HE POEMS OF LPH(E BE CAREY NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY Publishers G)j I 11 ' )-,,~ I 1;l PHCEBE CAREY i, CONTENTS The Women at the Sepul chre.... 71 The Watcher... 72 Chalmers... 74 Song.... 76 mTh3 Ills of Life.. 77 The Bride... 78 Remembrance. 80 Ent ering Hea ven.. 82 Our Baby.. 84 Our Friend... 84 The Outcast. 87 At the AVater's Edge. 88 Chances.. 91 The Convict's Child. 94 The Life of Trial.. 96 Death of a Friend.. 97 Death Scene... 9% Dead. 99 Tlhe Watcher's Story. 101 Resolves.... 106 Prophecies... 109 Dreams... 110 The Confession.. ill The Poem. 113 To One Who Sang of Love 114 Archie.... 115 Maiden Fears... 117' The Unguarded Moment 12( Burninig the Letters. 121 PAGE A Story... W7 The Lovers... 15 The Followers of Christ 19 Sonnets... 24 Sympathy... 27 Memories... 30 MIoralizings... 31 Dreaming of Heaven. 34 Morning Thoughts.. 35 The Mariner's Bride. 36 The Prisoner's Last Night 38 Song of the Heart. 40 -,an Believes the Strong 42 T'le Tlomesick Peasant 43 Homes for All... 46 Harvest Gathering. 48 Prayer.... 50 Life is Not Vanity. 52 Burial Hymn... 54 Song of the Reformed 54 The Cold WVater Army. 56 Coming Home.. 57 Parting and Meeting. 59 The Reefer.. 61 A Time to Die. 62 Love at the Grave.. 63 Strength of Sin.. 65 The Place of Graves. 67 Fears.. 68 Melody.... 70 PAxR Poems by Phoebe Carey PA RODIE S. AMartha Hopkins. 166 Worser Moments. o 170 The Annoyer.. 172 Samuel Brown.. 174 Granny's House. 175 The Day is Done.. 181 John Thompson's Daughter 182 Girls Were Made to Mourn 184 To Inez.. 187 To lMaiy.. 189 The Change.. 190 He Never Wrote Againr 192 The Soiree. 193 q'he City Life.. 195 The Marriage of Sir John mSmith.. 197 Ballad of the Canal. 198 I Remember, I Remember 199 Jacob.... 200 The Wife... 201 A Psalm of Life.. 201 "There's a Bower of Bean Vines"... 203 When Lovely Woman 204 Shakesperian Readings 204 Nelly.... 123 A La ment... 126 The Lullaby. 128 Left Alone.. 130 1 he Retrospect.. 131 One Shall Be Taken.. 133 The Brothers.. 134 ,emorse.... 137 Prophecy... 138 The Consecration.. 139 Drawing'Vater.. 141 The Dreamer... 142 Solemnity of Life. 144 5ly Blessings... 145 Sabbath Thoughts. 147 Nearer Home... 148 Hymn... 149 Sowing Seed... 150 The Baptism 151 The Christian Woman 154 The Hosts of Thought 156 Our Homestead. 160 The Book of Poems. 162 To Frank... 163 Morning... 164 Dawn.... 16 I PAGE PAGE POEMS BY PHCEBE CAREY. A STORY. TiHiLE silently our vessel glides, Il': ] To-nighit, aloting tl;e Adrian seas, Ancd while tile lightltv-lleaving tides Are scarcely rippled by the breezeThou, V-lo, withl cheelk of beauty pale, Seem'st o'er some hidden grief to pi Le. If thou wilt listen to a tale Of sorrowx, it may lighten thine. 'Twas told me, sadly choked with tears My eyes, it may be, too, were wet; "r, through the shadowy lapse of years, My memory keeps the record yet. And he who told it long ago, ',hough scarcely passed his manhood's prime Poemzs by Phebe Carey. He seemed as one whose heart with wo Was seared and blighted ere its time. And as he told his story o'er, Long vanished years came back to me; For he had crossed my path before, Upon the land and on the sea. \When first by chance I saw his form, 'Twas on the raging waves at night, And if at all he saw the storm, HIe recked not of its angry might. For while the dark and troubled skies Rung with accents of despair, 'Ie never raised his tearful eyes, Nor lifted up his voice in prayer. Once, thirsting for the cooling well, Beneath a fierce and burning sun, And listening to the camel's bell, That music of the desert lone, Wve reached a spot whose fountain made An Eden in that barren land; And there, beneath the palmrn-tree's shade, WVe saw the lonely stranger stand. And once, when twilight closed the flowers, I marked hiim on dark Jura's steep, And twice amid thy sacred bowers, Gethsemane, I saw him weep. But when I saw the mourner last, And heard the story of his woes, 'Twas where the solemn cypress cast Its shadow o'er man's last repose. The suin had faded from the sky, 8 A4 Story. WVith all his bright and glowing t)ars, And solemn clouds were gliding biy, In spectral silence o'er the stars. And there, beside a grassy mound, In agony for words too deep, And eyes bent sadly on the ground, i saw him clasp his hands and weep. Thoughl I had seen him on the sea Unmoved, when all beside were pale, Alnd weeping in Gethsemane, I never asked nor knew his tale. But now, beside the tomb, at last, By kindly looks anid words, I sought To learn the story of the past, And win him from his troubled though.. WVith lips all breathlessly apart, He listened to each soothing word; The chord was touched within his heart, The long untroubled fount was stirred. " Companioned only by the dead, So man- y-ears I've lived alone, I hardly thought," he sadly said, "To hear again a pitying tone. But, stranger, friend, thy words are kind, And since thou fain wouldst learn my grief, It mav i)e that mv heart will find, In itte-anCe of its woes, relief. Life's brigtltest scenes will I recall, And those -where shade and sunshine blend, Arid, if my lips can speak it all, I'll tell it even to the end. My childhood! it were more than vain 9 10 PoeiTs l' Ppi (,IC Car(cA. To tell thee that was glad as fleet; W,hile irnocetice and youthi remain, Thju knowvest that life's cup is sweet. But \hen thle soul of manhood beamed, In aftei -ea-s, upon nmy brow, MIv childhood! it were more than vain To tell thee that was glad as fleet. (T knoxv l a)x r (I\l- x it is seaimed \Vitli scars of (uilt nlld sorrow now),krhhen, witlh the summer stars above, And d(lew —rop stliiing in thie vale, I told the story ot my iove A Slory. To one who did not scorn the tale; And when, in happiness and pride, Such as I never knew before, I bore her to my hlome a bride, Tile measure of my bliss ran o'er. Oh, in that bower of Eden blest, I fain would linger with my song; It irks me so to tell the rest The serpent did not spare it long. ' It was the eve of such a day As on creation dawned of old, And all along tile heavenly way Tile stars had set their lamps of gold. That night I stood amid the throng Where banquet flowers were sweetly str-own, Where wine was poured with mirth and song, And where the smile of beauty shone WVhen lost in pleasure's maze, and when My heart to reason's voice was steeled, I tasted of the WINE-CUP, then I tasted, and my doom was sealed! That night the moments passed more fleet Than with my bride upon the hills; That night I drank a draught more sweet Than water from the living rills. It is a lharder task to win The feet at first, from right astray; Yet if but once we yield to sin, Ilow easy is the downward way! Oh, if tlhe spirit can be won In evil wavs to enter in, IT 12 Pooems by Phoebe Carey. That first false step may lead us on Through all the labyrinths of sin: And I resisted not the power That drew me first towards the bowl, WVhile firmer every day and hour The chains were fastened in my soul. I saw hope's sunny fountain fail Iin her young heart who loved me so, As day by day, her cheek grew pale With vigils and with tears of wo. ' Oi, if a kind and pitying word, If tones so sweet as tlhine have been, AlIy erring spirit could have heard, They might have saved mne, even then. But no; they named with scorn my name, And viewed me with reproachful eyes; For all who saw my guilt and shame But looked upon me to despise. And so 7 left my home and hearth, For haunts of wickedness and sin, And sought, in wine and stronger mirth, To hush the voice of God within. I have no record in my heart Of how my days and weeks went by, Save shadowy images that start Like spectres still before mine eye. As something ndistinct and dim Of sable hearse and funeral pall, Of trailing robes and mournful hymn, My memory keeps-and that is all! But when, as from a horrid dream, I woke, disturbed by nameless fears, A Story. I sought beside tile mountain stream MIy home so dear in earlier years. 'Tw-as desolate -I called my bride, And listened, but no answer came; I made tile h and vall eys h~ils advalleys wd Re-echo v-ainl-y with her namne! AnAd wien I hieard a step draw near, And met a stranger's wondering gaze, I asked il tones of doubt and fear, For that s-weet friend of earlier days. And then I followed where he led; And as he left that singing stream, glided near him with a tread Like guilty- spi-rits in a dream: Lie broughit me to this quiet ground, The last repose of w-o and care, And,;~inting to that grassy mound, He told me that MiY BRIDE WVAS THERE! 'I've been, for hopeless years since then, wi wanderer on the land and sea, AndI( little loved the lhomes of men, Or in their busy haunts to be; And should not now have turned to tread TXlis darkest scene of all my woes, ",t something in my heart hats said 'Iy life is hastening to its close. And now I have no wish below, Anrid no request for man to keep, If thou, who know'st my tale of wo, Wilt lay me by my bride to sleep." la 14 fPoevis by Pli be Carey. He paused, and, blinded by his tears, Bowed down withi sorrow dark and deep, The hoarded agony of years ,'.~ ~ Bowed down with sorrow dark and deep. Broke forth, and then he ceased to weep: But when he raised his eyes again, I saw, what was unseen till now, The Lovers. That death, in characters too plain, Was written on that pallid brow. Three little days; and then we laid That wreck of manhood and of pride Beneath the gloomy cypress shade, To slumber with his stricken bride. THE LOVERS. HOU marvellest why so oft her eyes Fill with the heavy dew of tears Have I not told thee that there lies A shadow darkly on her years? Life was to her one sunny whole, Made up of visions fancy wove, Till that the waters of her soul Were troubled by the touch of love. I knew when first the sudden pause Upon her spirit's sunshine fell: Alas! I little guessed the cause, 'Twas hidden in her heart so well. Our lives since early infancy Had flowed as rills together flow, And now to hide her thought from me Was bitterer than to tell its wo. One night, when clouds with anguish black A tempest in her bosom woke, She crushed the bitter tear-drops back, And told me that her heart was broke' 5 I6 Poems by Plibe Carey. I learned it when the autumn hours \Vitl wailing winds around us sighed'Twvas sut mmer when her love's young flowers Bu;-st into glorious life and died: No-now I can remnember well, 'Twas the soft month of sun and shower; A thousand times I've heard her tell The season, and the very hour: For inow, wlien'er the tear-drops star> As if to ease its throl)biug pain, Slie leans her head uponi my heart And tells the very tale again. Tis something of a m1oonI, that beamed UponI her weak and tr-emb)ling form, And one beside, on whlom she leaned, That scarce had stronger heart or armOf souls united there until Death the last ties of life shall part, Anld a fond kiss whose rapturous thrill Still vibrates softly in hier heart. It is an era strange, yet swveet, \VhEich every woman's thought has known, When first her young heart learns to beat To the soft music of a tone; That era when shle first begins To know what love alone can teact, That there are hidden depths within Which friendshlip never yet could reach And all earth has of bitter wo Is light beside her hopeless doomn r?ke Loecrs. WVho sees love's first sweet star below Fade slowixl till it sets in gloom. There may be heavier grief to move When first her young heart learns to beat To the soft music of a tone. The heart that mourns an idol dead. 3ut one wlco weeps a living love Has surely little left to dread. I7 Pocizs b, P/ b e Carey. I cannot tell wily love so true As theirs should only end in gloom; Some mystery that I never knew WVas woven darkly with their doom. I only know their dream was vain, And that they woke to find it past, Nlnd when by chance they met again, It was not as they parted last. iis was not faith that lightly dies, For truth and love as clearly shone {n the blue heaven of his soft eyes, As the dark midnight of her own: And therefore Heaven alone can tell What are his living visions now; {3ut hers-the eye can read too well The language written on her brow. In the soft twilight, dim and sweet, Once watching by the lattice pane, ~he listened for his coming feet, For whom she never looked in vain: '1 hen hope shone briglitlv on lher brow, That liad not learned its after fears A as! she cannot sit tlhere noW, tBut that her dark eyes fill with tears! And ever-y woodland platiway dim And bower of roses cool and sweet, Triat speak of vanished days and him, Are spots forbidden to her feet. No tllought within her b)oson) stirs Bet wakes some feeling dark and dread: God keep thee from a doom like hers Of living when the hopes are dead! 1-1. I Thze Followers of Chzrisl. THE FOLLOWERS OF CHRIST. HAT were thy teachings? Thou who hadst not where In all this weary earth to lay thy head; Thou who wert made the sins of men to bear, And break with publicans thy daily bread. Turning from Nazareth, the despised, a5ide, And dwelling in the cities by the sea, What were thy words to those who sat and dried Their nets upon the rocks of Galilee? Didst thou not teach thy followers here below, Patience, long,-suffering, charity, and love; To be forgiving, and to anger slow, And perfect, like our blessed Lord above? And who were they, the called and chosen then, Through all the world, teaching tlhy truth, to go? Were they the rulers, and the chiefest men, The teachers in the synagogue? Not so! Mlakers of tents, and fishers by the sea, These only left their all to follow thee. And even of the twelve whom thou didst name Apostles of thy holy word to be, Oie was a devil; and the one who came with loudest boasts of faith and constancy I9 Poemis by PlIsbe Carey. He was the Hi-st thy warning who forgot, And said, withi curses, that he knew thee not'! Yet were thei-e some wllo in thv sorrows were To thee even, as l b)rothel and a friend, And womein, seeking out the sepulchre, \Vere true an(l faithful even to the end: And some there were wlho kept the living faith Through persecution even unto death. But, Saviour, since that dark and awful day \Vhen the dread temple's vail was rent in twain, And while the noontide brightness fled away, The gaping earth gave up her dead again; Tracing the many generations down, \Vho have professed to love thy holy ways, Through the long centuries of the world's renown, And through the terrors of her darker days\Where are thy followers, and what deeds of love Their deep devotion to thy precepts prove? Turn to the time when o'er the green hilVs came Peter the Hermit from the cloister's gloom, Telling his followers in the Saviour's name To arm and battle for the sacred tomb; Not with the Christian armor-perfect faith, And love which purifies the soul from dross 20 Thze Followers of Christ. But holding in one hand the sword of death, And in the other lifting up the cross, He roused the sleeping nations up to feel All the blind ardor of unholy zeal! WVith the bright banner of the cross tunfurled, And chanting sacred hymns, they marched, and yet TheN made a pandemonium of the world, M\ore dark than that wvhere fallen angels met: The singing of their bugles could not drown The bitter curses of the hunted down! Richard, the lion-hearted, brave in war, Taincr-ed, and Godfrey, of 4he fearless band, Though earthly fame had spread their names afar, What xwer-e they but the scourges of the land? And worse than these were men, whose touch would be Pollution, vowed to lives of sanctity! And in thv name did men in other days Construct the Inquisition's gloomy cell, And kindle persecution to a blaze, Likest of all things to the fires of hell! Ridley and Latimer-I hear theirt song In calling up each martyr's glorious name, And C.ranmer, with the praises on his tongue Whenl his red hand dropped down amid lt., flame! 21 22 Poems by Phcebe Carey. Merciful God! and have these things been done, And in the name of thy most holy Son? Turning from other lands grown old in crime To this, where Freedom's root is deeply set, Surely no stain uponi its folds sublime Dims t.e escutcheon of our glory yet? Hush! came there not a sound upon the air Like captives moaning from their native shioreWVoman's deep wail of passionate despair For home and kindred seen on earth no more! Yes, standing in the market-place, I see Our w-eaker- brethren coldly bought and sold, To be in hopeless, dull captivity, Driven forth to toil like cattle from the fold And hark! the lash, and the despairing cry Of the strong man in perilous agony! A.nd near me I can hear- the heavy sound Of the dull hammer borne upon the air: .s a new city rising from tile ground? IWVhat hath the artisan constructed there? 'Tis not a palace, nor an humble shed; 'Tis not a holy temple reared by hands; No!-lifting up its dark and bloody head Right in the face of Heaven, the scaffold stands; Thze Followcrs of Chriss. Andl men, regar-dless of "Thou shalt not kill," That plainiest lesson in the Book of Light, Even from thie verv altars tell us still That evil sanctioned by the lawv is right! And preach in tones of eloquence sublime, To teach mankind that murder is not cr-ime! And is there nothing to redeem mankind? No heart that keeps the love of God within? Is the wvhole world degraded, weak, and blind, And darkened by the leprous scales of sin? No, wie wvill hope that somrae in meekness sweet, Still sit, with trusting Mary, at thy feet. For there are men of God, who faithful stand On the far ramparts of our Zion's wall, Planting the cross of Jesus in some land That never listened to salvation's call. And theie are some, led by philanthropy, Men of the feeling heart and daring mind, WVho fain would set the hopeless captive free, And raise the weak and fallen of mankind. And there are many in life's humblest way, Who tread like angels on a path of light, Who warn the sinful when they go astray, And point the erring to the way of right; And the meek beauty of such lives will teach More than the eloquence of man can preach. And, blessed Saviour! by thy life of trial, Anrd by thy death, to free the world from sin, 23 PoeIizs by Pioebe Carer. And by the hope that man, though weak and vile, Hath something of divinity withinStill X-ill we trust, lhough sin and crime be met, To see thy holy precepts triumph yet! SONNETS. I. OWN in the cold and noiseless wave of death, Oh, pure and beautiful lost one that thou art, Clasping the anchor of eternal faith Closer and closer to thy trusting heartDidst thou fade from us, while our tearful eyes, Here on the shore of sad mortality, Gazed sorrowing on that form that ne'er shall rise Till sounds the music of eternity. Then shalt thou take the Saviour's hand in thine, Not with his faith who held it talteringly, But in the trustfulness of love divine, And with him walk the waters of the sea; Till, casting anchor, all thy toils s5b'lI cease In the still haven of eternal peac, 24 Sonnets. II. THE beautiful measure of thy trusting love Survives the answering faith it knew of old; Over the heart thy pleadings cannot move, Slowly, but sure, the closing wave hath rolled: The unpitying eyes thou meet'st burn not more bright, Though now thy lips with eloquent fervor speak, And all thy passionate kisses may not light The crimson fires in the unchanging cheek. How shall I give thee solace? Had she died, WVith love's sweet sunlight shining in hei eyes, Then might'st thou, casting selfish grief aside, Patiently wait reunion in the skies: For better than the living faith estranged, The love that goes down to the dead unchanged. III. LOOK once again! yet morn in holy trust, Near the still Presence softly, softly tread, Before the dimness of the closing dust Soils the yet lingering beauty of the dead. Look on the silent lip, whence oft hath flowed Such living truth as man hath seldom *aughtl 25 Poems by Phabe Carey. And the sereneness of that brow that glowed Earniest in life with pure and eloquent thought! Hale silver-white has grown his reverend hair, Serving his MIaster in the way of truth: For him, an age of active love and prayer Fulfilled the beautiful promise of his youth; And what a triumph houi is death to those Faithful in life, yet happy in its close! Iv. LET me not feel thy pitying finger's grasp, Though dewy cool their pressure still mnay be, Since they, have learned to thrill within the clasp Of1 passionate love that trembled once for me! Sw-eep back thle beautiful tresses from thy brow, Nor let them, falling o'er me, blend with mine: Dark as the glorious midnight in their flow, My locks are paler in.Lr fall than thin.c' Tn thy deep eyes are lit the fires divine, That made the heart its early love forget; So much thley'mock the softer light of mine I cannot calmly meet their glarzes v(";; Therefore, until this bitterness shall cease, Leave me, that I may win.Ay heart to peaces 26 N the same beaten channel still have run Thle blessed streams of human sympathy; And though I know this ever hath been done, Thle why and wherefore I could never see-. AVWhy some such sorrow for their griefs have M on, Aind some, unpitied, bear their misery, Are mysteries, which thinking o'er and o'er Has left me nothing w;ser than before. SYMPATHY. What bitter tears of agony have flowed O'er tile saold pages of some ola romance! How Beauty's cheek beneath those drops has glo wTed, That climmed the sparkling lustre of her glance, And on some love-sick maiden is bestowed, Or some rejected, hapless knight, per chance, All her deep sympathies, until her moans Stifle the nearer sound of living groans! 27 Poems by Phoebe Carey. Oh, the deep sorrow for their suffering felt, Where is found something " better days' to prove! WVhat heart above their downfall will not melt, Whlo in a " Ihigher circle" once could move! For such, mankind hlave ever freely dealt Out the full measure of their pitying love, Because they witnessed, in their wretchedness, Their friends grow fewer and their fortunes less. But for some humble peasant girl's d(istress, Some real being left to stem the tid(le, \Vlho saw her young tleart's wealth of tende, ness Betrayed, and trampled on, and flung asideWVho seeks her ouit, to make her sorrows less? \vhat noble lade,, o'er hIer tale athi crie(I? None! for thle records of such lthumble grief Obtain not human pity-scarce belief. And as for their distress, who from the first Have hlad no fortune and lno friends to failThose who in poverty were born and nursed Forsuclh, bymen,are placed without the pale Of sympathly-since they are deemed thle worst Who are the humblest, and if Want assail And bring them harder toil,'tis only said, 'They have been used to labor for their bread!" 23 Sympatfhy. Oh, the unknown, unpitied thousands found Huddled together, hid from human siglit Bv fell disease or gnawing famine, bound To some dim, crowded garret, day and night, Or in unwholesome cellars underground, WVith scarce a breath of air, or ray of light! Hunger, and rags, and labor ill repaid Tl ese are the things that ask our tears and aid. And these ought not to be; it is not well Here in this land of Christian liberty, Unaided by our care and sympathy; And is it inot a burning shame to tell \WTe have no means to check such misery, \When wealth from out our treasury freely flows, To wage a deadly warfare with our foes! It is all wrong; yet men begin to deem The days of darkest gloom are nearly done; A something, like the first bright golden beam That heralds in the coming of the dawn, Fre?.ks on the sight. Oh, if it be no dream, Ilow shall we haste that blessed era on! For there is need that on men's hearts should fall A spirit that shall sympathize with all, 29 30 Poems by Prhbe Carey. MEMORIES. " She loved me, but she left me." EMORIES on memories! to my soul again There come such dreams of van ished love and bliss, That my wrung heart, though long inured to pain, Sinks with the fulness of its wretchedness. Thou dearer far than all the world beside! Thou who didst listen to my love's first vow! Once I had fondly hoped to call thee bride Is the dream over? comes the awakening now? And is this hour of wretchedness and tears The only guerdon for my wasted years? And did I love thee; when by stealth we met In the sweet evenings of that summer-time, Whose pleasant memc ry lingers with me yet, As the remembrance of a better clime Might haunt a fall n ang,l. And oh! thou; Thou who didst turn away and seek to bind Thy heart from breaking, th u hast felt ere now A heart like thine o'ermast reth the miid; Affection's p wer iz stronger than thy will; Ah! thou didst love mc. and thou lovest me still. Memories. My heart could never yet be taught to move WVith the calm even pulses that it should Turning away from those that it should love, And loving whom it should not; it hath wooed Beauty forbidden-I may not forget And thou, oh! thou canst never cease to feel; But time, which hath not changed affection, vet Hathl taught at least one lesson-to conceal; So none, but thou, who see my smiles shal know 'he silent bleeding of the heart below MORALIZINGS. TARK to the triumph for a victory won, Shaking the solid earth wher-eon we stand! What noble action hath the Nation done, That thus rejoicing echoes through the land? Hath she beheld life's inequali'v How, still, her stronger sons the weak oppress, And, in the spirit of philanthropy, Made the deep sum of human anguish less? Or hath she risen up, at last to free The hopeless slave from his captivity i 31 -Po c;s by fi/zebe Carey. No, not for these the shout is heard to-nigh'; \Waking its echoes in each vale and glen, Not that the precepts of the Lord of Light Have found a dwelling in the hearts of men; Tis that a battle hath been fought and woii, That the deep cannon's note is heard afar-. Felling u,is of thlle bloodv conflict done, That Victory hovers o'er our rantks in war And that her sol(idiery their triuml)li sing In the broad shadow of her starry wing. An-d war is here! Impatient for the fight, Our Nationl in her majesty arose, Even as the restless lion in his might U) from tihe swelling of the Jordan goes, And, with a tramnpling noise that shook eac? lill, On to) thie conflict madly hlatli she rushed, Vowing to falter not, nor yield, until The life from out a Nation's heart is crushed; Until her hapless sons are ma(le to feel The bloody vengeance of her iron heel! And what will be our gain, though we return Proudly victorious frcm each battle plain? A weakened Nation will be left to mourn Her bravest heroes in the conflict slain; Her treasury drained; our broad and goodly land Filled with the or)nb - and the widowed wife; 32 Moralizings. A soldiery corrupted to disband, Unfit for useful toil or virtuous life; And a long train of evils yet to be Darkly entailed upon posterity! And this is glory! This is what hath been To ages back the proudest theme ()f song, And, dazzled by its glare, man has not seen Beneath its pageantry the deadly wrong. Deeming it fame to tread where heroes trod, In his career he has not paused, or known That all are children of the self-same God, And that our brother's interest is our own; For man that hardest lesson has to learn, Still to forgive, and good for ill to return. But oh! for all will come that solemn hour When memory calls to mind each deed of sin, And the world's hollow praise can have no power To still the voice of conscious guilt within And grant, 0 Lord of Love, that it may be MIy lot, when on the brink of death I press, To think of some slight act of charity, Some pang of I -lma'- wretchedness made less, So, that in numbering o'er life's deeds again, i then may deem I have not lived in vain! 33 ~34 PoemCs by Plzabe Carey. DREAMING OF HEAVEN. SIT where the shadows of twilight steal o'er mre, While the wlidbirds are warb ling their last fitful hymn, And I think of the loved who have entered before me That dwelling whose glory shall never grow dim. F'r, ever the land of the spirits seems nearer, 'When twilight steals over the earth's quiet breast, And thle harps of the angels sound sweeter and clearer, What time the last day-beams go out in the west. Oh! if all my dreams were as bright:nd elysian As those which the eve to my spirit still brings, I could sit here for ever to woo the sweet vision, And dream about heaven and heavenly things! For I long to be up where the seraphim gather With the ransomed of Zion w", Jesus has blest, Morning Thoughts And where, in the smile of our heavenly Father, Our purified spirits for ever shall rest! MORNING THOUGHTS. ROSSING the east with gold and crimson bars, Comes the imperial King of day and light, And, shaken by his tread, tile burning stars Drop from th-e regal d!adem of night Surelv the dawn was not more fair than this \When Edclen's roses in fresh beauty burst, And morning, blushing at her loveliness, Looked down upon the young creation first: \When all below was innocent, and when The angels walked in Paradise with man. How equally the gifts of God come down To all the creatures which his hand has made; The beams that wake the children of renown, Fall softly on thie peasant in the glade. The dawn that calls the eagle up to fly From her proud eyrie to the mountain's height, Visits the lowly lark as smilingly, When from the vale she takes her homeward flight: 35 36 Poems by Phowbe Carey. Morning and life and sunshine, these are things That are not meant to be the wealth of kings! Freedom at least from homeless poverty, A soul unbowed by fetters or by pain, One heart whose faith has still been true to me, These things are mine, and why should I complain? Complain! when God has been so good to me, And whe,n his blessings with my days increase, Giving for every day of misery A recompense of tranquil days of peace: Even as the morning with her smiles and light Is over-payment for the weary night. THE MARINER'S BRIDE. 'E R the dark waters now my bounding bark ,May bear me onward wheresoe'er it will' 1 care not though the angry sky be dark, Lig}ht of my )eing! thou art wit}h me still. Yes, let the lieaviong billows lash the deck, And the red lightning tremble on the sea; So that thy faithful arms are round my neck, My heart will never tremble;-for with thee [ know my soul within would still be brave If every gaping billow showed a grave. Thze Mariner's Bride. Once I had feared the raging of the sea, \Vhen the wild tempest in its fury burst; But, bride of beauty! standing thus with tllee, The angry elements may do their worst. And shouid our vessel founder on a rock, Or cast us on some desert shore to die, Onice I had feared the raging of the sea, When the wild tenipect il its fury burst. UTnshrinkingly my soul will meet the shock, If thou with that inspiring brow art nigh: For, folding thee, my gentle bride, to sleep, Closer, and closer, to his fainting breast, 37 38 Poems by Plimbe Carey. \Ve should go down as calmly to the deep As a Doug infant to its cradle-r-est. And though the water-wraithl should stir the sea, And thle w-ild tempest move thie waves above, Securely peaceful would my slumber be \Vith thee, my stricken bride of voutl aid love; For thou woulclst cheer the darkness of the grave, As the bright sea-star lights the ocean cave! THE PRISONER'S LAST NIGHT. ;-HE last red gold had melted from the sky, Where the sweet sunset lingered soft and warm, A starry night was gathering silently The jewelled mantle round her legal form; While the invisible fingers of the breeze Shook. the young blossoms lightly from the trees. Yet were there breaking hearts beneath the stars, Though the hushed earth lay smiling in the light, And the dull fetters and the prison bars SawN bitter tears of agony that night, Thze Prisoizer's Lasi ATighk. And heard such burning words of love and truth As wfring the life-drops from the heart of youth. For he, whlom men relentless doomed to die, Parted with one who loved him till the last; \Withi manv a vow of faith and constancy The long, long watches of the night were passed; T.-', heavily and slow, the prison door Swunr.g back, and told them that their hour was o'er. 'TwAas ilis last night on earth! and God alone Can tell the anguish of that stricken one, Fettered in darkness to the dungeon stone, And doomed to perish with thle rising sun; And she, whose faith through all was vainly true, Her heart was broken-and she perished too! And will this win an erring brother back To the sweet paths of pleasantness and peace? "While crimes are punished but by crime more black," Will sin, and wickedness, and sorrow cease? No! crime will never cease to scourge the land, So long as blood is on her ruler's hand! And ohi! how long will hearts in sin and pride Reject his blessed precepts, who of yore 39 40 Poems by Phzobe Carey. Tau:1 men forgiveness on the mountain side, An-' toke of love and mercy by the shlore? IHow long will power, with sucll despotic sway, Trample unfriended weakness in its way? Haste,, 0 Lord of Light, that glorious time, WVhen manl no more shall spurn thy wise command, Filling the earth with wretchedness and crime, And making guilt a plague-spot on the land; -a-.tcn the time, that blood ino more shall cry v nceasingly for vengeance to the sky! SONG OF THE HEART. EY may tell for ever of worlds of bloom Beyond the skies and beyond the tomb; Of the sweet repose, and the rapture there, That are not found in a world of care; But not to me can the present seem Like a foolish tale or an idle dream. Oh, I know that the bowers of heaven are fair, And I know that the waters of life are there; But I do not long for their happy flow, WVhile there bursts such fountains of bliss below; And I would not leave, for the rest above. The faithful bosom of trusting love! Song of the Heart. There are angels here; they are seen the while In each love-lit brow and each gentle smile; There are seraph voices, that meet the ear In the kindly tone and the word of cheer; And lighlt, such light as they have above, Beams on us here, from the eyes of love. Yet, when it cometh my time to die, I would turn from this bright world willingly; Though, even then, wiould the thoughts of this Tinge every dream of that land of bliss; And I fain would lean on the loved for aid, Nor walk alone through the vale and shade And if'tis mine, till life's changes end, To keep the hieart of one faithful friend, Wlhatever the trials of earth may be,On the peaceful shore, or the restless sea, In a palace home, or the wilderness,T! -re is heaven for me in a world like this! 41 Pocelzs by P/zwbe Carey. MAN BELIEVES THE STRONG. H! in this world, where all is fair and bright, "-. Save human wickedness and human pride, 'Marring what else were lovely %~-~i ~ -to the sight, It is a truth that may not be denied, However deeply we deplore the wrong, Mlan hath believed, and still believes the strong. WVhen injured and defenceless woman stands, Haply the child of innocence or youth, And lifts to heaven her pleading voice and hands In all the moving eloquence of truth, \Vhio will believe, in that most trying hour, Her words who is not strong in wealth or power? Or let the slave, of all on earth bereft, Stand up to plead before a human bar; And though the fetters and the lash have left Upon his limbs the deep-attesting scar, Who trusts his tale, or who will rise to save From wrong and injury the outcast slave? If a poor, friendless criminal appear, A criminal which men themselves have made, By the injustice and oppression here, 42 The Homesick Peasant. Who to pronounce him "guilty" is afraid? But who, if rank or wealth were doomed thereby, \Would speak that final word as fearlessly? Oh, whiere so much of wrong and sorrow are, There must be need of an unfalter-ing trust In His all.seeing watchfulness and care, Whose Nwavs to man below we know are just; In Him, whose love has numbered every tear WVrung from his weak, defenceless creatures here. And there is need of earnest, full belief, And patient work, to bring that holier day Wilen there shall be redress for humblest grief, And equal right and justice shall have sway; And we will strive, in trustfulness sublime, Hoping our eyes may see the ble;ed time! THE HOMESICK PEASANT. e*^ H! I am sick of cities; all night e-~:~ ~'m long Orchards and corn-fieldswaved c a before my sight, Till the quick moving ot the restless throng Broke on that pleasant vision of the night With an unwelcome sound, and called my feet Back from the meadows to the crowded street. 43 Poems by Phb Carcy. I grew a child of Nature on the hills, Learning no lessons from the lips of Art, And thb restraint of cities cramps and chills X grew a child of nature on the hills, Learning no lessons from the lips of Art. The warm, impulsive feelings of my heart: Even the ceaseless stir and motion here Grates with a jarring sound upon my ear. The Homesick Pvasazt. It is not like my childhood: from the trees, And from the flowers that grew beneath my feet, Aild from the artless whispers of the breeze, I never learned the lessons of deceit: They never taught me that my heart should hide 45 Poems by Phoebe Carey. Its thoughts and feelings with a mask of pride. And therefore with the morning I awake, To feel a homesick yearning for the hillsA thirst no water on the earth can slake, Save tile clear gushing of my native rills; And I once more upon their banks would stand, Free as the breezes of my native land. Give me a swreet home, set among the trees, With friends whose words are ever kind and true, And books whose stories should instruct and please, When round the quiet hearth the household drew; For in their pleasant pages I can find All I would learn of cities and mankind. HOMES FOR ALL. OLUMBIA, fairest nation of the world, Sitting in queenly beauty in the west, With all thy banners round about thee furled, Nursing the cherub Peace upon thy breast; Never did daughter of a kingly line Look on a lovelier heritage than thinel I 6, Honmes for All. Thou hast deep forests stretching far away, The giant growth of the long centuries, From whose dim shadows to the light of day Come forth the mighty rivers towvard the seas, To w,alk like happy lovers, hand in hand, Down through the green vales of our pleasant land. Thou liast broad prairies, where the lovely flowers Blossom and perish with the changing year; \WThere harvests wave not through the summer hours, Nor with the autumn ripen in the ear; And beautiful lakes that toss their milky spray Where the strong ship hath never cleaved its Nwav. And yet with all thy broad and fertile land, Where hands sow not, nor gather in the grain, Thy children come and round about thee stand, Asking the blessing of a home in vain,Still lingering, but with feet that long to press Through the green windings of the wilderness. In populous cities do men live and die, That nev,er breathe the pure and liberal air: 47 Poems by Phoebe Carey. D)own where the damp and desolate rice swamps lie, WVearying the ear of Heaven with constant prayer, Are souls that never vet have learned to raise Under God's equal slay the psalm of praise. turn not, Columbia! from their pleading eyes; Give to thyn sons that ask of thee a home; So shall they gather round thee, not with sighs, But as young children to their mother come; And brightly to the centuries shall go down The glory that thou wearest like a crown. HARVEST GATHERING. HE last days of the summer: bright and clear Shines the warm sun down on the quiet land, \Where corn-fields, thick and heavy in the ear, Are slowly ripening for the laborer's hand; Seed-time and harvest-since the bow was set, Not vainly has man hoped your coming yet! To the quick rush of sickles, joyously The reapers in the yellow wheat-fields sun_, 48 Harvest Gathering. And bound the pale sheaves of the ripened rye, WVhen the first tassels of the maize were hung; That precious seed into the furrow cast Earliest in spring-time, crowns the harvest last. Ever, when summer's sun burns faint and dim, And Irare and few the pleasant days are given, WVhen the sweet praise of our thanksgiving hymn MAlakes beautiful niusic in tile ear of Heaven, I think of other harvests whience the sound O[ singingo comes not as the sheaves are bound. Not where the rice-fields whiten in the sun, And the wcLrm South casts down her yellow fruit, SholTt they the labors of the autumn done For tlhere Oppression casts her deadly root, Andcl thiey, wcIo sc)w and gather in that clime, Share not the treasures of the harvest-time. Go, of the seasons! thou who didst ordain Bread for the eater who shall plant the soil, How have they heard thee, who have forged thie chain And built the dungeon for the sons of toil? 49 5p Poems by Phwbe Carey. Burdening their hearts, not with the voice of prayer, But the dull cries of almost dumb despair. They who would see that growth of wicked. ness Planted where now the peaceful prairie waves, And make the green paths of our wilderness Red with the torn and bleeding feet of slaves Forbid it, Heaven! and let the sharp axe be Laid at the root of that most poison tree! Let us behold its deadly leaves begin A fainter shadow o'er the world to cast, And the long day that nursed its growth of sin Wane to a sunset that shall be its last; So that the day-star, rising from the seas Shall light a land whose children will be freet PRAYER. ATHER! thou didst hear my prayer. When I plead with thee to spare, When I asked for length of years, Thou didst pitying see my tears, And thy words in answer were, "Respite from the sepulchre!" Lo! no more the prayer I raise: Prayer. Life hath waned to evil days; Veiling in the dust my woes, I would bless the grave's repose; Sweeter, sweeter would it be, Than a lover's dream to me. Long enough thy child hath been Sruggling ill a world of sin, Long enougll lave doubts assailed, Long enougih the flesh prevailed, Long enough hath sorrow tried One it liath not purified. In life's hours of rosy dclawn, Hope with white hand let me on, Showing gorgeous imagery Of a happier time to be; But, in noonday's clearer hame, Blest fruition never came. Hastening now towards its close Is the day that brightly rose, And the hope that fled its prime Comes not at the evening times Hear me, pity, and recall, Ere the midnight shadows falls. Willing, eager to depart, Old in years and old in heart, Waiting but the messenger To unseal the sepulchre, Lo! again to Thee I comeTake me, Father, take me homel 51 LIFE IS NOT VANITY. ' RE ye not erring teachers V aho tell us, that below ' There is no sparkling fountain ~:~.':,: ~ W \Vher-e living waters flow; That all earth's well-springs bubble up Wzith bitter drops of wo? That life's a night of darkness, \\'itli scarce a cheering star, That wse cannot make our trials Less b)itter than tney are,Thaltt wAe should think of heaven alone, And Heaven itself is far. No marvel earth is dark to you Wtio thus in shadows keep,That you cannot see the Hay-spring WVhen you close your eyes and sleep; Or that earth is but a vale of tears For you who sit and weep. You tell us of the happiness Of the unchanging sphere Life is No! Vanity. Because the loved and loving there To bless us will be near; If that be heaven, what hinders us To make a heaven here? Oh, would we rouse from slumber, Life liathl something to be done; We may lose the prize by faltering, Which exertion might have won; And when we strive to help ourselves, The Lord will aid us on. And if we be immortal, As we believe and know, Then is the life eternal Begun in life below; And hath it been ordained by heaven, That it should be in wo? No! and though trailing shadows O'er our pathway sometimes move, Yet below, as in the life to come, All things are ruled in love, And God will bless as willingly As he will do above! And if we cheer life's marches, And smooth the path beneath, If we labor for advancement WVith a true and earnest faith; We shall stand prepared for lengthened years, Or for the call of death! 53 Poems by Phzebe Carey. BURIAL HYMN. ARTH to earth, and dust cto dust: Here, in calm and holy trust, WVe have made her quiet bed \ITith the pale hosts of the dead, And, with hearts that, stricken weep, Come to lay her down to sleep. From life's weary cares set free, Mlother Earth, she comes to thee! Hiding from its ills and storms In the shelter of thine arms: Peaceful, peaceful be her rest, Here upon tny faithful breast. And when sweetly from the dust Heaven's last summons calls the just, Saviour! when the nations rise Up to meet thee in the skies, Gently, gently, by the hand, Lead her to the better land! SONG OF THE REFORMED. EEKING its place of rest, Eachl in its quiet nest, All the glad warblers have hushed their last song; And the first star of night, With her faint silver light, Guideth my homeward steps safely along. 54 Song of lIze Refornmed. Oh! to that quiet hlome, With what delight I come, When from the cares of the clay I am free; For with her happy smile, lThere my youlII wife tile while Sits by the lattice pa,ne watching for me. But when I sought tlhe board Where thle red wise is poured, Oft lhas slie fled when my footsteps drew near, And Iestling dowln to rest, Close to that faithful breast, Has my Youn.g infant turned from me in fear. Silently then each day Passed her sad life axwaySilently then was our sweet child caressed; Now our low cabin rings \With the glad song she sings, Rocking it nightly to sleep on her breast There I can see the light \Where our warm hearth is bright, Oh! is there bliss more ecstatic above Than this full heart can know, Blest with your smiles below, Wife of my bosom and child of my love? 55 Poemns by! Phzobe Carey. THE COLD WVATER ARMY. IRMLY they still have stood, A true and fearless band, For the noole cause of hluman good Hathi nerved each heart and lhand. And they fear not tlhe frowns of earth, The mocking sneers of men, For they fight for the sacred home and hearth, For Lthleir trampled rights again. In their ranks, no longer thin and weak, Are men of every age, From the stripling slight, with a beardless cheek, To tile silver-headed sage. 1Oh, thleir hosts would darken the summer sea, \Vere their banners all outspread, And thle dens of guilt rock tremblingly WVith their firm and heavy tread. They come not, an invading band, WVith dreams of high renown, To spoil the homes of our happy land, And trample her vineyards down; But to hunt that monster of sin and crime, Which the slaves of the wine-cup know, ,h'o tracks his way in a path of slime O'er the fairest flowers below. 56 The Cold Water trmny. For undisturbed has he roamed the earth 'ill his ser-pent brood tlave come To nest themselves in the very hearth Of many a once bright lGome. Yet, hearing the widow and orphan's sigh, And knowing he wolinds to kill, There are those so deaf to a nation's cry They wxould shield the monster still. But our army follows with noiseless tread Wherever he winds his way, As, feeling tile bruise on his venomed head, He shrinks from the light of day; And ne'er on the unsheathed sword and spear Will their hand relax its grasp, Till they pause, and lean on their arms, to hear The sound of his dying gasp COMING HOME. OW long it seems since first we heard The cry of "Land in sight!" Our vessel surely never sailed So slowly till tonight. When we discerned the distant hills, The sun was scarcely set, And now the noon of night is passed, They seem no nearer 3etL 57 I,% Poemns by Pzoebe Carey. ~ ______ ' ~' ~ __ ;; T;;j:< ___ ~" v#~~~K~. I;;:' Where the blue Rhine reflected back Each frowning castle wall. Where the blue Rhine reflected back Each frowning castle wall, WVhere, in the forest of the Ijartz, Eternal shadows fallOr where the yellow Tiber flowed By the old hills of Rome, I never felt such restlessness, Such longing for our home. I Parting and Afeefzing. Dost thou remember, oh! my friend, When we behleld it last, How shadows from the setting sun Upon our cot were cast? Three summer-times upon its walls Have shone for us in vaiin; But, oh! we're hastening homeward now, To leave it not again. There, as the last star dropped away, From Nighlt's imperial brow, Did not our vessel "round the point?" The land looks nearer now! Yes, as the first ftaint beams of day Fall on our native shore, They're dropping anchor in the bay We're home, we're home once more! PARTING AND MEETING. the casement, closed and lonesome, Is falling the autumn rain, And my heart to-niglht is heavy With a sense of unquiet pain Not that the leaves are dying In the kiss of the traitor frost, And not that the summer flowers On the bitter winds are tosseri 59 50 Poems by Phabe Carey. And not that the reaper's singing The time no longer cheers, Bringing home through the mellow starlight The sheaves and the yellow ears. No, not from these am I sighing, As the hours pass slow and du~ For God in his own time maketh All seasons beautiful. But one of our household number Sits not by the hearth-fire's light, And right on her pathway beating Is the rain of this autumn night. And therefore my heart is heavy WVith a sense of unquiet pain, For, but Heaven can tell if the parted Shall meet in the earth again. But knowing God's love extendetb Wherever his children are, And tenderly round about them Are the arms of his watchful care; With him be the time and the season Of our meeting again with thee, Whether here on these earthly bordersi Or the shore of the world to be. Thte Reefer. THE REEFER. ES, sailor, when the angry deep Its war with heaven is waging, I'll tell thee why I sit and weep IVhen thus the storm is ragi.ng. Once when the sea, as now, wa tossed With eierce and wild commotion, I stood u-.i.eeding on the coast, And watched the troubled ocean. For as the a:rowy bolts were hurled In fiery wrath from heaven, We sav, afar, with canvas furled, A ship through darkness driven. I had a brother then, whose bark Upon.hle sea was riding, And when I saw that vessel dark, I knee his hand was guiding. A-d n.wr, as fiercer came the light, Ana as the storm grew drearer, tie saw her through the gathering night Come near the strand, and nearer! Already fancy clasped once more The form so fondly cherished, When, reaching to the fatal shore, That vessel struck and perished! And now, upon the sea, when'er The black clouds o'er us hover, 61 Poems by Phoebe Carey. I see that frail bark strike. and hear The shriek that rose above hler! No change can lull my thoughts to sleep, No time my grief assuages; And therefore, sailor, do I weep, When thus tile tempest rages A TIME TO DIE. IKE the music deep and solemn In some ruined church, Floating over crumbling column F- m Pi And fallen arch; Through the naked branches trailing Low on the ground, Come the winds of autumn wailing With a ghostly sound. Over all below a feeling Of quiet reigns, Like a drowsy numbness stealing Through the veins. Even the sun, in thle dim haze mourning, Hides his hIead, Like a sickly taper burning Beside the dead. And all day one feeling busy In my soul hath wrought, 62 ,4 Time lo Die. Till heart and brain are dizzy WVith the solemn thought. In the shadow of deep dejection I sit and sigh, \Vith but one sad reflection, " A'TIMIE TO DIE!" O God of the soul immortal! If death be near, Teach me to tread that portal And not to fear. Keep thlou my feet from turning Aside to die; Let my lamp be filled and burning For the "MIDNIGHT CRY!" LOVE AT THE GRAVE. J' ~EMEMBRANCER of nature's prime, And herald of her fading near, The last month of the summer time Of leaves and flowers is with us here More eloquent than lip can preacl, To every heart that hopes and fears What solemn lessons does it teach Of the quick passage of our years! 63 Poems ~y Pliebe Carey. To me it brings sad thoughts of one, \Vho, in the summer's fading bloom, Bright from the arms of love went dowr, To the dim silence of the tomb. How often since has spring's soft shiowe. Revived the life in nattire's breast, And the sweet herb and tender flower Have been renewed above her rest! How many summer times have told To mortal hiear-ts thleir rapid flight, Since first this lheap of yAellow mould Shut out her beauty from my sight; Since first, to love's sweet promise true Mv feet beside her pillow trod, Till Xyear by year the pathway grew Deeper and deeper in the sod! Now these neglected roses tell Of no kind hand to tentd them nigh; Oh, God! I have not kept so well My faith as in the years gone by. But here to-day my step returns, And, kneeling where these willows wavre, ,&s the soft flame of sunrise burns Down through the dim leaves to thy grave 64 Strength of Sin. I cry, Forgive that I should prove Forgetful of thy memory; Forgive ile, tlhat a living love Once came between my soul and thee! For the weak heart that faintly yearned For human love its life to cheer Baffled and bleeding hlas returned To stifle dowvn its crying her-c. For, steadfast still, thy faithl to me WVas one which earth could not estrange: And, lost one! where the angels be I know affection may not change. OW lately and this beautiful earth was shut by darkness from my sight, And all the mighty arch of blue Was sparkling with its worlds of light. Waning and waning, one by one They vanished as the day-star rose, Till, lo? along the distant hills The fire of sunrise burns and glows 65 STREN\,GTH OF SIN. Poems by Phwbe Carey. And turning from the hosts of heaven To the calm beauty of the earth, I feel Fvlat guodness iiust be hlis VIlo spoke his glori-es into birth. Lore than our hearts can comprehend, Or our weak, blinded eyes can see, The wiisdom and the love of God, How\ mighty and how vast they be. Too fair for us to hate or leave This world his hand has placed us in, But for the presence and the power Of that most fiery serpei-_, sin — That first in Eden's peaceful shade Uncoiled its briglit and deadly folds, And living still, and unsubdued, Sends its dark poison through our souls But from his creatures blind and lost, God never wholly turned aside, As power to save us from the curse WVas sent us when the Saviour died. All that is left us under heaven, Hope of the lost and sin-enslaved, The only Name on earth that's given, Whereby the souls of men are saved. 66 Thle Place of Graves. Thanks unto God, that he was sent A sacred warfare to begin, That in the end shall surely crush And bind the infernal strength of sin! That by him it shall be at last Out from this fair creation hurled, WEho gave its death-blow when the cross WVas darkly planted in the world. And thanks to Him, that when the soul In agony for mercy calls, Right in the shadow of that cross The sunlight of his pardon falls. THE PLACE OF GRAVES. OWV often in the summers gone, I've stood where these memorials rise, And every time the spot had grown Less and less lonely to mine eyes. The first I ever loved that died Sleeps here, where these sweet roses wave; A maiden, with life's path untried, She left the sunshine for the grave. 67 68 Poems by Pha,be Carey. And what a place of desolate gloom Seemed then to me the realm of death, Though she I loved went calmly down, In all the truthfulness of faith. The next, a sweet lamb of the fold, An infant, lulled to slumber lay, With her pale lca-ks of finest gold Put softly from her brow away. But when the patient mother prest To her meek lips the bitter cup, And came with those she loved to rest, Till God shall call the sleepers up, Then the dim pathway grew more clear, That leads through darkness to the light, And death has never seemed so drear, Nor heaven so distant from my sight. FEARS. OLD me closer to thy bosom, Let me feel thy clasping hand; Wilder grows the night, and drearer Shall we never reach the land? Thrice from dreams of broken sl,,mnber Have I started in affright; Fears. On the shore I never trembled As I tremble here to-night. Nay,'tis not the haunting beauty Of some lov-ely vision {;,o,eBut tile watclies wear so hcav-y; Leave me, leave me not a!oneiie! Yes, I klnow the waves acre c'lmer, And thle slky has lost its f:-own, But the sitarp reefs, eie the nmorninc WTe may strike them, andl go down! Said you that the dawn is breaking, \Vittl its gray uncert;ain lic-it? Look! I dare not trust my vision Are the cliffs of home in sight? Hush! I cannot, listening eager, Hear the heavy billows roar; WVe are standing in still water WVe are nearing to the shore! Yes, above us, streaming seaward, Shine the red lights of the tower; We are anchored-we are mooring God be praised for such an hour! 69 ~~ I;I I ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ ~ ~~...,,x ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~, MELODY. HE beautiful eve, in her sparkling i:~;~/.~. ~:~ t i a,- a, .Viti dew —droppiig fingers is clos 5~.~~~m ing the flower, _____ Where thou,ohi! my white-bosomed bird of the prairie, Art watching and waiting for me in our bower. lMy heart, beating quick as the pulse of the ocean, Outstrips e'en my courser, to see thee again; Though his limbs are as lithe and as fleet in their motion As the barb in the desert, or roe on the plain. MIy heart feels no presage of evil or danger, For thou never wouldst fly, lovely warbler. frm mne-. 70 Thze IVomen acr t/ie Sefilchre. 71 And I hiid thee so well that the spoiler and stranger Could track not the windings whichl lead me to thee. Yet faster, my- steed: for tlhe starlig,lt discloses Our bowser, but io minstrel its slhadow among;.\Yes, something, is fluttering like wings in the roses, And, bird of my bosom! I hear thy sweet song. THE AWOMEN AT TI-E SEPULCHRE. ORN broke on Calvary, and the sun was flinging The earliest brightness from his locks abroad, As the meek sisters came in sad ness, bringing Gifts of sweet spices to anoint their Lord. They who had loved his blessed precepts ever, And linger'd with him when the earth was gloom, They were the faithful who reviled him never, " Last at the cross, and earliest at the tomb!" 72 Poems by Phabe Carey. I've sometimes thought I never could inherit A glorious mansion in the skies above: For, oh! how weak and faltering is my spirit, Compared with such undying faith and love! But, Father, can not all that heavenly meek ness, Thiat deathless love which all things could endure, Can it not plead before Thee, for the weak ness Of one whose faith is oft so faint and poor? THE WATCHER. IS the third summer that has gone, Since first upon that sloping hill, He listened for the feet of one i Whose coming he is waiting still. All through the evenings warm and bland, When the red sunset lights the skies, Then first we see the watcher stand, With hope reflected in his eyes: Still waiting through the tranquil hours, Till eve with fingers, fair and slight, Has folded up to sleep the flowers, And left them with the peaceful night. 7e Thatcher. But when tile stars like fire-sparks glow In the far pavemenit of the sky, Then hope, that lingered on till now, Fades slowlv from his cheek and eye. And when the still night, wearing on, Has almost broken into day, As if he knew shle would not come, He turns writh mournful step away. Oh, heavily, and dull, and slow, Such hours of anxious vigil wane: God keep that watcher in his wo, \\Who looks for coming feet in vain. 'Twas on the morning of a dav Sweet as the night-time ever nursed, Her white arms filled with flowers of May, He saw the village maiden first. Like tile last hues of dying day, Which sunset from is path has rolled, The roses of the summer lay Softly among her locks of gold. Singing a soft and plaintive lay, She won him with her gentle tone, And then he stole her heart away With voice as witching as her own. And once, when the sweet stars as now Look calmly doiwn upon that hill, Their young hearts breathed the tender vow Which one has kept so faithful still. 73 74 Poc;;zs by P/i~bc Carcy. And meeting nightly,'twas not strange, But yet lie dreamed not love could wane. Or thlouoht thathuman hearts mightchange Until ie waited there il vain. And still, to meet her on that height, He lingers as in summers gone, Till evening deepening into night, He wakes to fild himself alone. For none till now have ever told That wvatclher of expectant hours, How long ago her locks of gold WVere braided with the bridal flowers. CHALMERS. N the hush of the desolate mid night, Leavingno brighterbehlind.; A noble light was stricken From the galaxy of mind. As the red lights down in the water, \Vhen a boat shoots into the sea, Or a star through the thin blue ether, He vanished silently. Not the counsel of ghostly fathers Showed him the way hle trod, Not the picture of saints and martyrs, Nor the smile of the Mother of God; C/ial/Itels. Not tile love-lighted brows of kindred, Nor the -wor-ds of a faithful friend, O)enecl up) the way to his vision, And clheer-ed lim to the end. As a God-fearino man, and holy, He lhad(l passed through the snares beneath And he needed no aid to str-engthien His soul in the hour of death. The steps of his faith were planted \Vhere the waves in vain might beat, AVlhile thle w-ater-s of death rose darkly) And closed around his feet. Not the "Save, or I perish! " of Peter, \V\as his as he faintlv trod, But thie trust of that first blest martyrs Falling asleep in God. Ani(l we mar not mourn the brightness IThat is taken from our sky, A3,hich shall teach to the unborn ages The way to live and die. ~~C;J~J.L 75 Poeiis by Plzmbc Carey. ~~SONG. E first and loveliest stir of even Shines on me dithl its iiirst sw,-eet light: O thou, to wAhom my lear-t is giver: What visions haunt thy soul t(o-nigtlt? Dost thou as this soft twNilight steals So mildly over hill and plain, Think of tile hlour we parited last, And wish me by thyv side again I ask not that thy love should he A\s d(eep, as trusting as my owrn, I do not ask that tliou shouldst feel All that my woman's heart has known' But if, for every thousand times M\y spirit fondly turns to thee, One thought of thine to me is given I doubt not thy fidelity. For me, when on the hills alone, Or treading through the noisy mart, There is no time, there is no place, But thou art with me in my heart. I only think upon the past, Or dream of happier days to be, And every hope and every fear Is something hoped or feared for thee. 76 The Ills of Life. THE ILLS OF LIFE. OW\V oft, when pursued by evils, W\e falter and faint by the way, But are fearless when, o'ertaken, 1 I Ve pause, and turn at bay. When storms in the distance have gathered, I have trembled their wrath to meet, Yet stood frm when the arrowy lightning Has fallen at my feet. My soul in the shadows of twilight Has groaned beneath its load, And fielt at the solemn midnight Secure in the hand of God. I have been with friends who were cherishe-d All earthly things above, Till I deemed the death-pangs lightet Than the pangs of parting love. Yet with one fearful struggle, WVhen at last the dread blow fz' I have kept my hieart from breaking, And calmly said, Farewell! I have looked at the grave, and shuddz-.l For my kindred treading near, And when their feet had entered, Mly soul forgot its fear. 77 Poemis by Phowbe Carey. Our ills are not so manv Nor so hard to bear below\, But our suffering in dread(l of the future Is more than our present wo. We see with our vision imperfect Such causes of doubt and fearSome yet that are far in the distance, And some that may never be near When, if we would tiust in his wisdom Whose purpose wfe may not see, We would find, whatever our trials, As our day our strength shall be. THE BRIDE. IKE the music of an arrow, Rushing, singing from the string, Was the sound in the June roses Of each homeward cleaving wing, Where the leaves were softly parted By a hand of snowy grace, Letting in a shower of sunlight Brightly o'er an eager face; O'er the young face of a maiden, Touched by changing hope and fear, As the sound of rapid hoof-strokes, Nearing, fell upon the ear. 78 T,'e'i-e.ie AVhite robes softly hleavi ng, fluttering, O'er her bosom's rise of snow, Spoke tile strange and soft confession Of the beating hleart below. And the faorce llad sweet revealincs, SwXeetel- tlan tithe lip mayi spealk, I'()r the soft fires of confession Lit their crimson in thie cheek. Not for friend, and not for brother, Kept she eager vigil there; Not for friend, and not for brother, Gleamed tile roses in hler hai-r. Blvriad frost-spar-ks fire-like glittered In the keen and bitter air, An(l ino waild bird, dropping downward, Stirred the branches cold and bare. Flaming in the glorious forehead Of the midnighlt, high and lone, Starry constellations, steadfast, Yet like burning jewels shone; 'hen, from a sick couch uplifted, A thin hand, most snowy white, Par-ted back the curtains softly, Letting in the pallid light. Eves of more than mortal brightness Spoke the waititng heart's desire, And the lollow cheelks wxere lighted WVitih a quick, consuming fire. 79 10 PoCoe;s's bj, Pli b,e Carey. That young watcher in the roses, Of the earnest eye and brov-, Keeps again lier anxious vigil; \Vh-lo shlall end its moments now? Lo! thle breast is softly trembling, Butt \-itll hlope tlhat itas no fear. By that happy smile the P-resence She lath vaited for is nea-r! For a bridegroom bath shle tarried; Bring the r-oses for lher brow; TIhougll no human passion answers To his icy kisses InowV. Bride of earth! he-re, hoping, feariing Evil w-ere tlhv davs, and vain; B1-rid(le of heaven! for blest fruition Thou shlalt never wait again. REMEMBRANCE. HAVE strucgled long w-ithi weaLl: nets, But my lieart is free at last; Never n),,-e wvill it be liaunted Vithi thle plhantoms of the past; Never more, from fairest maiden, Thle lig,'It witchery of la x-o-(l Sli ll t l-riil ml-y lielrlt with -rapture,. WVhen its magic tones iare hear. Rcmeizbrazcanie. And that heart, so long made heavy W,ith inquietude an(1 wo, FrDm its fetters loose(l, is ringing, Like a quick shaft from the how. t orgotten be the trusted Tlhat have lightly broke theier trust; And the dreams that I hlave cherished, Let them perish in the dust. Yet there was one fair maiden, Sweetest vision of my youth, She was lovely when I loved her, And her words were like the truth. And they may have torn her from me; She was faithful once, I knowNo, she smiled beside the altar, And'twas not to hide her wo! And how can she, smiling, meet me ANith that fearless, open broxv? 'Twas like heaven, of old, to kiss it, 'Twould be heaven to kiss it now. Pause, remembrance, since forever, Leila, dreams of thee are sinOh, I thought my heart was stronger! Till I paused and looked wvithlin. S,x Poems by Pzhoebe Carey. ENTERING HEAVEN. OFTLY part away the tresses From her forehead of white clay, And across her quiet bosom Let her pale hanids lightly lay; Never idly in her lifetime \Vere they folded thlus away. She hath lived a life of labor, She has done with toil and care, She hath lived a life of sorrow, She has nothing more to bear, And the lips that never murmured Never more shall move in prayer. You who watched withi me beside her, As her last of nights went by, Know how calmly she assured us That her hour was drawing nigh; Hlow she told us, sweetly smiling, She was glad that she could die. Manv times from off the pillow Lifting up her face to hear, She had seemed to watch and listerd Half in hope and half in fear, Often asking those about her If the day were drawing near. TLill at last, as one aweary, To herself she murmured low, 82 Eizferiii, Iieavert. " Could I see lim, could I bless him Only once before I go; If lie knew\v that I was dving, lie would come to me, I know." Drawing, then, my lead down gently, Till it lay beside her owin, Said slle, "Tell him in his anguish, W\hien hie fin(ls that I am gone, That the bitterness of dying WIas to leave him here alone. "Leave me now, my dear ones, leave me, You are wearied now, I know; You hlave all been kind and watchful, You can do no more below, And if none I love are near me, 'Twill be easier to go. "Let your warm hands chill not slipping From my fingers' icy tips, Be there not the touch of kisses On my uncaressing lips, Let no kindness see the darkening Of my eyes' last, long eclipse. " Never think of me as lying By the dismal mould o'erspread, But about the soft white pillow Folded underneath my head; And of summer flowers weaving A rich broidery o'er my bed. 33 S4 Poc;;s bgy Pia'bc Carey. 6 Think of the immortal spirit Living up above the skvy, And of how my face, there wearing Li,lght of immortality, Looking earthward, is o'erleaning The white bastions of the sky." Stilling, then, with one last effort, All liheir weakness and her wo, Slie seemed wrapt in pleasant visions But to wait her tinge to go; For she never after midnight - Spoke of anything below, But keplt murmuring very softly Of cool streams and pleasant bowers, Of a pathway going up brightly, \Vhere the fields were white with flowers; And at daybreak she had entered On a better life than ours. OUR BABY. HEN the morning, half in shadovw i[); Ran along the hill and meadow And with milk- white finger, ~'. ~~ ~parted Crimson roses, golden-hlearted; Opening over ruins hoary Every purple morning-glory, Oz:r Baby. .And,. haki-.g frmrn tle bushes Singing la ks and pleasant thrushes;T'hat's tlhe time our little ba y, Our Baby. Strayed from Paradise, it may L, Came with eyes like heaven above lIer 0, we could not choose but love her. 33 86 Poems b4y Phabe Carey. Not enough of earth for sinning, Always gentle, always winning, Never needing o:r reproving, Ever lovely, ever loving; Starry eyes and suniset tresses, WVhite arms, made for light caresses, Lips that knew no word of doubting, Often kissing, never pouting; Beauty even in completeness, Overfull in childish sweetness;That's the way our little baby, Far too pure for earth, it may be, Seemed to us, who while about her Deemed we could not do without her. When the morning, half in shadow, Ran along the hill and meadow, And with milk-white fingers parted Crimson roses, golden-hearted; Opening over ruins hoary Every purple morningsglor-, And outshakinrg from the bushes Singing larks and pl.-:.,3ant t.r,.ohes:.That's the time our little baby, Pining here for heaven, it may be, Turning from our bitter weeping, Closed her eyes as when in sleep-ag, And her white hands on her boscm Folded like a s,immer blossom. Now the litter she doth lie on, Strew with roses, bear to Zion; Go, as past a pleasant meadow The Outcast. Through the valley of the shadow; Take her softly, holy angels, Past the ranks of God's evangels, Past the saints and martyrs holy, To the Earth-born, meek and i(C,,vly; We would have our precious blossomr Softly laid in Jesus' bosom. THE OUTCAST. HE died at the middle of night: And brother nor sister, lover nor friend, Came not near her their aid to lend, Ere the spirit took its flight. She died at the middle of night: Food and raiment she had no more, And the fire had died on the hearth before,'Twas a pitiful, pitiful sight. She died at the middle of night: napkin pressed back the parted lips; weeper, watching the eyes' eclipse, Covered them up from sight. She died at the middle of night: And there was no taper beside the dead, But the stars, through the broken roof o'er head, Shone with a solemn light. 87 No No w 88 Poems by P,cbe Carey. She died at the middle of night: And the winter snow spread a winding-sheet Over the body from head to feet, Dainty, and soft, and white. She died at the middle of night: But if she heard, ere her hour was o'er, "I have not condemned tltee,-sin no more," She lives where the day is bright. AT THE WATER'S EDGE. HERE are little innocent ones, And their love is wondrous strong Clinging about her neck, But they may not keep her long. Father! give her strength To loosen their grasp apart, And to fold her empty hands Calmly over her heart. And if the mists of doubt Fearfully rise and climb Up from that river that rolls Close by the shore of time, Suddenly rend it away, Holy and Merciful One! Our Friend. As the vcil of the temple was rent, When the mission of Christ was done. So she can see the clime Where the jasper walls begin, And the pearl gates, half unclosed, Ready to shut her in. So she can see the saints, As they beckon with shining hand, Leaning over the towers, Waiting to see her land. Saviour! we wait thy aid, F6r our human aid were vain; WVe have gone to the water's edge, And must turn to the world again. For she stands where the waves of death Fearfully surge and beat, And the rock of the shore of life Is shelving under her feet, OUR FRIEND. E tried to win her from her grief, To soothe her great despair; ( We showed her how the starry flowers Were growing everywhere,The starry flowers she used to braid At evening in her hair. 89 90 Poems by Phoebe Carey. We told her how our hearts or her, Beat mournfully and low; How lines were deeperins,r, day by day, Across her father's brow; And how her little broth'er drooped, He had no playmate now. And then she spoke of weary nights Of dull and sleepless pain, And how slle grieved that loving friends Should plead with her in vain; And hoped that when the summer came She should be well again. Still softly singing to herself Sad words of plaintive rhyme, She always watched the sun's soft glow Fade off at eventime, As one who nursed a pleasant dream Of some delicious clime. Thus, sweetly as the flowers that once She wore at eventide, Faded and drooped the gentle girl, A blossom by our side, And her young light of life went out With sunset, when she died! i'I 4~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ I ,' I NDER the evening splendor Of spring's sw,eet skies, Learined I love's lesson tender, ~x_, From the maiden's eyes. CHANGES. lVhen the stars, like lovers meeting, In the blue appeared, And my heart, tumultuous and beating, Hoped and feared, Then the passion, long dissembled, My lip made known, And the hand of the maiden trembled In my own, Till the tears that gushed unbidden, Unrepressed, And the crimson blush were hidden On my breast. I% Poems of Phcbe Carey, And there in that vale elysian, Through the summer bland, We walked in a tranced vision, Hand in hand. There the evening shadows found us Side by side, While the glorious roses round us Bloomed and died. And when the bright sun waning, Dimly burned,When the wind with sad complaining, In the valley mourned, When the bridal roses faded In her hair, And her brow was sweetly shaded With a thought of care, Then with heart still fondly thrilling, But with calmer bliss, From the lip no more unwilling 1 claimed the kiss. Then our dreams, witl love o'erladen, Were verified, And dearer to me than the maiden Grew the bride. 92 Changes. But when the dead leaves drifted In that valley low, And down from the cold sky sifted The noiseless snow, Then our dreams, witn love o'erladla, Were verified. Where the hearts of the faithful moulder WVith the dead, They made her a pillow colder Than the bridal bed. 93 Poems by Phcebe Carey. And there at the spring's returning, With the summer's glow, When the autumn sun is burning, In the winter's snow, With the ghosts of the dim past ever Gliding round, Walk I in that vale, as a river That makes no sound. THE CONVICT'S CHILD. NLOCK the still home of the dear Down to its slumber we would lay One, who, with firm, unshrinking tread, Drew near and nearer day by day. For when the morn of life for her Hid all its beautiful light in tears The shadow'of the sepulchre Woke in her soul no human fears. Even in the spring-time of her youthi, Before that she had wept or striven, With all its wealth of love and truth, .hA f.ve her young heart up to heaven. 94 The Convict's C,zild. Something prophetic of her doom Before her vision sadly rose; So, ere the evil days had come, She gathered strength to meet their woes Child of a lost and guilty sire, She felt, what time must darkly prove, T'at home and hearth were not for her, Nor the sweet ministries of love. And when her trembling heart at last By maiden hopes and fears was thrilled Clasping the sacred cross more fast, Thlat pleading for the earth was stilled. Turning from eyes whose tender r-ay Burned with affection true and deep, Love's passionate kisses never lay Upon her forehead but in sleep. Yet more than mortal may l)e tried \Vas she who firmly bore that part, And the meek martyr slowly died In crushing down the human heart. Pitying in such a world of storms The woes of that unsheltered breast, Do.th kindly took her in his arms, And roc,'ed her to eternal rest. Then softly, softly, down to sleep, Lay Ea-r where these white blossoms gro, And where the Sabbath silence deep Is broken by no sound of woe; 95 Poems by Pzwoebe Carey. Where near her, the long summer through, \T1ill sing this gently lulling stream; Tis the first rest she ever knew Haunted by Ino unquiet dream. THE Li'FE OF TRIAL. ANI glad her life is ovcr, Glad that all her trials are past; For her pillow was not softened! Down with roses to the last. When shar Whiere s Never kind So her fe And when life's stern course of duty Through thle fiery furnace ran, Never saw shle one beside her, Like unto the Soni of Maln. Ere the holy dew of baptism Cooled her achinig forehead's heat, Heaviest waters of affliction Manay times hlad touched her feet. Long for her deliverance waiting, Clung she to the cross in vain; With an agonizing birth-cry Was her spirit born again. And her path grew m'/ rougher, Wear.er, wearinr, l shae tirQ, Till, through gates oi awful anguizb! She went in at last to Godl 96 Death of a Friend. DEATH OF A FRIEND. H ERE leaves b bitter winds are heaped In the deep hollows, damp and cold, And the light snow-shower. silently, Is falling on the yellow mould, Sleeps one who \xas our friend, below; Wdith meek hands folded on her breast, Whlen the first flowers of summer died, We softly laid her down to:est. By hler were blessings freely strewn, As roses by the summer's breath; Yet nothing in her perfect life WVas half so lovely as her death. In the meek beauty of a faith Which few have ever proved Iike her, She shrunk not even when she felt The chill breath of the sepulchre. Heavier, and heavier still, she leaned Upon his arm who died to save, As step by step he led her down To the still chamber of the grave. 97 a)S Poems by Pziwbe Carey. 'T was at the midnight's solemn watch She sunk to slumber, calm and deep: The golden fingers of the dawn Shall never wake her from that sleep. From him who was her friend below, She turned to meet her Heavenly Guide; And the sweet children of her love, She left them sleeping when she died. Her last of suns went calmly down, And when the morn rose bright and clear, Hers was a holier Sabbath-day Than that which dawned upon us here. DEATIH SCENE. L>-YING, still slowly dying, As the hours of night wore by, She had lain since the light of _______ sunset WVas red on the evening sky, Till after the middle watches, As we softly near her trod, When htier soul from its prison fetters 'as loosed by the hand of God. Dead. One moment her pale lips trembled With the triumph she might not tell, As the light of the life immortal On her spirit's vision fell. Thlen the look of rapture faded, And the beautiful smile waxed faint, As that in some convent picture On the face of a dying saint. And we felt in the lonesome midnight, As we sat by the silent dead, WVhat a light on the path going downward The steps of the righteous shed; When we thought how with feet unshrinking Shle came to the Jordan's tide, And, taking the hand of the Saviour, Went up on the heavenly side! DEAD. EAD! yet there comes no shriek, on tear, My agony is dumb; I've thought, and feared, and known so long That such an hour must come: For when her once sweet household cares Grew wearier every day, And, dropping from her listless hand, Her work was nut away. 99 Poems by Phcebe Carey. I knew that all her tasks were done, And, though I wept and prayed, I always thought of her as one For whom the shroud is made. She talked of growing strong and.wel, To soothe our parting pain: I knew it would be well with her Before we met again; I knew upon that lonesome hill, Where winter now is drear, They'd have to make another grave Before another year. I hope that they will dig it there: I would not have it made Between the graves where strangers sleep, Under the cypress shade. I'd have it where our sisters gone Are sleeping side bv side, And where we weeping orphans laid Our mother when she died. There, too, with beauty scarcely dimmed, And curls of shining gold, We covered little Ellie's face, And lhid it in the mould. So bring her there, and when they rise \Who in the dust have lain, She'll see her little baby wake, And take him up again. loo THE WATCHER'S STORY. HE'hias slept since first the firelight !%~ I Mingled with the sun's last raN, If shle lives till after midnight She may see another day; Though she then could only nutmb-er A few weary hours, at best, And't were better if ler- slumbd Could be deepened into rest When about my neck, all night through. White arms. softly dimpled, lay, Then her face had not a shadow That I could not kiss away: And I knew the simple measure Of her little hopes and fears, Shared in all her childish pleasure. Pitied all her childish fears. Poeizs by fPr'be Carey. But the maiden's deeper yearning Taught her maindenhoodc's disguise, \\When a tenderer light came burning In the soft depths of her eyes. Then she wandered down the meadows, Like some restless woodland elf, Or sat hidden deep in shadows, Singing softly to herself, Or repeated dreams elysian From some poet's touching strain, As some vague and nameless vision \Vere half-formed within the brain. I had counselled, led, reproved her, Now the time for these was o'er; From a baby I had loved her, She could be a child no more. Then she grew a listless weeper, Scarce her lip might lightly speak, And the crimson glow was deeper In the white snow of her cheek. And sometimes, at midnight waking, I have heard her bitter sighs, And have seen the tear-drlops breaking Through the closed lids of her eyes. Sometimes, like a shaken blossom, 'oved her heart with visions sweet; AVith my hand upon her bosom, I could feel it beat, and beat. While her young face down the meade;. Kept in cliildhood's pleasant track, I could kiss off all the slladows, Other lips had kissed them backt 102 Tize l[a,cizer' s Slory. Oftener then the tear-dews pearly Dropped uponi hier soft white cheeky Sorrow came to hler so early, And her womanhood wAas weak. Life grevw w-eary,,very wearv' I had trembled, knowin-iig well Ever-more it must be dreal-ry, v'%hen the first great shladow fell. It hlad fallen,-the old, sad story, Hope deferred, and wearying doulbt From her \youItll's first crown of glo-ry All the r-oses had dropped out. Once, when husbandmen were bearing To their barns the ril)ened ear, And that sorrow had been wearing On her mortal life a year; As she sat with me at evening, Looking earnestly without, Still half hopeful, and half yielding To the bitterness of doubt; Anxiously towards me leaning, Breaking off a lonesome tune, She asked, with deepest meaning, If the year had worn to June. Said I, roses lately blooming Have all faded from their prime; And she answered, I-le is coming! 'T is the season,'t is the time! t'hen she Icoked adownri the valley Towarcs the pleasant fields in sight Io3 Poemvs by Pkifbe Cairey. WVhere the wheat was lhanging heavy And tile rye was growing xF inite; And s'he saidl, with full heart heating And witlh earnest, treml)ling tone, "If to-night should be our meeting, Let me see him first alone." So with trust still unabated, WNith affection deep and true, She watched, and lhoped, and waited, All tile lonesome summer through, Till th.e autumni wind blew dreary; Thent she almost ceased to smile, And her spirit grew more weary Of its burden all the wlfile. I remember well of sllaring, The last watch slhe ever kept, Till she turned away dispairinig, Saying sadly whille she wept: "Shut the window! when't is lifted I can feel the cheerless rain, And the yellow leaves are drifted O'er me, through tile open pane. Heavy slhadows, creeping nigher, Darken over all the walk: Let us sit beside the fire, Where we used to sit and talk. Close the shutter, through the gloaning My poor eyes can see no more, And if any one is coming I shall hear them at the door. Ioi. The Watcher's Story. "O my friend, but speak, and cheer me, Speak until my heart grow light; What if he were very near me, WVhat if hle should come to-night! It might be so,-ere the morrow He might sit there where thou art, And the weight of all this sorrow Be uplifted from my hlear-t. Idle, idle, long endurance Changes hope to fear and doubt, Saying oft a sweet assurance Almost wears its meaning out. "0, my thoughts are foolish dreaming, Fancies of a troubled brain, Very like the truth in seeming; But he will not come again. Never will his hand caress me, Pushing back this faded hair, Never whisper soft,' God bless theet' Half in fondness, half in prayer. WVeil, if he were standing near me, Close as thou hast stood to-day, Could I make the Father hear me, Could I turn from him to pray? O my friend. whose soul was never On such waves of passion tost, Plead for Heaven's sweet mercy ever, That I be not vwholly lost! Talk to me of peaceful bosoms, Never touched by mortal ills; 1o5 Poems by Phoebe Carey. Talk of beds of fragrant blossoms, Whitening all the fadeless hills. Promises of sweet Evangels, Blessed hope of life above, O eternity, O angels! Turn my thoughts from human love!' RESOLVES. HAVE said I would not meet him; Have I said the words in vain? Sunset burns along the hill-tops, And I'm waiting here again. But my promise is not broken, Though I stand where once we met; When I hear his coming footsteps, I can fly him even yet. ~Ve have stood here oft, when evening Deepened slowly o'er the plain; But I must not, dare rot, meet him In the shadows here again; For I could not turn away and leave That pleading look and tone, And the sorrow of his par'ting Would be bitter as my own. In the dim and distant ether The first star is shining through, And another and another Tremble softly in the blue! Io6 Resolves. Should I linger but one moment In the shadowvs silere I stand, I shail see tile vine-leaves parted, Withl a quick, impatient hand. But I will not wait his coming! He will surely come once more; Though I said I would not meet him, I have told him so before; And he knows the stars of evening See me standing here again,0, he surely will not leave me Now to watch and wait in vain! 'Tis the hour, the time of meeting! In one moment't will be past; And last night lie stood beside me, WVas that blessed time the last? I could better bear my sorrow, Could I live that parting o'er; 0, I wish I lhad not told him That I would not come once more! Could that have been the night-wind Moved the branches thus apart? Did I hear a coming footstep, Or the beating of my heart? No! I hear him, I can see him, And my weak resolves are vain; I will fly,-but to his bosom, And to leave it not againl I07 A N urn witlhin lher clasped hlands, 'Brimful anLd running o'er witl dew Spring on thle green liills smiling stands, Or walks in pleasant valley-lands, Thrl-oughl spr-outinig grass and violets blue. Anid but this morn, almiost before Tile stnshiine came its leaves to gild, In the old elm that shades our- door, There came a timid bird to build. PROPHECIES. O time of flowers! 0 time of song! How does my heart rejoice again! For pleasant things to thee belong; And desolate, and drear, and long, To me was WVinter's lonesome reign: Ws Projp,cecics. Since last tnou trodd'st the vale and hill, And nature wittl delight was rife, A shadow- str-ange, and dark, and chill, ilas lhung above my house of life. But now I see its blackness drift A-way-, a-way, from out my sky; And, as its heavy folds uplift, There shines upon me, through the rift, A burning star of prophecy: MlI heart is sing,ing with the birds, Life's orb has passed from its eclipse; And some sweet poet's hopeful words Are al-ways, always, on my lips. O thou who lov'st me! 0 my friend! WVnate'er thy fears, where'er thou art, As these soft skies above thee bend, Does not their pleasant sunshine lend A gleam of sunshine to thy heart? Sweet prophecies through all the day \v-ithlin my bosom softly thrill, And, while the nighlt-time wears away, \Iy sleep with pleasant visions fill. And I must whisper unto thee, Thou, who hast waited long in vain; Though distant still the day may be, It shall be in our destiny To tread the selfsame path again; And over hills, with blossoms white, Or li:.e!-in,g by thie sii,ging streams, That path s'i,ll -wander on in light, And life be happ))ier b'an our dreams! I Co Poems by Phobe Carey. DREAMS. , HATE'ER before my sight ap Onie visaions iii my heart i bornIe, Two sweet, sad faces, wet with tears, Seen through the dim, gray light of morn. And half o'ershadowing them, arise Thoughts, which are never lulled to sleep, Of one, whose calm, rebuking eyes Are sadder that they do not weep. O friend, whlose lot it mighlt not be To tread, with me, life's path of ills! O friend, who yet shalt walk with me The white path of the eternal hills! Gone are the moments whlen we planned Those sweet, but unsubstantial bowers, In some unknown and pleasant land, Where all ourfuture wound through flowers Into the past eternity [lave faded all those hopes and schemes; That summer island in the sea Slept only in our sea of dreams. I know not if our hope was sin, When that fair structure was upbuilt; But this I know, that mine has been The bitterest recompense of guilt. IIO A. c C,o0fcssoz.' And the wild tempest of despair Still sweeps my spirit like a blast; Tears, penance, agonizing prayer, Could you not save me from the past! THE CONFESSION. N the moonlight of the Spring time, Trembling, blushing, half afraid. Heard I first thlie fond confession From the sweet lips of the maid. As the roses of the Sumnmer, By his warm embraces won, Takle a fairer, richer color From the glances of the sun; So as, gazing, earnest, anxious, I besought her but to speak, Deep and deeper burned the crimson Of the blushes in her chleek; Till at last, with happy impulse, Impulse that sle might not check, As it softly thrilled and trembled, Stole her white arm round my neck; I I I i1 S~ Poems by Pliabe Carey. ~;:, As it softly thrilled and trembled, Stole hcr white ariii rounid mny neck. And with lips, that, half averted From the lips that bent above, Met the kiss of our betrothal, Told the maiden of her love. 112 Tize Pocii. THE POEM. AM dreaming( o'er a poem Of affectionl's streng,tl stblime, Loved ) becanuse that onice I read it _ I the (lea-, (lear olden time, Al liile -oti sat and praised my readinoOf the poet's touching rhyme. And lhov often, very gently, Did y-ou clleck mv cadlence, wle I r-ead tle sweetest verses Over to you once ag,atin! I have read that blessed poem \Iany, miany times since thien! Then -you softly closed the volume, \\llen I paused at the last line, \Vihile your eves said sweeter poems, — Poems that wvere more divine; And all Hvbla sweets were clustered On the lips tlat dropped to mine. This is over now, all over, And't is better thus to be; Yet I often sit and wonder Who is reading soft to thee, And if any voice is sweeter To thy heart than mine would be~ II3 Poems by Phebe Carey. TO ONE WHO SANG OF LOVE. HOU hast sung of love's confession Out beneath the starry skies, Of the rapture of the moment WVhen the soul is breathed in sighs, And the maiden's trembling transport As she blushingly replies To the worship of a lover, Breathed from speaking lips and eyes. By the earnest tender pathos Of thy every witching line, Such an lhour of bliss ecstatic Has surely once been thine: And I would that Heaven might answer This earnest wish of mine, That thy star of love and beauty May wane not, nor decline. Listeiing to the first contession, Lingering o'er the first fond kiss,What an age of bliss is crowded In an hour of life like this! Surely thine at such a moment Has been perfect happiness, And the maiden, the fond maiden, 0, I cannot guess her bliss! Sometimes to my heart in slumber Thought so like the truth will steal, xx4 A rchie. That the pressure of sweet kisses On my brow I almost feel; And I dream fond lips have uttered VWhat they might no more conceal; But I cannot, no, I cannot, Make such blessed visions real. ARCHIE. TO be back in the beautiful shadow Of that old maple-tree down in the meadow, Watching the smiles that grew dearer and dearer, Listening to lips that grew nearer and nearer! O to be back in the crimson-topped clover, Sitting again with my Archie, my lover! O for the time when I felt his caresses Smoothing away from my forehead the tresses, When up frt',m my heart to my cheek went the blushes, As he said that my voice was as sweet as the thrush's,When he said that my eyes were bewitchingly jetty, And I told him'twas only my love made them pretty. I I'l Poec;zs by Plzwbe Carey. ( ~ ~ Biy Archie and I shall sit always together, Then you may tell me of heaven for ever. Talk not of maiden reserve and of duty, Or hide from my vision such wonderful beauty; Ii6 .1r::'1t Fcars. Pulses above may beat calmly anid even,\Ve liave been fLshlioned for earth, and not hearven; An eIs a,-e I-erfect,-I am but a woman; Saints may be passionless — Archliie is human. Talk not of heavenly,down-diropping blisses,-, Can tilev fall on tile brow likle tile r-aini of soft kisses? Preach not the promise of priests and evan gels,Love-crowned, I askl not tihe crovwn of the angels; All thlat thile wall of pure jasper incloses .lakes not less lovely the wllite bridal r1-oses. Tell me that when all this life shall be over, I shall still love Ilim, and hlie be my lover,That in meadows far sweeter than clover cG heather ,Iy Archie anid I shall sit always together, Loving eternally, wed ne'er to sever,Then you may tell me of heaven for ever! E knows that I love him; 0, how could hle tell What I thoug-it I would keep In my bosom so well, By guarding each action, Each word, I might say! II7 Poemzs by Plzwbe Carey. Yet he knows that I love him, 0, wo to the day! To hide it I tried Bv each innocent art, And I tholln~lt I had kept it Dowvn dcleep in mn liearit: Yet vain was Imy effort, M\y pri-ide, tlhrough the past, Since my weakness, my folly, Have shown it at last. 'Twas last night that he learned it, 'hen dowtn in tlhe grove He whllispered me something Of hope and of love; 'Twas not that I faltered, I dared not to speak,But the bloo(l mounted up From my heart to my cheek. Not mine was thle fault That such weakness was shown,O, he should not have kissed me By starlight alone! And I thought, till I saw How he guessed at my love, ][ thought that tile shadows WVere deeper above! Nay, thou canst not console me, My hopes are undone; II8 Maideiz Fears. Yet he knows that I love him,0, wo to the day! He will say that too lightly M - heart has been won; And this spot on my forehead For ever will butirn, For he knows that I love him, He will not return! ii9 Poems by Pzhoebe Carey. He will say'twas unmaidly Thus to reveal \What I might not, I could not, That moment conceal; And the heart he has won WVill cast lightly aside;0, I would, ere he knew it, I would I had died! o thou who hast never Been faithless to me, Crushed, bleeding, and broken My heart turns to thee: Friend, counsellor, sister, Through all things the same, Let me hide in thy bosom My blushes of shame! THE UNGUARDED?~'MENT. ES, my lips to-night have spoken \Vords I said they should not speak; And I would I could recall them, \WVould I had not been so weak. 0 that one unguarded moment! AlWere it mine to live again, All the strength of its temptation Would appeal to me in vain. I20 ]7(r1ziJ?g /ie Lelfers. frue, my lips l:-.ve oily uttered WTlhat is ever i:r m icrit: I am hlap,p)y wl]e:l Lcsi(le him, \Vretclied w %en -C are alpart; Thoulh I listen to l.is praises Aluways longler tlan I should, Yet my heart can never hear them Ilalf so often as it would! And I would not, could not, pain him, AWTould not for the world offend,I w-ould have him klnow I lik'e him, As a brotller, as a fr-iend; But I metant to keep one secret In my bosom always llid, For I never meant to tell him Thl,t I loved him, but 1 didl BURNING THE LETTERS. SAID that they were valueless, I'd rather have tlhe not, All that since macde tl'em precious WVais, or should have heen, forgot; I would do it very willingly, And not because I oug!ht,But I did not, somelhow, find it Quite so easy as I thought. 12I Poerns by Plzcebe Carey. One was full of pleasant flattery; I do not think I'm vain, And yet I paused a moment To read it once again. One repeated dear, old phrases I had heard a thousand times; I had read him once some verses, And another praised my rhymes. One was just exactly like him, Such a pretty little note! One was interspersed with poetry That lovers always quote. I don't know why I read them Unless't was just to know, Since they once had been so precious What had ever made them so. I had told him when we parted To think no more of me; And I'm sure he's nothing to me, Indeed, why should hle be? Yet the flame sunk down to ashes, And I sat and held them still; But I said that I would burn them, And, some other time, I will! I22 NELLY. -'M glad -ou " don't love him," I realli- did tear (Na'-\, frow-n not so terribly, ] _ < Nell:,, my dear;) His -voice -as so witching, His e-es w-ere so bright, Thoutibh oi did not vet love him, I feared that you might! So you're candid, now, Nelly, Yotl'i-e telling, me ti-ue, His voice inever sounded Bewitcliinlr to Iou." Yet I sometimnes have thought, \VlIen vou heard his soft tone, That a ]ittle more tenderness Spokle in yoLI own. 123 Poemis bv P,zxbe Carey. And you're sure you d My dear little elf, " Vho else he talks lov -..~~~~~~~ 1 , k ~: Though you did not yet Iove him, I feared that you might! So't is not yourself." Sometimes when youti forehead Suchl crimson would take, 124 I25 I suspected-no matter, I've made a mistake. Nay, do not now-, Nelly, 0, do not he mad! Since you say yTou don't love him, It makes ine so glad; Because I wAould never Have told it, you see, But honestl], darling, He's talked love to me! Are you glad he has done \rhat you wished him to do,That he talkled about love l'o another thian you? Yes, you surely must feel Quite a sense of relief; But those tears are not joyous, That sob is like grief! He said he had hidden it Long in his breast;How you tremble!-nay, listen, I'll tell you the rest. He said, just as true As I sit here alive, That he loved you, dear Nelly, Aha! you revive! .zv,,l,. Poems by Pihoebe Carey. A LAMENT. NCE in the season of child 1;.-:' tlhood's joy, .A Dreaming never of life's great ills, Hand in hland with a happy boy, I walked about on my native hills, Gathering berries ripe and fair, Pressing them oft to his smiling lip, Braiding flowers in his sunny hair, And letting the curls through my fingers slip, \Vatching the clouds of the evening pass Over the moon in hier home of blue; Or chasing fireflies over the grass, Till our feet were wet with the summer dew Now I walk on the hills alone, Dreaming never of hope or joy, And over a dungeon's floor of stone Sweep the curls of that happy boy. And every night when a rose-hedge springs Up fromn the ashes of sunset's pyre, And the eve-star, folding her golden wings, Drops like a bird in the leaves of fire, I sit and think how he entered in, And farther and farther, every time, 126 A LameileJ. Followsed the downwara-d way of sin, Till it led to the awful gates of crime. I sit aLnd thinkl, till my great despair Rises up like a mighty wave, How fast the locks of my father's hlair Are N-hlitening now for the Quiet grave. ~ ~y <~ ~,,.~.'~~ I walked about on my native hills,Gathering berries ripe and fair. But never reproach on my lip has been, Never one moment can I forget, Though bound in prison and lost in sin, My' brother once is my brother yet. I27 ,' I —T ROU~GI thie open summer lattice lil f 1 \c o l d tul hal~ ill salt(cl, ~eIteri: t i saw L moi-tal "__._'; \ Vhc1s e ireimembran ce will iot THE LULLABY. ftL C. Little bircdls tlieir lhea(s hlad ]lidden L Uncler oi,s cf -old ti(l brown; Lilv bhels an(lI lusciou)ts blossoris 0o i-lv iacd been folded dowrn; FouIntains with thlei,- quiet dr-opping, Only ltilled the cl-drowsy bees; And the wind was liglitly going In and out the tops of trees; But tle pale and restless creature HIad she dreamed too much before?Seemed as one whom sleep would visit Never, never, never more. Rocking by the summer lattice, Rocking to and fro, she sung, ][s$ Tlhe Lullaby. 0, the saddest, saddest music Ever fell fromrn mortal tongue! So slhe strove to hush the cryin-g, Bitterer that't wvas faint and low, Of the little baby pressing Close against her heart of wo. And her -or-(ls were very mournful, And so very, very faint; She Nwas keeping down her anguish, That no eLLar mighlt hear her plaint. "Lullaby, mny wretched baby; Go to sleep, and sleep till morn! Lullaby-, my wIretched baby; Alould that thou hadst not been borne "M\Ioclk me not wvithl open eyelids, For thine eyes are soft and blue; While in mine the midnight blackness Deepens, lookling down on you. "Time shlall bind about your forehead Sunny hair in golden bands; Tangle not my raven tresses WVith your soft and clinging hands! "Lullaby, my wretched baby; 0, how long the watches seem! Lullaby, my wretched baby; Dream and smile, and smile and dream! Iz9 Poems by Phzobe Carey. "O the sad eyes of my mother! O my brother, proud and brave! O the white hlair of my father, Droopiing sadly toward the grave! " O my sister, pure as heaven, Here tihy lead in sleep has lain! Never on this wretchled bosom Canst thou pillow it againt "Lullaby, my vwretched baby; Live I only for thy sake! Lullaby, my wretched baby; Sleep, and dream, and never wake!" LEFT ALGNE. IIE'S left me here alone again: faze'T will be a weary lot, mTh rough all this cheerless winter time To live where she is not; To sit, where once we used to sit, Withl smileless lip and dumb; To count the moments since she went, And know not when she'll come! We talked through all the summer time, We'd talked through all the spring, Of how upon the winter hearth We'd make a pleasant ring; I30 Thze Refrospect. Of how with loving words and looks The time should all be sped;The firelighlt's glow is mournful now, The books are all unread. We never were togetner long, \'Ve have not been so blest; I might have known this hope of ours Would perish like the rest: And half I trembled all the while, And feared it would be so;The hand of fate would press me oack From where her feet must go. If there shall ever be a time, WVhen, as in days that were, My soul can whisper all its dreams And all its thoughts to her,When I can share her heart's sweet hopes, Or soothe its bitter pain,I would the hours were past till then, And that were come again! THE RETROSPECT. A S one who sees life's hopes have end, And cannot hush the bitter cry, Thou weep'st for that lost vale, my friend, Where childhood's pleasant places lie; And looking down the sloping track Where now our lonesome steps are told, I31 Poc;;zs by Pfwccb Carey. Wouldst softly roll thle seasons back, And leave us children as of old. Wouldst softly roll the seasons back And leave us children as of old. Nay, w eave sweet fancies as you wrill, Yet what is childish happiness I32 One S,ia!l Be Taken. 1o such great rapture as can fill The heart of womanhood with bliss? And though the trials which years must bring Hav-e come, and left thee what thou art, Think what a great and wondrous thing Is victory o'er the human heart! Life's sparkling wine for us is dim, Only the bitter drops remain; Yet for the brightness on the brim, \Vlio would not drink the draught of pain? And not in even ways, my friend, Attains the soul to regions higher; If step by step our feet ascend, Their path must be a path of fire! ONE SHALL BE TAKEN. EAR friend, whose presence always made Even the dreariest night-time glad, Whose lengthening absence dark ens o'er The little sunshine that I had,MIy heart is sad for thee to-nighlt, And every wretched thought of mine Reaches across the lonesome hills, That lie between my home and thine. I33 I34 Poems by Plzebe Carey. O woods, wherein our chiildishl feet, Gathering the summer blossoms, strayed! O meadow-s, -white with clover-blooms! O soft, green hollows, where we played! Caln vou not cool tliat aching brow, \vith all your slla(lows and )our dew; .And charm the slots aind languid step Bach to the joyous life it knew? Mlost loved, most clherishled, since that hour ARhen, as she blest thee o'er- and o'er, Our mother put thee from her arms, To feel thy kisses never more; And I, tlhat scarce wrere missed, am spared, W\hlile o'er thvy wav the shadow lies,Infinite \lercy surely knew Tliou wert the fittest for the skies! ..- THE BROTHERS. 'E had no lhome, we only had A sheleter for our head: How poor we were, how scantily W\e all were clothed and fed! But though a wretched little child, I know not why or how, I did not feel it half so much As I can feel it now! \Whlen mother sat at night and sewed, MIy rest was calm and deep; Thze Brotzers. \~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I I 1 ~;,!,i'~, ~~~~~~~ - l-! lj, g~i,: i[ h. She wrappedc the covering round our bed, In ililalny an amniple fold. I did not klnowv that she was tired, Or that she needed sleep. She wrapped the covering round our bed, In many an ample fold; She had not half so much herself To keep her from the cold. I35 Poems by Pzoebe Carey. I know it now, I know it all, They knew it then above,Her life of patient sacrifice, And never-tiring love. I know, for then her tasks seemed done, We all were grown beside,How glad she must have been to go, After the babv died! I do not care to deck me now With costly robe or gaud,7My mother dressed so plain at home, And never went abroad. I do not even want a shroud Of linen, white and pure,They made our little baby one That was so coarse and poor. I had another brother then, I prayed that God would save; I kpew not life had darker dooms Than lying in the grave. I did not know, when o'er the dead So bitterly I cried, I'd live to wish a thousand times The other, too, had died. I36 IPemzorsc. REMORSE. SWEETEST friend I ever had, How sinks my heavy heart to know That life, which was so bright for thee, Has lost its sunshine and its glow! I cannot think of thee as one Sighing for calm repose in vain; Nor of the beauty of thy smile, Faded and sadly dim with pain. Thou surely shouldst not be to-day Lying upon the autumn leaves, But in the borderfields of hope, Binding the blossoms into sheaves. For, with a shadow on thy way, The sunshine of my life is o'er, And flowery dell and fresh green holt Can charm my footsteps nevermore! And if I have not always seen The beauty of thy deeds aright,If I have failed to make thy path As smooth and even as I might, Not thine the fault, but mine the sin, And I have felt its heaviest curse Fall on the heart that aches to-day, With vain repentance and remorse, I37 138 Poems by Phlzbe Carey. A heart that lifts its cry to thee, Above this wild and awful blast, That sweeping from the hills of home, Brings bitterest memories of the past. 0, sweet forgiveness, from thy love, Send to me o'er the waste between; Not as thou hop'st to be forgiven, For thou hliast never bowed to sin. Pure as thy light of life was given, Thou still hast kept its steady flame; And the chaste garment of thy soul Is white and spotless as it came. PROPHECY. 0 great sea lifts its angry waves Between me and the friend most dear, And over -11 our household graves The grass has grown for many a year. WVith all that makes the heart rejoice, The days of summer go and come; No feeble step, no failing voice, Saddens the chambers of our home. Yet, though I know, and feel, and see, God's blessings all about my way, The burden of sad prophecy Lies heavy on my soul to-day. Thze Consecratiotn. These awful words of destiny Are sounding in my heart and brain: "Not an unbroken family Shall summer find us here again!" O God! if this indeed be so, Whose pillow then shall be unprest? W\hose heart, that feels life's pleasant glow, Shall faint, and beat itself to rest? Eternal silence makes reply, We may not, cannot, know our doom; No voice comes downward from the sky, No voice comes upward from the tomb. Yet this I would not ask in vain: Hide from my wretched eyes the day lVhen by our household graves again The turf is lightly put away! First from our home, though all descend At last to that one place of rest, O solemn Earth! O mighty Friend! Take me and hide me in thy breast! THE CONSECRATION. SOUL, that must survive that hour W hen heart shall fail and flesh decay! God, angels, men, are witnesses Of vows which thou hast made to-day. I39 Poems by Plzebe Carey. WVhat solemn fears this hour are born, What joyful hopes this hour are given! Thotught reaches down from heaven to hell, And up from farthest hell to heaven. Before my fearful vision pass Those star-like souls, grown darkly dim,The sea of mingled glass and fire, The saints and priests with conquering hymn. O God! shall I go down with those, Wandering through blackness from their place, Or up with the redeemed and saved, Who stand before their Father's face? For now my eyes have seen the truth, This is thy sure and just decree: "If I shall turn again to sin, There is no sacrifice for me;" And the baptismal touch, which lay So lightly on the brow beneath, Shall be omnipotent in power, To press me surely down to death. Its seal shall be a diadem, To sline amid the angel choir, Or on my forehead burn in hell, An everlasting crown of fire; And all who hear my vows to-day Shall hear my final sentence read: God, angels, men, are witnesses At the great judgment of the dead. I40 DRAWVING WATER. HAD drunk, with lip unsated, l> s~\NIhere tile founts of pleasure b u rst; I had hew-n out broken cisterns, And they mocked my spirit's thirst: And I said, life is a desert, Ilot, and measureless, and idry; Andl God will not give me water, Though I pray, and faint, and die. Spoke there then a friend and brother, "Rise, and roll the stone away; There are founts of life upspringing In thy pathway every day." Then I said my heart was sinful, Very sinful was my speech; All the wells of God's salvation Are too deep for me to reach. And he answered, " Rise and labor, Doubt and idleness is death; Shape thee out a goodly vessel With the strong hands of thy faith." 147 Poems by Pizebe Carey. So I wrought and shaped the vessel, Then knelt lowly, humbly there, And I drew up living water \Vith the golden chain of prayer. THE DREAMER. LOW V life's most fearful tempest blow, And make the midnight wild and rough; MAy soul shall battle with you now,I've been a dreamer long enough! Open, O sea, a darker path, Dash to my lips the angry spray; The tenth wave of thy fiercest wrath WVere nothing to my strength to-day! Though floating onward listlessly When pleasant breezes softly blew, My spirit with the adverse sea Shall rise, and gather strength anew. WVake, soul of mine, and be thou strong; Keep down thy weakness, human heart; Thou hast unnerved my arm too long, O foolish dreamer that thou art! For I have sat and mused for hours Of havens that I yet should see, Of winding paths, of pleasant flowers, And summer islands in the sea, 142 T,?e Drce:v2rr. Forgetful of tlhe storms that come, Of winds that (lig the ocean grave, And sharp reefs hidden by the foam That drifts like blossoms on the wave, Forgetfull too, that he who guides Must have a firm and steadfast hand, If e'er his vessel safely rides Through storm and breaker to the land, Idly and listless drifting on, Feeding my fancy all the while, As lovesick dreamers feed upon The honeyed sweetness of a smile. Fool that I was,-ay! Folly's mock, To think not, in those pleasant hours, How barks have foundered on the rock, And drifted past the isles of flowers! Yet well it were, if, roused to feel, I yvet avxert such fearful fate,The quick, sharp grating of thle keel Had been a warlning all too late. But courage still; for whether now Or rough or smooth life's ocean seems, To-day my soul records her vow, Hereafter I am done with dreams! I43 ?Poens by Phlbc Carey. SOLEMNITY OF LIFE. IIETHER are cast our destinies In peaceful ways, or w-ays o0 strife; _ I A solemn thing to us it is, This mystery of human life. Solemn, when first, unconscious, dumb, \Vithin an untried world we stand, Immortal beings that have come Newly from God's creating hand. And solemn, even as'tis fleet, The time when, learning childish fears \Ve cross, with scarcely balanced feet, The threshold of our mortal years. 'Tis solemn, when, with parting smilesr \Ve leave its innocence and truth, To learn how deeper than the child's Are all the loves and fears of youth. It is a solemn thing 40 snap The cords of human love apart; More solemn still to feel them wrap Their wondrous strength about the heart. 'Tis solemn to have ever known The pleadings of the soul unmoved,Solemn to feel ourselves alone; - Miore solemn still to be beloved. r144 HMy Blessings. It is a solemn thing to wear The roses of the bridal wreath,Solemn the words we utter there, Of faith unchanging until death. Solemn is life, when God unlocks The fountain in the soul most deep,Solemn the heart-beat, when it rocks A young immortal to its sleep. 'Tis solemn when the Power above D)arkens our being's living spark,Solemn to see the friends we love Going downward from us to the dark. O human life, when all thy woes And all thy trials are struggled through, What can eternity disclose More wondrous solemn than we knew! MIY BLESSINGS. REAT waves of plenty ro:ling up Their golden billows to our feet, Fields where the ungathered rye is white, Or heavy with the yellow wheat; Wealth surging inward from the sea, And plenty through our land abroad, With sunshine resting over all, That everlasting smile of God! I45 Pooems by P,'zcbe Carey. For these, yet not for these alone, MIy tongue its gratitude would say: All the great blessings of my life Are present in my thought to-day. For more than all my mortal wants Have been, O God, thly full supplies;Health, shelter, and my daily bread, For these my grateful thanks arise. For ties of faith, whose wondrous strength Time nor eternity can part; For all the words of love that fall Like living waters on my heart; For even that fearful strife, where sin \Was conquered and subdued at length, Temptations met and overcome, Whereby my soul has gathered strength; For all the warnings that have come From mortal agony of death; For even that bitterest storm of life, Which drove me on the rock of faith. For all the past I thank thee, God! And for the future trust in thee, Whate'er of trial or blessing yet, Asked or unasked, thou hast for me. Yet only this one boon I crave, After life's brief and fleeting hour, Make my beloved thy beloved, And keep us in thy day of power! I46 Sabbathi Thlozghtzs. SABBATH THOUGHTS. AM sitting all the while Looking down the solemn aisle, Toward the saints and martyrs old, Standing in their niches cold, Toward the wing of cherubs fair, Veiling half their golden hair, And the painted light that falls Through the window on the walls. I can see the revered flow Of soft garments, white as snow, And the shade of silver hair Dropping on the book of prayer. I can hear the litany, "Miserable sinners, we!" And the organ swelling higher, And the chanting of the choir. And I marvel if with them, In the New Jerusalem, I shall hear the sacred choir Chant with flaming tongues of fire; If I e'er shall find a place WVith the ransomed, saved by grace; If my feet shall ever tread Where the just are perfected? Not, my soul, as now thou art; Not with this rebellious heart; Not with nature unsubdued, Evil overshadowing good; I47 I48 Poems by Plhzbe Carey. Not while I for pardon seek WVith a faith so faint and weak; Not while tempted thus to sin, From without and from within' Thou whom love did once compel Down from heaven to sleep in hell; Thou whose mercy purged from dross Even the thief upon the cross, Save me, O thou bleeding Lamb, Chief of sinners though I am, When, with clouds about thee furled, Thou shalt come to judge the worl.d! NEARER HOME. NE sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er, I am nearer home to-day Than I have ever been be. -"v * fore; Nearer my Father's house Where the many mansions be: Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the jasper sea; Nearer the bound of life Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown THymn. But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the dim and unknown stream That leads at last to the light. Closer and closer my steps Come to the dark abysm; Closer death to my lips Presses the awful chrysm. Father, perfect my trust; Strengthen the might of my faith; Let me feel as I would when I stand On the rock of the shore of death, Feel as I would when my feet Are slipping o'er the brink; For it may be I'min nearer home, Nearer now than I think. HYMN. A OD of the Sabbath, calm and still, Father, in whom we live and move, How do our trembling bosoms thrill With words which tell us of thy love! Thine heralds, speaking of the tomb, The organ's voice, the censer's flame, The solemn minister's shadowy gloom, Awe us, and make us fear thy name. I49 Poems by Phwbe Carey. The earthquake, opening deep Its graves, The lightning, running down the sky, The great sea, lifting up its wa,Tes. Speak of thine awful majesty! But once thou camest in Eden's prime, Lord of the soul, to talk with men, And in the cool of eventime Thou seemest with us, now as then. For when our trembling souls draw near, And silence keeps the earth and sea, Thou speak'st, with no interpreter To stand between our hearts and thee! SOWING SEED. and sow beside all waters, In the morning of thy youth, In the evening scatter broadcast Precious seeds of living truth. For though much may sink and perish In the rocky, barren mould, And the harvest of thy labor May be less than thirty-fold, Let thy hand be not withholden, Still beside all waters sow, For thou know'st not which shall prosper, Whether this or that will grow, I5o 0 The Baptism. While some precious portion, scattered, Germinating, taking root, Shall spring up, and grow, and ripen Into never-dying fruit. Therefore, sow beside all waters, Trusting, hoping, toiling on; WVhen the fields are white for harvest, God will send his angels down. And thy soul may see the value Of its patient morns and eves, When the everlasting garner Shall be filled with precious sheaves. THE BAPTISM. RO Fo w ful, And her forehead like the snow, Came she up; and, 0, how many In such hours of trial are seen, WVhen they faint with mortal weakness, Knowing not whereon to lean! WVith her face upon my bosom, Said she then in accent sad, As she wound her arms about me, I was all the friend she had. I5I Poems by Phaobe Carey. And I told her —pushing backward From her forellead like the snow, All her tear-wet tresses, dripping With that baptism of dark wo How, in all that great affliction, Loving hands had led hTer on, When she came up from the waters, Led her when her feet went down, And that only the good Father, He who thus her faith had tried, Could have brought her through the billows Safely to the other side. And I told her how life's pilgrim Crossed that solemn stream beneath. To a brighter pathway leading, Up the living hills of faith. Lifting upward from my bosom Then her forehead like the snow, 1 will weep, she said, no longer, Therefore rise and let us go! And, as one who walks untroubled By no mortal doubt or fear, Oft we heard her far above us, Singing hymns of lofty cheer, Till with feet that firmly balanced On faith's summit-rock she trod, And beheld the shining bastions Of the city of our God. I52 The Baiptism. Then her voice was tenderer, holier, She grew gentler all the while; It was like a benediction But to see her patient smile. As she walked with cheerful spirit Where her daily duties led, "Father, keep me from temptation," Was the only prayer she said. Often made she earnest pleading, As she went from us -art, To be saved through a> her lifetime From the weakness of her heart. And she prayed that she might never, Never in her trials below, Bring her soul before the altar, Wailin- in un-chastened wo. So her hands of faith were strengthened, And when clouds about her lay, From her bosom all the darkness She could softly put away. Smilingly she went unaided, When we would have led her on, Saying always to our pleading, Better that I go alone. Turned she from the faces dearest When her feet more feebly trod, t53 4k Poems by Phoebe Carey. That she might not then be tempted By a mortal love from God. So the Father, for her pleading. Kept her safe through all life's hours And her path went brightly upward To eternity through flowers. THE CHRISTIAN WOMAN. BEAUTIFUL as Morning in those hlours When, as her pathway lies along the hills, Her golden fingers wake the dewy flowers, And softly touch the waters of the rills, Was she who walked more faintly day by day, Till silently she perished by the way. It was not hers to know that perfect heaven Of passionate love returned by love as deep, Not hers to sing the cradle-song at even, Watching the beauty of her babe asleep; "Mother and brethren,"-these she had not known, Save such as do the Father's will alone. Yet found she something still for which to live, I54 The Christian Woman. Hearths desolate, where angel-like she came; And "little ones," to whom her hand could give A cup of water in her Master's name; And breaking hearts, to bind away from death WVith the soft hand of pitying love and faith. She never won the voice of popular praise, But counting earthly triumph as but dross, Seeking to keep her Saviour's perfect ways, Bearing in quiet paths his blessed cross, She made her life, while with us here she trod, A consecration to the will of God. Anrid she hath lived and labored not in vain: Through the deep prison-cells her accents thrill, And the sad slave leans idly on his chain, And hears the music of her singing still; While little children, with their innocent praise, Keep freshly in men's hearts her Christian ways. And what a beautiful lesson she made known? The whiteness of her soul sin could not dim; Ready to lay down on God's altar-stone The dearest treasure of her life for him, Her flame of sacrifice never, never waned; How could she live and die so self-sustained? x55 Poems by Pzhoebe Carey. For friends supported not her parting soul, And whispered words of comfort, kind and sweet, WVhen treading onward to that final goal, Where the still Bridegroom waited for her feet; Alone she walked, yet with a fearless tread, Down to Death's chamber and his bridal bed! THE HOSTS OF THOUGHT. OWV heavy fall the evening shades, Making the earth more dark and drear, As to its sunset sadly fades This, the last Sabbath of the year! Oft, when the light has softly burned Among the clouds, as day was done, I've watched their golden furrows turned By the red ploughshlare of the sun. To-night, no track of billowy gold Is softly slanting down the skies; But dull-gray bastions, dark and cold, Shut all the glory from my eyes. And in the plain that lies below, WVhat cheerless prospect meets my eye! One long and level reach of snow, Stretching to meet the western sky! I56 The Hosts of Thought. While far across these lonesome vales, Like a lost soul, and unconfined, Down through the mountain gorges wails The awful spirit of the wind. WVhen, yester-eve, the twilight stilled, Writh soft, caressing hand, the day, Upon my heart, that joyous thrilled, A sweet, tumultuous vision lay. To-night, in sorrow's arms enwound, I think of broken faith and trust, And tresses, from their flowers unbound, Hid in the dimness of the dust. And hopes that took their heavenward flight, As fancy lately gave them birth, Slowv through the solemn air to-night Are beating backward to the earth. 0 memory, if the shadowy hand Lock all thy death-crypts close and fast, Call not my spirit back to stand In the dark chamber of the past! For trembling fear, and mortal doubt, About me all day long have been; So even the dreary world without Is brighter than the world within, 157 Poems by Phwoebe Carey. Pale hosts of thought before me start: O for that needed power I lack, To guard the fortress of my heart, And press their awful columns back! O for a soul to meet their gaze, And grapple fearless with its wo! As the wild athl'ete, of old days, In the embraces of the foe! Thoughts of the many lost and loved, Each unfulfilled and noble plan,Memories of Sabbaths unimproved, Duty undone to God or man; They come, with solemn, warning frown, Like ghosts about some haunted tent; And courage silently goes down, Before their dreadful armament. 0 friend of mine, in years agone, WVhere'er, at this dark hour, thou ark WVhy hast thou left me here alone, To fight the battles of the heart? Alone? A soft eye's tender light Is turned to meet my anxious glance; And, struggling upward from the night My soul has broken from her trance. I58 The Hosls of Thought. Love is omnipotent to check Such'wildering fancies of the brain; A soft hand trembles on my neck, And lo, I sit with hope again! Even the sky no longer seems Like a dull barrier, built afar; And through its crumbling wall there t,e'iA4a The sweet flame of one burning star. The winds, that from the mountaln's brc,) Came down the dreary plains to sweep, Back, in the cavernous hollow, now Have softly sung themselves to sleep. Come, thou, whose love no waning knows And put thy gentle hand in mine, For strong in faith my spirit grows, Leaning confidingly on thine. And in the calm, or in the strife, If side by side with thee I move, Hereafter I will live a life That shall not shame thy trusting love. Memory and fear, with all their powers, No more my soul shall crush or bend; For the great future still is ours, and thou art with me, O my friend! 159 OUR HOMESTEAD. UR old brown homestead reared its walls, iA? From t;ie way-side dust aloof, WVhe-re the apple-boughs could almost cast Their fruitage on its roof: And the cherry-tree so near it grew, That when awake I've lain, In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs, As they creaked against the pane: And those orchard trees, 0 those orchard trees! I've seen my little brothers rocked In their tops by the summer breeze. i6o Our Homeeleaed. The sweet-brier under the window-sill, Which the early bi: ds made glad, And the damask rose by the garden fence, Were all the flowers we had. I've looked at many a flower since then, Exotics rich and rare, That to other eves were lovelier, But not to me so fair; ) those roses bright, O those roses bright! I have twined them with my sister's locks, That are hid in the dust from sight! WVe had a well, a deep old well, Where the spring was never dry, And the cool drops down from the mossy stones WVere falling constantly: And there never was water half so sweet As that in my little cup, Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep, Which my father's hand set up; And that deep old well, O that deep old well! I remember yet the splashing sound Of the bucket as it fell. Our homestead had an ample hearth, Where atenight we loved to meet; There my mother's voice was always kind, And her smile was always sweet; And there I've sat on my father's knee, And watched his thoughtful brow, With my childish hand in his raven hair, That hair is silver now! i6i t62 Poems by Phoebe Carey. But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light! And my father's look, and my mother's smile,They are in my heart to-night. THE BOOK OF POEMS. N the pages whose rhymed music Gi A,) So oft has chimed thine ears, I have gazed till my heart is filling 2 \VWith memories of v a n i s h e d years; And, leaving the lines of the poet, Hias sadly turned to roam Away to that beautiful valley In the sunset land of home! 0 land of the greenest pastures, O land of the coolest streams. Shall I only again be near you In the shadowy light of dreams? Shall I only sit in visions By the hearth and the lattice-pane, And my friend of the past, my brother, Shall we meet not there again? As a sweet memorial ever This book to my heart will be; But I never can read its pages So far from home and thee; For the words grow dim before me, Or tremble on my lips, And the disc of life's orb of beauty, Is darkened with wo's eclipse. To Frank. So for ever closed and clasped Shall the volume lie unread, As might in some ancient cloister The gift of the saintly dead, Till our hands shall open its pages Once more beneath that dome That hangs over the beautiful valley, In the sunset land of home! TO FRANK. 7. z IS three years and sometning over Since I looked upon you last, But I only think about you As I saw you in the past. And when memory recalls you, As she has done to-day, You're just as young, and just as small, As when you went away. I can see you hunt for flowers In the meadows green and sweet, Or go wading through the hollows With your little, naked feet; Or peeping through the bushes That hedged the garden round, To see if any little birds Were in the nest you'd found. And I know how in the clover, Where the bees were used to comae. You held them down beneath your hat. To hear their pleasant hum. i63 Poems by Phaobe Carey. And how in summer evenings, Through the door-yard wet with dee, The watch-dog led you many a chase, He's growing older too! I know when on the dear old porch WVe coaxed you first to walk, And treasured every word you said WVhen you began to talk. WVe asked you what you meant to be, And laughed at your replies, Because you said, when you grew up To manhood, you'd be wise. And may you pray the God of love, And I will pray him too, To make you wise in every thing That makes man good and true! MORNING. ADLY, when the day was done, To his setting waned the sun; Heavily the shadows fell, And the wind with fitful swell, - Echoed through the forest dim Like a friar's ghostly hymn. Mournful on the wall, afar, Walked the evening setitry-star; Burning clear, and cold, and lone, Midnight's constellations shone; While the hours, with solemn tread, Passed like watchers by the dead. z64 7forning. Now at last the Morning wakes, And the spell of darkness breaks, On the mountains, dewy sweet, Standing with her rosy feet, While her golden fingers fair Part the soft flow of her hair. With the dew from flower and leaf Flies the heavy dew of grief; Fromi the darkness of my thought, Night her solemn aspect caught; And the morning's joys begin, As a morning breaks within. God's free sunshine on the hills, Soft mists lhanging o'er the rils, Blushing flowers of loveliness Trembling with the light wind's kiss, 0, the soul forgets its care, Looking on a world so fair! Morning wooes me with her charms, Like a lover's pleading arms; Soft above me bend her skies, As a lover's tender eyes; And my heavy heart of pain, Trembling, thrills with hope again. DAWN. HE sunken moon was down an hour agone; And now the little silver cloud, that leant So lovingly above her as she went, I65 P Poems by Pli,be Carey. Is changing with the touches of the dawn: For froni the clasped arms of the sweet night, Lo! the young Dawni has gently stolen away And stars, that late burned with an intense ray, Fade to a wannish, melancholy light. A moment, smiling on the hills she stands, Parting the curtains of the East away; Then lightly, with her white caressing hands, Touchles the trembling eyelids of the Day; And, leaning o'er his couch of rosy beams, WVooes him with kisses softly from his dreams. PARODIES. MARTHA HOPKINS. A BALLAD OF INDIANA. OM the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stands there making pies, Southward looks, along the turn pike, with her hand above her eyes; Where, along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds, And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds. i66 R iflarlla Hopkikns. All the air is full of noises, for there isn't any school, And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool; Blithely frisk unnumbered chickens, cackling, for they cannot latugh; Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf. Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gaze On the ground tlhat's being furrowed for the planting of the maize? Tell me wherefore down the valley ye have traced the turnpike's way, Far beyond the cattle-pasture, and the brick yard, with its clay? Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shline, With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line, And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her freckled cheek,Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak. When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glowed, She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike-road; Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn, Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn. i67 Poems by Plhobe Carey. Ere the supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln of brick, Crossed the rushing Yellow River, and had forded quite a creek, And his fiatboat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans, \With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans. Therefore watches Martha Hopkins holding in her hand the pans, WVhen the sound of distant footsteps seems exactlv like a man's; Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars, But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars. Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the turnpike rough, But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough; WVell she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse hlie keeps, As hle jogs along at leisure, with his head down like a sheep's. She would know him'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest; By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west; By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spread By a blanket which was taken for that pur pose from the bed. I68 Mar/ita Hopkins. None like he the yoke of hickory on the unbroken ox can throw, None amid his father's cornfields use like him the spade and hoe; And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen, That can dance with him the Polka, touch with him the violin. He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now, For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow, WVhen the buckeye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants hiscorn, Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wed ding morn. He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and gown, And he thinks he'11 get a carriage, and they '11 spend a day in town; That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give, To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'11 live. Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape? 'T is a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape. Ah! the eyes of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees, One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees. i69 Poemis by Phzwbe Carey. But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread, As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed. Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair, 'T is the sorrel horse that gallops,'t is John Jackson's self that's there! WORSER MOMENTS. HAT fellow's voice! how often steals Its cadence o'er nmy lonely days! ,, i Like something sent on wagon wheels, Or packed in an unconscious chaise. I might forget the words he said Whlen all the children fret and cry, But when I get them off to bed, His gentle tone comes stealing by, And years of matrimony flee, And leave me sitting on his knee. The times he came to court a spell, The tender things he said to me, Make me remember mighty well My hopes that he'd propose to me. My face is uglier, and perhaps Time and the comb have thinned my hair, Anrd plain and common are the caps And dresses that I have to wear; But memory is ever yet With all that fellow's flatteries writ. I70 Worser Moments. I have been out at milking-time Beneath a dull and rainy sky, When in the barn'twas time to feed, And calves were bawling lustily,WVhen scattered hay, and sheaves of oats, And yellow corn-ears, sound and hard, And all that makes the cattle pass With wilder fleetness through the yard,_ When all was hateful, then have I, WVith friends who had to help me milks Talked of his wife most spitefully, And how he kept her dressed in silk; And when the cattle, running there, Threw over me a shower of mud, That fellow's voice came on the air, Like the light chewing of the cud And resting near some speckled cow The spirit of a woman's spite, I've poured a low and fervent vow To make him, if I had the might, Live all his lifetime just as hard, And milk his cows in such a yard. I have been out to pick up wood, \When night was stealing from the 4awni Before the fire was burning good, Or I had put the kettle on The little stove,-when babes were waking WVith a low murmur in the beds, And melody by fits was breaking Above their little yellow heads,And this when I was up perhaps From a few short and troubled naps, And when the sun sprang scorchingly And freely up, and made us stifle, Poems by Phebe Carey. And fell upon each hill and tree The bullets from his subtle rifle, I say a voice has thrilled me then, Hard by that solemn pile of wood, Or creeping from the silent glen, Like something on the unfledged brood, Hath stricken me, and I have pressed Close in my arms my load of chips, And pouring forith the hatefulest Of words that ever passed my lips, Have felt my woman's spirit rush On me, as on that milking night, And, yielding to the blessed gush Of my ungovernable spite, Have risen up, the red, the old, Scoldipg as hard as I could scold. THE ANNOYER. " Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever."-SHELLEY. OVE knoweth everybody's house, And every human haunt, And comes unbidden everywhere, Like people we don't want. The turnpike-rcads and little creeks Are written with love's words, And you hear his voice like a thousand bricks In the lowing of the herds. He peeps into the teamster's heart, From his Buena Vista's rim, 172 Tze Annoyer. And the cracking whips of many men Can never frighltein him. HIe'll come to his cart in the weary night, WVhen he's dreamingr of his craft; And( hle'll float to his eye in the morning light, Like a man on a river raft. Ile hears the sound of the cooper's adz, And makes him, too, his dupe, For he sighs in his ear from the shaving pile As he hammers on the lioop. The little girl, the beardless boy, The men that walk or stand, He will get them all in his mighty arms, Like the grasp of your very hand. The shoemaker bangs above his bench, And ponders his shining awl, For love is under the lapstone hid, And a spell is on the wall. It heaves tile sole where he drives the pegs, And speaks in every blow, Till the last is dropped from his crafty hand And his foot hangs bare below. He blurs the prints which the shopmen sell, And intrudes on the hatter's trade, And profanes the hostler's stable-yard In the shape of the chamber-maid. In the darkest night and the bright daylight, Knowing that lie can win, In every home of good-looking folks Will human love come in. lr73 Poems by Phzebe Carey. SAMUEL BROWN. was many and many a year ago, In a dwelling down in town, That a fellow there lived whom you may know, By the name of Samuel Brown; And this fellow lived with no other thought Than to our house come down. I was a child, and he was a child, In that dwelling down in town, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Samuel Brown,With a love that the ladies coveted Me and Samuel Brown. And this was the reason that, long ago, To that dwelling down in town, A girl came out of her carriage, courting My beautiful Samuel Brown; So that her high-bred kinsman came And bore away Samuel Brown, And shut him up in a dwelling-house, In a street quite up in town. The ladies not half so happy up there, Went envying me and Brown; Yes! that was the reason, (as all men know, In this dwelling down in town), That the girl came out of the carriage by night, Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown. I74 Granny's House. l ove Of those who are older than we, Of many far wiser than we,And neither the girls that are living above, Nor the girls that are living in town, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Samuel Brown. For the morn never shines without bringing me lines From my beautiful Samuel Brown; And the night's never dark, but I sit in the park WVith my beautiful Samuel Brown. And often by day, I walk down in Broadway, WVith my darling, my darling, my life aint my stay, To our dwelling down in town, To our house in the street down town. GRANNY'S HOUSE. OMRADES, leave me here a ilttle, 'I e~while as yet'tis early mo n, Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the dinner-horn. 'Tis the place, and all about it, as of old, the rat and mouse Very loudly squeak and nibble, running over Granny's house;Granny's house, with all its cupboards, and its rooms as neat as wax, 175 he Poems by Phaebe Carey. And its chairs of wood unpainted, where the old cats rubbed their backs, Many a night from yonder garret window, ere I went to rest, Did I see the cows and horses come in slowly from the west; Many a niglht I saw the chickens, flying upward tlroughl the trees, Roosting on the sleety branches, when I thought their feet would freeze; Here about the garden wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the beans, and sweet potatoes, and the melons whiich were prime; When the pumpkin-vines behind me with their precious fruit reposed, When I clung about the pear-tree, for the promise that it closed, When I dipt into the dinner far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the pie, and all the dessert that would be. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the spring the noisy pullet gets herself another nest; In the spring a livelier spirit makes the ladies' tongues more glib; In the spring a young boy's fancy lightly hatches up a fib. Then her cheek was plump and fatter than should be for one so old, And she eyed my every motion, with a mute intent to scold. I76 Granny's House. 177 And I said, My worthy Granny, now I speak the truth to thee,Better believe it,-I have eaten all the apples from one tree. On her kindling cheek and forehead cartie a color and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flashing in Lne northern night; And she tur-necl,-her fist was shaken at the coolness of the lie; She was nad, and I could see it, by the snapping of her eye, Saying I havse hid my feelings, fearing they should do thee wrong,Saying, " I shall whip you, Sammy, whipping, I shall go it strong,!" Sne took me up and turned me pretty roughly, when she'd done, And every time she shook me, I tried to jerk and run; She took off my little coat, and struck again with all her might, And before another minute I was free and out of sighlt. Many a morning, just to tease her, did I tell her stories yet, Though her whisper made me tingle, when. she told me what I'd get; Many an evening dict I see her where the. willow sprouts grew thick, And I rushed away from Granny at the touch ing of her stick. 0 my Granny, old and ugly, 0 my Granny's hateful deeds, 178 Poemis by Phoebe Carey. O the empty, empty garret, 0 the garden gone to weeds, Crosser than all fancy fathoms, crosser than all songs have sung, I was puppet to your threat, and servile to your shrewish tongue, Is it well to wish thee happy, having seen thy whip decline On a boy with lower shoulders, and a nar rower back, than mine? Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the dinner-horn,They to whom my Granny's whippings were a target for their scorn; Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string? I am-shamed through all my nature to have loved the mean old thing; Weakness to be wroth with weakness! wo man's pleasure, woman's spite, Nature made them quicker motions, a con siderable sight. Woman is the lesser man, and all thy whip pings matched with mine Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine. Here at least when I was little, something, A, for some retreat Deep in yonder crowded city where my life began to beat, Where one winter fell my father, slipping off a keg of lard, I was left a trampled orphan, and my case was pretty hard. Granny's House. Or to burst all links of habit, and to wander far and fleet, On from farm,-house unto farm-house till I found my Uncle Pete, Larger shleds and barns, and newer, and a better neighborhood, Greater breadth of field and woodland, and an orchard just as good. Never comes my Gr-anny, never cuts her willow switches there; Boys are safe at Uncle Peter's, I'll bet you what you dare. Hangs the heavy fruited pear-tree: you may eat just what you like. 'T is a sort of little Eden, about two miles off the pike. There, methinks, would be enjoyment, more than being quite so near To the place where even in manhood I almost shake with fear. There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing space. I will'scape that savage woman, she shall never rear my race; Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall run; She has caught me like a wild goat, but she shall not catch my son. He shall whistle to the dog, and get the books from off the shelf, Not, with blinded eyesight, cutting -gly whips to whip himself. Fool again, the dream of fancy! no, I don't believe it's bliss, I79 ISo Poemzs ba, Phzbe Carey. But I'm certain Uncle Peter's is a better place than this. Let them herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of all glorious gains, Like the horses in the stables, like the sheep that crop the lanes; Let them mate with dirty cousins,-wLat to me were style or rank, I the heir of twenty acres, and some monev in the bank? Not in vain the distance beckons, forward let us urge our load, Let our cart-wheels spin till sun-down, ring ing down tile grooves of road; Through the white dust of the turnpike she can't see to give as chase: Better seven years at uncle's, than fourteen at Granny's place. 0, I see the blessed promise of my spirit'ath not set! If we once get in the wagon, we will circum vent her yet. Howsoever these things, be a long farewell to Grannv's farm: Not for me she'll cut the willows, not at me she'll shake her arm. Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, —A,ess i; holds a thunderbolt: Wish'twould fall on Granny's house, with rain, or hail, or fire, or snow, Let me get my horses started Uncle Peteward, and I'll go. "aTmze Day is Done." "THE DAY IS DONE." HE day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, ___As a feather is wafted downward From a chicken going to roost. I see the lights of the baker Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er ni,. That I cannot well resist. A feeling of sadness and lonzging, That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brick-bat resembles a brick. Come, get for me some supper, A good and regular meal, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel. Not from the pastry baker's, Not from the shops for cake, I w-ouJdn't give a farthing For all that they can make. For, likle the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I wanit the best. Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice As any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice. I P, I Poemns bay Piifbe Cared/. Such things through days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, For sad and desperate feelings Are wonderful remedies. They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce, And come like the "Finally, brethren," That follows a long discourse. Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook, And lend to its sterling goodness Thle science of the cook. And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run. JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER. FELLO\W near Kentucky's clime Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry, And I'll give thee a silver dime To row us o'er the ferry." " Now, who would cross the Ohio, This dark and stormy water?" 6 O, I am this young lady's beau, And she John Thompson's daughter. x82 John Thompson's Daughter. 1 We've fled before her father's spite \Vith great precipitation, And should he find us here to-night, I'd lose my reputation. "They've missed the girl and purse beside, His horsemen hard have pressed me, And who will cheer my bonny bride, If yet they shlall arrest me?" Out spoke the boatman then in time, " You shall not fail, don't fear it; I'll go, not for your silver dime, But for your manly spirit. "And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; For though a storm is coming on, I'll row you o'er the ferry." By this the wind more fiercely rose, The boat was at the landing, And with the drenching rain their clothes Grew we? where they were standing. But still, as wilder rose the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Just back a piece came the police, Their tramping sounded nearer. "0, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, " It's any thingl but funny; I'll leave the light of loving eyes, But not my father's money!" 183 Poems by Phzobe Carey. And still they hurried in the face Of wind and rain unsparing; John Thompson reached the landing-places His wrath was turned to swearing. For by the lightning's angry flash, His child lie did discover; One lovely hand held all the cash, And one was round her lover! " Come back, come back," he cried in wo, Across the stormy water; "Butt leave the purse, and you may go, My daughter, O my daughter!". 'Twas vain; they reached the other shore, (Such dooms the Fates assign us,) The gold lie piled went withl his chlild, And hlie was left there, v7inus. GIRLS WVERE MIADE TO M!OURN. HEN chill November's surly blast IMade every-bo(ly shiver, One evening as I wan(lered forth, Along the \Walhasli River, I spied a w-omant past her prime, .' t with la'outhfll air, oie face was coveredl o'er witl curls Of aell selected hiair! Young woman, whither' wandeiest thou, Began the prim old maid; -Z 84 Gi;-ls IVere Made lo Moforn.. ire visions of a home to be, IIn all thy dreams displayed? Or hap,y wanting but a mate, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth with me to mourn The indiffeience of man! The sun that overhangs y)on fields, Outspreading far and wide, AlVere thousands by their own hearth sit, Or in their carriage ride,I've seen yon weary winter sun Just forty times return; Anid every time has added proofs, That girls were made to mourn! V girls! when in your early years, Howv prodigal of time! lIisspending all your precious hours, Your glorious youthful prime! Thinking to wed just when you please: From beau to beau you turn, -tlich tenfold force gives nature's law. That girls were made to mourn! Look not on them in youthful prime, Ere life's best years are spent! SIan will be gallant to them then, And give encouragement! But see them when they cease to speak Of each birthday's return; Then want and sinigle-blessedness Show girls were made to mourn! 185 Poemis by Plioebe Carey. A few seem favorites of fate, By husband's hands caressed, But think not all the married folks Are likewise truly blest. For, ohll! what crowds, whose lords are out, That stay to patch and darn, Through weary life tIlis lesson learn, That girls were made to mourn! LIany and sharp and numerous ills, Inwoven with our frame! NMoie pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame! -And man, whose hleaven-erected face IThie smiles of love adorn,.-an's cold indifference to us Mlakes countless thousands mourn! If I'm designed to live alone, By nature's law desigued,WliVh wras this constant wishl to wed E'er planted in mv mind? If not, why am I subject to Man's cruelty or sco-rn? Or why has he the will and power To make me for him mourn? See yonder young, accomplished girl, WVhose words are smooth as oil, WVlio'd marry almost any one To keep her hands from toil; But see, the lordly gentleman Her favors don't return, Unmindful though a weeping ma And bankrupt father mourn! 186 To IZez. Yet, let not this, my hopeful girl, Disturb thy youthful breast; This awful view of woman's fate Is surely not the best! The poor, despised, plain old maid Had never sure been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those who mourn! O death! the poor girl's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my weary limbs Are laid with thee to rest! The yountg, the married, fear thy blow From hope or husbands torn; But ohl! a blest relief to those In single life who mourn! TO INEZ. AY, smile not at my garments now; Alas! Z cannot smile again: Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst dress, and haply dress so plain. And dost thou ask, WAhy should I be The jest of every foe and friend? And wilt thou vainly seek to see A garb, even thou must fail to mend? It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honors lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all f loved tile most I87 Poems by PIzcrbe Carey. It is the contrast which will spring From all I meet, or hear, or see: To me no garment tailors bring, Their shops have scarce a charm for me. It is a something all wceo rub WVould know the owner long had wortThat may not look beyond the ttib, And can not hope for help before. What fellow from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remotet Still, still pursues, wliere'er I be, The blight of life,-the ragged Coat. Yet others wrapt in broadcloth seem, And taste of all that I forsake! 0, may they still of transport dream, And ne'er at least like me, awake! Through many a clime't is mine to go, \Vith manv a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know, \Whate'er I wear, I've worn the worst. What is the worst? Nay, do not ask, In pity from the search forbear: Smile on,-nor venture to unclasp My Vest, and view the Shirt that's tlhre. I88 To./ary. TO MARY. ' ELL! thou art happy, and I say ' That I should thus be happy too; di- For still I hate to go away As badly as I used to do. ''hy husband's blest,-and't will impart Some pangs to view his happier lot; Out let them pass,-O, how my heart \\7ould hate him, if hlie clothed thee not. \When late I saw the favorite child, I thought, like Dutchlmen, " I'd go dead," But when I saw its breakfast piled, I thought how much't would take forbread. I saw it and repressed my groans Its father in its face to see, Because I knew my scanty funds WVere scarce enough for you and me. Mary, adieu! I must away; Wvhile thou art blest, to grieve were sin, But near thee I can never stay, Because I'd get in love again. I deemed that time, I deemed that pride, My boyish feeling had subdued, Nor knew till seated by thy side, I'd try to get you if I could. Yet was I calm: I recollect, MIy hand had once sought yours again, But now your husband might object, And so I kept it on my cane. I89 Poems by Phezbe Carey. ,I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with neither wo nor scoff; O-ne only feeling couldst thou trace, A disposition to be off. Away! away, my early dream, Remembrance never must awake, -, where is Mississ:ppi's stream? Mly foolish heart, be still, or break! THE CHANGE. N sunset's light o'er Boston thrown, A young man proudly stood Beside a girl, the only one He thought was fair or good; The one on whom his heart was set, The one he tried so long to get. HIe heard his wife's first loving sound, A low, mysterious tone, A music sought, but never found, By beaux and gallants gone; He listened and his heart beat high,That was the song of victory! The rapture of the conqueror's mood Rushed burning through hlis frame, And all the folks that round him stood Its torrents could not tame, Though stillness lay with eve's last smile Round Boston Common all the while. 71 v The Change. Years came with care; across his life There swept a sudden change, E'en with the one he called his wife, A shadow dark and strange, Breathed from the thought so swift to fall O'er triumph's hour,-and is this all? No, more than this! what seemed it now Right by that one to stand? A thousand girls of fairer brow \Valked his own mountain land; Whence, far o'er matrimony's track, Their wild, sweet voices called him back. They called him back to many a glade Where once he joyed to rove, Where often in the beechen shade He sat and talked of love; They called him with their mocking sport Back to the tim.es he used to court. But, darkly mingling with the thought Of each remembered scene, Rose up a fearful vision, fraught With all that lay between,His wrinkled face, his altered lot, His children's wants, the wife he'd got! Where was the value of that bride He likened once to pearls? His weary heart within him died With yearning for the girls,All vainly struggling to repress T'iat "ush of )painful tenderness I9I 192 Poems by Phzobe Carey. He wept; the wife that made his bre. Behleld thle sad reverse, Even on the spot where he had said "For better or for worse." 0 happiness! how far we flee Thine own sweet path in search of thee. "HE NEVER WROTE AGAIN." lIS hope of publishing went down, The sweeping prt-ess rolled on; But whlat was any other crown To him who hadn't one? He lived,-for long may mal bewail When thus he writes in vain: Why comes not death to those who fail: He never wrote again! Books were put out, and "had a run," Like coinage from the mint; But which could fill the place of one, That one they wouldn't print? Before him passed, in calf and sheep, The thoughts of many a brain; Hi3 lay with the rejected heap::ie never wrote again! die sat where men who wrote went roun(d, And heard the rhymes they btiilt; ie saw their works most richly bound, With portraits and in gilt. Thze Soiree. Dreams of a volume all forgot WVere blent with every strain: A thought of one they issued not: He never wrote again! .Minds in that time closed o'er the trace Of books once fond(lly read, And others came to fill their place, And were perused instead. Tales which young girls had bathed in tears Back on the shelves were lain: Fresh ones came out for other years: He never wrote again! THE SOIREE. HIS is the Soiree: from grate to entrance, Like milliners figures, stand the lovely girls; But from their silent lips no merry sentence Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls. Ah. what will rise, how will they rally, When shall arrive the "gentlemen of ease "! What brilliant repartee, what witty sally, Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies! I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus, The laugh of ecstasy, the merry tone, That through the evenings that have gone before us In long reverberations reach our own. 193 I94 Poems by Plicebe Carey. From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices, Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang, And, loud amidst their universal noises, From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang. I hear the editor, who from his office Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff, And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers, Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff. The tumult of each saued, and charming maiden, The idle talk that sense and reason drowns, The ancient dames with jewelry o'erladen, And trains depending from the brocade gowns,The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder, The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies too, And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of some lady blue, Is it, 0 man, with such discordant noises, \Vith pastimes so ridiculous as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies? Tlze Ciy Life. I95 Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies, Were half the timne bestowed on caps and lace, Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies, There were no time to visit such a place. THE CITY LIFE. OW shall I know thee in that sphere that keeps Thee country youth that to the city goes, When all of thee, that change can wither, sleeps And perishes among your cast-off clothes? For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain, If there I met thy one-horse carriage not; Nor see the hlat I love, nor ride again, When thou art driving on a gentle trot. Wilt thou not for me in the city seek, And turn to note each passing shawl and gown? You used to come and see me once a week, Shall I be banished from your thought in town? In that great street I don't know how to find, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfettered mind. Poems by Phlzbe Carey. Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? The love that lived through all the simple past, And meekly with my country training bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, Shall it expire in townii, and be no more? A happier lot than miner and greater praise, Await thee there; for thou, withl skill and tact, Has learnt the wisdom of the world's just w-ays, And dressest well, and knowest how to act For me, the country place in which I dwell Has made me one of a proscribed band; And work hath left its scar-that fire of hlell Has left its frightful scar upon my hand. Y-et though thou wear'st the glory of the town, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same black-satin vest, and morning-gown, Lovelier in New York city, yet the same? Shalt thou not teach me, in that grander home, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this,The wisdom which is file,-till I become Thy fit companion in that place of bliss? !96 The JaSrirage, Sir John Smnii. T97 x~ OT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone, I 9 As the man to his bridal we Hlurried; Not a womana discharged her fare well groan, On the spot where the fellow was married WVe married him just about eight at night, Our faces paler turning, Ely tile striugling moonbeam's misty light, A,.c tlhe gas-lamp's steady bur-iit'g. N,o useless watchl-chain covered lhis vest, Nor over-dressed we found lim; BuLt he looked i'.ke a gentleman wearingi hIis best, \lVith a fewv of his friends around him. Fewx and short were the things we said, And we spoke not a -word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on thle man tlhat was wed, And we bitterly thiought of the morrow. "iVe thought, as we silently stood about, \Vitll spite and anger dying, I-HoIw the merest stranger hadcl cut us out, %Vith only lIalf our trying. Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone, And oft for the past upbraid him; But little hie'll reck if we let lhim live on, In the hiouse whlere his wife conveyed hi. T I i Poems by Pzebe Carey. B-ut our heavy task at length was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And w-e heard tile spiteful squib and pun Thle giris were sullenly firing. Slow-ly and sadly w-e turned to go, We had strgll,-gled, and we were human, \Ve shed not a tear, and we spoke not our wo, But we left him alone with his woman. BALLAD OF THE CANAL. E were crowded in the cabin, I<% 7 Not a soul had room to sleep; I' |>~ It waas midnight on the waters, f9V,:4.| And the banks were very steep. 'Tis a fearful thing when sleeping To be startled by the shock, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, " Coming to a lock! " So we shuddered there in silence, For the stoutest berth was shook, While the wooden gates were opened And the mate talked witli the cook. As thus we lay in darkness, Each one wishing \ve w\ere there, "'We are through!" tl-he cptaini shouted, And he sat down on a chair. And his little daughter whispered. Thinking that he ought to know, i98 I Rem)emnber, I Remember. "Isn't traveling by canal-boats Just as safe as it is slow?" Then he kissed the little maiden, And with better cheer we spoke, And we trotted into Pittsburg VWhen the morn looked through the smoke, I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. M REMEMBER, I remember, Tile house where I was wed, And the little room from which that night, My smiling bride-was led; She (lidn't come a wink too soon, Nor make too long a stay; But now I often wish her folks Had kept the girl away! I remember, I remember, Her dresses, red and white, .Ier bonnets and her caps and cloaks, They cost an awful sight! The "corner lot" on which I built, And where my brother met At first my wife, one washing-day, That man is single yet! I remember, I remember, WVhere I was used to court, And thought that all of married life Was just such pleasant sport: 199 Poems by Phoabe Carey. My spirit flew in feathers then, No care was on my brow; I scarce could wait to shut the gate, I'm not so anxious now! I remember, I remember, MIy dear one's smile anid sigh; F used to think her tender heart Was close against the shy; It was a childish ignorance, But now it soothes me not To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when she wasn't got! JACOB. E dwelt among "aparments jet.' About five stories tigl]; A man I thloughlt that none would get, And very few would try. A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighbourhood. He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife,-and 0! The difference to me! 200 A Psalm of Life. THE WIFE. ER washing ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close, And passed the long, long night away, In darning ragged hose. But when the sun in all his state Illumed the eastern skies, She passed about the kitchen grate, And went to making pies. A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG WOMAN SAID TO THE OLD MAID. LL me not, in idle jingle, Marriage is an empty dream, For the girl is dead that's single, And things are not what they seem. Married life is real, earnest; Single blessedness a fib; Taken from man, to man returnest, Has been spoken of the rib. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Nearer brings the wedding-day. 201 Poems by Phoebe Carey. Life is long and youth is fleeting, And our hearts, if there we scarch, Still like steady drums are beating Anxious marches to the church. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a woman, be a wife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,-act in the living Present: Heart within, and MAN ahead! Lives of married folks remind us WVe can live our lives as well, And, departing, leave behind us Such examples as will tell; Such examples, that another, Sailing far from Hymen's port, A forlorn, unmarried brother, Seeing, shall take heart, and court. Let us then be up and doing, \Vith the heart and head begin; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor, and to win! 202 " There's a Bower of Bean- Vines." 203 "THERE'S A BOWVER OF BEAN-VINES." HERE'S a bower of bean-vines in "- R Benjamin's yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens; In the time of my childhood'twos terribly hard To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans. That bower and its products I never forget, But oft, when my landlady pressesme hard, I think, are the cabbages growing there yet, Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benja min's yard? No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that hug on, And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it awfully hard: And thus good to my taste as't was then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard. Poemns by Paebe Carey. " WHEN LOO7ELY WOMAN." HEN lovely woman wants a favor, And finds, too late, that man wont bend, WVhat earthly circumstance can save her From disappointment in the end? The only way to bring him over The last experiment to try, Whether a husband or a lover, If he have feeling, is, to cry! SHAKESPERIAN READINGS. H, but to fade, and live we know not where, To be a cold obstruction and to groan! This sensible, warm woman to become A prudish clod; and the delighted spirit To live and die alone, or to reside WVith married sisters, and to have the care Of half a dozen children, not your own; And driven, for no one wants you, Round about the pendant world; or worse than worse Of those that disappointment and pure spite Have driven to madness:'1 is too horrible! The weariest and most troubled married life 204 SIzakespearian Readiing-. That age, ache, penury, or jealousy Can lay on nature, is a paradise To being an old maid. That very tii.. I saw, (but thou coulast not,} WValking between the garden and t'le barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken, standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a huti-dr-ed thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben's fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And thle domesticated fowl passed on, In henly meditation, bullet free. My father had a daughter got a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I good-looking, ! should, your lordship. And what's her residence? A hut, my lord, she never owned a house, But let her husband, like a graceless s,u.p, Spend all her little means,-she thought she ought,And in a wretched chamber, on an alley, She worked like masons on a monument, Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed? 205