregs as I gasped on the brink. - Long I stood, and I gazed like one in a trance, - And I shuddered as toward me the specter advanced; - Did the chill of her hand then my heart penetrate? - Dead, it seemed, as I leaned on the old garden gate. - - Where the sweet-william bloomed on the old fashioned walk, - Towered and flourished the rank mullein stalk, - Where the raspberry vines purpled over the fence, - The iron weed stood just as proud as a prince; - But where was the summer-house under whose shade - I had gathered the grapes and my sisters had played? - "Where, oh! where," I exclaimed (too unnerved then to fear), - "Are the joys of my youth?" "Gone," was hissed in my ear. - - As the blind lead the blind it seemed I was lead - Over stubble and thorns till my feet ached and bled. - Then we stood by a door that had rotted apart-- - Here the thistle had broken its soft, downy heart-- - I glanced toward the mantel, an owl hooted there, - And a rat made its nest in my mother's old chair, - "Oh! God," I repeated, "'tis too hard to bear," - And I knelt on the threshold in low, fervent prayer. - - * * * * * - - "Why, papa," a little voice called soft and clear, - As she climbed on my knee and kissed off a tear, - "What a long nap you've had; why mamma's at tea, - Now, papa, wake up and come on with me." - "My darling!" I whispered, and pressed to my face - A cheek that was soft as a billow of lace. - "What if the old home can not weather the storms - When a foretaste of Heaven I hold in my arms." - -SEPTEMBER 7, 1885. - - - - -An Acrostic. - - - Daughters' college! Muse, come nearer, - And assist my feeble rhyme. - Undertaking nothing dearer, - Greater, nothing showeth time. - Here's the spot where you, awaking, - Taught my infant mind to think; - Even as the morning breaking, - Richer grows to red from pink. - Searched you with me for the treasures, - Culled the blossoms half unblown, - Opened them within my measures, - Letting each bloom as my own. - Lifted to my sight a heaven, - E'en while lying on your breast-- - Graciously for it I've striven, - Ever hoping for the best. - - - - -My Angel Visitor. - -TO J. T. C. - - - We talked together in the twilight gloom, - Her friend and mine of scenes and times long past; - And in the shadows of the quiet room, - It seemed to me an angel form was cast. - - I saw, and yet my friend seemed not to see - The face familiar, with the gentle eyes, - Whose presence sanctified the past for me, - And made for him a glorious paradise. - - I felt the pressure of a vanished hand - Upon my own, and heard a soft robe sweep-- - The same has floated from the spirit-land, - And often trailed the chamber where I sleep. - - I strove to break the spell that bound his heart, - That held his spirit as a bondsman tied, - When like a rose that shakes its leaves apart, - Her garments rustled close his chair beside. - - And yet he knew it not. The angel face - Bent close above his own. So doth the moon - Sometimes, unseen, bend from her heavenly place, - To kiss a flower that falls asleep too soon. - - "Awake, my friend," I said, "too soon you sleep; - An angel figure stands beside your chair, - And I alone the sacred vigil keep." - But as he woke, she vanished into air. - - "O, friend of mine, and friend of hers," I cried, - "A hallowed presence is so soon forgot. - She walked on earth an angel by your side, - The same as now, and yet you knew it not." - - - - -Keep a Bright Face, Darling. - - - Keep a bright face, darling, - Though the task is hard, - Life holds up before you - Many a bright-faced card. - - Though the clouds have gathered - And darkened all the way, - Rainbows o'er you arching - Tinge the skies of gray. - - You have said what sunshine - Leaked in with the rain - Only brought new sorrow, - Brought but grief and pain. - - Keep a bright face, darling, - Set your scales anew, - Weigh again the sunshine - And the raindrops, too. - - And you'll find your measure - Hitherto was wrong, - Keep a bright face, darling, - And on your lips a song. - - Heaven decrees our burdens, - And our faith God tries; - But a broken spirit - He can not despise. - - Keep a bright face, darling-- - Even while I write, - In the fields of midnight - Blossom stars of light. - - Though the morning cometh - With a streak of gray, - 'Tis a hint of sunshine - And a perfect day. - - Journey slow and patient - With a purpose strong. - Keep a bright face, darling, - On your lips a song. - - - - -My Neighbor's Mill. - -TO M. BARLOW. - - - I love to sit here at the window-sill - When the sun falls asleep in the West, - And watch the gray Twilight walk over the hill - In garments of night partly dressed, - And see, through the rooms of my neighbor's mill, - How she creeps like an unbidden guest. - - I love the low hum of the numberless wheels-- - They echo the heart-beats of time, - Each unto my pen its purpose reveals, - Like the magic of meter and rhyme; - Or, as to the soul that in penitence kneels, - Doth the sound of a slow vesper chime. - - We have been friends together, this old mill and I, - Yes, friends that are true, tried, and strong; - If over us gather a gray winter sky - We faced it sometimes with a song, - Or braved it in silence, scarce knowing why, - As together we labored along. - - I fancy sometimes as I sit here alone - With the calm of the night in my heart, - When from the low roof the pigeons have flown, - And the stars their sweet stories impart, - That this mill unto me in a strange undertone - Is speaking as heart unto heart. - - That it bids me look into the granary room - Where the yellow wheat is packed; - And anon to glance in with the sundown's bloom - Where the snowy flour is sacked, - So I look--and it seems in the deepening gloom - There clouds upon clouds are stacked. - - What else do I scan through the moonlight's lace - That scallops the window panes; - Why, the dear old miller's honest face, - He's counting his losses and gains, - And methinks on his visage I can trace - A look that my own heart pains. - - Ah! think of the thousands his bounty feeds-- - We beggars encircle his door, - While he scatters alike his bundle of seeds - To the humble, the rich, and the poor. - Sure there's a reward for such generous deeds, - A reward that is brighter than ore! - - But the lights have gone out of my neighbor's mill, - And pale grows the red in the West; - The Night has crept up to my own window-sill - And pillowed my head on her breast, - While over the way--how peaceful and still! - The old mill's asleep and at rest. - - - - -Dripping Springs. - -TO MY BROTHER--D. G. SLAUGHTER. - - - Something moves my pen; its former chime - I fain would drop, and gladly lose the rhyme - That lights my verse as ore lights up a mine, - If on my canvas I could curve and line - These quiet hills, and for an hour could say - I'd caught the warmth that on the landscape lay, - And that I dreamed as artists sometimes dream - Who blend their smiles with meadow, mound, and stream; - I am indeed a child worn out at play, - And weary of my game I long to stray - To other haunts, to other heights unknown, - And claim that Raphael's brush as half my own. - Alas! forsaken by my Muse I turn - And backward glance--she beckons my return-- - She floods the old familiar fields with light, - She bids me pause, take up my pen and--write. - - 'Tis scarce yet dawn, the leaves awake, - And in my brow the raindrops shake - The only remnant of the cloud - That pealed last night with thunder loud; - - The only hint that here with flowers - Come sometimes shadows, sometimes showers. - The morning is a dream of bliss, - The breeze not unlike Love's first kiss. - - My soul expands--I drink the dew, - It gives my veins a deeper hue, - I halt where like a singing rill - The spring comes dripping o'er the hill. - - I fill my cup again, again, - I drink for all--good health to men-- - I hear the rising bell's faint sound, - The porter makes his usual round. - - And black-eyed Easter trips along - The kitchen porch with smile and song, - We find a poem in her churn, - An essence in her coffee urn; - - We note the pale dyspeptic's cheek - Is growing rosy, round, and sleek; - His torpid stomach forced to fast, - Here soon partakes the rich repast. - - Breakfast over, 'round the springs - The guests assemble--some in swings-- - And those of a romantic turn - Stroll two and two in search of fern. - - For them the woods have more than speech, - A calm that to the heart doth reach, - That perfect peace of mind and soul - The sacred Book to us hath told. - - I deem that morning holds more charms - Than day hides elsewhere in her arms; - But when she folds her shadowy tent, - And stars laugh in the firmament, - - A newer phase doth nature take, - And in the heart new joys awake. - Some love the ball-room's din and glare - As soft they trip some favorite air, - - Some love to lounge about the spring, - Some frequent spots where hammocks swing, - And others saunter to the pool - Their tired limbs to bathe and cool. - - But give me just the shady rook - That o'er the dripping spring doth look, - And let me watch the bright lamps flash, - And let me listen to the splash - - Of the old spring that drips and drips, - To cool and cure the fever lips. - Who could forget the landlord's vim - Or cottage rooms so neat and trim? - - Who would not leave the city's glare, - The heat, the dust, and stifling air-- - Who would not part with all his wealth - To gain at Dripping Springs his health? - - - - -In Memoriam. - - - They tell me she is dead, that we no more - Upon her quiet face can rest our eyes, - Yet long we for it, as a weary bird - Longs all in vain to rest upon a cloud - That heavenward floats. And yet there's solace still - In musing on her faith so strong and pure, - That recognized, through pain, God's every wish, - And dreaded not to taste death's cup if so - By Him decreed. - I was not there to hold - Her hand; it chilled within the orphan's palm - Until by angels clasp'd. I could not twine - The flowers she so much loved about her shroud, - Or speak a word of comfort to the friends - That sobbed, and kissed the lips grown strangely cold, - That never parted but to speak in praise - When others tried to censure; but my heart - Beats sad to-day the measures of my verse, - And tear-drops fall. - So falls the autumn rain - Upon her grave, and drifting are the leaves - Upon the mound that loving friends have raised - In memory of her, whose spirit rests - To-day with God. - - - - -The Old Orchard Trees. - - - Why cut them away? The dear old trees, - They never did aught of harm, - But scattered their perfume out to the breeze, - And sheltered the birds from the storm. - - For an age they have stood on the town's outer meads, - The skirmish and battle have braved; - Alike they have gazed on the war's bloody deeds, - And the white flag of peace as it waved. - - But you cut them away! my pleading is vain! - In their shade moves the carpenter's hands, - I watched him to-day as he leveled his plane, - And he spoke of the architect's plans. - - Then a wave of distress in my heart flowed anew, - For dearly I love each old tree; - Ah me! many secrets are hidden from you - That the apple trees whispered to me. - - I used to go by, and the sweet morning air, - Like incense, arose from the spot, - It would crowd from my heart some pain gnawing there, - While the world with its cares was forgot. - - Here, I've heard the first news of the blue bird and dove, - And the round, silver note of the thrush, - A concert, with sweet variations of love, - Seemed pouring from tree and from bush. - - I walked there to-day; as an accent profane - That falls on the heart and the ear, - I heard the harsh echo of hammer and plane, - And the pant of a mill in the rear. - - So I muffled my face with the veil that I wore-- - Time, that moment of pain can't appease; - Unless like the birds from the scene I can soar, - And like them, forget the old trees. - - - - -On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies. - -TO CARRIE ROGERS. - - - I chanced to stroll not long ago - To a green valley that you know; - For everything about the town - Was strange, and on me seemed to frown, - And so I wandered off alone, - To seek the friends from youth I'd known. - The brook came dashing down the hill, - The same old song to hum and trill; - With glances shy and kisses sweet, - It wound its ribbon at my feet, - And laughed aloud at my delight-- - It was indeed a comic sight - To see me o'er the brooklet bend, - And greet again an old time friend. - - So thus I sat, perhaps an hour, - Until I spied a human flower; - A little maid it seemed to be - With steps directed straight to me. - Her dress was pink, her bonnet white. - Her eyes were blue, and round, and bright, - Some daisies in her hand she held - But where they came from--would she tell? - Were questions that my eyes portrayed, - And she the answer quickly made. - "Upon the hill-top high they grow, - The path is there by which you go, - But if you get them you must climb," - She said, unconscious of the rhyme. - - I glanced along the rocky ledge; - The daisies nodded o'er the edge, - And just as far as I could see - They waved their ruffled caps to me. - Bright eyes that never had grown old - Their heart's content to me foretold, - And I resolved the path to try - That seemed to end so near the sky; - And so I started up alone, - A way that seemed with mosses sown. - A pond'rous clod rolled on the track, - A briar reached and pulled me back, - A lizzard on the pathway played, - And half way up I paused--afraid. - - "Keep on," the little girl replied, - "A better path is near your side." - She pulled the thorn from off my gown, - I heard the clod go plunging down, - And then she clasped with mine her hand, - And led me up to "daisy-land." - The hours we spent together there - Were hallowed as the hours of prayer, - And when she left me in the vale - The sunlight suddenly grew pale; - But she had taught me this strange truth, - Forgot, or never learned in youth, - It seems a little song in rhyme, - "To reach the daisies, you must climb." - -BARDSTOWN, KY. - - - - -Ella Lee. - - - Where is Ella? Ella Lee? - How I've missed her childish glee. - Missed her step so light and airy, - Missed the darling little fairy. - She was nimble as a fawn, - Lovely as the blush of dawn, - And her voice sweet as the rill - Gliding down the grassy hill. - Where is she, I've missed her so, - Surely some one ought to know. - - I have called her in the crowd, - Called her soft and called her loud, - Called her sad and called her sweet, - In the house and on the street. - Yet she does not seem to hear, - Though I've called her far and near. - Hark! I hear a blackbird's note, - And he wears a brand new coat; - Surely some sweet word he brings, - On his iridescent wings. - - Let me hail him by this tree. - Listen! now he sings to me, - Tells me, in his honest way, - That our darling's gone away. - Far, so far away she roams, - Into other hearts and homes, - Ah! the budding little flower - Sweetens every empty hour, - Making earth a dream of bliss - By the magic of her kiss. - - Though she fled like a sunbeam, - Still I hold a treasured dream, - And were she to skip to-day, - In her easy, childish way, - To the playground of my heart, - Childhood's gate would fly apart, - And she'd find the violet's face, - Smiling still in memory's vase; - Green and fresh the springtime sod, - That her dainty feet had trod. - - - - -What is the West Wind Saying. - - - O! What is the west wind saying! - It whispers so strange in my ear, - As if some sad message delaying, - From friends who are absent and dear. - It laughs with the leaves on the tree-tops, - And bows as the cloudlets go by, - And plays with the flowers - For hours and hours, - Yet for me has only a sigh. - - O! what is the west wind singing? - 'Tis rocking the birds in the nest, - And over the world it is flinging - The emblems of quiet and rest. - New comfort it brings to the mother, - And hushes the babe on her knee, - Singing softly to her - And the tired laborer, - Yet sadly and strangely to me. - - O! what is the west wind showing? - New faces look strangely in mine, - Stranger tints in the sunset are glowing, - Somber shadings of amber and wine. - Far away the blue hills seem to beckon - Me back to a sweet cottage home, - Where the rose and the vine - 'Round the door-way entwine-- - Alas! that from them I must roam! - - O! what is the west wind asking? - Why question a stranger like me? - If a friend, why so perfect the masking? - Your counterpart glad would I see. - Ah, a friend in disguise! what is sweeter, - Come, let us together commune, - If you bring but a kiss - From the loved ones I miss, - I can ask of you no greater boon. - - - - -To a Mountain Stream. - - - Glad as childish laughter - From a childish throng, - Sweet as bird voice after - Daybreak is your song. - - Racing down the mountain - On your shining feet, - Waltzing at the fountain - To its love song sweet. - - On and on you travel, - Leaving me behind, - Like a silken ravel - With the weeds you wind. - - Laughing at distresses; - Braving battles, too; - Who your trouble guesses, - And your sorrow--who? - - Tell me as you hurry - Through the stubble field, - Why not stop to worry-- - But no frown's revealed. - - Sometime you must weary - Of this constant strife; - When the clouds are dreary, - Tire you not of life? - - Of the dead leaves drifted - On your saddened face, - And the snow flakes sifted - From the cloudland place? - - Yet you ne'er repineth, - But alike content - With the sun that shineth, - And the rainstorm sent. - - Teach me half the beauty - That your heart must know, - And through fields of duty - Like you, will I go. - - - - -Pen Pictures. - -(WRITTEN DURING A SNOW-STORM.) - - - I love the snow flakes in the air, - When from the heavens they downward dart; - I love to watch them sailing there, - Like thoughts freed from a poet's heart, - Uncertain which, the earth or sky, - Should claim their last abiding place; - And yet I watch them drifting by, - And strive to join the airy race. - - The railway cars like spirits glide - Through many a mountain's haunted tomb, - Above the river's solemn tide, - Along the ravine's chilly room; - On, on, through cedar groves we wind, - That yesterday a zephyr wooed; - To-day they stand with heads inclined, - A sad and stricken multitude. - - The sky bends low with heavy clouds, - And from the long slope of a hill, - The pines look down in spotless shrouds - Upon a valley whiter still. - A tiny stream runs breathless by, - Affrighted at the ghostly sight; - The sun sleeps in the western sky, - And twilight deepens into night. - - The train glides on. Each mountain scene - Is like a panoramic view, - Though oft I toward the window lean, - To scan some object that I knew. - I see a log hut in the vale, - And rustic children glad and warm; - A mother's face, forlorn and pale, - Looks out upon the winter storm. - - The little cascade down the glen - Is falling like a mourner's tears; - The wind shrieks by, and from his den - Jack Frost hangs out his icy spears, - Defying e'en the piling drift; - And while the Winter King he warns, - Lo! through a cloud above the cliff, - The young moon shakes her silver horns. - - Orion next his rage revealed, - As if he, too, the insult felt; - He raises high his club and shield, - And swings his bright sword from his belt; - And like a demon downward driven, - The howling wind his dungeon seeks; - For nature sees the hosts of heaven - Resent her cold and heartless freaks. - - The storm grew still, and I could see - The clouds above the cliff disband, - E'en as the wave on Galilee - Grew docile at the Lord's command; - And as I shake from off my pen - The ink that stamped these pictures chill, - I seem to hear those words again - Breathed softly o'er me, "Peace, be still." - -JANUARY, 1886. - - - - -To Mother. - - - I heard a song last night, mother, - A song you used to sing, - When like a little bird, mother, - With weak and unfledged wing, - I played about your flowing gown - Contented with your smile, - Though all the world should cast a frown - Upon your happy child. - - The song I heard last night, mother, - Came floating through the door - As if some angel voice, mother, - Had sung it oft before; - But, O! I missed the patient pause, - The low accustomed tone, - I turned away heart-sick--because - The voice was not your own. - - Those dear old songs you used to sing, - That made my heart-beats rhyme, - Have bubbled up from memory's spring, - Ah! many and many a time. - When thirsty or with thought oppressed, - When tired of the sunshine, - When longing for the shade and rest, - I hear those songs of thine. - - They're just as low and sweet to-day - As when I heard them first; - And though I am so far away, - The field glass though reversed, - Holds still a picture that I love, - Three faces--four with mine-- - Another looks from heaven above, - A little face--like thine. - - - - -The Broken Heart. - -TO MISS F. B. - - - He brought me a heart one morning, - Brought me a heart to mend; - And he said (I shall never forget it) - "'Twas broken by your friend." - - "The wound will grow deeper and wider," - He said in a sadder tone, - "Unless you devise some method - To place it against her own." - - Then I crept away to my chamber, - But a thought, like a silver stream, - Kept trickling along the wayside - That bordered my restless dream. - - So I hid this heart in a lily, - When the dawn began to break-- - In a beautiful water lily, - That grew on the rim of a lake. - - Yes, down on a snowy pillow, - In a cradle warm and deep, - I laid the little foundling, - And a ripple rocked it to sleep. - - The dawn came up with blushes, - And shook from her gown the dew; - And I heard the song of the skylark, - As into the clouds he flew. - - But the heart dreamed on in the lily - And I went at the close of day, - And found that my little treasure - Was chilled by the foam and spray. - - So I warmed it upon my bosom, - Then cradled it back on the wave; - But I feared that the lily's offspring - Was doomed to a watery grave. - - So I watched till the daylight vanished - Through the sunset's purple bars, - Till the night climbed over the willows, - And lit up the moon and stars. - - I thought I heard your footstep, - And low in the reeds and grass - I crouched, that there, unnoticed, - I might behold you pass. - - You came in your regal beauty, - And, bright as the weird fire flies - That illumined the waving rushes, - I saw your glorious eyes. - - You kneeled on the mossy margin-- - I counted the lilies there; - Two buds and a creamy blossom - Were fastened in your hair. - - Another was drawn from the water, - And, pushing the reeds apart, - I saw 'twas the very lily - Wherein I had hidden the heart. - - You pinned it low down on your bodice, - Half hidden it lay in the lace, - And you passed by--"a two-fold existence," - A new light enriching your face. - - And though I am absent and distant, - Methinks I can still hear the tone - Of a heart that, with happy emotion, - Is beating, aye! close to your own. - - - - -A Year Ago. - -IN MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEND, SCOTTA P. PROCTOR. - - - A year ago I held in mine her hand, - And felt the pulses quicken and dissolve, - While o'er her face a light from heaven's own land - Seemed all the mystery of death to solve. - - She raised her weary eyes to mine and sighed-- - Sighed as a flow'r o'er which the storm clouds bend - When long the promised sunlight is denied, - And cold and heavy rains from heaven descend. - - She tried to speak; I knelt beside her bed, - That one last wish she might to me impart; - A whisper came, and then the spirit fled - Like some sweet thought long prisoned in the heart. - - A year ago I twined the lilies white - About her shroud, and with the coffin's lace, - For she had loved them; all the long, long night - They press their waxen lips upon her face. - - I heard the funeral bell toll sad and long-- - My heart reverberates to-day the sound-- - And then there came a prayer--a pause--a song, - And blossoms next were heaped upon a mound. - - I turned aside and homeward bent my way; - Alas! the face I loved so long--not there-- - Sweet memories arose to gild my day, - But sadder ones to mock my heart's despair. - - Where is she now? you think the grave can hide - A friend so true within its dungeon deep? - Ah! no; she walketh ever by my side, - And watches o'er me when I chance to sleep. - - We stroll abroad oft at the twilight's hour - To memory's garden. Under memory's tree - She pulls the silver mask from many a flower, - And reads its tender secrets all to me. - - She guides my pen along uncertain heights, - Where unattended I could never go; - The candle of success she often lights - When the flame flickers and the wick burns low. - - She leads me to the grave and says, "Not here, - But there," and points me to the heavenly gate; - And when upon my cheek there falls a tear - (For sometimes yet my heart grows desolate), - - I feel upon my face her own soft hand, - And glimpses of her robe sometimes have seen. - O, happy thought! how strong is friendship's band, - When out of heaven an angel friend can lean. - - A year ago! sad, sad that parting day, - And sadder still, the last, the long adieu. - Death called the angel of my heart away-- - And now she opens heaven to my view. - -MAY 16, 1886. - - - - -A Christmas Peep. - - - I passed a toy window, - And many pretty things - Old Santa Claus had labeled, - And tied with silken strings. - - A kite was bought for Jimmie, - A little stove for Kate, - A doll for Capitola, - For Charlie a new slate. - - A silver knife for father, - For mother, dear, a fan, - And the prettiest little fiddle - Was bought for baby Dan. - - Hang up your little stockings, - And keep the fireside bright, - Old Santa Claus is coming, - His sleigh is out to-night. - - Ten dollars worth of candy - Was emptied in his sleigh, - And peanuts by the barrel, - To be eaten Christmas day. - - His lap was full of toys, - Little drums and little ships, - Little buggies, little ponies, - And little riding whips. - - The baby dolls were sleeping - In their cradles snug, - But the others all were peeping - From underneath his rug. - - Old Santa was so happy, - That as he drove along - He jingled ever sleigh bell, - And sang a Christmas song. - - So don't forget him, children, - He's on the way to night, - Hang up your little stockings, - And keep the fireside bright. - - - - -Winnie's Christmas Eve. - - - Poor little Winnie had plodded the street, - Up and down through the rain and sleet, - Singing her innocent songs all day, - In a sweet and merry childish way; - Asking sometimes for the night a bed, - A bowl of milk, or a crust of bread. - - She had sung on the corners and city square, - But no one had time to remember her there; - Numbers had passed her who never before - Failed to toss in her basket a penny or more. - It is Christmas; their hearts are so happy and light-- - But poor little Winnie's forgotten to-night. - - Chilly and rayless the sky seems to frown, - The clouds, too, are shaking the soft snow-flakes down; - Over her pretty face, waltzing they fall - Into her bonnet and folds of the shawl; - Think of it, fathers, with firesides warm, - Poor little Winnie is out in the storm. - - Backward and forward the tired feet go, - From her lips little ripples of music still flow. - Homeless and hungry, still begging for bread, - Receiving a curse and reproaches instead; - Shiv'ring with fear in the pitiless light, - Poor little Winnie is starving to-night. - - Alone in the street, yet the little lips move, - Trying to echo those accents of love. - Ah! think of that, mothers! those syllables sweet - Of your darlings, how fondly the same you repeat! - You are trying so faithful to lead them aright - When poor little Winnie is freezing to-night. - - See her! How slowly she's moving along-- - Her lips are too icy to echo the song. - How changed are her features! How feeble! how weak! - A pallor creeps over her forehead and cheek-- - Perhaps it is only the flickering light, - Ah! no; little Winnie is dying to-night. - - The revel is over in parlor and park, - The bonfire vanished, the street is so dark; - The snow-flakes are falling in many a heap, - The city is quiet, at rest, and asleep; - But there in the shadows, scarce out of sight, - Little Winnie lies dead in a snow-drift to-night. - - - - -My Heart's Little Room. - -TO LIZZIE, DORA, AND GRACE. - - - There's a dear little chamber somewhere in my heart - That opens to only you three; - Though many have tried to unfasten the door, - They picked at the lock till their fingers were sore, - For to file it apart - Vainly proved every art, - And in vain have they sought for the key. - - Many times I go into this quaint little room, - The pictures to change or adjust; - I see your sweet faces grouped there with my own, - And I wonder that I feel so strangely alone; - But about through the room - I move briskly the broom, - And sweep from the corners the dust. - - The windows I throw open wide to the air - To let in the breeze and the light; - I watch the sunbeams in their mischievous way - Creep into the curtains, like children at play, - And while I am there - I have no thought of care, - For the room is so warm and so bright. - - And oft I look up from the balcony's brink - To a sky that shows many a hue; - A vine clambers thickly the window above, - Where my birds sing together their rhythm of love; - My thoughts with them link - For I sit here and think - And all of my song is for you. - - Ah! some day I know you will come back to me - To rest in this queer little room; - And that's why so tidy and clean it is kept, - The air always fragrant, the floor always swept, - For I long here to see - My sweet roses three, - As from buds into blossoms they bloom. - - Then come when you may, be the sky black or blue, - The lock will unclasp as of yore; - For (unless Death should come introspecting my heart, - And break down its barriers and wrench them apart), - A friend that is true - Will be watching for you, - Ever waiting to unbar the door. - - - - -The Three Muses. - - - Methought three muses in disguise - As angels tapped upon my door, - And a dim light from paradise - Fell on the instruments they bore. - One held a zithern in her hand - And lightly swept the throbbing strings; - And, O! it seemed a fairy land - Was stirred by unexpected wings. - - I held my breath and prayed that night - Would be extended into day, - But with the thought came morning's light, - And low the echo died away. - An artist's canvas, pink with dawn, - The second angel turned to me, - Her brush strayed o'er a grassy lawn - And dotted here and there a tree. - - All blooming in immortal dyes, - With streamlets winding clear and blue, - Where, looking from the far off skies, - The clouds were mirrored to my view. - But when the sun blazed from the sky, - And on the painted landscape shone, - I heard the artist angel sigh, - And when I looked she, too, had flown. - - The scratching of a pen I heard - And saw a face demure and sweet - With inspiration. Every word - I begged the angel to repeat. - A thousand zephyrs fanned the air, - Tuned low with hum of birds and bees, - No need of zithern music where - Æolian harps were in the trees. - - No need of artists to rehearse - Upon the canvas nature, when - I saw the world revolve in verse - Upon the axis of the pen. - "Be thou eternally my guide, - Teach me your mystic pen to use! - O! linger ever near," I cried, - "Musician, artist, poet--muse!" - - - - -A Recollection. - - - In my heart there is a fragrance not of bursting buds or bloom, - But a faint delicious essence floats as out of memory's room. - - Like a zephyr blown from heaven some sweet message to impart, - Comes a fragile recollection down the by-path to my heart. - - Fragile did I say? So fragile that the lace-wrought butterfly - Would not tilt its wings to bear it back from earth into the sky. - - Yet perplexed as to its mission down the pathway I retreat, - Hark! an echo in the distance, as of silver-slippered feet. - - Why should I evade its coming, when 'tis such a little thing? - Just a tiny recollection that my thoughts have given wing. - - Soon, too soon, 'twill overtake me, see! 'tis gaining on me fast-- - In my soul the rose leaves quiver--withered rose leaves of the past. - - It is useless to dissemble, further fleeing is in vain, - 'Round my heart I feel the tight'ning of a slender silken chain. - - All the past spreads out around me, as if by the Hand above, - So I turn, and find I'm standing face to face with my first love. - - - - -Don't Question Him Why. - - - Don't question him why if at times you can trace - A sorrowful something that looks from his face; - Though it shadows his brow as a raincloud the sky, - Look on it and wonder--don't question him why. - - If he steal from your side when the twilight descends, - And wander away from old comrades and friends, - To rest unobserved in some shady retreat, - Where the past and the present seem always to meet, - - Don't follow him there; let the stars overhead - Their better and holier sympathy shed-- - And should an old love-light illumine his eye, - Though you bask in its splendor--don't question him why. - - For, out of the past that is shrouded away, - Looks a face omnipresent, unseen by the day. - A face like no other--a face in the sky - To be looked at and worshipped, but not questioned why. - - Should his lips meet your own with an indifferent grace - That hurries the bloom to your averted face, - Though Doubt is a sentinel stationed near by, - Beware of his bayonet--don't question why. - - You may ask if you choose as he moves through the dance, - If 'tis Beauty or Passion that cowers his glance, - But question him not, O! ask him not why - There awoke in his bosom that deep-seated sigh. - - Should he turn from the ball-room sometime with disgust - And shake from his sandals its memory and dust, - To bare a sick heart with its fevers of sin, - Beg heaven to filter a dewdrop within, - - But question him not, for a word like a spark - Would quicken the pulses reduced by the dark; - Leave, leave him alone with his sorrow and God, - And let Silence spread o'er his heart's grave the sod. - - - - -Why? - - - Why is it that I keep her glove-- - Poor little phantom of lost love-- - Why was it that I wore her ring, - And love the songs she used to sing, - And treasure under lock and key, - The letters she has written me? - Why? - - Why is it that where'er I go, - As footsteps follow in the snow, - As low and light, she seems to glide - Along the highway at my side? - Yet, when my arms seek to embrace - Her form, then vanishes her face. - Why? - - Why is it that no other tone - Falls on my ear as did her own? - No other hand so soft and white, - No other eye so warm and bright-- - Though other lips I since have pressed, - I something missed--the truth you've guessed. - Why? - - - - -A Sunset Longing. - -TO F. S. H. - - - What meaneth this unrest within my heart, - And why do I sit here alone and sigh? - The sunset throws its garnished doors apart, - And palace halls are opened in the sky-- - I gaze upon the gold strewn in the west, - A miser, of his jewels dispossessed. - - I have played in the sunset's crimson rain, - And felt its saffron torch wave o'er my brow, - That heated to excess my maddened brain, - And threw a halo 'round my heart--but now, - Like some poor bird far from its kindred sky, - I look into the sunset--look and sigh. - - I have no friend to lean upon my heart, - Ah! how I miss the pressure of thy hand, - And thy dear voice seems of the past a part; - Thy figure like a shade from shadow-land. - I think I would be happy if you came - And touched my hand, or softly called my name. - - If I could look into your face to-night, - And search the deep mines of your pensive eyes, - Sure, I would find there a responsive light, - To dissipate from out my heart the sighs; - And then I know my lips would lose their scorn, - And in my soul a new impulse be born. - - If we could wander off far from the crowd - Among the hills--our voices there unheard-- - Where once our hearts in unison beat loud, - To the sweet song of some wild mountain bird, - I think the twilight vail would lose its gloom, - That shrouds to-night the windows of my room. - - Perhaps 'tis wrong that I should sadden you - With these rain-droppings that my heart-clouds shed; - Gladly would I distill a drop of dew - Down deep into your flower-like heart instead. - Some other night, if separation's sky - Should clearer grow, dear absent one, I'll try. - - - - -Journeys. - - - Oh! the many, many journeys - I have taken in a day! - Journeys short and journeys long, - Journeys right and journeys wrong; - Often pausing on the way, - Themes so grand my thoughts delay-- - Themes suggesting instant song-- - Lofty, good, - Scarce understood, - Dying ere I knew their worth, - As an infant dies at birth. - - Oh! the melancholy journeys - That on earth my eyes have seen! - Over cemeteries vast, - Like a spirit I have passed, - Where the helmet and canteen - Cankered near a grave-stone lean, - Where the warrior's sword was cast; - And the mould, - So shallow rolled, - That the eagle from on high - Dropped his penetrating eye. - - Oh! the mad, exciting journey! - Floating down the sunset's tide, - Where there is no sign of sail, - Neither any promised gale. - Flames about on every side, - Every hope from me denied. - Even the clouds I can not hail; - As they drift, - Their cinders sift - On the water where they float, - Like a freighted, burning boat. - - Oh! the sweet, yet lonesome journey - That I always take alone! - Back into the vanished past, - Where the sunshine runneth fast. - There the rose is open blown, - There I hear a loving tone, - There no twilight shades are cast; - But complete - And very sweet - Is the dawn, when, like a child, - Love looked in my heart and smiled. - - Oh! the happy, happy journey, - With my loved one near my side! - Open stands the prison room; - We forget its chilly tomb. - Over fields of grain we glide, - Over rivers broad we ride, - Drinking up the earth's perfume; - Like a thought - The muses taught-- - Onward o'er the world we fly, - Like twin clouds born of the sky. - - Oh! the swift, inspiring journey, - Far away in unknown space! - Where my castles stand complete, - And the gardens full and sweet; - Where the moonlight weaves its lace, - And a friend's is every face, - And this land, need I repeat, - Is of dreams? - Here crystal streams - Lose their way, as from the throne, - In this country all my own. - - Oh! the elevating journey! - Toward the zenith now I bend, - Far above the mundane sphere, - Stars like mighty worlds appear. - Losing sight of home and friends, - Higher still the path ascends. - Heaven is dawning very near; - But I pause, - Alas! because - To a mortal such as I, - Heaven an entrance must deny. - - - - -The Lost Poem. - - - Long ago beside my window, with an open manuscript, - I sat looking on a forest that with gold and brown was tipped, - Heeding nothing save the sighing of my own heart and the trees, - When into the open lattice like a whisper came the breeze. - - Lingered at my lips a moment, past my temple then it crept, - And from out of my listless fingers an unfinished poem swept: - "Stop!" I cried unto a footman that was passing on the street, - "I will give you thirty shillings if you'll bring me back that - sheet." - - But he gazed into the heavens as he would upon a kite, - And I watched it sally upward, fading faster from my sight; - Then I said unto a swallow that flew by on rapid wing, - "Open wide I'll throw the granary if my poem back you'll bring." - - But he only flew the faster, and was soon beyond my sight; - And the daylight vanished from me, and to mock me sent the night. - O! there's naught can daunt a spirit when the inner heart's afire, - And the darkness sent upon me only did my aim inspire. - - So I sought an humble dwelling, to a fortune-teller went, - And I tarried with the gipsy till the night was almost spent, - But I left her door disheartened; for she only said to me: - "Take this, search, and when you've found it, send or fetch again - the key." - - "But," said I, "'tis lost in nature, in the sky or hills among," - And the key back in her shanty with an angry word I flung; - For prophetic seemed her language, and my purposes were mocked, - If henceforth the heart of nature, Fate against my own had locked. - - "Take it, search," again she muttered, as I started to depart; - "And be careful how you use it; for it fits the human heart." - In her hand I dropped a coin, and before the eye of day - Peeped from out the morning's cradle I was far upon my way. - - Like the breath of early roses, like the whisper of a bird, - From a little maiden passing, a sweet laugh methought I heard. - "She has found it," I repeated, "there's no use for any key." - Said the pretty little damsel, "My heart's open, don't you see?" - - Yes, I saw, and there were treasures such as kings would love to - own, - Who would sacrifice to gain them e'en a jeweled crown and throne-- - Buds and blossoms, song and laughter, humming-birds and butterflies, - Singing brooks and sparkling fountains there, and peaceful were the - skies. - - But the poem it was missing; so I journeyed slow along, - Till I heard a mother singing to her babe a cradle song; - And I tried to get permission in her heart to fit the key, - But the lullaby continued: "Do not interrupt," said she. - - Next I hailed a youth that passed me, and his face was wond'rous - fair, - And I searched long through his heart's book, but the poem was not - there; - "It is lost!" I cried with sorrow, as Despair held out her cup, - And I quaffed the bitter liquid, and the idle search gave up. - - * * * * * - - Years have passed, and just this morning I was called beside a bed, - Where the sheet lay still and sober over an old lover spread; - Sad and pallid were his features, clever, too, Death's new disguise, - But I read the old, old secret, even in his half-closed eyes. - - Then a thought--"The key," I whispered, lest I should be overheard, - And I sought the heart, unlocked it; found my poem--every word. - Oft revised it was, and polished, wore the features, too, of Fame; - And I read with strange emotion, just below inscribed my name. - - O, it was a trying moment! If the poem I should claim, - I could mount upon the ladder to the topmost round of fame; - But my evil spirit yielded; for I could not rob the dead, - So I locked the sacred prison, and above it bowed my head. - - * * * * * - - Rather would I find engraven in a steadfast heart my name, - Than in shining words enroll it high upon the tower of fame. - - - - -A Maple Leaf. - -TO M. B. S. - - - Glancing o'er a childish volume where sweet thoughts like blossoms - lay, - There between two oft read pages, a pressed wreath I found to-day. - Golden-rod and aster flowers lay with bloom all crushed and dead, - But a maple leaf among them still retained its gold and red. - - In my hand I took the treasure, held it up before my face, - And the sunlight, then declining, solved its geometric grace. - Many a road and by-path meeting proved the interwoven veins; - And a forest rose before me, flaming like my window panes. - - As a vision that is pictured by an angel in the night, - Soon a figure, sometime vanished, rose to my exultant sight. - Like a goddess of enchantment, there she stood beneath the trees, - And her face was like a lily, and her eyes like summer seas. - - Then I thought, "For me she's waiting"--so I glanced off to the - right, - For I feared it all a fancy, but I found my home in sight; - Heard the town-clock slowly striking, and the same familiar bells, - Saw the court-house and the churches, and "The Summit," where she - dwells. - - So I then no longer doubted, down a meadow path I strolled, - Leading off into the woodland that had stole the sunset's gold. - Overhead the birds were flying, but a black winged happy throng - Paused; for we had been old comrades and they sang a farewell song. - - But the thoughts that followed after, though the birds away had - flown, - Were so happy, for she met me, linked her arm within my own. - Up and down the path we wandered, gathering leaves and grasses - gray, - Until darkness drove the twilight o'er the hill where fled the day. - - Darkness! and her face had vanished, all alone I seemed to stand, - But I heard her step departing, and I grasped again her hand. - Held it tight, and tighter pressing, in a happy strange belief, - Till I 'woke, and found that dreaming I had crushed my treasured - leaf. - - - - -A Gallop With Santa Claus. - - - I was thinking last night of the children - Far away in a home that I know, - Of the dear little girls at the window, - And the boys out at play in the snow; - Of the stockings hung up at the chimney, - Of the little hearts hopeful and glad; - And thus I kept thinking and thinking, - Until I grew homesick and sad. - - So I turned my eyes out on the landscape, - As my thoughts were unwilling to go, - And I saw 'round the curve of a hillock - Three ponies come, white as the snow; - A sleigh next appeared and a driver, - Oh! my heart beat so fast then--because, - As he drew up the reins at the door-step, - I found it was old Santa Claus. - - Such shaking of hands and such greetings - I fear I shall nevermore see; - For every big doll in his wagon - Was looking and laughing at me. - "No minutes to lose," said old Santa, - "I've hundreds of miles yet to go. - Will you please to partake of my journey, - And gallop with me o'er the snow?" - - No sooner than said I was seated, - All 'round me he folded the fur. - He made a loose rein for the ponies, - And urged them with whip and with spur. - Away and away o'er the country - We flew like the glances of light, - Down streets that were blazing with bonfires, - On, on through the snow and the night. - - Then all of a sudden he halted - In front of a house old and dark. - There was no friendly ray at the window, - And on the hearth-stone not a spark. - But he entered, and, by a dim lantern - That swung from his new scarlet cap, - I saw the sad face of a woman - Asleep, and a babe on her lap. - - And two pretty faces beside her, - A pillow of straw almost hid, - But the little hands looked as if frozen - That lay on the patched cover-lid. - A snow-cloud had sifted its samples, - Of eider-down over their feet, - And a star, looking in through the shingles, - Was spreading o'er them a bright sheet. - - Old Santa had lost not a moment. - A cedar tree suddenly sprung - Into life just in front of the children, - With pop-corn and bright ribbons strung. - Some tiny wax candles were lighted, - To chase off the thoughts of the night; - And the dollies had met in the tree-top - To dance in their dresses of white. - - A kite that could climb into cloud-land - Hung low, and a new picture-book; - A street-car "wound up" for its journey, - And a little boat built for the brook. - Oh! all kinds of candy he left them - That ever I tasted, or you; - And under the tree there were apples - And peanuts--a bucket or two. - - He built them a fire, and dresses - Were left, made of flannel so warm; - And, with many nice greetings and wishes, - We galloped away through the storm. - Away, and away sped the ponies, - So fast that none could o'ertake-- - So fast (it was told me this morning), - We looked like a winged snow-flake. - - But soon at a homestead we halted, - Old Santa said I must alight, - To see if the children were sleeping, - And leave them whatever was right. - So I crept to the casement--it opened, - And I saw what I ne'er shall forget-- - Those darlings there slumbering sweetly, - The thoughts of the night-fall had met. - - We gave them all kinds of nice presents, - What they were, it is useless to say; - For they've found them and now are rejoicing, - And happy this glad holiday. - So children, be kind to each other, - Be gentle and loving--because - I may be invited next Christmas - To gallop with old Santa Claus. - - - - -Home Memories. - - - I am thinking of a cottage - Where the roses used to bloom, - How they talked beside the pavement - In low whispers of perfume, - Or climbed up beside the window - To look in my little room. - - I am thinking of the door-way - Where the vine I used to train, - That snowed down its flaky petals - With a pleasant summer rain; - Where I used to sit and listen - To the old mill's low refrain. - - I'm thinking of the sunflower, too, - That towered above the gate; - Of the friends who called me hither - When the day was cool and late. - Ah! those hours seem so distant - And the year, an ancient date. - - I am thinking of the grape-vine - Where the crippled robin fed, - How he lingered there each morning - 'Till fresh crumbs for him were spread. - Is he feeding there this summer - From a stranger's hand, instead? - - I am thinking of the children - Who crept to the little yard, - Begging me to grant permission - That they play upon the sward. - Could I bar them from the entry? - Thus might Heaven me discard. - - I am thinking of a morning - That wrung from my heart a sigh, - When I kissed warm lips that trembled, - With a tear-drop in my eye; - While I closed our cottage windows - And pronounced the word--good-bye. - - - - -Sunshine and Shadow. - - - I passed a pretty cottage place, - A rose looked from the door - And smiled so sweetly in my face - I paused the house before. - The honeysuckle from the wall - Threw down a welcome tear, - The breeze came rushing through the hall - And whispered, "Tarry here, - - "For all within is peace and love;" - So through the curtain's lace - I glanced the reckless words to prove, - And saw a lover's face - Bent close above two eyes of blue. - Why should I dim their day? - Across the pane the blind I drew, - And softly crept away. - - I went again, one summer eve; - The rose blushed at the door - But smiled as sweetly to receive - Me as it did before; - The breeze came out as joyously, - And lingered at my side, - And murmured: "Tarry now and see - Our happy groom and bride." - - "O, no!" I said, "some other day - I'll call the pair to see." - But as I turned to go away - They both looked out at me. - O! what a light of hope and love - Their features then o'erspread; - And a shekinah from above - Seemed on the cottage shed. - - Years crept away. When next I came - Before that open door, - A little child pronounced my name - That golden tresses wore. - "Will you come in?" she gladly cried, - And opened wide the gate. - "My little one," I slow replied, - "The day is low and late. - - "To-morrow when the sun is bright, - I'll come and play with you; - Too chilly now, the falling night, - Too damp the evening dew." - And so I did. I often trod - Along the side yard there; - And found that fresher grew the sod, - The sky more bright and fair. - - I once had said that every rose - Held just a briar or two, - And every river as it flows - A dark wave with the blue; - But 'twas not thus I found it here, - The world that night I'd tell - That I had found a sky so clear - That rain drops never fell. - - Thus musing on that sweet child's face - That night I could not sleep, - A shadow seemed the light to chase - As storms the ocean sweep; - And when the stars forsook the sky - And birds their matins sang - I strolled again the cottage by - And loud the door-bell rang. - - The rose had dropped its leaves and died, - I heard within a sob. - What did it mean? The winds replied - "Crape hangs upon the knob." - Softly I raised the window's lace-- - The little child was dead-- - I threw a flower across her face, - And from the cottage fled. - - I never will go back again - Or push the blinds apart-- - I sought a sunshine for my pen, - Found shadows for my heart. - - - - -Only a Fern Leaf. - -TO H. M. - - - Only a fern leaf, darling, - Yellow and dry with age, - Only a date recorded - Down at the ending page. - - Only a breath from the mountain, - A song with the summer wed; - Only the voice of a fountain, - Only a dream that is dead. - - Only a faded morning, - With a shadow falling through, - Only a hint of warning-- - A cloud in the far off blue. - - Only a word of parting - Under a starlit sky; - Only a tear that is starting, - A long and a last good bye. - - Only a face of sorrow - Turned to a vanished year-- - Only a fern leaf, darling, - Glued to the pages here. - - - - -A Dream. - -TO MY FATHER. - - - Listen, father, while I tell you of a dream I had last night; - For it was so sweet my childhood home was painted in my sight. - 'Twas the same old frame house, father, hidden by the same old - trees, - Apple, cherry, quince and locust, talking in the same old breeze. - - On the walk I found the cowslip, stolen from "The Old Ravine," - And the blue-bell, and the columbine--how near my heart they lean. - Roses, red as any furnace flame, about me seemed to grow. - Roses pink as maiden blushes, roses pure and white as snow. - - All around the yard I wandered, oh! so long I can not tell, - Then I paused beneath the apple tree and drank from the old well. - Through my veins I felt the water coursing like a happy thought, - And a thousand recollections to my memory then it brought. - - Recollections rushing to me swifter than an angel's wing, - Recollections slipping from me as a pearl slips from a string. - Recollections that transfigured me into a little child, - And the halo shed around me was my father's happy smile. - - It was such a pretty picture Fancy held before my view, - I will turn the magic lantern so that you may see it, too. - It is springtime and the sugar trees have pitched their shady tent, - Tiny leaves like tiny parasols reach toward the firmament. - - Restless swings a childish figure to and fro upon the gate, - Some one's coming down the highway--'tis for him she there doth - wait. - Ah! you recognize the picture, I can tell it by your smile; - You have recognized the sugar trees, and recognized your child. - - Through the pasture now we're strolling, looking down the avenue, - See you not another picture? Yes; the figures there are two. - Mother sits upon the portico her knitting in her hand, - And my brother talks beside her of that wild and Western land - - Where he raced his Indian ponies and lassoed the buffaloes - Oh, it is a perfect wonderland!--this country that he knows. - But we will not interrupt them; for they do so happy seem-- - So we turn aside and leave them wandering on as in a dream. - - Then I led you up the hillside and we sat upon the "mound." - Oh! there never was before or since so pretty a view spread 'round. - Just below, the tranquil water of the clear pond seemed to win - Every cloud that floated over, and the heavens lay within. - - Then the meadow, where the clover bloomed, and where you stacked the - hay, - Like a field within a picture book, before us there it lay; - Then beyond, the barn and orchard, and the valley that I love-- - Oh! it all seemed like a painting let down by the Hand above. - - But a thought came rushing to me of a fairy that you know; - For she lived there in the valley and her name it was Echo. - So I laughed and called unto her just as loud as I could call, - But the voice that she threw back to me was not a child's at all. - - No; it was a woman's voice; I awoke then with a start, - And I found the king beside me that dethroned you in my heart. - Then a tear fell on the pillow, not a briny, bitter tear, - Why? you ask--because the dream was gone that I have copied here. - - - - -Those Soft Airs She Played. - -TO M. B. S. - - - Those soft airs she played--through my mem'ry they glide - Like a cloud-shadow crossing the plain; - The sun follows often, the wind at his side, - Then a whisper that never the roses denied, - And a sound like a light fall of rain. - - Grander music she plays--music weird and sublime, - Thunder toned, like the sound of the sea, - That rolleth away like the surges of time; - But, to quicken my thoughts and to sweeten my rhyme, - She always played soft airs for me. - - Faint whispers that blend with the deep forest's sound, - From which a wild fawn would not flee, - And sweet as the brook that the summer has found, - When singing its song soft and glad underground, - And carrying its heart to the sea.... - - A movement then mingles like those that are heard - When the trees toss their shade to the eaves; - A pause and a tremble, as of a sweet word, - Or the dream-haunted wing of a night-hidden bird - That is shaking the dew from the leaves. - - Then silence, that even a word would profane-- - Silence, holding some thoughts heaven-born, - That only her fingers a moment can chain; - Up, up to the skies they have wandered again, - Like a prayer holy spoken at morn. - - Those soft airs she played in the dim lighted room, - With her heart in the past far away-- - Ah, what would I give if to-night, through the gloom, - Along with the budding and bursting of bloom, - They now past my window would stray. - - Alas! vain the thought, and as vain sounds the sigh, - Long distance my wish has delayed; - But we sit in the twilight--my mem'ry and I-- - And listen and linger, we scarcely know why, - Unless for those soft airs she played. - - - - -To Albert. - - - Thou art going from us, Albert, - Going far away from me, - Where I can not hear thy prattle, - And thy face I can not see. - - Back into the Southern country, - Thou art going--there to roam, - Where my heart began its singing-- - In the old Kentucky home. - - Lonely all the days will linger, - When I miss your little face; - Shadows gray, from out the hours, - All the sunbeams soon will chase. - - Dim will seem the sunny window, - Where the pansy blossom grows, - And no restless little fingers - Will disturb the opening rose. - - Soon the playthings will be missing, - Soon they gathered up must be-- - Thou art going from us, Albert, - Going far away from me. - - Soon the little boy that vexed me, - When I tried to read and write, - Will be gone. No one will listen - When I sing my songs at night. - - Soon the halls will lose their echo, - And the yard grow silent, too, - And the pretty face will vanish, - With those wondrous eyes of blue. - - So good-bye, my little darling; - All these tears have been for thee-- - Thou art going from us, Albert, - Going far away from me. - - - - -The Reunion of the Flowers. - - - A few of the springtime flowers, - And the summer blossoms sweet, - Agreed, at the early autumn, - In a locust grove to meet, - - And there to hold communion, - By the light of the setting sun, - And each relate or mention - Some kind act they had done. - - And he whose deed was noblest - Should, at the close of day, - Be colonel of the regiment, - And lead the ranks away. - - So, one by one I watched them - Assemble where the trees - Had lowered their limbs to listen - And halted every breeze. - - A Rose in the richest satin, - With a bud to her bonnet tied, - Was first to break the silence - That reigned on every side. - - "I lived with a lovely lady, - In a handsome house of brick, - And went with her each morning, - To wait upon the sick. - - "I've leaned beside the pillows, - Where wounded soldiers lay, - And I wept at the funeral service, - Of an orphan child to-day." - - "I bloomed in an humble garden, - Where an old man used to look," - Said the Johnquil, "ere the snow-drift - His window-sill forsook." - - "A poor bee shivered homeward - One night," the Tulip said, - "Fell through my scarlet curtains, - And died upon my bed." - - "I looked in at a window, - And made two lovers kiss," - The Pansy owned, and laughing - Said it was not amiss. - - "I went into a palace," - The Lily then replied, - "And held the veil that evening - Of a happy-hearted bride." - - "I sweetened the room of a poet, - And o'er his coffin wept," - The Heliotrope low whispered, - And back in the shadows crept. - - "O, that was very noble," - Exclaimed the Golden-rod, - "I tried to gather the sunshine - And hold it up to God. - - "To make the world less sober, - To make the heart less sad, - Was all the mission, brethren, - Your humble servant had." - - * * * * * - - In the ranks of that floral army - That marched at the close of day, - That sunny-featured blossom - Was the one that led the way. - - - - -Children of the Brain. - - - Our thoughts--the children of the brain-- - Are born for us some good to gain, - And if we rear them just and right, - They'll seek the day instead of night. - Long in the harvest field they'll work-- - Brave laborers that do not shirk, - And they will reap just what we sow, - As written you will find below. - - * * * * * - - I sent them forth into the world, - Some thoughts that long my heart impearled. - Their countenance was of a light - That beamed upon me through the night. - The features were like mine, perchance, - With part of heaven hid in the glance; - And the apparel that they wore - My fingers long had labored o'er. - - A vine ran through the tunic's hem - That wilted not though broke the stem, - And all the undergarments showed - The time and care on them bestowed. - Some of the moonbeams took a place - Within the frill about the face; - And, stars that bright as Lyra glowed, - The overdress and mantle showed. - - The sandals that encased the feet - Were fashioned for a journey fleet, - And pinions, like a sail unfurled, - I saw outspread before the world, - With promises to come again - And glorify the parent pen. - I tore apart the silken skein - And let them drift from out my brain. - - Where are they tarrying to-night? - I see, around a fireside bright, - One looking in a friendly face. - How tender seems the warm embrace! - Now close, close to this loved one's lip - 'Tis held, and for companionship - Is nestling down into the heart, - And of the same becomes a part. - - Some beckon me across the seas, - Are favored by a foreign breeze, - Are traveling where I can not go, - Are learning what I ne'er shall know, - Are praised, perhaps, with offered funds, - While with them glad the newsboy runs; - Are welcomed in some palace home, - And ne'er allowed henceforth to roam. - - The one that I had loved the best - A journey took into the West, - And by a friend it chanced to meet - Sent home a prairie flower sweet. - Two stronger ones, the North that sought, - Some words of love back home have brought; - They brighten up the lonesome hearth, - And praise the pen that gave them birth. - - And one crept down in Cupid's coat - To read a dainty perfumed note, - And afterward came back to tell - How sweetly rang the wedding bell. - Another, with as brave a face, - Had with a rival run a race; - It did its best, to gain had tried, - But came back home, alas! and died. - - The tenderest one, perhaps, of all, - Upon a critic chanced to call; - He hooted at the homespun gown, - And bent his bitter, blackest frown - Upon the waif, and read its fate - Where winter winds could congregate. - I thought I heard its funeral bell, - But where the grave is I'll not tell. - - I do not know the others' fate, - A pauper's grave may them await. - The fabric that my hands embossed, - While Fancy figured high the cost, - May trail, to-night, some filthy street - Where sin and shame together meet, - And the loved strains from my heart's lyre - Be sung around an outcast's fire. - - They may attain a higher sphere, - Where flows the penitential tear, - And point the wanderers they find - Upon the paths that heavenward wind. - God grant their mission may be such! - That all sad hearts they'll lightly touch, - And spread upon the ugly wound - A balm to make them whole and sound. - - - - -A Lily of the Valley. - - - Just a breath of fragrance - On the breeze--alas! - A lily of the valley - Dying in the grass. - - Just a recollection - Followed with a sigh; - Just a teardrop dripping - Down the cheek, and why? - -MAY 16, 1887. - - - - -Lines to the Old Year. - - - Farewell, Old Year, the shades are growing deep, - Thou art dethroned and vanishes your power; - I sit alone with folded hands and weep, - While close the minutes chase our parting hour. - - Your lips are dumb, and with a feeble hand - You turn the pages of the year's great book, - While my wet cheeks are with an odor fanned, - Like that the summer breeze from violets shook. - - I gaze into the volume. Undiscerned - Some scenes advance, like phantoms hurry by, - And thoughts look from the leaves now swifter turned - As meaningless as would a stranger's eye. - - I meet familiar names in Death's long list, - I pass new graves where tears have thawed the snows, - I search my heart lest something I have missed, - But in its garden find no dying rose. - - Thou hast been kind to me; no marble urn - Chills the warm pulses of my heart to night, - And from the thought my pen doth gladly turn - To offer homage ere you take your flight. - - Bright recollections thou hast left instead, - That twinkle in the firmament of thought, - And lover-like I sit and gaze o'erhead - Upon the starry gems thy hand has wrought. - - Far down the by-path of a summer dream, - Glad voices call and fingers beckon me-- - An oar dips music from a moonlit stream, - Where in thy prime I sailed, Old Year, with thee - - And now, e'en in the shadow of thy hearse, - Ungarland save with fated mistletoe, - While midnight fiends the hours call like a curse, - You clasp my hand and smiling on me--go. - - Farewell! A friend thou'st been to me, and I - Shall wander through the burial ground of years, - And often with an introspective eye - Search out thy grave and water it with tears. - - - - -Why I Smile. - - - I smile because the world is fair; - Because the sky is blue. - Because I find, no matter where - I go, a friend that's true. - - I smile because the earth is green, - The sun so near and bright, - Because the days that o'er us lean - Are full of warmth and light. - - I smile as past the yards I go, - Though strange and new the place, - The violets seem my step to know, - And look up in my face. - - I smile to hear the robin's note. - He comes so newly dressed, - A love song throbbing in his throat, - A rose pinned on his breast. - - And so the truth I'll not disown, - Because the spring is nigh; - My heart has somewhat better grown, - And I forget to sigh. - -MT. VERNON, ILL. - - - - -My Phantom Ships. - - - I heard the plunging of the sea - Like a wild steed pursuing me, - And dark and frothy was the main; - But suddenly a checking rein - Seemed drawn, and panting on the shore, - I heard the billows' frightful roar. - - My dream betook a different hue, - Caught from the ocean's changeful blue. - A door was opened in my heart, - From which I saw each fear depart, - And there from some far, happy isle, - The sea breeze came as would a smile - - Oh! it was sweet to wander there, - The sky o'erhanging still and bare. - A cloud, in some soft raiment dressed, - Leaned like a bride upon the west; - The sea-gulls floated on the breeze - Like blossoms blown from April trees. - - The wind just kissed by summer's mouth - Walked like a lover from the South; - And jewels from a sunbeam's hand - Were sprinkled on the snowy sand; - The breakers ran along the beach, - And scattered shells within my reach. - - I stooped and held one to my ear, - And listened as to voices dear; - And then methought far, far away, - Where purple mists made dim the day, - I saw the motion of a ship - That from the heavens seemed to slip. - - On, on it came with fluttering sail, - Strong blew the steady ocean gale. - The waves were running thick and high, - And kept the ship close to the sky; - It seemed a picture on the sea, - "A picture," thought I, "can it be?" - - But from the waves the wind withdrew - And brought the sailors close to view. - The pilot pointed to the shore, - And then to gems and shining ore - Piled up against the good ship's side - That leaned so brave upon the tide. - - Oh! there were silks of colors soft, - And plumes that proudly waved aloft; - And there were jewels, bags of gold, - From caves o'er which the water rolled, - And coral crowns--gifts of the sea-- - And all of this for whom? _For me._ - - With open arms to meet the ship - I ran, and proudly curled my lip. - No one should know from whence it came, - And none should share my wealth and fame. - My gowns of silk with me should roam, - My gold I'd closet at my home. - - Ah, me! I knew not what I thought. - The ship was by a whirlwind caught. - It staggered out upon the sea-- - I heard the sailors cursing me; - A flash fell from the lowering night, - And down the brave ship sank from sight. - - * * * * * - - I walk again upon the sands - With aching heart and empty hands. - Sometimes a piece of broken mast - Upon the tide goes sailing past; - And, where the sun so friendly shone, - A shadow on the sand has grown. - - A strange and half-distracted dream - Comes just behind the sea-gull's scream. - The sinking ship again I see, - The sailors hurl their oaths at me, - And like an echo from the grave - Is the sad song of wind and wave. - - But somewhere, under bluer skies, - Another ship in harbor lies. - Its flags are flying free and fast, - The sails are white, and strong the mast. - 'Tis loaded, too, with precious freight, - And for the same I stand and wait. - - When it comes home I'll happy be, - And all share my joy with me. - My wines at other feasts I'll pour, - The sorrowful shall smile--yea, more, - The poor shall not be turned away, - And one and all shall bless the day. - - PABLO BEACH, FLA., January, 1887. - - - - -The Weight of a Word. - - - Have you ever thought of the weight of a word - That falls in the heart like the song of a bird, - That gladdens the springtime of memory and youth - And garlands with cedar the banner of Truth, - That moistens the harvesting spot of the brain - Like dew-drops that fall on the meadow of grain - Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit - And lies like a worm at the lifeless root? - - I saw a farmer at break of day - Hoeing his corn in a careful way; - An enemy came with a drouth in his eye, - Discouraged the worker and hurried by. - The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe - Dulled on the earth in the long corn row; - The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed - Over the field and the crop was--_lost_. - - A sailor launched on an angry bay - When the heavens entombed the face of day - The wind arose like a beast in pain, - And shook on the billows his yellow name, - The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud, - And the waves held up a dripping shroud-- - But, hark! o'er the waters that wildly raved - Came a word of cheer and he was--_saved_. - - A poet passed with a song of God - Hid in his heart like a gem in a clod. - His lips were framed to pronounce the thought, - And the music of rhythm its magic wrought; - Feeble at first was the happy trill, - Low was the echo that answered the hill, - But a jealous friend spoke near his side, - And on his lips the sweet song--_died_. - - A woman paused where a chandelier - Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear; - Weary and footsore from journeying long, - She had strayed unawares from the right to the wrong. - Angels were beck'ning her back from the den, - Hell and its demons were beck'ning her in; - The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives, - Drew her back and in heaven _that_ sweet word--_lives_. - - Words! Words! They are little, yet mighty and brave; - They rescue a nation, an empire save; - They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart - That sickness and sorrow have severed apart, - They fall on the path, like a ray of the sun, - Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon; - They lighten the earth over our blessed dead, - A word that will comfort, oh! leave not unsaid. - - - - -An Apology. - -TO J. D. N. - - - My pen is mournful--you ask why - When all the time my face is glad, - And though contentment lights my eye, - You say my verse is strangely sad; - So serious that e'en the strain - You can detect, as on the pane - You know the patter in the night, - Although the cloud is hid from sight. - - You asked me once to change my tone, - "To trim my pen for gayer verse," - And, laughing, said 'twas like a moan - That followed close behind a hearse. - My muse was saddened at the stroke, - And in my heart new chords awoke, - Chords that vibrate like the bell - That tolled one day a funeral knell. - - I would not have them otherwise; - I claim my caged bird's song more sweet - Because 'tis sad, than one which tries - The echo merrier to repeat. - How quickly I would turn aside, - And soon forget a boist'rous tide, - To hear the brooklet, sad and low, - Sing in a minor key I know. - - I'll not attempt Hood's humorous style, - I do not crave John Gilpin's ride. - It was my custom, when a child, - To linger at my mother's side - When she would sing "The Old Church Yard," - That told how soft and green its sward. - "The angels that watched 'round the tomb" - Crept, as she sang, into our room. - - 'Tis said the clown will never jest - When folded is the showman's tent; - That she who pathos renders best - Has loudest laugh in merriment. - Thus, _vice versa_ is the theme, - Or, "all things are not what they seem." - Sadness to Joy is as a twin, - One rules without, one rules within. - - My life is full of love and joy, - My heart-strings, though, with sadness tuned. - Then do not ask me to destroy - The mournful measures; it would wound - My Muse--the playmate of my youth-- - Who taught me early many a truth - From others' woes, and bid me think - While she supplied the pen and ink. - - - - -Speak Kindly. - - - Speak kindly in the morning, - When you are leaving home, - And give the day a lighter heart - Into the week to roam. - Leave kind words as mementoes - To be handled and caressed, - And watch the noon-time hour arrive - In gold and tinsel dressed. - - Speak kindly in the evening! - When on the walk is heard - A tired footstep that you know, - Speak one refreshing word, - And see the glad light springing - From the heart into the eye, - As sometimes from behind a cloud - A star leaps to the sky. - - Speak kindly to the children - That crowd around your chair, - The tender lips that lean on yours - Kiss, smooth the flaxen hair; - Some day a room that's lonesome - The little ones may own, - And home be empty as the nest - From which the birds have flown. - - Speak kindly to the stranger - Who passes through the town, - A loving word is light of weight-- - Not so would prove a frown. - One is a precious jewel - The heart would grasp in sleep, - The other like a demon's gift - The memory loathes to keep. - - Speak kindly to the sorrowful - Who stand beside the dead, - The heart can lean against a word - Though thorny seems the bed. - And oh, to those discouraged - Who faint upon the way, - Stop, stop--if just a moment-- - And something kindly say. - - Speak kindly to the fallen ones, - Your voice may help them rise; - A word right-spoken oft unclasps - The gate beyond the skies. - Speak kindly, and the future - You'll find God looking through! - Speak of another as you'd have - Him always speak of you. - - - - -Those Willing Hands - -IN MEMORY OF MISS FANNIE STEVENS. - - - Those willing hands--they're still to-night-- - The life has from them fled; - They're folded from the longing sight, - So cold and pale and dead. - The busy veins have idle grown, - Like a long famished rill, - That once in such an eager tone - Called soft from hill to hill. - - Dear hands, I've felt their pressure oft, - In a sad time gone by; - They moved about the years as soft - As clouds move through the sky. - They screened the rainstorm from my heart, - And let the moonlight in, - And showed, while shadows fell athwart, - Tracks where the sun had been. - - They were such willing, willing hands, - They stilled the mournful tear, - Unwound the pattern of God's plans, - And made his problems clear. - They did not reach to high-grown bowers, - Where rarest blossoms bloom; - But culled the blessed, purer flowers, - And bore them to the tomb. - - Poor hands--they are so still and white, - The rose that shared their rest - Is shrinking from the long, dark night, - And falling on her breast. - The wreath is wilted on the mound - Where long the sunshine stands, - But angels have the sleeper found, - And clasped those willing hands. - - - - -Look Into the Past. - - - Look into the past--there are pictures - Detaining the sunshine of May, - All aquiver with light they turn to the sight, - Like a flower that faces the day. - How restful the hillsides and shady! - The brook like a song passeth by, - And the trespassing moon floats about through noon, - Like a bubble blown up in the sky. - - Look into the past! It is happy; - Its voices are voices of youth; - There is no idle jest to disturb the heart's rest, - And its banners wear mottoes of truth; - Look back at the glad, happy faces - That walk with our childhood abreast, - And show me to-day, though it be miles away, - A spot that can offer such rest. - - Say not that the years long escaping, - Show graves of a cankering joy. - Because we have found that new pleasures abound, - Must we cast off our first childish toy? - Because some old love has disturbed us, - And filled a lost hour full of gloom, - Are we never to go, when the sun lieth low, - And stand by the neglected tomb? - - - - -A Little Face. - -TO "C." - - - A little face to look at, - A little face to kiss; - Is there anything, I wonder, - That's half so sweet as this? - - A little cheek to dimple - When smiles begin to grow - A little mouth betraying - Which way the kisses go. - - A slender little ringlet, - A rosy little ear; - A little chin to quiver - When falls the little tear. - - A little face to look at, - A little face to kiss; - Is there anything, I wonder, - That's half so sweet as this? - - A little hand so fragile - All through the night to hold - Two little feet so tender - To tuck in from the cold. - - Two eyes to watch the sunbeam - That with the shadow plays-- - A darling little baby - To kiss and love always. - - - - -The Canary and Rose. - - - A lovely tea rose, in a new autumn gown, - Looked in at the window one day, - And said with a scorn: - "'Tis a beautiful morn; - But ugly enough is your lay. - Do you never grow weary of singing your songs - Shut up in that prison of brass? - _I_ do not admire - Your out of tune lyre, - And none seem to listen who pass. - - "Last night as I beaded my bodice with dew, - And shook the perfume from the lace, - There came to the fence - Such a beautiful prince, - And said, looking into my face: - "Too lovely thou art to live here so obscure - To-morrow with me thou shalt roam.' - So he's coming to-day, - And will bear me away - The queen of his heart and his home." - - Now, the dear little songster was pruning her wing - That had borrowed the sun's yellow ray, - And shaking a note - In her quivering throat, - Replied in an indifferent way: - "My songs will not trouble you long. I discern - This breeze is forerunning a storm, - And should he delay - (This prince) on the way, - You must seek other quarters more warm." - - "Do you think," said the rose, with a tremulous tone, - "The rain would disfigure my face?" - But e'en as she spoke - In the sky there awoke - A wind that demolished the vase. - - With features all pale and distorted she cried, - Still clinging up close to the glass. - "Cry for help." Said the bird, - "They will hear not a word, - For none seem to listen who pass." - - There's a moral concealed in the little bird's throat - That never her song will disclose; - But oft when the cloud - For the sun makes a shroud - She thinks of the beautiful rose, - Who died with a coronet touching her brow, - Crushed from sight by the hurrying throng, - And she smiles at a prince, - Who yet leans on the fence - And hears nothing else but her song. - - - - -A Sigh or a Tear. - - - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear, - As you watch the sweet-faced summer go, - And the throng of memories that you know. - A sigh for the star that stood in the West, - Now sinking down with the sun to rest, - For the smiles that live in an absent face - Like the blossoms of love in the heart's clear vase. - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear. - - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear - When you sit in the dusk with a new cigar, - And touch some chord on the old guitar. - A tear for the girl that was good and true, - For the songs of love--the letters, too, - - And the ribbon around the roses tied - That long ago in the drawer died. - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear. - - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear - When you raise the lid to the little chest - And find what a mother's heart loves best, - A broken toy, a half-worn shoe, - Some little dresses of pink and blue, - The blocks that builded such marvelous towers, - A golden curl, and some withered flowers. - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear. - - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear - When you gaze in the tomb of the dear dead past, - Where the shadows of sunshine yet are cast. - A sigh for the rose, though bleached and dried, - That close to the loved one lived and died, - For the voice that is still--once dear to thee-- - For the face that is gone--ah me! ah me! - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear. - - - - -Snow-Flakes. - - - See the early snow-flakes! - Softly they descend, - Like an orchard blossom - Scattered by the wind. - - Here and there they're flying - Over all the trees, - High above them swarming - Like white-winged bees. - - Faster still they're whirling, - Dancing into sight, - Like a troop of fairies - When the moon is light. - - Tripping down the highway - In a reckless gait, - Falling like a feather - Without sound or weight. - - On the distant churchyard - Over graves unkept, - Where the leaves have drifted - And the clouds have wept. - - Little band of angels - Doing only good, - Making white the meadow - And the lonely wood. - - Greeting with light kisses - All they chance to meet, - Leaving shining footprints - All about the street. - - Little winter children - Full of life and fun-- - Oh! I love the snow-flakes, - Love them every one. - - - - -A Footprint. - - - A sweet song spoke to me one day, - Behind a prayer that passed my way, - Yet neither would for me delay - The upward flight. - I searched and found a footprint where - The song had tarried; but the prayer - Had left no trace on earth or air. - - Straight from the heart it went to God - The song remained to smooth the clod, - And lay a flower upon the sod. - O, envied right! - If but one song of mine could chase - Some sorrow from the heart and face - I know in Heaven 'twould find a place. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Katydid's Poems, by Mrs. J. I. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - -</pre> - +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43612 ***</div> </body> </html> diff --git a/43612.txt b/43612.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8108cfe..0000000 --- a/43612.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4896 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Katydid's Poems, by Mrs. J. I. McKinney - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Katydid's Poems - -Author: Mrs. J. I. McKinney - -Release Date: August 31, 2013 [EBook #43612] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATYDID'S POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by David Garcia, Matthew Wheaton and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by the Library of Congress) - - - - - - - -[Illustration: Katydid.] - - - - - Katydid's Poems - - WITH A LETTER BY - - Jno. Aug. Williams. - - - ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1887, BY - - MRS. J. I. McKINNEY ("KATYDID") - - IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN AT WASHINGTON. - - - PRINTED BY THE COURIER-JOURNAL JOB PRINTING COMPANY. - - - Dedicated - - TO - - J. I. McKINNEY. - - - To him whose every word is one of praise, - Who loves to linger where my thoughts have been, - And who delights in all my rhyming ways, - I offer first these efforts of my pen. - - - - -LETTER TO KATYDID. - - -DEAR KATYDID: - -I am more pleased with your lines than when I first read them; they -are intensely womanly, natural, musical and sweet--they are absolutely -free from affectation, only the restraint of rhyme and measure seem to -deprive your muse of perfect freedom and grace. There is also a -delicacy of thought and fancy, and of purity of sentiment that -pervades the whole like the sweetest perfume. - -No one can listen to your "Chirpings" and feel like touching the bough -from which you sing with a rude, critical hand; he would rather listen -through the live-long night to the end of your song. - -I remember well your first attempt at rhyme while a girl here at -school; even then, there was a pleasing promise of a beautiful and -useful pen; and I am glad that you have found time and opportunity to -improve your early gift. I am glad, too, that you have been persuaded -to give some of your sweet little poems to the press; the tender, the -true, and the pure of heart will read them with delight. - - Affectionately your friend, - - JNO. AUG. WILLIAMS. - - DAUGHTER'S COLLEGE, - Harrodsburg, Ky. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE. - To A Katydid 7 - A Day Dream 9 - The Old Ravine (Illustrated.) 11 - Some Day You'll Wish For Me 12 - To Hallie 13 - I've Asked You to Forget Me 14 - Little Blanche 15 - The Little Front Gate 16 - Drifting 16 - Looking Back 17 - Scotta 18 - The Lover and Flower 20 - My Cloud 22 - The Decision 23 - Autumn 25 - A Sister's Love 26 - In Memory of Nannie Johnson White 26 - The Heliotrope's Soliloquy 27 - A Problem 28 - My Palace (Illustrated.) 29 - Death of Summer 33 - Spring and Summer 34 - Under the Snow 35 - The Prettiest Girl in Town 36 - I Am Musing To-night 37 - A Curl 38 - Somebody's Face 39 - Good-bye, Maggie 40 - The Hermit's Farewell (Illustrated.) 41 - A Window I Love 43 - Thistle Down 44 - Bitter Memories 45 - An Acrostic 46 - My Angel Visitor 47 - Keep a Bright Face, Darling 48 - My Neighbor's Mill 49 - Dripping Springs 51 - In Memoriam 53 - The Old Orchard Trees 54 - On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies 55 - Ella Lee 56 - What is the West Wind Saying 58 - To a Mountain Stream 59 - Pen Pictures 60 - To Mother 62 - The Broken Heart 63 - A Year Ago 65 - A Christmas Peep 66 - Winnie's Christmas Eve 68 - My Heart's Little Room 69 - The Three Muses 71 - A Recollection 72 - Don't Question Him Why 73 - Why? 74 - A Sunset Longing 74 - Journeys 76 - The Lost Poem 78 - A Maple Leaf 80 - A Gallop With Santa Claus 81 - Home Memories 83 - Sunshine and Shadow (Illustrated.) 85 - Only a Fern Leaf 87 - A Dream 88 - Those Soft Airs She Played 89 - To Albert 91 - The Reunion of the Flowers 92 - Children of the Brain 94 - A Lily of the Valley 96 - Lines to the Old Year 97 - Why I Smile 98 - My Phantom Ships 99 - The Weight of a Word 101 - An Apology 103 - Speak Kindly 104 - Those Willing Hands 106 - Look Into the Past 107 - A Little Face 108 - The Canary and Rose 109 - A Sigh or a Tear 110 - Snow-flakes 112 - A Foot-print 113 - - - - -KATYDID'S POEMS. - - - - -To a Katydid. - - - Little friend among the tree-tops, - Chanting low your vesper hymns, - Never tiring, - Me inspiring, - Seated 'neath the swaying limbs, - Do you know your plaintive calling, - When the summer dew is falling, - Echoes sweeter through my brain - Than any soft, harmonic strain? - - Others call you an intruder, - Say discordant notes you know; - Or that sadness, - More than gladness, - From your little heart doth flow; - And that you awake from sleeping - Thoughts in quiet they were keeping, - Faithless love, or ill-laid schemes, - Hopes unanchored--broken dreams. - - No such phantoms to my vision - Doth your lullaby impart, - But sweet faces, - No tear traces, - Smile as joyous in my heart, - As when first at mother's knee - Learned I your sweet mystery. - I defend you with my praises, - For your song my soul upraises. - - Do you wonder that at twilight - Always by my cottage door - I am seated? - You've repeated - Oft'ner still those tunes of yore; - And I love them, love your scanning - And your noisy tree-top planning; - Though you struggle with a rhyme, - In due season comes the chime. - - Oft I fancy when your neighbors, - In some secret thicket hid, - Are debating, - Underrating - What that little maiden did, - That above their clam'rous singing - I can hear your accents ringing, - Like a voice that must defend - From abuse some time-loved friend. - - Though the nightingale and swallow - Through the poet's measures sing, - No reflection - Of dejection - Petrifies or palls your wing. - In the calm and holy moonlight, - On and on with hours of midnight, - In the darkness, in the rain, - Still you whisper your refrain. - - Dream I not of fame or fortune, - Only this I inward crave, - Sweet assurance, - Long endurance, - Of a love beyond the grave. - Should my songs die out and perish, - You'll my name repeat and cherish; - Though all trace is lost of me, - Still you'll call from tree to tree, - - KATYDID. - - - - -A Day-Dream. - - - I'm looking in a mirror, Belle, - The mirror of our past; - And many a bright reflection, Belle, - Into its depth is cast; - Reflections that are calm and clear, - And O! to us so very dear. - - I see a village--old Kirksville-- - Its long and narrow street, - And as it climbs upon the hill, - How many friends I meet! - And, Belle, your face smiles out to me-- - The sweetest face that I can see. - - There is my home hid 'mong the trees - Back of the village street, - A welcome rushes on the breeze, - And restless grow my feet; - My heart leaps forward, and I view - The dearest spot I ever knew. - - Home! home again! and, children, we - Skip through the pastures green; - Your eyes of blue I plainly see-- - "The sweetest ever seen;" - And on your cheek the rosy tinge; - And curls of gold your temples fringe. - - And see the dogs we used to pet; - Down through the lawn they run; - Not many passing by, forget - Their bark, or fail to shun - Old Carlo of the greyhound race, - And Lion with his vicious face. - - Yet us they follow to the hedge, - Where hours with them we've played; - And to the pond, along whose edge, - Barefooted, we would wade. - Decorum could not cramp the brain, - And Love unlocked his golden chain. - - We climb upon my father's barn, - Hide in the straw and hay; - We watch aunt "Silvy" spinning yarn - In the old-fashioned way. - She tells us tales by candle light, - That fill our hearts with wild delight. - - A shadow falls; I lose your face; - Lost is the fairy-tale; - And just before my eyes I trace - A kind of airy veil; - A network that is strangely planned, - Held by the Present's cunning hand. - - The shadow now has passed away; - I glance the meshes through, - And find strange children there at play - Beside your knee; one, two-- - The little faces both foretell - A happy future for you, Belle. - - Long, long I gaze. That pretty view - Dissolves away in air, - And still I'm looking, Belle, for you, - And still I'm standing there; - I strive your image to retrace-- - All, all has vanished but my face. - - And closing 'round me as before, - I see a figured wall, - A carpet blue upon the floor, - And sunlight over all. - Bewildered, yet entranced I seem, - And 'waken from a sweet day-dream. - - - - -The Old Ravine. - - - Just back of my dear old home it rolled, - With many a crumpled and rocky fold, - Hedged 'round with cherry and locust trees - Their strong arms toyed with the breeze-- - Like knights arrayed for march or fight - They stood with waving plumes of white. - - And O! that valley's inmost room - Was a mass of ivy and violet bloom; - The larkspur shook from its purple crest - A dew-drop down on the lily's breast; - The blue-bell dozed on the rivulet's brink, - And the myrtle leaned o'er the edge to drink. - - Even now, as I write, through the open door - I catch a sound of the cataract's roar, - And see the girls just out from school - Knee-deep in the ravine's limpid pool; - And the boys, ah, me! how plain can I see - Them stealing the bark from the slippery tree. - - The door slams back, it is scarce apart; - With steady eye and fluttering heart, - I watch the girls up the valley turn, - In search of peppermint and fern; - And the boys are waving their caps to me, - As they stand in that ragged and torn old tree. - - In some wild way, I never knew how, - I climbed to the swing on that elm tree's bough; - Was twitt'ring a song as I used to do, - And counting the clouds in the sky's soft blue, - When the girls came out from the valley's shade, - And earth into heaven seemed then to fade. - - 'Twas the Eden of old, and I was a child - (I have thought of it since and often have smiled); - Sitting there in the swing, with the girls at my feet, - And the boys overhead--my joy was complete; - What a mockery, then, to awaken and part - With the happy illusion--how hollow my heart! - - - - -Some Day You'll Wish for Me. - -FOR ---- ---- - - - Some day, my darling, when the rose has died, - That on your pathway throws its petals sweet, - When the sharp thorn is springing near your side - And nettles pierce the mould beneath your feet, - You'll wish for me. - - Some day, my darling, when the crystal cup - Of Beauty shattered lies, and spilled its wine; - When Pleasure's urn denies your lips one sup, - And you drink deep of Disappointment's brine, - You'll wish for me. - - Some day the wreath will wilt upon your head; - You'll smell the bud and find a worm within. - Some day, my darling, when your friends have fled, - And strangers mock your frequent tears, ah! then - You'll wish for me. - - Some day, my darling, when Death's dews fall cold - Upon your brow, you'll gladly let me come-- - When dreams present the shroud that must enfold - Your limbs, and your sweet lips grow chill and dumb, - You'll wish for me. - - You'll long for him whose hands were oft denied - To pluck a rose lest they the bush pollute-- - Yet he would come and stand a slave aside. - To grasp the bramble and the thorn uproot, - If you but wished for him. - - He'd kiss your limbs the hidden briar had torn, - And bathe the wounds with Pity's saddest tear; - He'd close your eyes that ne'er till death had worn - For him one look of love, and at your bier - He'd kneel and pray - - For strength to watch you hidden from his sight, - For strength to turn aside and leave you there - Clasped in the arms of everlasting night; - And yet, my darling, not as great despair - He'd feel than now. - - - - -To Hallie. - -WRITTEN FOR ---- - - - Sad and cheerless stands the homestead - In its grandeur as of old; - 'Tis a casket--lost, the jewel; - 'Tis a mine without its gold. - - Once a sunbeam at the doorway - Gilded room and gladdened hall; - Making life a golden summer, - Full of joy for each and all. - - But the sunshine that has vanished - Ne'er can brighten o'er us more, - Though I bow in meek submission - Yet my heart is sad and sore. - - I have lost my life's sweet treasure, - Earth holds nothing dear for me; - "Upward, onward," be my motto, - Onward, upward, still to thee. - - Hallie! be my guarding angel, - Teach my footsteps not to stray; - Spread your sainted wings above me, - Lead me in "the narrow way," - - So that you can come and meet me-- - Waft me heavenward on your breast, - "Where the wicked cease from troubling, - And the weary are at rest." - - - - -I've Asked You to Forget Me. - - - I've asked you to forget me, - To let our happy past - Ne'er be recalled; for ah! it was - Too sweet, too bright! to last. - - But yet you say that you're my friend, - And still as fond and true; - While I ne'er care to see thy face, - Or have one thought of you. - - Then ne'er again recall those days - When roguish Cupid played - At twining garlands 'round our hearts - Only to wilt and fade; - - For I have with a steady hand, - Not heeding Love's sweet art, - Unwound them from their resting place - And freed your faithless heart. - - - - -Little Blanche. - - - Gather up the broken playthings, - Scattered on the nursery floor; - Blanche is gone!--her little fingers - Ne'er will fondle with them more. - - Hide away the dolls, the dishes-- - Precious treasures! O! so dear! - Lay aside the little dresses-- - In each fold a mother's tear. - - God hath given--God hath taken, - Though it rends the heart in twain, - He but sends his frowns upon us, - To give back his smiles again. - - She hath gone to 'wait your coming, - Smiling where the angels stand; - Lingering there at heaven's gateway, - That she first may clasp your hand. - - - - -The Little Front Gate. - - - Away from the world and its bustle, - When the daylight grows pleasant and late; - In our own cosy cot, I am waiting - For the slam of the little front gate. - - The birds at the doorway are singing, - The roses their beauty debate; - But I sit here alone, and I listen - For the slam of the little front gate. - - Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight - Send the roving bird home to its mate, - I list for a hurrying footstep, - And the slam of the little front gate. - - O! you who are burdened with sorrow, - And believe that life is but fate, - Learn from me there is joy in waiting - For the slam of the little front gate. - - - - -Drifting. - - - Scotta, you are drifting from me, - O'er the billows of life's tide; - You and I have sailed together, - With our frail barks side by side. - - You are drifting with the current, - But my feeble oar is light, - Too light to follow; and, in anguish, - I must watch you drift from sight. - - Drifting, gliding, moving onward, - Tide and sky seem one deep blue; - All in vain my eyes are yearning, - You have drifted from my view. - - But there's yet a broader current, - Where our meeting barks will land; - You and I still bound together, - Heart to heart, and hand to hand. - - - - -Looking Back. - - - She opened a little worn package, - Scarred yellow by Time's ruthless hand; - Disclosing a bundle of letters - Tied up with a pale ribbon band. - - "These," she said, "are like leaves from a fernery, - Long pressed in a book with a flower; - And the memories wafted up from them, - Like perfume that follows a shower. - - "With no wormwood or gall in the essence, - Few tares in life's garden were sown; - The clouds partly hiding the sunshine, - Some weeds with the blossoms have grown. - - "But we loved"--here she held out a picture; - A tear-drop was dimming her eye, - As a cloud will o'ershadow the landscape, - Or shut out a star in the sky. - - I took up a ring and a locket, - Set deep with a ruby and pearl; - The clasp was all tarnished and broken, - And tear-stained the face of the girl, - - Whose eyes were awake in Hope's morning, - Love kindled their depths with his spark-- - Even then, from the red velvet lining, - They glowed like a gem in the dark. - - I turned to the sad little figure, - 'Round the package the faded cord tied; - Pressed my lips to her cheek--ah, how sadly - The roses had bloomed there and died. - - Long we sat in the lingering twilight, - Looking back o'er the vanishing years; - She sobbed out her grief on my bosom, - And moistened my brow with her tears. - - What comfort in words could I offer? - There was more in a soul-telling glance; - For each heart hath its season of springtime, - Each heart hath a buried romance. - - - - -Scotta. - - - I Saw her last night in a vision - (How often she comes when I dream!) - Through the garden of Heaven she loitered, - Then stood by a clear, placid stream. - - And out of the heart of the river - A bunch of white lilies she drew, - I scarce could discern from the blossoms - Her fingers, so waxen their hue. - - But her face wore the same quiet features, - And her smile was enhancing the light - That fell on this friend of my bosom, - This angel robed softly in white. - - I longed to reach upward and touch her, - To ask why the flowers she twined; - Wondered often for whom was the garland, - And the crown with the lily buds lined. - - So I cried and my voice soared onward - Farther than sight could extend-- - "For whom are you weaving this chaplet? - Speak, Scotta! sweet spirit and friend." - - "O! tell me just why from the portals - Of Heaven you've wandered away, - And sit here alone by the river - Wreathing these lilies to-day." - - Her lips parted, as if for an answer-- - Then a cluster of cherubim, came-- - They hovered about this sweet seraph, - And whispered in concert _a name_. - - It resounded along Heaven's archway, - But soft on my ear that word fell, - Soft as her accents of friendship, - Soft as a Sabbath eve bell. - - And the dewdrops and spray of the river - On the garlands to crystals had turned, - The crown she embedded with snow-drops, - One jewel there glittered and burned. - - Its luster was brilliant and sunlike, - As burnished as those in the throne, - But the name that her own gentle fingers - Had carved there, ah! me, was--_my own_. - - And what if Life's thorns pressed my temples - Or sorrow to midnight turns day, - I will press on alone through the darkness, - Believing her hand leads the way. - - I will traverse the chill "Swamp of Cypress" - Where the "Rivers of Death" slowly wind; - For she'll beckon me over with garlands, - And the crown with the lily buds lined. - - - - -The Lover and Flower. - - - I found it, one day, in a pretty shade - Which a vine and a maple together made; - 'Twas blooming away in a dress of white, - With eyes of a blue transparent light. - I knelt at its shrine, - And this heart of mine - Drank in the fragrance as one drinks wine. - - Then I said, "Sweet flower, this cooling shade - With the summer weather will dim and fade, - There's a place in my heart--a cozy room-- - Where you may nestle and grow and bloom." - Thus I wooed the flower, - In this shady bower, - And lovers we were that self-same hour. - - I carried it home, I pruned it with care, - I gave it the sun and the morning air. - The honey bees came its dew to sip, - But I drove them away with pouting lip; - For I loved my flower, - And with jealous power - I banished the bees from our curtained bower. - - A butterfly came on wings of lace, - And tried to fan my blossom's face; - But I brushed it away with cruel hands, - And tore from its wings the velvet bands; - Then I kissed my flower; - But a summer shower - Burst from the clouds with mesmeric power. - - Then the pale little blossom heaved a sigh, - And opened a blue and timid eye - To thank the cloud as it did in the shade, - Which the vine and the maple together made; - But my heart would rebel; - I could not quell - Its raging fire--it seemed from hell. - - I slammed the shutters with curses of doom; - I made it dark as a dungeon room, - Then I hurried away like a thief in the night; - But I strolled again in the warm sunlight, - And another flower - From Fashion's own bower - I culled, and nursed it only an hour. - - It proved but a weed with a gaudy bloom, - And a poisonous odor filled my room. - So I turned once more to my wildwood flower, - That I locked in my heart that sinful hour, - When the angel of love, - To its mansion above, - Had fluttered away like a wounded dove. - - How softly I turned the key in my heart; - One moment I faltered--the door swung apart-- - A faint, sweet essence, like heliotrope bloom, - Was sick'ning my senses; I moved through the room - With a staggering tread, - With a brain reeling head, - And swooned there--_a murd'rer_--my flower was--_dead_. - - - - -My Cloud--To Scotta. - - - There's a cloud on my life's horizon - Of wonderful shape and hue, - Like the feathery down of a snow-drift - 'Tis dimpled with changeful blue. - I gaze on its shadowy outline - And drink in the calm of the skies, - Till I fancy it floats out of heaven, - As an angel in disguise. - - No slumbering storm in its bosom, - No hint of the lightning's glare, - Only a feast for the heart and soul - Is this treasure of the air; - For I know from its silvery edges, - And glimpses of hidden gold, - That a picture of rare tranquility - Its tender depths enfold. - - Else whence is this mystic feeling - Of peace that's stealing o'er me? - Like the magic of summer moonlight - Enchanting a restless sea. - O! heavenly cloud! why are you - So calm? so angelic you seem, - My spirit escapes in its longing-- - I am lost in a beautiful dream. - - Up, up on the wings of a swallow - Piercing the heaven's deep blue, - O'er meadow and mount I am rising, - And floating, sweet spirit, to you; - Onward, in trance I am wafted, - Now into the cloudlet above; - And a face smiles out from its drapery, - And ah! 'tis a face that I love. - - - - -The Decision. - - - A dispute once arose in a bee-hive - As to which of the little brown bees - Could gather the sweetest nectar - From blossoms or budding trees. - - The queen tried in vain to discover - Some method the riot to quell; - But a challenge for war had been sounded, - And threatened was each honey cell. - - So she spoke in a voice most persuasive-- - "He shall sit on my throne for an hour, - Who brings from the store-house of nature, - The juice of the sweetest-lipped flower." - - Away flew the brown little workers, - Away out of sight o'er the hill; - Then backward and forward they flitted, - The honey-cups eager to fill. - - One famished the heart of a lily, - And drank from its milky bud; - One opened the vein of a rose leaf, - And licked up the crimson blood. - - To a poppy-bed still one hurried, - On a downy cot he crept, - But all-day in the silken blankets, - Unconscious there he slept. - - Another flew off to the meadow, - And punctured the daisy's cap; - A swarm had encompassed a fountain, - Where gurgled the sugar-tree sap. - - A fourth and a fifth to a mansion - Had followed a bridal pair; - One strangled the bud on her bosom, - One mangled the wreath on her hair. - - But the sixth one paused at a cottage, - Where a sick girl sleeping lay; - And there by the open window, - Blossomed a hyacinth spray. - - A youth stood near in the shadows, - And watching the dreamer's face, - A tear rolled down from his eyelid - And fell on the hyacinth vase. - - It was only the work of a moment - For a busy bee to do, - To flavor affections tear-drop - With the extract, "flower-dew." - - So he gathered this precious honey, - And, polishing up his sting, - He flitted out of the window, - With gold dust under his wing. - - Such a night in the little bee-hive - Before was never known; - For the hyacinth's rich moist pollen - Had paved the way to the throne. - - - - -Autumn. - - - Who is it that paints the woodlands - Like a gorgeous gown of gold; - Dropping, here and there, a ripple - Of vermilion in each fold? - Who is it that calls the robins - And the blackbirds into bands; - Pointing them with flaming fingers, - To the sunny, Southern lands? - - What has scorched the tender blossoms? - In our yards they're dying now. - Do you know who kissed the apple - Till it reddened on the bough? - Why so mute the little streamlet? - Down the hill it used to leap; - Now I faintly hear it sobbing-- - Sobbing out like one in sleep. - - Leaden clouds lay on the heavens, - Like a burden on the heart; - And the winds together whisper, - Sad as loved ones ere they part. - Then anon a dreamy dullness - Hovers over sky and earth; - Ah! my soul reflects the sadness, - And I seek my friendly hearth. - - You who love the Indian summer, - So renowned by pen and art, - Go, and revel in the gloaming, - While so sadly pants my heart. - But I can not watch the leaflets, - On the whirlwind as they ride, - For just so a hectic river - Bore my darling from my side. - - - - -A Sister's Love. - -TO IDA. - - - She knelt beside her brother's grave, - The day was near its close; - And where the cool, tall grasses wave, - She lay a fresh-cut rose. - Then, from a silver waiter near, - She drew a wreath of white, - Besprinkled with the twilight's tear, - O'ershaded with the night, - And placed them on the green-kept mound. - I watched her kneeling there, - Her face bent on the sacred ground, - In attitude of prayer; - And while a bird sang soft his hymn, - Down-looking from above, - We saw unveiled a picture dim-- - A statue true of love. - - - - -In Memory of Fannie Johnson White. - - - If I could blend into my verse - That soft and slumb'rous haze, - So faintly resting on the rose - Before the autumn days - Have chilled its heart, and numbed the leaves, - And drunk the precious dew, - Then could I melodize in song, - Her life so pure and true. - - Or could I weave into this song - Her smile, so rich and rare, - That found its way to every heart, - And left its halo there-- - Then earth would not seem desolate, - Or days be lone or long, - Since she would sweetly live again - In verse, and smile in song. - - All this is vain! both pen and voice, - Too weak to speak her worth; - Though memory writes in words of gold, - Her beauteous deeds on earth. - Heaven claimed our flower--there we may bloom, - If we the watchword keep: - "Whatsoever thou shall sow, - That also thou shall reap." - - - - -The Heliotrope's Soliloquy. - -TO MRS. T. R. WALTON. - - - Let others bring from foreign shore - The glittering gem, the shining ore, - Rare trophies from the coral caves, - And hidden wealth of ocean waves, - To grace the bridal hall. - - You floral queens! You roses white! - Bathed in the moonbeam's yellow light, - You'll smile in many a quaint design, - And help the banquet room to line-- - But not the diadem. - - My starry flowers--this purple heath-- - She'll gather for that trailing wreath; - For my faint breath of rare perfume - Is only for the bridal room-- - The bride--the bridal crown. - - To watch with me her trembling sigh, - The golden pansy's modest eye - Shall only glance from out my bower, - With me proclaim the nuptial hour, - And seal the holy bond. - - - - -A Problem. - - - My heart is perplexed, though I've tried to discover - An answer to solve what it is that I miss, - Though I've questioned myself more that twenty times over, - There seems no reply to a question like this. - My friends meet me gladly with words kindly spoken, - Salutations of praises and sometimes a kiss, - And looks sent along with a sweet flower token. - I find in my room--there is something I miss. - - The blaze up the chimney this evening is talking, - The wind and the shutter hum sad an old tune, - A cloud o'er the heavens is leisurely walking, - A few early snowflakes are vexing the moon. - Pale Luna! your countenance seemeth too sober, - But why should I murmur or wonder at this? - The flame of the woodland died out with October, - The birds, too, are gone--there is something I miss. - - I stir down the embers, and here in the firelight - I read the home paper a late train has brought, - And into the lives of the absent an insight - I take; do they ever of me have a thought? - How strange the words sound when no answer is given, - Ah! the tone of a friend would to-night insure bliss, - And the faces of loved ones would seem like a heaven - Of angels, alas! there is something I miss. - - Will it always be thus? Is this one missing measure - To cripple my verse and sadden my song? - What a joy it is to regain a lost treasure - And in the heart's casket the setting make strong. - But I have grown weary these figures of trying; - I wonder if others make failures like this? - A smile? Ah, you solved then the truth underlying - This problem, and _know_ what it is that I miss. - - MADISONVILLE, KY. - - - - -My Palace. - - - I built me a little palace, - Somewhere in the ether land, - Wherein my soul might revel - And rest at my command. - The spot, a royal summit, - I let my will select, - And Fancy came inspecting - With Thought, the architect. - - We went down to the quarry - For the foundation rock, - And purchased hewn and polished - Love's marble corner block. - For years we toiled together, - And one day warm and sweet - I woke and found my palace - Before me and complete. - - It was a gorgeous building-- - The window lights of red - Came from the sunset's furnace, - Or Northern light instead. - Each peak, each tower and turret - The sunlight's love had won, - And straight there came a voice - From heaven and said "well done." - - I planted a grove beyond it, - And hedged up the terraced yard, - And I dug a groove so a brooklet - Could play on the level sward. - I wanted a flower to cheer me, - And off on a breezy slope - I scattered the seed of roses - And the purple heliotrope. - - I peopled the rooms with volumes - Of men with talents rare, - Who climbed upon Fame's spire - And waved their banners there. - I purchased the costliest paintings, - And swung them from the walls; - And music, like harps of heaven, - Resounded throughout the halls. - - I gave a royal banquet, - The nuptial feast was spread, - And then, when all was ready, - There Love and I were wed. - But when the guests departed, - A rap came on the door, - And a gaunt figure faced me - I ne'er had seen before. - - "My name," she said, "is Envy; - I wish to stop with you; - Your dwelling just completed, - The inmates must be few." - Her breath, like fumes of sulphur, - Into my face was blown, - And like a demon's curses - Was her departing tone. - - The night came on, and fingers - Tapped on the beveled glass, - A face looked in the window - With eyes that shone like brass; - But Love beheld the visage, - And o'er the window drew - A shade that shut Suspicion - Forever from my view. - - And then a pond'rous knocking - Bombarded at the door, - And like an earthquake's tremor - Upheaved the palace floor. - I glanced into the key-hole, - And, like the brand of Cain, - I saw on Slander's forehead - A dark and bloody stain. - - I barred the palace entrance, - And turning in the hall - We faced another figure - More dreadful than them all; - He said: "My name is Ruin-- - Unbidden here I stand, - To curse your happy homestead - And desolate your land. - - "The lichen I have sprinkled - Upon your crumbling tower, - The ivy and the myrtle - Shall choke each blooming flower." - And then he smote the castle, - It trembled to its base, - And fell? No, no--I shouted - And laughed out in his face: - - "You can not wreck our palace, - Love is the corner stone, - And we are master workmen," - I said, in jocund tone. - He seized his trailing garments, - Departed with a groan, - And love and I together - Were once more left alone. - - Next day as they debated - What course to next pursue, - I heard a sweet voice calling-- - Love said the tone he knew. - The step, low as a mother's - Upon the nursery floor, - Was like advancing music - That halted at our door. - - As when a fairy's castle - Yields to a magic key, - Our door swung on the hinges - The guest was--_Sympathy_. - "Come in, our worthy sister," - I heard Love then repeat; - "For happiness without you - Could never be complete." - - And while we sat together, - Weaving our garland sweet, - For many a bridal altar, - For many a burial sheet, - We heard another footstep; - And, like an angel sent, - There came and smiled upon us - The face we loved--_Content_. - - The circle was completed-- - My palace stands sublime - Still on that cloudland summit, - And laughs at threats of Time. - No curses thunder o'er us, - No heavy rains can fall; - For heaven's open window - Slants sunshine over all. - - - - -Death of Summer. - - - Summer's dying, close the shutters, - Make the light subdued and sweet, - The last accent that she utters - I'll record here at her feet. - See, the pulses quiver faintly, - But her heart, alas! 'tis still; - See how pale she lies and saintly, - Feel her hands, they're white and chill. - - Close the eyes made sad from weeping, - Smooth the tangles from her head, - Leave her like an angel sleeping, - Friends are here to view the dead. - See, the rose a tear is dropping - As she leans above her face, - At the door the lily stopping, - Finds her handkerchief of lace. - - There the two like sisters sorrow, - As above the corse they bend, - Planning for the sad to-morrow-- - For the burial of a friend. - Then the daisy from the mountain, - That in mourning shawl was dressed, - Brought a snowdrow from the fountain, - Lay it on the summer's breast. - - To the pillow crept the lilacs, - But the flowers at her throat - Were the heliotrope and smilax-- - This was gained by casting vote-- - And the jasmine sought her fingers, - While the fuschias kissed her hair; - At her lip a violet lingers - To deny them, who would dare? - - Then the autumn's sunny treasure - Came the sturdy golden rod, - For the coffin took the measure, - For the grave removed the sod. - Long and mournful the procession - That I watched across the hill, - For to you I'll make confession, - Autumn doth my spirit kill. - - Drives me from the scene of sadness - While on poison nature feeds; - Decks her out in robes of gladness - To conceal the heart that bleeds; - At the summer's grave there lingers - None more sad to drop a tear - Than the friend whose trembling fingers - Write this in memoriam here. - - - - -Spring and Summer. - - - I heard a footstep on the hill, - The little brook began to trill, - I looked--a sweet and childlike face, - Reflected like a blooming vase, - Was smiling from the water clear, - With buttercups behind her ear. - - A flock of swallows hove in sight, - On came the summer clad in white, - With sunshine falling from her hair - Upon her shoulders white and bare, - And pressing through the tangled grass, - A daisy rose to watch her pass. - - - - -Under the Snow. - - - What have you hidden down under the snow, - So dear that you weep when the northern blasts blow? - Why your face pressed to the cold window pane, - Longing to mingle your tears with the rain-- - Is there something down under the snow? - - Is it only a blossom, a summer's delight, - That is freezing and dying this cold, bitter night? - That is only a fancy, the floweret is warm, - And the drift has enfolded it safe from the storm-- - Is there something yet under the snow? - - Something near to the heart down under the snow, - That has robbed the wan cheek of its once carmine glow, - That has stolen the beam of the eye--tears instead - Bespeak how in anguish the sore heart hath bled - For a little child under the snow. - - For a dear little prattler that littered the floor, - And laughed as he tumbled your work o'er and o'er - For a little gold head that made sunny the room, - Now bright'ning the darkness and chill of the tomb, - That is dreaming out under the snow. - - Only resting awhile in garments all white, - Away from the blackness and sin of to-night; - Away from the vice and the wrong of the street, - Not heeding the song of the rain or the sleet, - Still sleeping down under the snow. - - How many a mother her darling would lay - In the last, narrow home--hide her treasure away-- - If only to know its soul was at rest - With an innocent heart in an innocent breast, - Far, far down under the snow! - - - - -The Prettiest Girl in Town. - - - Have you e'er seen her, this beautiful girl - With that classical head and complexion of pearl? - So pale and enchanting that sometimes I deem - Her a sweet revelation as when in a dream, - Through wild variations of trouble and fear, - You suddenly feel that an angel is near. - Now guess, if you can, without half of that frown, - For to me she's the prettiest girl in the town. - - The poets all sing of these quaint Highland girls - With enchanting dimples and loose tangled curls; - Or they weave a love-tale from her budding lip's glow - While chasing the reindeer o'er mountains of snow; - This is only the skill of a well tinctured pen, - Dipped in Romance's cup for the praises of men, - Who value this maid in the coarse homespun gown - Something less than the prettiest girl in the town. - - You must all have watched the calm light of her eyes, - And ethereal figure with heavy drawn sighs; - Pondered often in secret of some magic gift - To win you this face--so like a snowdrift-- - I would whisper a secret: On Valentine's day, - With Cupid commune in a sly, cunning way, - Else only in dreams she is thine; for a crown - Could not purchase the prettiest girl in the town. - - - - -I am Musing To-Night. - - - I am musing to-night in the fire-light's glow, - And watching the pictures that come and go; - Like dissolving views on a magic screen - Is the witchery of this changing scene; - Though half I'm dreaming, though half awake, - I fear to move lest the spell I break, - Lest my fairy castles will break and fall, - And down will tumble each beautiful wall. - - Thus still in a stupor I sit and gaze - At the glowing embers and wanton blaze; - I am smiling at Fancy; she tries in vain - To lure me along with the mad'ning train - That follow her footsteps--that to her cling, - As flowers that garland the steps of spring; - In moody silence I sit apart, - Till memory conquers my sullen heart. - - Sweet Memory! sprite of my golden past! - Your tinseled veil o'er me is cast; - Subdued I yield like one enchained, - And yet my freedom is only feigned; - Back through the aisles of years that are gone, - A willing captive you lead me on, - Where I gleaned unbidden the joys of youth - While the world was blossoming with love and truth. - - Before my heart could interpret a sigh, - Or a tear-drop's shadow creep into my eye, - Ere I'd missed from the circle of friendship's chain - The link once lost that we ne'er regain, - The future to me was a vast expanse, - Its depth I could solve at a single glance, - Knew not of the troubles that torture the soul - Hidden away in its sober fold. - - Yet, to-night, as I dream in the gathering gloom, - Only friends that are dear softly enter my room, - Those who gladdened my life in its season of pain, - Like a gleam of the sunshine along with the rain; - These, _these_ are the guests that encircle my hearth, - Who come gliding like spirits back to the earth. - What communion we hold only those ever know - Who sit musing alone in the fire-light's glow. - - - - -A Curl. - - - To-night, as I turned back the pages - Of a book Time had fingered before, - And whose leaves held the odor of ages, - And the imprints of much usage wore, - A little brown curl I discovered, - That fell from the book to the floor. - - Had I sinned? Heaven grant me its pardon. - Did a lover's sad tear the page spot? - Who pressed there that gem of the garden-- - The sweet flower, "forget-me-not?" - It lay as if carved on a grave-stone, - And all of its sweetness forgot. - - I held the curl up to the lamplight, - And watching the gleam of its gold, - There I heard with the rush of the midnight, - A sad little story it told; - But I promised the sacred old volume - Its secret I would not unfold. - - But I would that the world knew its sorrow, - The story I must not reveal; - But go to your book case to-morrow. - And each to your own heart appeal; - And you'll know why the tattered old volume - The little curl tries to conceal. - - - - -Somebody's Face. - -TO M. A. B. - - - The blossoms are gone from the garden, - But 'tis not of them I would speak; - I want a sweet rose for my verses - Like one that's in somebody's cheek. - A red rose to kiss and to fondle, - Whose leaves will not wither or die-- - To gladden each moment and banish - The winter thoughts out of the sky. - - I want a low ripple of music - To flow through these lines of my choice, - Like a zephyr that moved through the summer, - Now dwelling in somebody's voice; - A song that will be full of fragrance - So sweet that its magic of words - Will bring back the balm of the June time, - Its memories glad, and the birds. - - The skies are so sunless and dreary, - Unless I can find a deep blue - To mix with the clouds of November - They'll still wear the dark, sober hue; - But memory shows a bright heaven - Reflected in somebody's eye, - And, thinking to-day of its beauty, - The grey becomes blue in the sky. - - My dear little friend of the summer, - Did you think in the meshes of song - Your sweet, rosy face would be tangled - By a memory cunning and strong? - That the eyes looking now on this pattern - Would find it so easy to trace? - And delight as I do in its beauty-- - The beauty of somebody's face? - - - - -Good-bye, Maggie. - - - Good-bye, Maggie, I must leave you, - Far away from you I roam, - Far away from friends and loved ones, - And your pretty cottage home. - O'er my soul a twilight gathers, - That is deep'ning into night, - But from out the shadowy distance - Shines a soft, familiar light. - - It is memory's beacon lantern, - O'er it arching is your name; - Round it recollections cluster, - As the moth about the flame. - Though the future tries to cheat us, - Throwing many miles between, - Brighter burns the little taper - As the distance intervenes. - - Good-bye, Maggie, will you miss me? - Absence conquers many a heart, - Plucks the roses from the garland, - Tears the evergreen apart; - Enters at the open lattice, - As a guest unbidden not, - Draws the curtain o'er the window, - Writes upon the door--"Forgot." - - Oh! what mean these idle sayings, - And whence come these idle fears? - As I fold you to my bosom - On my face I feel your tears; - Tears--they are a silent language - That interpret best the heart, - And I love you for them, darling-- - Good-bye, Maggie, we must part. - - - - -The Hermit's Farewell. - - - Farewell, that sad and bitter word - It stirs my soul to-night, - As I sit crouching in my cave - Above the faggot's light; - Strange, ghostly figures dance and flit - Along the cold, damp walls; - The black snake glares his drowsy eyes, - And from his dungeon crawls. - - The toad croaks near my humble fire, - Is loth to hop away, - And knows that ne'er again for him - Will I in ambush lay; - The bats flit idly to and fro, - The mice romp through my cell, - And e'en the wind that moans without - Repeats that word--farewell. - - I move, and think 'tis some weird dream - Then mutter "'tis my brain;" - For here around my throbbing brow - Seems clamped a heavy chain, - And like a prisoner doomed to die - To-morrow at the stake, - I count the hours as they fly, - And dread the morning's break. - - For friends will come to lead me forth, - Through frescoed hall and room, - To homes where kindred ties await; - I fear the hermit's doom. - They've tempted me--I fain would rest - Here on the dungeon mould, - Than dream on beds where curtains swing - With sunbeams in each fold. - - For beasts and birds and creeping things - Have owned me as their guest, - When man would turn me from his door - With cruel word or jest; - And as I served my scanty meal, - In supplicating lays, - The cricket and the katydid - Would join my evening praise. - - God pitied me, my loneliness - He made a sweet content; - I found companions in the stars - That from the heavens bent; - His flowers were friends, the golden rod - Smiled in its yellow hood, - A sentinel about my door - The purple thistle stood. - - But look! the morning's amber hue - Steals on the Easter skies, - Farewell! farewell! when Death has closed - These dim and longing eyes, - In peace to slumber here entombed, - Will be the boon I crave, - And those who spurned The Hermit's home - Shall shun The Hermit's grave. - - - - -A Window I Love. - - - There's an old-fashioned building somewhere in the town - That looks on a noisy street, - And no matter how often I pass up and down, - At the window sweet faces I meet. - Little faces that lit'rally beam on the street, - Untutored in Life's trying school, - That seem fashioned, my friends, as if just to repeat - For our lesson the sweet, golden rule. - - Oft they give us a smile, when a frown we return - A kiss prompts the pout of their lip, - And though we go by with a step proud and stern, - How lightly beside us they trip! - Catching the leaves that drift in at the door, - Those pretty leaves rusted with rain, - That sigh with our hearts when the summer is o'er, - And that seem to wear traces of pain. - - There is many a window with drapings of lace, - Where the clematis bloom is entwined, - Where the moss seems a part of the urn and the vase, - Where the awning with satin is lined, - Where Wealth sits aloof--garments dripping with pearls - Like a Mermaid's--sole god of the sphere, - But the faces I love with their billows of curls - You must ne'er think of looking for here. - - For the window I love has no hangings of plush, - Neither festooned as if for display, - And yet I have seen it at evening's soft hush - Decked out in a wond'rous array - Of cambrics and calicoes, sashes and curls, - Little aprons and many a toy-- - More plainly to speak--there are three little girls, - And the king of the house is a boy. - - How I love to halt here! With a satisfied look, - I have watched Corinne smoothing a curl, - I have seen little Richard lean over his book, - I have heard Mary singing with Pearl. - And O! I have thanked them again and again - For the problems of patience and love - That they solve unawares for my less practiced brain - When I pause by the window I love. - -RICHMOND, KY. - - - - -Thistle Down. - - - I saw a little child one day - Blowing some thistle down away. - How light they flew! The wings of thought - Grew weary as their course was sought, - And e'en the boy, with heart as light, - Sighed when he failed to trace their flight; - But as by chance, out of the air, - One fell upon his sunny hair. - - I saw the tiny sail unfurl, - And faintly fan a slender curl. - A fairy's boat it seemed to be, - And yet a pirate sailed the sea, - And anchored on a golden wave - That hid no evil deed--no grave. - That thought! Did Heaven foresee the doom? - From off his curl I shook the bloom. - - I know not where it chanced to fall, - In garden, park, or castle wall; - A desert's sand may scorch its root, - A crystal brook it may pollute; - A different course from mine it took, - And I the path at once forsook. - I only know that summer day, - Far from the child 'twas blown away. - - - - -Bitter Memories. - -TO REV. H. T. WILSON. - - - A picture is haunting my memory to-night, - While I dose in the warmth of an early fire-light. - As we strive to remove from the soul an old strain, - Thus the outline I've tried to erase from my brain; - But a specter stands near with sepulchral face. - And over my hearthstone the same scene doth trace-- - She colors the landscape and scoffs at my tears, - As I gaze on the wreck of scarce twenty-one years. - - 'Twas the home of my boyhood. In ruins it stood, - And autumn had saddened the meadow and wood; - The old locust grove, where the crows used to build, - The plowshare and harrow together had tilled. - Not a sprig of broomsedge did the hillside adorn, - But here and there stacked was the newly shocked corn. - Not a wild flower bloomed--through my heart ran a chill, - As I bowed by the spring at the foot of the hill. - - No trickle of water fell soft on my ear-- - Unless 'twas the sound of a swift falling tear-- - For Time in his raving had paused here to drink, - And I found only dregs as I gasped on the brink. - Long I stood, and I gazed like one in a trance, - And I shuddered as toward me the specter advanced; - Did the chill of her hand then my heart penetrate? - Dead, it seemed, as I leaned on the old garden gate. - - Where the sweet-william bloomed on the old fashioned walk, - Towered and flourished the rank mullein stalk, - Where the raspberry vines purpled over the fence, - The iron weed stood just as proud as a prince; - But where was the summer-house under whose shade - I had gathered the grapes and my sisters had played? - "Where, oh! where," I exclaimed (too unnerved then to fear), - "Are the joys of my youth?" "Gone," was hissed in my ear. - - As the blind lead the blind it seemed I was lead - Over stubble and thorns till my feet ached and bled. - Then we stood by a door that had rotted apart-- - Here the thistle had broken its soft, downy heart-- - I glanced toward the mantel, an owl hooted there, - And a rat made its nest in my mother's old chair, - "Oh! God," I repeated, "'tis too hard to bear," - And I knelt on the threshold in low, fervent prayer. - - * * * * * - - "Why, papa," a little voice called soft and clear, - As she climbed on my knee and kissed off a tear, - "What a long nap you've had; why mamma's at tea, - Now, papa, wake up and come on with me." - "My darling!" I whispered, and pressed to my face - A cheek that was soft as a billow of lace. - "What if the old home can not weather the storms - When a foretaste of Heaven I hold in my arms." - -SEPTEMBER 7, 1885. - - - - -An Acrostic. - - - Daughters' college! Muse, come nearer, - And assist my feeble rhyme. - Undertaking nothing dearer, - Greater, nothing showeth time. - Here's the spot where you, awaking, - Taught my infant mind to think; - Even as the morning breaking, - Richer grows to red from pink. - Searched you with me for the treasures, - Culled the blossoms half unblown, - Opened them within my measures, - Letting each bloom as my own. - Lifted to my sight a heaven, - E'en while lying on your breast-- - Graciously for it I've striven, - Ever hoping for the best. - - - - -My Angel Visitor. - -TO J. T. C. - - - We talked together in the twilight gloom, - Her friend and mine of scenes and times long past; - And in the shadows of the quiet room, - It seemed to me an angel form was cast. - - I saw, and yet my friend seemed not to see - The face familiar, with the gentle eyes, - Whose presence sanctified the past for me, - And made for him a glorious paradise. - - I felt the pressure of a vanished hand - Upon my own, and heard a soft robe sweep-- - The same has floated from the spirit-land, - And often trailed the chamber where I sleep. - - I strove to break the spell that bound his heart, - That held his spirit as a bondsman tied, - When like a rose that shakes its leaves apart, - Her garments rustled close his chair beside. - - And yet he knew it not. The angel face - Bent close above his own. So doth the moon - Sometimes, unseen, bend from her heavenly place, - To kiss a flower that falls asleep too soon. - - "Awake, my friend," I said, "too soon you sleep; - An angel figure stands beside your chair, - And I alone the sacred vigil keep." - But as he woke, she vanished into air. - - "O, friend of mine, and friend of hers," I cried, - "A hallowed presence is so soon forgot. - She walked on earth an angel by your side, - The same as now, and yet you knew it not." - - - - -Keep a Bright Face, Darling. - - - Keep a bright face, darling, - Though the task is hard, - Life holds up before you - Many a bright-faced card. - - Though the clouds have gathered - And darkened all the way, - Rainbows o'er you arching - Tinge the skies of gray. - - You have said what sunshine - Leaked in with the rain - Only brought new sorrow, - Brought but grief and pain. - - Keep a bright face, darling, - Set your scales anew, - Weigh again the sunshine - And the raindrops, too. - - And you'll find your measure - Hitherto was wrong, - Keep a bright face, darling, - And on your lips a song. - - Heaven decrees our burdens, - And our faith God tries; - But a broken spirit - He can not despise. - - Keep a bright face, darling-- - Even while I write, - In the fields of midnight - Blossom stars of light. - - Though the morning cometh - With a streak of gray, - 'Tis a hint of sunshine - And a perfect day. - - Journey slow and patient - With a purpose strong. - Keep a bright face, darling, - On your lips a song. - - - - -My Neighbor's Mill. - -TO M. BARLOW. - - - I love to sit here at the window-sill - When the sun falls asleep in the West, - And watch the gray Twilight walk over the hill - In garments of night partly dressed, - And see, through the rooms of my neighbor's mill, - How she creeps like an unbidden guest. - - I love the low hum of the numberless wheels-- - They echo the heart-beats of time, - Each unto my pen its purpose reveals, - Like the magic of meter and rhyme; - Or, as to the soul that in penitence kneels, - Doth the sound of a slow vesper chime. - - We have been friends together, this old mill and I, - Yes, friends that are true, tried, and strong; - If over us gather a gray winter sky - We faced it sometimes with a song, - Or braved it in silence, scarce knowing why, - As together we labored along. - - I fancy sometimes as I sit here alone - With the calm of the night in my heart, - When from the low roof the pigeons have flown, - And the stars their sweet stories impart, - That this mill unto me in a strange undertone - Is speaking as heart unto heart. - - That it bids me look into the granary room - Where the yellow wheat is packed; - And anon to glance in with the sundown's bloom - Where the snowy flour is sacked, - So I look--and it seems in the deepening gloom - There clouds upon clouds are stacked. - - What else do I scan through the moonlight's lace - That scallops the window panes; - Why, the dear old miller's honest face, - He's counting his losses and gains, - And methinks on his visage I can trace - A look that my own heart pains. - - Ah! think of the thousands his bounty feeds-- - We beggars encircle his door, - While he scatters alike his bundle of seeds - To the humble, the rich, and the poor. - Sure there's a reward for such generous deeds, - A reward that is brighter than ore! - - But the lights have gone out of my neighbor's mill, - And pale grows the red in the West; - The Night has crept up to my own window-sill - And pillowed my head on her breast, - While over the way--how peaceful and still! - The old mill's asleep and at rest. - - - - -Dripping Springs. - -TO MY BROTHER--D. G. SLAUGHTER. - - - Something moves my pen; its former chime - I fain would drop, and gladly lose the rhyme - That lights my verse as ore lights up a mine, - If on my canvas I could curve and line - These quiet hills, and for an hour could say - I'd caught the warmth that on the landscape lay, - And that I dreamed as artists sometimes dream - Who blend their smiles with meadow, mound, and stream; - I am indeed a child worn out at play, - And weary of my game I long to stray - To other haunts, to other heights unknown, - And claim that Raphael's brush as half my own. - Alas! forsaken by my Muse I turn - And backward glance--she beckons my return-- - She floods the old familiar fields with light, - She bids me pause, take up my pen and--write. - - 'Tis scarce yet dawn, the leaves awake, - And in my brow the raindrops shake - The only remnant of the cloud - That pealed last night with thunder loud; - - The only hint that here with flowers - Come sometimes shadows, sometimes showers. - The morning is a dream of bliss, - The breeze not unlike Love's first kiss. - - My soul expands--I drink the dew, - It gives my veins a deeper hue, - I halt where like a singing rill - The spring comes dripping o'er the hill. - - I fill my cup again, again, - I drink for all--good health to men-- - I hear the rising bell's faint sound, - The porter makes his usual round. - - And black-eyed Easter trips along - The kitchen porch with smile and song, - We find a poem in her churn, - An essence in her coffee urn; - - We note the pale dyspeptic's cheek - Is growing rosy, round, and sleek; - His torpid stomach forced to fast, - Here soon partakes the rich repast. - - Breakfast over, 'round the springs - The guests assemble--some in swings-- - And those of a romantic turn - Stroll two and two in search of fern. - - For them the woods have more than speech, - A calm that to the heart doth reach, - That perfect peace of mind and soul - The sacred Book to us hath told. - - I deem that morning holds more charms - Than day hides elsewhere in her arms; - But when she folds her shadowy tent, - And stars laugh in the firmament, - - A newer phase doth nature take, - And in the heart new joys awake. - Some love the ball-room's din and glare - As soft they trip some favorite air, - - Some love to lounge about the spring, - Some frequent spots where hammocks swing, - And others saunter to the pool - Their tired limbs to bathe and cool. - - But give me just the shady rook - That o'er the dripping spring doth look, - And let me watch the bright lamps flash, - And let me listen to the splash - - Of the old spring that drips and drips, - To cool and cure the fever lips. - Who could forget the landlord's vim - Or cottage rooms so neat and trim? - - Who would not leave the city's glare, - The heat, the dust, and stifling air-- - Who would not part with all his wealth - To gain at Dripping Springs his health? - - - - -In Memoriam. - - - They tell me she is dead, that we no more - Upon her quiet face can rest our eyes, - Yet long we for it, as a weary bird - Longs all in vain to rest upon a cloud - That heavenward floats. And yet there's solace still - In musing on her faith so strong and pure, - That recognized, through pain, God's every wish, - And dreaded not to taste death's cup if so - By Him decreed. - I was not there to hold - Her hand; it chilled within the orphan's palm - Until by angels clasp'd. I could not twine - The flowers she so much loved about her shroud, - Or speak a word of comfort to the friends - That sobbed, and kissed the lips grown strangely cold, - That never parted but to speak in praise - When others tried to censure; but my heart - Beats sad to-day the measures of my verse, - And tear-drops fall. - So falls the autumn rain - Upon her grave, and drifting are the leaves - Upon the mound that loving friends have raised - In memory of her, whose spirit rests - To-day with God. - - - - -The Old Orchard Trees. - - - Why cut them away? The dear old trees, - They never did aught of harm, - But scattered their perfume out to the breeze, - And sheltered the birds from the storm. - - For an age they have stood on the town's outer meads, - The skirmish and battle have braved; - Alike they have gazed on the war's bloody deeds, - And the white flag of peace as it waved. - - But you cut them away! my pleading is vain! - In their shade moves the carpenter's hands, - I watched him to-day as he leveled his plane, - And he spoke of the architect's plans. - - Then a wave of distress in my heart flowed anew, - For dearly I love each old tree; - Ah me! many secrets are hidden from you - That the apple trees whispered to me. - - I used to go by, and the sweet morning air, - Like incense, arose from the spot, - It would crowd from my heart some pain gnawing there, - While the world with its cares was forgot. - - Here, I've heard the first news of the blue bird and dove, - And the round, silver note of the thrush, - A concert, with sweet variations of love, - Seemed pouring from tree and from bush. - - I walked there to-day; as an accent profane - That falls on the heart and the ear, - I heard the harsh echo of hammer and plane, - And the pant of a mill in the rear. - - So I muffled my face with the veil that I wore-- - Time, that moment of pain can't appease; - Unless like the birds from the scene I can soar, - And like them, forget the old trees. - - - - -On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies. - -TO CARRIE ROGERS. - - - I chanced to stroll not long ago - To a green valley that you know; - For everything about the town - Was strange, and on me seemed to frown, - And so I wandered off alone, - To seek the friends from youth I'd known. - The brook came dashing down the hill, - The same old song to hum and trill; - With glances shy and kisses sweet, - It wound its ribbon at my feet, - And laughed aloud at my delight-- - It was indeed a comic sight - To see me o'er the brooklet bend, - And greet again an old time friend. - - So thus I sat, perhaps an hour, - Until I spied a human flower; - A little maid it seemed to be - With steps directed straight to me. - Her dress was pink, her bonnet white. - Her eyes were blue, and round, and bright, - Some daisies in her hand she held - But where they came from--would she tell? - Were questions that my eyes portrayed, - And she the answer quickly made. - "Upon the hill-top high they grow, - The path is there by which you go, - But if you get them you must climb," - She said, unconscious of the rhyme. - - I glanced along the rocky ledge; - The daisies nodded o'er the edge, - And just as far as I could see - They waved their ruffled caps to me. - Bright eyes that never had grown old - Their heart's content to me foretold, - And I resolved the path to try - That seemed to end so near the sky; - And so I started up alone, - A way that seemed with mosses sown. - A pond'rous clod rolled on the track, - A briar reached and pulled me back, - A lizzard on the pathway played, - And half way up I paused--afraid. - - "Keep on," the little girl replied, - "A better path is near your side." - She pulled the thorn from off my gown, - I heard the clod go plunging down, - And then she clasped with mine her hand, - And led me up to "daisy-land." - The hours we spent together there - Were hallowed as the hours of prayer, - And when she left me in the vale - The sunlight suddenly grew pale; - But she had taught me this strange truth, - Forgot, or never learned in youth, - It seems a little song in rhyme, - "To reach the daisies, you must climb." - -BARDSTOWN, KY. - - - - -Ella Lee. - - - Where is Ella? Ella Lee? - How I've missed her childish glee. - Missed her step so light and airy, - Missed the darling little fairy. - She was nimble as a fawn, - Lovely as the blush of dawn, - And her voice sweet as the rill - Gliding down the grassy hill. - Where is she, I've missed her so, - Surely some one ought to know. - - I have called her in the crowd, - Called her soft and called her loud, - Called her sad and called her sweet, - In the house and on the street. - Yet she does not seem to hear, - Though I've called her far and near. - Hark! I hear a blackbird's note, - And he wears a brand new coat; - Surely some sweet word he brings, - On his iridescent wings. - - Let me hail him by this tree. - Listen! now he sings to me, - Tells me, in his honest way, - That our darling's gone away. - Far, so far away she roams, - Into other hearts and homes, - Ah! the budding little flower - Sweetens every empty hour, - Making earth a dream of bliss - By the magic of her kiss. - - Though she fled like a sunbeam, - Still I hold a treasured dream, - And were she to skip to-day, - In her easy, childish way, - To the playground of my heart, - Childhood's gate would fly apart, - And she'd find the violet's face, - Smiling still in memory's vase; - Green and fresh the springtime sod, - That her dainty feet had trod. - - - - -What is the West Wind Saying. - - - O! What is the west wind saying! - It whispers so strange in my ear, - As if some sad message delaying, - From friends who are absent and dear. - It laughs with the leaves on the tree-tops, - And bows as the cloudlets go by, - And plays with the flowers - For hours and hours, - Yet for me has only a sigh. - - O! what is the west wind singing? - 'Tis rocking the birds in the nest, - And over the world it is flinging - The emblems of quiet and rest. - New comfort it brings to the mother, - And hushes the babe on her knee, - Singing softly to her - And the tired laborer, - Yet sadly and strangely to me. - - O! what is the west wind showing? - New faces look strangely in mine, - Stranger tints in the sunset are glowing, - Somber shadings of amber and wine. - Far away the blue hills seem to beckon - Me back to a sweet cottage home, - Where the rose and the vine - 'Round the door-way entwine-- - Alas! that from them I must roam! - - O! what is the west wind asking? - Why question a stranger like me? - If a friend, why so perfect the masking? - Your counterpart glad would I see. - Ah, a friend in disguise! what is sweeter, - Come, let us together commune, - If you bring but a kiss - From the loved ones I miss, - I can ask of you no greater boon. - - - - -To a Mountain Stream. - - - Glad as childish laughter - From a childish throng, - Sweet as bird voice after - Daybreak is your song. - - Racing down the mountain - On your shining feet, - Waltzing at the fountain - To its love song sweet. - - On and on you travel, - Leaving me behind, - Like a silken ravel - With the weeds you wind. - - Laughing at distresses; - Braving battles, too; - Who your trouble guesses, - And your sorrow--who? - - Tell me as you hurry - Through the stubble field, - Why not stop to worry-- - But no frown's revealed. - - Sometime you must weary - Of this constant strife; - When the clouds are dreary, - Tire you not of life? - - Of the dead leaves drifted - On your saddened face, - And the snow flakes sifted - From the cloudland place? - - Yet you ne'er repineth, - But alike content - With the sun that shineth, - And the rainstorm sent. - - Teach me half the beauty - That your heart must know, - And through fields of duty - Like you, will I go. - - - - -Pen Pictures. - -(WRITTEN DURING A SNOW-STORM.) - - - I love the snow flakes in the air, - When from the heavens they downward dart; - I love to watch them sailing there, - Like thoughts freed from a poet's heart, - Uncertain which, the earth or sky, - Should claim their last abiding place; - And yet I watch them drifting by, - And strive to join the airy race. - - The railway cars like spirits glide - Through many a mountain's haunted tomb, - Above the river's solemn tide, - Along the ravine's chilly room; - On, on, through cedar groves we wind, - That yesterday a zephyr wooed; - To-day they stand with heads inclined, - A sad and stricken multitude. - - The sky bends low with heavy clouds, - And from the long slope of a hill, - The pines look down in spotless shrouds - Upon a valley whiter still. - A tiny stream runs breathless by, - Affrighted at the ghostly sight; - The sun sleeps in the western sky, - And twilight deepens into night. - - The train glides on. Each mountain scene - Is like a panoramic view, - Though oft I toward the window lean, - To scan some object that I knew. - I see a log hut in the vale, - And rustic children glad and warm; - A mother's face, forlorn and pale, - Looks out upon the winter storm. - - The little cascade down the glen - Is falling like a mourner's tears; - The wind shrieks by, and from his den - Jack Frost hangs out his icy spears, - Defying e'en the piling drift; - And while the Winter King he warns, - Lo! through a cloud above the cliff, - The young moon shakes her silver horns. - - Orion next his rage revealed, - As if he, too, the insult felt; - He raises high his club and shield, - And swings his bright sword from his belt; - And like a demon downward driven, - The howling wind his dungeon seeks; - For nature sees the hosts of heaven - Resent her cold and heartless freaks. - - The storm grew still, and I could see - The clouds above the cliff disband, - E'en as the wave on Galilee - Grew docile at the Lord's command; - And as I shake from off my pen - The ink that stamped these pictures chill, - I seem to hear those words again - Breathed softly o'er me, "Peace, be still." - -JANUARY, 1886. - - - - -To Mother. - - - I heard a song last night, mother, - A song you used to sing, - When like a little bird, mother, - With weak and unfledged wing, - I played about your flowing gown - Contented with your smile, - Though all the world should cast a frown - Upon your happy child. - - The song I heard last night, mother, - Came floating through the door - As if some angel voice, mother, - Had sung it oft before; - But, O! I missed the patient pause, - The low accustomed tone, - I turned away heart-sick--because - The voice was not your own. - - Those dear old songs you used to sing, - That made my heart-beats rhyme, - Have bubbled up from memory's spring, - Ah! many and many a time. - When thirsty or with thought oppressed, - When tired of the sunshine, - When longing for the shade and rest, - I hear those songs of thine. - - They're just as low and sweet to-day - As when I heard them first; - And though I am so far away, - The field glass though reversed, - Holds still a picture that I love, - Three faces--four with mine-- - Another looks from heaven above, - A little face--like thine. - - - - -The Broken Heart. - -TO MISS F. B. - - - He brought me a heart one morning, - Brought me a heart to mend; - And he said (I shall never forget it) - "'Twas broken by your friend." - - "The wound will grow deeper and wider," - He said in a sadder tone, - "Unless you devise some method - To place it against her own." - - Then I crept away to my chamber, - But a thought, like a silver stream, - Kept trickling along the wayside - That bordered my restless dream. - - So I hid this heart in a lily, - When the dawn began to break-- - In a beautiful water lily, - That grew on the rim of a lake. - - Yes, down on a snowy pillow, - In a cradle warm and deep, - I laid the little foundling, - And a ripple rocked it to sleep. - - The dawn came up with blushes, - And shook from her gown the dew; - And I heard the song of the skylark, - As into the clouds he flew. - - But the heart dreamed on in the lily - And I went at the close of day, - And found that my little treasure - Was chilled by the foam and spray. - - So I warmed it upon my bosom, - Then cradled it back on the wave; - But I feared that the lily's offspring - Was doomed to a watery grave. - - So I watched till the daylight vanished - Through the sunset's purple bars, - Till the night climbed over the willows, - And lit up the moon and stars. - - I thought I heard your footstep, - And low in the reeds and grass - I crouched, that there, unnoticed, - I might behold you pass. - - You came in your regal beauty, - And, bright as the weird fire flies - That illumined the waving rushes, - I saw your glorious eyes. - - You kneeled on the mossy margin-- - I counted the lilies there; - Two buds and a creamy blossom - Were fastened in your hair. - - Another was drawn from the water, - And, pushing the reeds apart, - I saw 'twas the very lily - Wherein I had hidden the heart. - - You pinned it low down on your bodice, - Half hidden it lay in the lace, - And you passed by--"a two-fold existence," - A new light enriching your face. - - And though I am absent and distant, - Methinks I can still hear the tone - Of a heart that, with happy emotion, - Is beating, aye! close to your own. - - - - -A Year Ago. - -IN MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEND, SCOTTA P. PROCTOR. - - - A year ago I held in mine her hand, - And felt the pulses quicken and dissolve, - While o'er her face a light from heaven's own land - Seemed all the mystery of death to solve. - - She raised her weary eyes to mine and sighed-- - Sighed as a flow'r o'er which the storm clouds bend - When long the promised sunlight is denied, - And cold and heavy rains from heaven descend. - - She tried to speak; I knelt beside her bed, - That one last wish she might to me impart; - A whisper came, and then the spirit fled - Like some sweet thought long prisoned in the heart. - - A year ago I twined the lilies white - About her shroud, and with the coffin's lace, - For she had loved them; all the long, long night - They press their waxen lips upon her face. - - I heard the funeral bell toll sad and long-- - My heart reverberates to-day the sound-- - And then there came a prayer--a pause--a song, - And blossoms next were heaped upon a mound. - - I turned aside and homeward bent my way; - Alas! the face I loved so long--not there-- - Sweet memories arose to gild my day, - But sadder ones to mock my heart's despair. - - Where is she now? you think the grave can hide - A friend so true within its dungeon deep? - Ah! no; she walketh ever by my side, - And watches o'er me when I chance to sleep. - - We stroll abroad oft at the twilight's hour - To memory's garden. Under memory's tree - She pulls the silver mask from many a flower, - And reads its tender secrets all to me. - - She guides my pen along uncertain heights, - Where unattended I could never go; - The candle of success she often lights - When the flame flickers and the wick burns low. - - She leads me to the grave and says, "Not here, - But there," and points me to the heavenly gate; - And when upon my cheek there falls a tear - (For sometimes yet my heart grows desolate), - - I feel upon my face her own soft hand, - And glimpses of her robe sometimes have seen. - O, happy thought! how strong is friendship's band, - When out of heaven an angel friend can lean. - - A year ago! sad, sad that parting day, - And sadder still, the last, the long adieu. - Death called the angel of my heart away-- - And now she opens heaven to my view. - -MAY 16, 1886. - - - - -A Christmas Peep. - - - I passed a toy window, - And many pretty things - Old Santa Claus had labeled, - And tied with silken strings. - - A kite was bought for Jimmie, - A little stove for Kate, - A doll for Capitola, - For Charlie a new slate. - - A silver knife for father, - For mother, dear, a fan, - And the prettiest little fiddle - Was bought for baby Dan. - - Hang up your little stockings, - And keep the fireside bright, - Old Santa Claus is coming, - His sleigh is out to-night. - - Ten dollars worth of candy - Was emptied in his sleigh, - And peanuts by the barrel, - To be eaten Christmas day. - - His lap was full of toys, - Little drums and little ships, - Little buggies, little ponies, - And little riding whips. - - The baby dolls were sleeping - In their cradles snug, - But the others all were peeping - From underneath his rug. - - Old Santa was so happy, - That as he drove along - He jingled ever sleigh bell, - And sang a Christmas song. - - So don't forget him, children, - He's on the way to night, - Hang up your little stockings, - And keep the fireside bright. - - - - -Winnie's Christmas Eve. - - - Poor little Winnie had plodded the street, - Up and down through the rain and sleet, - Singing her innocent songs all day, - In a sweet and merry childish way; - Asking sometimes for the night a bed, - A bowl of milk, or a crust of bread. - - She had sung on the corners and city square, - But no one had time to remember her there; - Numbers had passed her who never before - Failed to toss in her basket a penny or more. - It is Christmas; their hearts are so happy and light-- - But poor little Winnie's forgotten to-night. - - Chilly and rayless the sky seems to frown, - The clouds, too, are shaking the soft snow-flakes down; - Over her pretty face, waltzing they fall - Into her bonnet and folds of the shawl; - Think of it, fathers, with firesides warm, - Poor little Winnie is out in the storm. - - Backward and forward the tired feet go, - From her lips little ripples of music still flow. - Homeless and hungry, still begging for bread, - Receiving a curse and reproaches instead; - Shiv'ring with fear in the pitiless light, - Poor little Winnie is starving to-night. - - Alone in the street, yet the little lips move, - Trying to echo those accents of love. - Ah! think of that, mothers! those syllables sweet - Of your darlings, how fondly the same you repeat! - You are trying so faithful to lead them aright - When poor little Winnie is freezing to-night. - - See her! How slowly she's moving along-- - Her lips are too icy to echo the song. - How changed are her features! How feeble! how weak! - A pallor creeps over her forehead and cheek-- - Perhaps it is only the flickering light, - Ah! no; little Winnie is dying to-night. - - The revel is over in parlor and park, - The bonfire vanished, the street is so dark; - The snow-flakes are falling in many a heap, - The city is quiet, at rest, and asleep; - But there in the shadows, scarce out of sight, - Little Winnie lies dead in a snow-drift to-night. - - - - -My Heart's Little Room. - -TO LIZZIE, DORA, AND GRACE. - - - There's a dear little chamber somewhere in my heart - That opens to only you three; - Though many have tried to unfasten the door, - They picked at the lock till their fingers were sore, - For to file it apart - Vainly proved every art, - And in vain have they sought for the key. - - Many times I go into this quaint little room, - The pictures to change or adjust; - I see your sweet faces grouped there with my own, - And I wonder that I feel so strangely alone; - But about through the room - I move briskly the broom, - And sweep from the corners the dust. - - The windows I throw open wide to the air - To let in the breeze and the light; - I watch the sunbeams in their mischievous way - Creep into the curtains, like children at play, - And while I am there - I have no thought of care, - For the room is so warm and so bright. - - And oft I look up from the balcony's brink - To a sky that shows many a hue; - A vine clambers thickly the window above, - Where my birds sing together their rhythm of love; - My thoughts with them link - For I sit here and think - And all of my song is for you. - - Ah! some day I know you will come back to me - To rest in this queer little room; - And that's why so tidy and clean it is kept, - The air always fragrant, the floor always swept, - For I long here to see - My sweet roses three, - As from buds into blossoms they bloom. - - Then come when you may, be the sky black or blue, - The lock will unclasp as of yore; - For (unless Death should come introspecting my heart, - And break down its barriers and wrench them apart), - A friend that is true - Will be watching for you, - Ever waiting to unbar the door. - - - - -The Three Muses. - - - Methought three muses in disguise - As angels tapped upon my door, - And a dim light from paradise - Fell on the instruments they bore. - One held a zithern in her hand - And lightly swept the throbbing strings; - And, O! it seemed a fairy land - Was stirred by unexpected wings. - - I held my breath and prayed that night - Would be extended into day, - But with the thought came morning's light, - And low the echo died away. - An artist's canvas, pink with dawn, - The second angel turned to me, - Her brush strayed o'er a grassy lawn - And dotted here and there a tree. - - All blooming in immortal dyes, - With streamlets winding clear and blue, - Where, looking from the far off skies, - The clouds were mirrored to my view. - But when the sun blazed from the sky, - And on the painted landscape shone, - I heard the artist angel sigh, - And when I looked she, too, had flown. - - The scratching of a pen I heard - And saw a face demure and sweet - With inspiration. Every word - I begged the angel to repeat. - A thousand zephyrs fanned the air, - Tuned low with hum of birds and bees, - No need of zithern music where - AEolian harps were in the trees. - - No need of artists to rehearse - Upon the canvas nature, when - I saw the world revolve in verse - Upon the axis of the pen. - "Be thou eternally my guide, - Teach me your mystic pen to use! - O! linger ever near," I cried, - "Musician, artist, poet--muse!" - - - - -A Recollection. - - - In my heart there is a fragrance not of bursting buds or bloom, - But a faint delicious essence floats as out of memory's room. - - Like a zephyr blown from heaven some sweet message to impart, - Comes a fragile recollection down the by-path to my heart. - - Fragile did I say? So fragile that the lace-wrought butterfly - Would not tilt its wings to bear it back from earth into the sky. - - Yet perplexed as to its mission down the pathway I retreat, - Hark! an echo in the distance, as of silver-slippered feet. - - Why should I evade its coming, when 'tis such a little thing? - Just a tiny recollection that my thoughts have given wing. - - Soon, too soon, 'twill overtake me, see! 'tis gaining on me fast-- - In my soul the rose leaves quiver--withered rose leaves of the past. - - It is useless to dissemble, further fleeing is in vain, - 'Round my heart I feel the tight'ning of a slender silken chain. - - All the past spreads out around me, as if by the Hand above, - So I turn, and find I'm standing face to face with my first love. - - - - -Don't Question Him Why. - - - Don't question him why if at times you can trace - A sorrowful something that looks from his face; - Though it shadows his brow as a raincloud the sky, - Look on it and wonder--don't question him why. - - If he steal from your side when the twilight descends, - And wander away from old comrades and friends, - To rest unobserved in some shady retreat, - Where the past and the present seem always to meet, - - Don't follow him there; let the stars overhead - Their better and holier sympathy shed-- - And should an old love-light illumine his eye, - Though you bask in its splendor--don't question him why. - - For, out of the past that is shrouded away, - Looks a face omnipresent, unseen by the day. - A face like no other--a face in the sky - To be looked at and worshipped, but not questioned why. - - Should his lips meet your own with an indifferent grace - That hurries the bloom to your averted face, - Though Doubt is a sentinel stationed near by, - Beware of his bayonet--don't question why. - - You may ask if you choose as he moves through the dance, - If 'tis Beauty or Passion that cowers his glance, - But question him not, O! ask him not why - There awoke in his bosom that deep-seated sigh. - - Should he turn from the ball-room sometime with disgust - And shake from his sandals its memory and dust, - To bare a sick heart with its fevers of sin, - Beg heaven to filter a dewdrop within, - - But question him not, for a word like a spark - Would quicken the pulses reduced by the dark; - Leave, leave him alone with his sorrow and God, - And let Silence spread o'er his heart's grave the sod. - - - - -Why? - - - Why is it that I keep her glove-- - Poor little phantom of lost love-- - Why was it that I wore her ring, - And love the songs she used to sing, - And treasure under lock and key, - The letters she has written me? - Why? - - Why is it that where'er I go, - As footsteps follow in the snow, - As low and light, she seems to glide - Along the highway at my side? - Yet, when my arms seek to embrace - Her form, then vanishes her face. - Why? - - Why is it that no other tone - Falls on my ear as did her own? - No other hand so soft and white, - No other eye so warm and bright-- - Though other lips I since have pressed, - I something missed--the truth you've guessed. - Why? - - - - -A Sunset Longing. - -TO F. S. H. - - - What meaneth this unrest within my heart, - And why do I sit here alone and sigh? - The sunset throws its garnished doors apart, - And palace halls are opened in the sky-- - I gaze upon the gold strewn in the west, - A miser, of his jewels dispossessed. - - I have played in the sunset's crimson rain, - And felt its saffron torch wave o'er my brow, - That heated to excess my maddened brain, - And threw a halo 'round my heart--but now, - Like some poor bird far from its kindred sky, - I look into the sunset--look and sigh. - - I have no friend to lean upon my heart, - Ah! how I miss the pressure of thy hand, - And thy dear voice seems of the past a part; - Thy figure like a shade from shadow-land. - I think I would be happy if you came - And touched my hand, or softly called my name. - - If I could look into your face to-night, - And search the deep mines of your pensive eyes, - Sure, I would find there a responsive light, - To dissipate from out my heart the sighs; - And then I know my lips would lose their scorn, - And in my soul a new impulse be born. - - If we could wander off far from the crowd - Among the hills--our voices there unheard-- - Where once our hearts in unison beat loud, - To the sweet song of some wild mountain bird, - I think the twilight vail would lose its gloom, - That shrouds to-night the windows of my room. - - Perhaps 'tis wrong that I should sadden you - With these rain-droppings that my heart-clouds shed; - Gladly would I distill a drop of dew - Down deep into your flower-like heart instead. - Some other night, if separation's sky - Should clearer grow, dear absent one, I'll try. - - - - -Journeys. - - - Oh! the many, many journeys - I have taken in a day! - Journeys short and journeys long, - Journeys right and journeys wrong; - Often pausing on the way, - Themes so grand my thoughts delay-- - Themes suggesting instant song-- - Lofty, good, - Scarce understood, - Dying ere I knew their worth, - As an infant dies at birth. - - Oh! the melancholy journeys - That on earth my eyes have seen! - Over cemeteries vast, - Like a spirit I have passed, - Where the helmet and canteen - Cankered near a grave-stone lean, - Where the warrior's sword was cast; - And the mould, - So shallow rolled, - That the eagle from on high - Dropped his penetrating eye. - - Oh! the mad, exciting journey! - Floating down the sunset's tide, - Where there is no sign of sail, - Neither any promised gale. - Flames about on every side, - Every hope from me denied. - Even the clouds I can not hail; - As they drift, - Their cinders sift - On the water where they float, - Like a freighted, burning boat. - - Oh! the sweet, yet lonesome journey - That I always take alone! - Back into the vanished past, - Where the sunshine runneth fast. - There the rose is open blown, - There I hear a loving tone, - There no twilight shades are cast; - But complete - And very sweet - Is the dawn, when, like a child, - Love looked in my heart and smiled. - - Oh! the happy, happy journey, - With my loved one near my side! - Open stands the prison room; - We forget its chilly tomb. - Over fields of grain we glide, - Over rivers broad we ride, - Drinking up the earth's perfume; - Like a thought - The muses taught-- - Onward o'er the world we fly, - Like twin clouds born of the sky. - - Oh! the swift, inspiring journey, - Far away in unknown space! - Where my castles stand complete, - And the gardens full and sweet; - Where the moonlight weaves its lace, - And a friend's is every face, - And this land, need I repeat, - Is of dreams? - Here crystal streams - Lose their way, as from the throne, - In this country all my own. - - Oh! the elevating journey! - Toward the zenith now I bend, - Far above the mundane sphere, - Stars like mighty worlds appear. - Losing sight of home and friends, - Higher still the path ascends. - Heaven is dawning very near; - But I pause, - Alas! because - To a mortal such as I, - Heaven an entrance must deny. - - - - -The Lost Poem. - - - Long ago beside my window, with an open manuscript, - I sat looking on a forest that with gold and brown was tipped, - Heeding nothing save the sighing of my own heart and the trees, - When into the open lattice like a whisper came the breeze. - - Lingered at my lips a moment, past my temple then it crept, - And from out of my listless fingers an unfinished poem swept: - "Stop!" I cried unto a footman that was passing on the street, - "I will give you thirty shillings if you'll bring me back that - sheet." - - But he gazed into the heavens as he would upon a kite, - And I watched it sally upward, fading faster from my sight; - Then I said unto a swallow that flew by on rapid wing, - "Open wide I'll throw the granary if my poem back you'll bring." - - But he only flew the faster, and was soon beyond my sight; - And the daylight vanished from me, and to mock me sent the night. - O! there's naught can daunt a spirit when the inner heart's afire, - And the darkness sent upon me only did my aim inspire. - - So I sought an humble dwelling, to a fortune-teller went, - And I tarried with the gipsy till the night was almost spent, - But I left her door disheartened; for she only said to me: - "Take this, search, and when you've found it, send or fetch again - the key." - - "But," said I, "'tis lost in nature, in the sky or hills among," - And the key back in her shanty with an angry word I flung; - For prophetic seemed her language, and my purposes were mocked, - If henceforth the heart of nature, Fate against my own had locked. - - "Take it, search," again she muttered, as I started to depart; - "And be careful how you use it; for it fits the human heart." - In her hand I dropped a coin, and before the eye of day - Peeped from out the morning's cradle I was far upon my way. - - Like the breath of early roses, like the whisper of a bird, - From a little maiden passing, a sweet laugh methought I heard. - "She has found it," I repeated, "there's no use for any key." - Said the pretty little damsel, "My heart's open, don't you see?" - - Yes, I saw, and there were treasures such as kings would love to - own, - Who would sacrifice to gain them e'en a jeweled crown and throne-- - Buds and blossoms, song and laughter, humming-birds and butterflies, - Singing brooks and sparkling fountains there, and peaceful were the - skies. - - But the poem it was missing; so I journeyed slow along, - Till I heard a mother singing to her babe a cradle song; - And I tried to get permission in her heart to fit the key, - But the lullaby continued: "Do not interrupt," said she. - - Next I hailed a youth that passed me, and his face was wond'rous - fair, - And I searched long through his heart's book, but the poem was not - there; - "It is lost!" I cried with sorrow, as Despair held out her cup, - And I quaffed the bitter liquid, and the idle search gave up. - - * * * * * - - Years have passed, and just this morning I was called beside a bed, - Where the sheet lay still and sober over an old lover spread; - Sad and pallid were his features, clever, too, Death's new disguise, - But I read the old, old secret, even in his half-closed eyes. - - Then a thought--"The key," I whispered, lest I should be overheard, - And I sought the heart, unlocked it; found my poem--every word. - Oft revised it was, and polished, wore the features, too, of Fame; - And I read with strange emotion, just below inscribed my name. - - O, it was a trying moment! If the poem I should claim, - I could mount upon the ladder to the topmost round of fame; - But my evil spirit yielded; for I could not rob the dead, - So I locked the sacred prison, and above it bowed my head. - - * * * * * - - Rather would I find engraven in a steadfast heart my name, - Than in shining words enroll it high upon the tower of fame. - - - - -A Maple Leaf. - -TO M. B. S. - - - Glancing o'er a childish volume where sweet thoughts like blossoms - lay, - There between two oft read pages, a pressed wreath I found to-day. - Golden-rod and aster flowers lay with bloom all crushed and dead, - But a maple leaf among them still retained its gold and red. - - In my hand I took the treasure, held it up before my face, - And the sunlight, then declining, solved its geometric grace. - Many a road and by-path meeting proved the interwoven veins; - And a forest rose before me, flaming like my window panes. - - As a vision that is pictured by an angel in the night, - Soon a figure, sometime vanished, rose to my exultant sight. - Like a goddess of enchantment, there she stood beneath the trees, - And her face was like a lily, and her eyes like summer seas. - - Then I thought, "For me she's waiting"--so I glanced off to the - right, - For I feared it all a fancy, but I found my home in sight; - Heard the town-clock slowly striking, and the same familiar bells, - Saw the court-house and the churches, and "The Summit," where she - dwells. - - So I then no longer doubted, down a meadow path I strolled, - Leading off into the woodland that had stole the sunset's gold. - Overhead the birds were flying, but a black winged happy throng - Paused; for we had been old comrades and they sang a farewell song. - - But the thoughts that followed after, though the birds away had - flown, - Were so happy, for she met me, linked her arm within my own. - Up and down the path we wandered, gathering leaves and grasses - gray, - Until darkness drove the twilight o'er the hill where fled the day. - - Darkness! and her face had vanished, all alone I seemed to stand, - But I heard her step departing, and I grasped again her hand. - Held it tight, and tighter pressing, in a happy strange belief, - Till I 'woke, and found that dreaming I had crushed my treasured - leaf. - - - - -A Gallop With Santa Claus. - - - I was thinking last night of the children - Far away in a home that I know, - Of the dear little girls at the window, - And the boys out at play in the snow; - Of the stockings hung up at the chimney, - Of the little hearts hopeful and glad; - And thus I kept thinking and thinking, - Until I grew homesick and sad. - - So I turned my eyes out on the landscape, - As my thoughts were unwilling to go, - And I saw 'round the curve of a hillock - Three ponies come, white as the snow; - A sleigh next appeared and a driver, - Oh! my heart beat so fast then--because, - As he drew up the reins at the door-step, - I found it was old Santa Claus. - - Such shaking of hands and such greetings - I fear I shall nevermore see; - For every big doll in his wagon - Was looking and laughing at me. - "No minutes to lose," said old Santa, - "I've hundreds of miles yet to go. - Will you please to partake of my journey, - And gallop with me o'er the snow?" - - No sooner than said I was seated, - All 'round me he folded the fur. - He made a loose rein for the ponies, - And urged them with whip and with spur. - Away and away o'er the country - We flew like the glances of light, - Down streets that were blazing with bonfires, - On, on through the snow and the night. - - Then all of a sudden he halted - In front of a house old and dark. - There was no friendly ray at the window, - And on the hearth-stone not a spark. - But he entered, and, by a dim lantern - That swung from his new scarlet cap, - I saw the sad face of a woman - Asleep, and a babe on her lap. - - And two pretty faces beside her, - A pillow of straw almost hid, - But the little hands looked as if frozen - That lay on the patched cover-lid. - A snow-cloud had sifted its samples, - Of eider-down over their feet, - And a star, looking in through the shingles, - Was spreading o'er them a bright sheet. - - Old Santa had lost not a moment. - A cedar tree suddenly sprung - Into life just in front of the children, - With pop-corn and bright ribbons strung. - Some tiny wax candles were lighted, - To chase off the thoughts of the night; - And the dollies had met in the tree-top - To dance in their dresses of white. - - A kite that could climb into cloud-land - Hung low, and a new picture-book; - A street-car "wound up" for its journey, - And a little boat built for the brook. - Oh! all kinds of candy he left them - That ever I tasted, or you; - And under the tree there were apples - And peanuts--a bucket or two. - - He built them a fire, and dresses - Were left, made of flannel so warm; - And, with many nice greetings and wishes, - We galloped away through the storm. - Away, and away sped the ponies, - So fast that none could o'ertake-- - So fast (it was told me this morning), - We looked like a winged snow-flake. - - But soon at a homestead we halted, - Old Santa said I must alight, - To see if the children were sleeping, - And leave them whatever was right. - So I crept to the casement--it opened, - And I saw what I ne'er shall forget-- - Those darlings there slumbering sweetly, - The thoughts of the night-fall had met. - - We gave them all kinds of nice presents, - What they were, it is useless to say; - For they've found them and now are rejoicing, - And happy this glad holiday. - So children, be kind to each other, - Be gentle and loving--because - I may be invited next Christmas - To gallop with old Santa Claus. - - - - -Home Memories. - - - I am thinking of a cottage - Where the roses used to bloom, - How they talked beside the pavement - In low whispers of perfume, - Or climbed up beside the window - To look in my little room. - - I am thinking of the door-way - Where the vine I used to train, - That snowed down its flaky petals - With a pleasant summer rain; - Where I used to sit and listen - To the old mill's low refrain. - - I'm thinking of the sunflower, too, - That towered above the gate; - Of the friends who called me hither - When the day was cool and late. - Ah! those hours seem so distant - And the year, an ancient date. - - I am thinking of the grape-vine - Where the crippled robin fed, - How he lingered there each morning - 'Till fresh crumbs for him were spread. - Is he feeding there this summer - From a stranger's hand, instead? - - I am thinking of the children - Who crept to the little yard, - Begging me to grant permission - That they play upon the sward. - Could I bar them from the entry? - Thus might Heaven me discard. - - I am thinking of a morning - That wrung from my heart a sigh, - When I kissed warm lips that trembled, - With a tear-drop in my eye; - While I closed our cottage windows - And pronounced the word--good-bye. - - - - -Sunshine and Shadow. - - - I passed a pretty cottage place, - A rose looked from the door - And smiled so sweetly in my face - I paused the house before. - The honeysuckle from the wall - Threw down a welcome tear, - The breeze came rushing through the hall - And whispered, "Tarry here, - - "For all within is peace and love;" - So through the curtain's lace - I glanced the reckless words to prove, - And saw a lover's face - Bent close above two eyes of blue. - Why should I dim their day? - Across the pane the blind I drew, - And softly crept away. - - I went again, one summer eve; - The rose blushed at the door - But smiled as sweetly to receive - Me as it did before; - The breeze came out as joyously, - And lingered at my side, - And murmured: "Tarry now and see - Our happy groom and bride." - - "O, no!" I said, "some other day - I'll call the pair to see." - But as I turned to go away - They both looked out at me. - O! what a light of hope and love - Their features then o'erspread; - And a shekinah from above - Seemed on the cottage shed. - - Years crept away. When next I came - Before that open door, - A little child pronounced my name - That golden tresses wore. - "Will you come in?" she gladly cried, - And opened wide the gate. - "My little one," I slow replied, - "The day is low and late. - - "To-morrow when the sun is bright, - I'll come and play with you; - Too chilly now, the falling night, - Too damp the evening dew." - And so I did. I often trod - Along the side yard there; - And found that fresher grew the sod, - The sky more bright and fair. - - I once had said that every rose - Held just a briar or two, - And every river as it flows - A dark wave with the blue; - But 'twas not thus I found it here, - The world that night I'd tell - That I had found a sky so clear - That rain drops never fell. - - Thus musing on that sweet child's face - That night I could not sleep, - A shadow seemed the light to chase - As storms the ocean sweep; - And when the stars forsook the sky - And birds their matins sang - I strolled again the cottage by - And loud the door-bell rang. - - The rose had dropped its leaves and died, - I heard within a sob. - What did it mean? The winds replied - "Crape hangs upon the knob." - Softly I raised the window's lace-- - The little child was dead-- - I threw a flower across her face, - And from the cottage fled. - - I never will go back again - Or push the blinds apart-- - I sought a sunshine for my pen, - Found shadows for my heart. - - - - -Only a Fern Leaf. - -TO H. M. - - - Only a fern leaf, darling, - Yellow and dry with age, - Only a date recorded - Down at the ending page. - - Only a breath from the mountain, - A song with the summer wed; - Only the voice of a fountain, - Only a dream that is dead. - - Only a faded morning, - With a shadow falling through, - Only a hint of warning-- - A cloud in the far off blue. - - Only a word of parting - Under a starlit sky; - Only a tear that is starting, - A long and a last good bye. - - Only a face of sorrow - Turned to a vanished year-- - Only a fern leaf, darling, - Glued to the pages here. - - - - -A Dream. - -TO MY FATHER. - - - Listen, father, while I tell you of a dream I had last night; - For it was so sweet my childhood home was painted in my sight. - 'Twas the same old frame house, father, hidden by the same old - trees, - Apple, cherry, quince and locust, talking in the same old breeze. - - On the walk I found the cowslip, stolen from "The Old Ravine," - And the blue-bell, and the columbine--how near my heart they lean. - Roses, red as any furnace flame, about me seemed to grow. - Roses pink as maiden blushes, roses pure and white as snow. - - All around the yard I wandered, oh! so long I can not tell, - Then I paused beneath the apple tree and drank from the old well. - Through my veins I felt the water coursing like a happy thought, - And a thousand recollections to my memory then it brought. - - Recollections rushing to me swifter than an angel's wing, - Recollections slipping from me as a pearl slips from a string. - Recollections that transfigured me into a little child, - And the halo shed around me was my father's happy smile. - - It was such a pretty picture Fancy held before my view, - I will turn the magic lantern so that you may see it, too. - It is springtime and the sugar trees have pitched their shady tent, - Tiny leaves like tiny parasols reach toward the firmament. - - Restless swings a childish figure to and fro upon the gate, - Some one's coming down the highway--'tis for him she there doth - wait. - Ah! you recognize the picture, I can tell it by your smile; - You have recognized the sugar trees, and recognized your child. - - Through the pasture now we're strolling, looking down the avenue, - See you not another picture? Yes; the figures there are two. - Mother sits upon the portico her knitting in her hand, - And my brother talks beside her of that wild and Western land - - Where he raced his Indian ponies and lassoed the buffaloes - Oh, it is a perfect wonderland!--this country that he knows. - But we will not interrupt them; for they do so happy seem-- - So we turn aside and leave them wandering on as in a dream. - - Then I led you up the hillside and we sat upon the "mound." - Oh! there never was before or since so pretty a view spread 'round. - Just below, the tranquil water of the clear pond seemed to win - Every cloud that floated over, and the heavens lay within. - - Then the meadow, where the clover bloomed, and where you stacked the - hay, - Like a field within a picture book, before us there it lay; - Then beyond, the barn and orchard, and the valley that I love-- - Oh! it all seemed like a painting let down by the Hand above. - - But a thought came rushing to me of a fairy that you know; - For she lived there in the valley and her name it was Echo. - So I laughed and called unto her just as loud as I could call, - But the voice that she threw back to me was not a child's at all. - - No; it was a woman's voice; I awoke then with a start, - And I found the king beside me that dethroned you in my heart. - Then a tear fell on the pillow, not a briny, bitter tear, - Why? you ask--because the dream was gone that I have copied here. - - - - -Those Soft Airs She Played. - -TO M. B. S. - - - Those soft airs she played--through my mem'ry they glide - Like a cloud-shadow crossing the plain; - The sun follows often, the wind at his side, - Then a whisper that never the roses denied, - And a sound like a light fall of rain. - - Grander music she plays--music weird and sublime, - Thunder toned, like the sound of the sea, - That rolleth away like the surges of time; - But, to quicken my thoughts and to sweeten my rhyme, - She always played soft airs for me. - - Faint whispers that blend with the deep forest's sound, - From which a wild fawn would not flee, - And sweet as the brook that the summer has found, - When singing its song soft and glad underground, - And carrying its heart to the sea.... - - A movement then mingles like those that are heard - When the trees toss their shade to the eaves; - A pause and a tremble, as of a sweet word, - Or the dream-haunted wing of a night-hidden bird - That is shaking the dew from the leaves. - - Then silence, that even a word would profane-- - Silence, holding some thoughts heaven-born, - That only her fingers a moment can chain; - Up, up to the skies they have wandered again, - Like a prayer holy spoken at morn. - - Those soft airs she played in the dim lighted room, - With her heart in the past far away-- - Ah, what would I give if to-night, through the gloom, - Along with the budding and bursting of bloom, - They now past my window would stray. - - Alas! vain the thought, and as vain sounds the sigh, - Long distance my wish has delayed; - But we sit in the twilight--my mem'ry and I-- - And listen and linger, we scarcely know why, - Unless for those soft airs she played. - - - - -To Albert. - - - Thou art going from us, Albert, - Going far away from me, - Where I can not hear thy prattle, - And thy face I can not see. - - Back into the Southern country, - Thou art going--there to roam, - Where my heart began its singing-- - In the old Kentucky home. - - Lonely all the days will linger, - When I miss your little face; - Shadows gray, from out the hours, - All the sunbeams soon will chase. - - Dim will seem the sunny window, - Where the pansy blossom grows, - And no restless little fingers - Will disturb the opening rose. - - Soon the playthings will be missing, - Soon they gathered up must be-- - Thou art going from us, Albert, - Going far away from me. - - Soon the little boy that vexed me, - When I tried to read and write, - Will be gone. No one will listen - When I sing my songs at night. - - Soon the halls will lose their echo, - And the yard grow silent, too, - And the pretty face will vanish, - With those wondrous eyes of blue. - - So good-bye, my little darling; - All these tears have been for thee-- - Thou art going from us, Albert, - Going far away from me. - - - - -The Reunion of the Flowers. - - - A few of the springtime flowers, - And the summer blossoms sweet, - Agreed, at the early autumn, - In a locust grove to meet, - - And there to hold communion, - By the light of the setting sun, - And each relate or mention - Some kind act they had done. - - And he whose deed was noblest - Should, at the close of day, - Be colonel of the regiment, - And lead the ranks away. - - So, one by one I watched them - Assemble where the trees - Had lowered their limbs to listen - And halted every breeze. - - A Rose in the richest satin, - With a bud to her bonnet tied, - Was first to break the silence - That reigned on every side. - - "I lived with a lovely lady, - In a handsome house of brick, - And went with her each morning, - To wait upon the sick. - - "I've leaned beside the pillows, - Where wounded soldiers lay, - And I wept at the funeral service, - Of an orphan child to-day." - - "I bloomed in an humble garden, - Where an old man used to look," - Said the Johnquil, "ere the snow-drift - His window-sill forsook." - - "A poor bee shivered homeward - One night," the Tulip said, - "Fell through my scarlet curtains, - And died upon my bed." - - "I looked in at a window, - And made two lovers kiss," - The Pansy owned, and laughing - Said it was not amiss. - - "I went into a palace," - The Lily then replied, - "And held the veil that evening - Of a happy-hearted bride." - - "I sweetened the room of a poet, - And o'er his coffin wept," - The Heliotrope low whispered, - And back in the shadows crept. - - "O, that was very noble," - Exclaimed the Golden-rod, - "I tried to gather the sunshine - And hold it up to God. - - "To make the world less sober, - To make the heart less sad, - Was all the mission, brethren, - Your humble servant had." - - * * * * * - - In the ranks of that floral army - That marched at the close of day, - That sunny-featured blossom - Was the one that led the way. - - - - -Children of the Brain. - - - Our thoughts--the children of the brain-- - Are born for us some good to gain, - And if we rear them just and right, - They'll seek the day instead of night. - Long in the harvest field they'll work-- - Brave laborers that do not shirk, - And they will reap just what we sow, - As written you will find below. - - * * * * * - - I sent them forth into the world, - Some thoughts that long my heart impearled. - Their countenance was of a light - That beamed upon me through the night. - The features were like mine, perchance, - With part of heaven hid in the glance; - And the apparel that they wore - My fingers long had labored o'er. - - A vine ran through the tunic's hem - That wilted not though broke the stem, - And all the undergarments showed - The time and care on them bestowed. - Some of the moonbeams took a place - Within the frill about the face; - And, stars that bright as Lyra glowed, - The overdress and mantle showed. - - The sandals that encased the feet - Were fashioned for a journey fleet, - And pinions, like a sail unfurled, - I saw outspread before the world, - With promises to come again - And glorify the parent pen. - I tore apart the silken skein - And let them drift from out my brain. - - Where are they tarrying to-night? - I see, around a fireside bright, - One looking in a friendly face. - How tender seems the warm embrace! - Now close, close to this loved one's lip - 'Tis held, and for companionship - Is nestling down into the heart, - And of the same becomes a part. - - Some beckon me across the seas, - Are favored by a foreign breeze, - Are traveling where I can not go, - Are learning what I ne'er shall know, - Are praised, perhaps, with offered funds, - While with them glad the newsboy runs; - Are welcomed in some palace home, - And ne'er allowed henceforth to roam. - - The one that I had loved the best - A journey took into the West, - And by a friend it chanced to meet - Sent home a prairie flower sweet. - Two stronger ones, the North that sought, - Some words of love back home have brought; - They brighten up the lonesome hearth, - And praise the pen that gave them birth. - - And one crept down in Cupid's coat - To read a dainty perfumed note, - And afterward came back to tell - How sweetly rang the wedding bell. - Another, with as brave a face, - Had with a rival run a race; - It did its best, to gain had tried, - But came back home, alas! and died. - - The tenderest one, perhaps, of all, - Upon a critic chanced to call; - He hooted at the homespun gown, - And bent his bitter, blackest frown - Upon the waif, and read its fate - Where winter winds could congregate. - I thought I heard its funeral bell, - But where the grave is I'll not tell. - - I do not know the others' fate, - A pauper's grave may them await. - The fabric that my hands embossed, - While Fancy figured high the cost, - May trail, to-night, some filthy street - Where sin and shame together meet, - And the loved strains from my heart's lyre - Be sung around an outcast's fire. - - They may attain a higher sphere, - Where flows the penitential tear, - And point the wanderers they find - Upon the paths that heavenward wind. - God grant their mission may be such! - That all sad hearts they'll lightly touch, - And spread upon the ugly wound - A balm to make them whole and sound. - - - - -A Lily of the Valley. - - - Just a breath of fragrance - On the breeze--alas! - A lily of the valley - Dying in the grass. - - Just a recollection - Followed with a sigh; - Just a teardrop dripping - Down the cheek, and why? - -MAY 16, 1887. - - - - -Lines to the Old Year. - - - Farewell, Old Year, the shades are growing deep, - Thou art dethroned and vanishes your power; - I sit alone with folded hands and weep, - While close the minutes chase our parting hour. - - Your lips are dumb, and with a feeble hand - You turn the pages of the year's great book, - While my wet cheeks are with an odor fanned, - Like that the summer breeze from violets shook. - - I gaze into the volume. Undiscerned - Some scenes advance, like phantoms hurry by, - And thoughts look from the leaves now swifter turned - As meaningless as would a stranger's eye. - - I meet familiar names in Death's long list, - I pass new graves where tears have thawed the snows, - I search my heart lest something I have missed, - But in its garden find no dying rose. - - Thou hast been kind to me; no marble urn - Chills the warm pulses of my heart to night, - And from the thought my pen doth gladly turn - To offer homage ere you take your flight. - - Bright recollections thou hast left instead, - That twinkle in the firmament of thought, - And lover-like I sit and gaze o'erhead - Upon the starry gems thy hand has wrought. - - Far down the by-path of a summer dream, - Glad voices call and fingers beckon me-- - An oar dips music from a moonlit stream, - Where in thy prime I sailed, Old Year, with thee - - And now, e'en in the shadow of thy hearse, - Ungarland save with fated mistletoe, - While midnight fiends the hours call like a curse, - You clasp my hand and smiling on me--go. - - Farewell! A friend thou'st been to me, and I - Shall wander through the burial ground of years, - And often with an introspective eye - Search out thy grave and water it with tears. - - - - -Why I Smile. - - - I smile because the world is fair; - Because the sky is blue. - Because I find, no matter where - I go, a friend that's true. - - I smile because the earth is green, - The sun so near and bright, - Because the days that o'er us lean - Are full of warmth and light. - - I smile as past the yards I go, - Though strange and new the place, - The violets seem my step to know, - And look up in my face. - - I smile to hear the robin's note. - He comes so newly dressed, - A love song throbbing in his throat, - A rose pinned on his breast. - - And so the truth I'll not disown, - Because the spring is nigh; - My heart has somewhat better grown, - And I forget to sigh. - -MT. VERNON, ILL. - - - - -My Phantom Ships. - - - I heard the plunging of the sea - Like a wild steed pursuing me, - And dark and frothy was the main; - But suddenly a checking rein - Seemed drawn, and panting on the shore, - I heard the billows' frightful roar. - - My dream betook a different hue, - Caught from the ocean's changeful blue. - A door was opened in my heart, - From which I saw each fear depart, - And there from some far, happy isle, - The sea breeze came as would a smile - - Oh! it was sweet to wander there, - The sky o'erhanging still and bare. - A cloud, in some soft raiment dressed, - Leaned like a bride upon the west; - The sea-gulls floated on the breeze - Like blossoms blown from April trees. - - The wind just kissed by summer's mouth - Walked like a lover from the South; - And jewels from a sunbeam's hand - Were sprinkled on the snowy sand; - The breakers ran along the beach, - And scattered shells within my reach. - - I stooped and held one to my ear, - And listened as to voices dear; - And then methought far, far away, - Where purple mists made dim the day, - I saw the motion of a ship - That from the heavens seemed to slip. - - On, on it came with fluttering sail, - Strong blew the steady ocean gale. - The waves were running thick and high, - And kept the ship close to the sky; - It seemed a picture on the sea, - "A picture," thought I, "can it be?" - - But from the waves the wind withdrew - And brought the sailors close to view. - The pilot pointed to the shore, - And then to gems and shining ore - Piled up against the good ship's side - That leaned so brave upon the tide. - - Oh! there were silks of colors soft, - And plumes that proudly waved aloft; - And there were jewels, bags of gold, - From caves o'er which the water rolled, - And coral crowns--gifts of the sea-- - And all of this for whom? _For me._ - - With open arms to meet the ship - I ran, and proudly curled my lip. - No one should know from whence it came, - And none should share my wealth and fame. - My gowns of silk with me should roam, - My gold I'd closet at my home. - - Ah, me! I knew not what I thought. - The ship was by a whirlwind caught. - It staggered out upon the sea-- - I heard the sailors cursing me; - A flash fell from the lowering night, - And down the brave ship sank from sight. - - * * * * * - - I walk again upon the sands - With aching heart and empty hands. - Sometimes a piece of broken mast - Upon the tide goes sailing past; - And, where the sun so friendly shone, - A shadow on the sand has grown. - - A strange and half-distracted dream - Comes just behind the sea-gull's scream. - The sinking ship again I see, - The sailors hurl their oaths at me, - And like an echo from the grave - Is the sad song of wind and wave. - - But somewhere, under bluer skies, - Another ship in harbor lies. - Its flags are flying free and fast, - The sails are white, and strong the mast. - 'Tis loaded, too, with precious freight, - And for the same I stand and wait. - - When it comes home I'll happy be, - And all share my joy with me. - My wines at other feasts I'll pour, - The sorrowful shall smile--yea, more, - The poor shall not be turned away, - And one and all shall bless the day. - - PABLO BEACH, FLA., January, 1887. - - - - -The Weight of a Word. - - - Have you ever thought of the weight of a word - That falls in the heart like the song of a bird, - That gladdens the springtime of memory and youth - And garlands with cedar the banner of Truth, - That moistens the harvesting spot of the brain - Like dew-drops that fall on the meadow of grain - Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit - And lies like a worm at the lifeless root? - - I saw a farmer at break of day - Hoeing his corn in a careful way; - An enemy came with a drouth in his eye, - Discouraged the worker and hurried by. - The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe - Dulled on the earth in the long corn row; - The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed - Over the field and the crop was--_lost_. - - A sailor launched on an angry bay - When the heavens entombed the face of day - The wind arose like a beast in pain, - And shook on the billows his yellow name, - The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud, - And the waves held up a dripping shroud-- - But, hark! o'er the waters that wildly raved - Came a word of cheer and he was--_saved_. - - A poet passed with a song of God - Hid in his heart like a gem in a clod. - His lips were framed to pronounce the thought, - And the music of rhythm its magic wrought; - Feeble at first was the happy trill, - Low was the echo that answered the hill, - But a jealous friend spoke near his side, - And on his lips the sweet song--_died_. - - A woman paused where a chandelier - Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear; - Weary and footsore from journeying long, - She had strayed unawares from the right to the wrong. - Angels were beck'ning her back from the den, - Hell and its demons were beck'ning her in; - The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives, - Drew her back and in heaven _that_ sweet word--_lives_. - - Words! Words! They are little, yet mighty and brave; - They rescue a nation, an empire save; - They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart - That sickness and sorrow have severed apart, - They fall on the path, like a ray of the sun, - Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon; - They lighten the earth over our blessed dead, - A word that will comfort, oh! leave not unsaid. - - - - -An Apology. - -TO J. D. N. - - - My pen is mournful--you ask why - When all the time my face is glad, - And though contentment lights my eye, - You say my verse is strangely sad; - So serious that e'en the strain - You can detect, as on the pane - You know the patter in the night, - Although the cloud is hid from sight. - - You asked me once to change my tone, - "To trim my pen for gayer verse," - And, laughing, said 'twas like a moan - That followed close behind a hearse. - My muse was saddened at the stroke, - And in my heart new chords awoke, - Chords that vibrate like the bell - That tolled one day a funeral knell. - - I would not have them otherwise; - I claim my caged bird's song more sweet - Because 'tis sad, than one which tries - The echo merrier to repeat. - How quickly I would turn aside, - And soon forget a boist'rous tide, - To hear the brooklet, sad and low, - Sing in a minor key I know. - - I'll not attempt Hood's humorous style, - I do not crave John Gilpin's ride. - It was my custom, when a child, - To linger at my mother's side - When she would sing "The Old Church Yard," - That told how soft and green its sward. - "The angels that watched 'round the tomb" - Crept, as she sang, into our room. - - 'Tis said the clown will never jest - When folded is the showman's tent; - That she who pathos renders best - Has loudest laugh in merriment. - Thus, _vice versa_ is the theme, - Or, "all things are not what they seem." - Sadness to Joy is as a twin, - One rules without, one rules within. - - My life is full of love and joy, - My heart-strings, though, with sadness tuned. - Then do not ask me to destroy - The mournful measures; it would wound - My Muse--the playmate of my youth-- - Who taught me early many a truth - From others' woes, and bid me think - While she supplied the pen and ink. - - - - -Speak Kindly. - - - Speak kindly in the morning, - When you are leaving home, - And give the day a lighter heart - Into the week to roam. - Leave kind words as mementoes - To be handled and caressed, - And watch the noon-time hour arrive - In gold and tinsel dressed. - - Speak kindly in the evening! - When on the walk is heard - A tired footstep that you know, - Speak one refreshing word, - And see the glad light springing - From the heart into the eye, - As sometimes from behind a cloud - A star leaps to the sky. - - Speak kindly to the children - That crowd around your chair, - The tender lips that lean on yours - Kiss, smooth the flaxen hair; - Some day a room that's lonesome - The little ones may own, - And home be empty as the nest - From which the birds have flown. - - Speak kindly to the stranger - Who passes through the town, - A loving word is light of weight-- - Not so would prove a frown. - One is a precious jewel - The heart would grasp in sleep, - The other like a demon's gift - The memory loathes to keep. - - Speak kindly to the sorrowful - Who stand beside the dead, - The heart can lean against a word - Though thorny seems the bed. - And oh, to those discouraged - Who faint upon the way, - Stop, stop--if just a moment-- - And something kindly say. - - Speak kindly to the fallen ones, - Your voice may help them rise; - A word right-spoken oft unclasps - The gate beyond the skies. - Speak kindly, and the future - You'll find God looking through! - Speak of another as you'd have - Him always speak of you. - - - - -Those Willing Hands - -IN MEMORY OF MISS FANNIE STEVENS. - - - Those willing hands--they're still to-night-- - The life has from them fled; - They're folded from the longing sight, - So cold and pale and dead. - The busy veins have idle grown, - Like a long famished rill, - That once in such an eager tone - Called soft from hill to hill. - - Dear hands, I've felt their pressure oft, - In a sad time gone by; - They moved about the years as soft - As clouds move through the sky. - They screened the rainstorm from my heart, - And let the moonlight in, - And showed, while shadows fell athwart, - Tracks where the sun had been. - - They were such willing, willing hands, - They stilled the mournful tear, - Unwound the pattern of God's plans, - And made his problems clear. - They did not reach to high-grown bowers, - Where rarest blossoms bloom; - But culled the blessed, purer flowers, - And bore them to the tomb. - - Poor hands--they are so still and white, - The rose that shared their rest - Is shrinking from the long, dark night, - And falling on her breast. - The wreath is wilted on the mound - Where long the sunshine stands, - But angels have the sleeper found, - And clasped those willing hands. - - - - -Look Into the Past. - - - Look into the past--there are pictures - Detaining the sunshine of May, - All aquiver with light they turn to the sight, - Like a flower that faces the day. - How restful the hillsides and shady! - The brook like a song passeth by, - And the trespassing moon floats about through noon, - Like a bubble blown up in the sky. - - Look into the past! It is happy; - Its voices are voices of youth; - There is no idle jest to disturb the heart's rest, - And its banners wear mottoes of truth; - Look back at the glad, happy faces - That walk with our childhood abreast, - And show me to-day, though it be miles away, - A spot that can offer such rest. - - Say not that the years long escaping, - Show graves of a cankering joy. - Because we have found that new pleasures abound, - Must we cast off our first childish toy? - Because some old love has disturbed us, - And filled a lost hour full of gloom, - Are we never to go, when the sun lieth low, - And stand by the neglected tomb? - - - - -A Little Face. - -TO "C." - - - A little face to look at, - A little face to kiss; - Is there anything, I wonder, - That's half so sweet as this? - - A little cheek to dimple - When smiles begin to grow - A little mouth betraying - Which way the kisses go. - - A slender little ringlet, - A rosy little ear; - A little chin to quiver - When falls the little tear. - - A little face to look at, - A little face to kiss; - Is there anything, I wonder, - That's half so sweet as this? - - A little hand so fragile - All through the night to hold - Two little feet so tender - To tuck in from the cold. - - Two eyes to watch the sunbeam - That with the shadow plays-- - A darling little baby - To kiss and love always. - - - - -The Canary and Rose. - - - A lovely tea rose, in a new autumn gown, - Looked in at the window one day, - And said with a scorn: - "'Tis a beautiful morn; - But ugly enough is your lay. - Do you never grow weary of singing your songs - Shut up in that prison of brass? - _I_ do not admire - Your out of tune lyre, - And none seem to listen who pass. - - "Last night as I beaded my bodice with dew, - And shook the perfume from the lace, - There came to the fence - Such a beautiful prince, - And said, looking into my face: - "Too lovely thou art to live here so obscure - To-morrow with me thou shalt roam.' - So he's coming to-day, - And will bear me away - The queen of his heart and his home." - - Now, the dear little songster was pruning her wing - That had borrowed the sun's yellow ray, - And shaking a note - In her quivering throat, - Replied in an indifferent way: - "My songs will not trouble you long. I discern - This breeze is forerunning a storm, - And should he delay - (This prince) on the way, - You must seek other quarters more warm." - - "Do you think," said the rose, with a tremulous tone, - "The rain would disfigure my face?" - But e'en as she spoke - In the sky there awoke - A wind that demolished the vase. - - With features all pale and distorted she cried, - Still clinging up close to the glass. - "Cry for help." Said the bird, - "They will hear not a word, - For none seem to listen who pass." - - There's a moral concealed in the little bird's throat - That never her song will disclose; - But oft when the cloud - For the sun makes a shroud - She thinks of the beautiful rose, - Who died with a coronet touching her brow, - Crushed from sight by the hurrying throng, - And she smiles at a prince, - Who yet leans on the fence - And hears nothing else but her song. - - - - -A Sigh or a Tear. - - - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear, - As you watch the sweet-faced summer go, - And the throng of memories that you know. - A sigh for the star that stood in the West, - Now sinking down with the sun to rest, - For the smiles that live in an absent face - Like the blossoms of love in the heart's clear vase. - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear. - - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear - When you sit in the dusk with a new cigar, - And touch some chord on the old guitar. - A tear for the girl that was good and true, - For the songs of love--the letters, too, - - And the ribbon around the roses tied - That long ago in the drawer died. - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear. - - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear - When you raise the lid to the little chest - And find what a mother's heart loves best, - A broken toy, a half-worn shoe, - Some little dresses of pink and blue, - The blocks that builded such marvelous towers, - A golden curl, and some withered flowers. - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear. - - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear - When you gaze in the tomb of the dear dead past, - Where the shadows of sunshine yet are cast. - A sigh for the rose, though bleached and dried, - That close to the loved one lived and died, - For the voice that is still--once dear to thee-- - For the face that is gone--ah me! ah me! - A sigh or a tear - Is all you may fear. - - - - -Snow-Flakes. - - - See the early snow-flakes! - Softly they descend, - Like an orchard blossom - Scattered by the wind. - - Here and there they're flying - Over all the trees, - High above them swarming - Like white-winged bees. - - Faster still they're whirling, - Dancing into sight, - Like a troop of fairies - When the moon is light. - - Tripping down the highway - In a reckless gait, - Falling like a feather - Without sound or weight. - - On the distant churchyard - Over graves unkept, - Where the leaves have drifted - And the clouds have wept. - - Little band of angels - Doing only good, - Making white the meadow - And the lonely wood. - - Greeting with light kisses - All they chance to meet, - Leaving shining footprints - All about the street. - - Little winter children - Full of life and fun-- - Oh! I love the snow-flakes, - Love them every one. - - - - -A Footprint. - - - A sweet song spoke to me one day, - Behind a prayer that passed my way, - Yet neither would for me delay - The upward flight. - I searched and found a footprint where - The song had tarried; but the prayer - Had left no trace on earth or air. - - Straight from the heart it went to God - The song remained to smooth the clod, - And lay a flower upon the sod. - O, envied right! - If but one song of mine could chase - Some sorrow from the heart and face - I know in Heaven 'twould find a place. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Katydid's Poems, by Mrs. J. I. 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