IRLF 
 
 MS D7fl 
 
GIFT OF 
 
 >N L. TILHJflEYi 
 
 Pa- 
 
 
/Vv, t/e L-Z^ -.-<?. 
 
Wx 
 
 We will watch for * roof with a slope down behind. 
 For a chimney as broad as th curb of a well * * 
 For a neighborly porch with the brow of a Greek * 
 
 For a rusty-gray < urb, round a rutted stone well, 
 
OLD-TIME PICTURES 
 
 SHEAVES OF RHYME. 
 
 AUTHOR OF " SONGS OF YESTERDAY," "THE WORLD ON WHEELS, 
 u BETWEEN THE GATES," Etc. 
 
 SIXTH EC-ITiO iVI ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 CH 1C AGO: 
 S. C. GRIGGS & COMPANY. 
 
 1881. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
 
 S. C. GRIGGS & COMPANY, 
 in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 DONNKLLKY, 
 
 A K KSI UK 1- K I -->." 
 
-p- 
 
 (?r 
 Iff/ 
 
 TO HER FOR WHOM TWENTY YEARS HAVE NOT DIMMED THE 
 
 MEMORY OF THAT LONG-GONE DAY, THIS 
 
 LITTLE BOOK IS 
 
 Affectionately 5n0crttrt. 
 
 365995 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PACK. 
 
 OLD-TIME PICTURE, .... Frontispiece. 
 
 RAKERS AND BINDERS, 18 
 
 THE OLD CONTINENTAL, 3 o 
 
 MERRY CIIK!-IMA>, --..... e 
 
 OLD VILLAGE CHIR, ...... 9C 
 
 JENMK JUNE, nO 
 
 A WINTER PSALM, 136 
 
 
 
 THE SHATTERED RAINBOW, 162 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 SET adrift in the newspapers, like thistle-down in 
 the Fall wind, a few poems of mine have " lodged " at 
 last between the lids of a book. 
 
 Never thinking seriously about it until it was too 
 late to think at all, I find myself fearing that their 
 meaning to me is a sort of personal property I cannot 
 make over to anybody, and that I should have slipped 
 them in among the leaves of the Family Record, be 
 tween the book of Malachi and the Gospel according 
 to St. Matthew, as being the very place in a world of 
 sinners about the safest from perusal. 
 
 A friend once sent me some withered pansies, but 
 he brightened and humanized the faded things by 
 writing a single line : " From the grave of Hamlet, 
 
10 PR El- ACE. 
 
 Prince of Denmark." Ah, how beautiful they turned, 
 and what treasures they became ! 
 
 Less fortunate than the pansies, this sheaf of rhymes 
 has nobody to write the single line. Only this : J sus 
 pect one or two of them of being better than I once 
 thought, because several clever people have stolen and 
 never returned them. 
 
THE SHEAF. 
 
 AN OLD-TIME PICTURE - - - 13 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE STAR - - - - - - 38 
 
 THANKSGIVING 52 
 
 A POET S LEGACY - 56 
 
 THE SONG OF THE AGE - 61 
 
 JUNE - 63 
 
 OCTOBER - - 74 
 
 TORNADO SUNDAY 78 
 
 THE SKYLARK- 82 
 
 BUNKER HILL ----- 87 
 
 THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR 89 
 
 GOING HOME - 9 2 
 
 THE DEAD GRENADIER - - 97 
 
 RHYMES OF THE RIVER - - - 102 
 
 LAZY 109 
 
 DEARBORN OBSERVATORY - - 112 
 
 JENNY JUNE - - TI 5 
 
 BURNS CENTURY SONG - "8 
 
 THE COLORED MARBLE - I22 
 
 FLOWERS - - - - - - ~ - -123 
 
lli THE SHEAF. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Tin. NEW CRAFT IN THE OFFING 124 
 
 THE VANE ON THE SPIRE - 127 
 
 DECORATION 1).\\ - 132 
 
 A WINTER PSALM - - - - - - - 135 
 
 SAILING OF COLUMBUS - 141 
 
 THE CHRYSALIS 142 
 
 THE FLAG - - 143 
 
 THE HERO OF NEW HAMBURG 144 
 
 THE GOSPEL OF THE OAK 151 
 
 THE Two JOHNS - 154 
 
 BEAUTIFUL " MAY " - - 158 
 
 THE NORTHERN LIGHTS - 160 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER ...... 161 
 
 THE SHATTERED RAINBOW . . . - 162 
 
 FIKI AND WATER - 163 
 
 " ATLANTIC " - 167 
 
 CAVALRY CHARGE - 174 
 
 FORT DEARBORN - i-;t> 
 
 THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO 188 
 
 THE ROSE AND THE ROBIN ...... 191 
 
AN OLD - TIME PICTURE. 
 
 JULY 4TH, 1776 JULY 4TH, 1873. 
 
 T ET us roll back the world on its axle of fire, 
 ^^ Let us halt, if we can, just a breath or two 
 
 nigher 
 The sweet simple time when they halved every 
 
 trouble, 
 Ere pinks were carnations and roses all double ! 
 
 We will watch for a roof with a slope down behind. 
 Like a sun- bonnet blown partly off by the wind, 
 Till the tresses of brown turn to gold one by one, 
 As they shake out of shadow and shine in the sun 
 
 For a chimney as broad as the curb of a well 
 Where the ember-red maple leaves eddied and fell, 
 That volcanic plumed up with its volumes of smoke 
 That were crimson and gold when day brightened 
 and broke ; 
 
 13 
 
14 AN OLD- TIME PICTUK1 . 
 
 For a neighborly porch with the brow of a Greek 
 That will make you as welcome as if it could speak, 
 With a vine that runs up like a creature alive, 
 And as brisk as a bee that is bound from the hive 
 It goes rambling about with inquisitive leaves, 
 And then swings in a frolic along the low eaves ; 
 
 For a rusty-gray curb, round a rugged stone well. 
 Where with dangle of bucket the sweep rose and 
 
 fell 
 
 O er the disc of still water, a silent black eye 
 That unsleeping, unwinking, is watching the sky ; 
 Now a star shines along, drops a beam down below. 
 Now a drift of noon cloud sheds a fleck of its 
 
 snow, 
 
 Now a shadowy face smiling up to the brink 
 Where a girl smiling down has forgotten to drink ; 
 
 For the hives of a fashion quaint, classic, and old, 
 Where the bees went and came with their burdens 
 
 of gold 
 
 T was an African village of straw- woven cones 
 Within humming range of those myrtle-draped 
 
 stones, 
 
AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 15 
 
 Of two borders of pinks, Sweet Williams and 
 
 thyme, 
 
 That led out to the gate like a couplet in rhyme, 
 Of the pseony s glow and the prince s own feather 
 Of the four-o clocks timing the dullest of weather, 
 Of the meek little asters, Earth s studies for stars, 
 And the love -lies -a -bleeding there close by the 
 
 bars, 
 
 Of the languid white poppy the dream - angels keep, 
 With its quaint - covered cup of the powder of 
 
 sleep, 
 
 And sunflower and hollyhock, stately and tall, 
 And the cluster of lilacs beside the gray wall, 
 And the daffodils, columbines, roses, and all 
 That were kindred of Eve s without sinning at 
 
 all;- 
 
 For the flinty old fields where the vicious -edged 
 
 hoe 
 
 Always struck out a weed and a spark at a blow ; 
 For the pastures where mulleins and butter - cups 
 
 grew, 
 And the white -legged sheep gnawed the summer 
 
 all through ; 
 
It, AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 
 
 For a fringe of deep woods with \\ sugar - camp in it. 
 And the memories sweet as the song of a linnet ; 
 And the drum of the partridge can summon my 
 
 soul. 
 
 Like the drum of a drummer -boy beating the roll : 
 Ah, the thought of the "red -bird s " small flicker 
 
 of fire 
 
 Can yet startle my pulses and kindle desire, 
 And the green, plashy place where the slim rushes 
 
 grew, 
 And the pendulum ivcds, when the summer winds 
 
 blew, 
 
 Set the bird withan epaulette swaying and swinging 
 "Till the bobolink s bolls fell to rocking and ringing ! 
 Ah, the fire of the camp as it threaded the trees, 
 And the smoke like a canopy swung by tin- breeze, 
 And the young nmmis nt April and young girls <>i 
 
 old. 
 
 How they flock to the heart like the lambs to t In 
 fold ; 
 
 Ah, tin- dainty white flowers with their feet in tin- 
 loam. 
 And as clean as an angel a minute from home !- 
 
AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 17 
 
 For the strawberry meadow so haunted with bees, 
 Where the boys and the girls crept about on their 
 
 knees 
 
 And became of each other devout devotees ; 
 Where the monarchs of twilight for ages had stood 
 And pronounced benediction with branches abroad, 
 Hark, the stroke of an axe like the tick of a clock : 
 There s a burst of broad sunshine, a crushing of 
 
 flowers ; 
 
 Hark, the crash of the giants with shiver and shock : 
 There s the chime of the wilderness strilfing the 
 
 hours ! 
 Lo, their monuments here that the mowers mow 
 
 round 
 With a glint of the scythes that are rasping the 
 
 ground ; 
 
 For the quilt of a field where the cradlers went in, 
 And their free swinging sweep seemed as easy as 
 
 sin; 
 
 On the skeleton fingers the grain was laid down 
 Like the Babes in the Wood, far away from the 
 
 town, 
 B 
 
Jg AX OLD-T1MK PICTURE. 
 
 And the rakers and binders came rollicking after, 
 With their heads thatched with straw and their 
 
 hearts full of laughter 
 
 And perhaps the old farmer of Pomfret is one. 
 With a ring to his jokes like the flash of his gun : 
 And perhaps Molly Stark shades her eyes with 
 
 her hand, 
 As she watches the boys that are sweeping the 
 
 land ; 
 
 For a sky-line that rises and falls like the deep, 
 Lies as light on the hills vrith its tremulous sweep 
 As a mantle of blue on an infant asleep ! 
 
 And the watch is all over th picture is given, 
 .And the scene is ringed in with z rcollop of heaven. 
 
 The wide door on the latch opening -ull the 
 
 south 
 
 Is as sweet as the smile of an eloquent mouth. 
 When you swing on its hinges that neighborly door 
 A broad carpet of sunshine unrolls on the lloor. 
 And a bee and a butterfly, freed from the fold 
 And they must have been in it before it was rolled 
 
On !? * skeleton fingers the grain was laid down 
 
 Like the Babes in the Wood, far away from the town. 
 
 And the rakers and binders came rollicking after, 
 
 With their heads thatched with straw and their hearts full of laughter. 
 
AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 19 
 
 Like two figures escaped from a tapestry loom, 
 Are just drifting about in the rambling old room. 
 
 There s a touch of green caraway charming the air, 
 There s a low, loving ceiling, with a hook here 
 
 and there, 
 Whence festoons of dried apples and pumpkins 
 
 have hung 
 That the " bees " in checked aprons had quartered 
 
 and strung , 
 
 There s a spotless white table, c, broad open palm, 
 That has grown with the mouths like the swell of 
 
 a psalm 
 
 T is a small hand of Providence, laden and spread, 
 That has answered the prayer of three ages for 
 
 bread ! 
 
 There s a thrush on the linden, a goldfinch adrift, 
 
 And a lark going up on r., musical lift ; 
 
 There s a girl in the garden, a " fellow " to love 
 
 her, 
 
 And a robin in song in the maple above her ; 
 There s a tin horn in tether adorning the wall, 
 And its twang, sharp and nasal, is sweeter than all ! 
 
20 AN OLD. TIME PICTURE* 
 
 Tbere s a box on tin* window-sill, awkward and 
 
 square, 
 
 11 Live-forever" defiant is clustering then- : 
 Ah, the true " live -forevers " are haunting the 
 
 place, 
 And are thronging my soul with ineffable grace, 
 
 Let us rummage the drawers and the desolate 
 "till" 
 
 For the snowy white cap, like a lily in frill, 
 And the string of gold dew-drops that Leaded a 
 
 neck, 
 
 And a hit of a dress in the blue and white check. 
 And the scolloped Vandyke that the grandmother 
 
 wore 
 
 And the short -gown and petticoat never seen more. 
 And the green silk calash, like the top of a chaise, 
 They ronld throw back at will in Hie dull, cloudy 
 
 days 
 
 And then lit ? it a-aiu when the sky was a -blaze ; 
 And the faded red "sampler," the work of .lane 
 
 Ann, 
 
 You can see with your heart how the alphabet ran 
 
AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 21 
 
 ,i ^ 
 
 And the year and Aery ear : " ^ ^s e&v&n, 
 
 And no older to-day, for she went young to 
 Heaven ! 
 
 The old room has grown human in all the long 
 
 years 
 Has been brightened by happiness, hallowed by 
 
 tears \ 
 By the brides on the hearth who will bless it no 
 
 more, 
 
 By the cradles kept rocking like boats on the shore. 
 And that old-fashioned hearth with a flare to the 
 
 jamb, 
 
 And a throat full of midnight to swallow the flame, 
 And a crane, like a witch s long slender black 
 
 tongue, 
 
 In the yawn of red fire horizontally swung ; 
 And a brace of tough fire-dogs, their feet in the 
 
 coals, 
 Looking out from beneath the broad volume that 
 
 rolls 
 
 Like the burst of a sunset in glory and gold, 
 That the touch of no Titian could ever have told. 
 
22 AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 
 
 Ah, the Arctic old hearts are alive that remember 
 All that splendor of fire in the perished December, 
 And the flicker and flash of the musketry rattle 
 When the hemlock and birch blazed away in sham 
 
 battle, 
 
 And the sturdier glow of the hickory bank. 
 Reinforced with rock -maple in front and in flank, 
 When the surges rolled up and the rubies dropped 
 
 down 
 Like the gems that are struck from a conquered 
 
 king s crown, 
 Till the rush -bottomed chairs falling back in good 
 
 order, 
 
 As the leaves flush apart in a wild rose s border, 
 All around the horizon the cider and song, 
 And the Baldwins and Greenings went circling 
 
 along, 
 
 And the touching of hands and the whisper aside, 
 All the charms that survived it when Paradise died ! 
 With the thought of that ingleside Eden is near, 
 Long deserted and cozy old corners of cheer ! 
 
 See the jambs worn away by the shovel and tongs, 
 As the marble at Mecca was kissed by the throngs 
 
AN OLD-TIME PICTURE. 23 
 
 That just pressed their live lips to the lips of the 
 
 stone 
 
 Till marble with mortal had blended and gone. 
 Ah, those long iron fingers to handle the fire 
 Were not made by the maker of Amphion s lyre, 
 But the sturdy old smith at the forks of the road 
 Smote them out of the bar as it sparkled and 
 
 glowed, 
 
 Like the besom of Lucifer flourished the brand 
 Till he swept out the dark with his angry right 
 
 hand, 
 
 And the kiss of the sledges fell fiercely and fast, 
 And the fingers were fashioned and finished at last ; 
 With a sigh of relief they were plunged in the 
 
 water, 
 And the tongs were baptized rough Vulcan s rude 
 
 daughter. 
 
 Ah, the print of his hammer is plainer to-day 
 Than his name that they graved on a tablet of gray ! 
 
 There s the ghost of a clock, with its body all gone, 
 Where it stood in a corner so ghastly and wan. 
 With a pallor of face that so haunted the wall 
 You felt like enshrouding the shape in a pall. 
 
24 AN OLD- TIM/-: PICTURE. 
 
 It was wound with a string, and its shadowy beat 
 Fell a faint and deliberate vision of feet. 
 How it marched through the night with tin echo- 
 less tread, 
 Like unshrived and unshodden impenitent dead ! 
 
 On the mantel two candlesticks, iron and old, 
 That have lifted their glimmer long winters untold. 
 Ah, the slender white shafts, with their finish of 
 
 flame, 
 That were lighted by those that old monuments 
 
 name, 
 
 And the snuffers served up on a salver of tin, 
 When the crickets came out and the neighbors 
 
 came in ! 
 
 On the wall hangs the almanac, ledger of time, 
 At the tail of each page is a ringlet of rhyme, 
 At the top is the sun, with a flare to his hair, 
 And the moon, from the shield to the sickle, is 
 
 there, 
 
 And along the brief column s zodiacal blaze 
 Is the roll of the age s battalion of days 
 
AN OLD-TIME PICTURE. 25 
 
 On the stand lies the Bible, that Day - Book so broad 
 It embodies the reckoning of mortals with God. 
 When the last of fourteen just the lines in a son 
 net ! 
 
 Is first seated at table, a twenty -pound man, 
 They just swing down the Book and enthrone him 
 
 upon it, 
 And it brings him in range with the platter and 
 
 pan. 
 
 On its cover the razor is cautiously strapped, 
 And within it the route of old Moses is mapped, 
 With the noblest of Sermons and sweetest of 
 
 Psalms, 
 
 And the greenest of cedars and grandest of palms, 
 While Saint Matthew and Malachi guard the old 
 
 story 
 
 Of the son that was born and the sire gone to glory 
 Of the twain that were one, with an altar above it 
 Of the darling that died, with a willow to love it ; 
 Tis the Blotter of tears for the mother and wife, 
 And belongs to the Ledger and Day- Book of Life ! 
 
 On the gnarled wooden hooks, over mantle and all, 
 Is a battered Queen s Arm at a trail on the wall ; 
 
26 AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 
 
 And that filbert - brown gun Saratoga has heard ; 
 It has come to the shoulder at WASHINGTON S 
 
 word 
 What was saucy to kings is as dumb as a sword ! 
 
 In the blessed home -room, and that dreamy June 
 
 day, 
 
 On the hearth were two children together at play : 
 One, a shrivelled gray man, shrunk away in his 
 
 wear, 
 
 One, a boy like a distaff, with tow for his hair : 
 And one brought as he could the dead embers 
 
 together, 
 And one blew for his life like a blast of March 
 
 weather. 
 
 But the grizzled old boy was a -shiver in June, 
 And his mate s puckered lips sadly lacking a tune. 
 
 He never heard the birds outside, 
 He never felt the drifting tide 
 Of song and fragrance mingled so, 
 As strangely blent they float along, 
 You think you hear the roses blow, 
 And smell the robin s scented song. 
 
AN OLD-TIME PICTURE. 27 
 
 Ah, the pulse that is dull with a dying desire 
 Can be warmed never more by an old kitchen fire ! 
 But the shrivelled gray man dreamed his way back 
 
 to life ; 
 
 In the howl of December he heard the wild strife, 
 When the grand ragged regiments stood to the 
 
 shock, 
 And the troopers came down like the wave on the 
 
 rock. 
 
 So all things around helped his dreaming along, 
 And they rallied his heart like young Hopkinson s 
 
 song. 
 
 E en a kettle of samp that was lazily swung 
 On a hook s smutty finger, contentedly hung, 
 With its bubbles of gold, as they shattered and 
 
 broke, 
 
 Made him think of the far - away musketry smoke, 
 When the field was red - edged with the troopers 
 
 red drift, 
 
 Like a border of cloud with a ray in the rift, 
 And the Georges in surges of scarlet did run 
 Like a line of shore - billows pursued by the sun ! 
 And the lift of the lid at the touch of the steam 
 Was as measured and slow as a drum in a dream ! 
 
28 AN OLD-TIME 
 
 ( )f tin- boys on the hearth one was yet on his knees, 
 When the calm ruffled up with a breath of a breeze, 
 And a posy of girls blossomed into the room. 
 All the threads of their talk like the woof in a 
 
 loom. 
 
 The old man looked round in a querulous way 
 On the exquisite grouping, as if he should say, 
 "Don t you s-e-e? Here lam. in my ninetieth 
 
 year ! 
 
 And he hollowed his hand till it fitted his ear. 
 ; Oh, my grandfather dear," cried a willowy girl, 
 And a pair of forefingers nimbly ran up a curl 
 kw l was saying next week is the FOURTH OF 
 
 JULY. " 
 
 Then the faded gray eye had a dawn like the sky, 
 Then the drowsy old heart gave an audible knock, 
 And he said, "I will pick the old Hint in the 
 
 lock 
 44 Ah, she never missed fire there s a spark in 
 
 her yet, 
 
 " And the rattling old talk she can never forget! " 
 Thru the poor bended figure grew stately and tall, 
 For again he was hearing the bugler s old call ; 
 
AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 29 
 
 The one hand was uplifted, the other was laid 
 On the thistle-down head with whom he had 
 
 played, 
 
 And he murmured, " My boy, in whatever you do 
 " Be as right and as ready the gun is for you 
 " She s a quick-witted jade, but she s trusty and 
 
 true." 
 Then a hush like a ghost that is here without 
 
 coming, 
 Set the hearts of the maidens all halting and 
 
 drumming, 
 And the breeze held its breath that was filling the 
 
 room. 
 
 T was as if one had spoken direct from the tomb^ 
 With no charnel to rend and no coffin to rive, 
 And the First Resurrection had found them alive ! 
 
 And the day broke at last, with its bunting and 
 
 thunder, 
 And the eyes of the Thistle - down rounded with 
 
 wonder ; 
 
 A big anvil was pounding away in the road, 
 From the ridge of the barn a red banneret flowed \ 
 
HO AN OLD- 77J//-; PICTURE. 
 
 On the pine in the yard perched an eagle benighted, 
 By a hand -breadth of stars in blue calico lighted. 
 And the "trainers" went by in white legs and 
 
 blue breasts, 
 All their plumes tall and straight, and with blood 
 
 on their crests, 
 
 And the riflemen green, in their fringes and frocks, 
 "Shutting pan" down the line like the ticking of 
 
 clocks ; 
 And the troopers rode on in fierce coat and fur 
 
 frown 
 That had covered a bear, till it burdened them 
 
 down. 
 
 With the ruffle and roll of the double drum corps, 
 And the fifes warbling up in the rumble and roar, 
 Like a bird half bewildered caught out in a storm. 
 Lo, there stood on the threshold the shrivelled 
 
 gray form, 
 With the battered Queen s Arm ah, the darling 
 
 old girl ! 
 And then, just as the wind blew the flag out of 
 
 furl, 
 
The one hand was uplifted, the other was laid 
 On the thistle-down head with whom he had played, 
 And he murmured, " My boy, in whatever you do 
 Be as right and as ready the gun is for you " 
 
AN OLD-TIME PICTURE. 31 
 
 He was up with the musket and rattling away: 
 Tt was three and three more for the Deed and the 
 
 Day, 
 And three rounds for the comrades that lay where 
 
 they fell, 
 
 In the front of the battle, the border of hell; 
 And three guns for the Flag, and a toll for the dead 
 Old Commander who rode in the tempest and said, 
 " Blaze away there, my men ! Are you saving your 
 
 lead?" 
 So the clock struck thirteen twas an old-time 
 
 salute, 
 And the smoke rolled away, and the musket was 
 
 mute. 
 
 And the shadows were traveling eastwardly all, 
 They were shed from the trees in a lengthening- 
 fall, 
 
 They were reaching so lovingly over the land, 
 And were waving so strange when the forests 
 
 were fanned, 
 
 You would fancy them fingers of pitiful Night, 
 That were gleaning the fields for a handful of light; 
 
 c 
 
30 AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 
 
 And they lay like a hand on the Veteran s head, 
 And he sat in his chair till the heavens were red, 
 And the musket and Thistle-down lay at his feet, 
 And his 3*ears were in sheaf like a bundle of wheat ; 
 He had grounded his arms, and the Soldier was 
 dead ! 
 
 Ah, the world never halted, but trampled right 
 
 on 
 
 Not so much as a pansy for him that had gone , 
 And the grasses grew rank and the tablet grew 
 
 small 
 
 Till the name on the stone had no meaning at all, 
 And the FOURTH OF JULY yet revolved like the 
 
 Light 
 As it flashes to sea, intermitting the night. 
 
 There was growling of thunder low down in the 
 
 sky, 
 
 And the crown of calamity lifted on high, 
 Every thorn was crushed home upon Liberty s 
 
 brow 
 Valley Forge s own imprint had bloodied its snow ! 
 
AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 33 
 
 Then the trumpet of rally ! The terrible tramp ! 
 The blue skies had all fallen ! The world was a 
 
 camp ! 
 Then the columns spread wide like the limbs of a 
 
 larch, 
 And grew grander and broader. The world was 
 
 a - march ! 
 
 Then the crashing of cannon as batteries wheeled, 
 And the shock of the legions! The world was 
 
 a -field! 
 
 And the bullets flew fiercer and farther and faster 
 In the storm equinoctial of death and disaster. 
 Till the gardens of Eden were mantled in gloom 
 And the world was a Ramah and Rachel at home J 
 
 And again it was June. The porch door was 
 
 swung wide, 
 
 And the sunshine rolled in with a wonderful tide 
 Of the breath of the birds and the blossoms outside. 
 Framed by threshold and lintel, a picture of grace, 
 Stood a model of manhood, his heart in his face ; 
 And the fellow was made on an exquisite plan, 
 With the eye of a woman, the mouth of a man ; 
 
34 ^A r OLD- TIME PICTURE. 
 
 And his mother stood near in white apron and arm 
 And her silver - white hair did her beauty no harm 
 With a wide maple bowl where she patted and 
 
 rolled 
 
 With a broad wooden ladle an ingot of gold, 
 And then lifted the ball to a platter of delf ; 
 It was Thistle-down s mother and Thistle-down s 
 
 self! 
 While her locks were turned white, his were 
 
 deepening to brown 
 
 Then she nervously said, " What s the news from 
 
 the town ?" 
 " Oh, my mother," he cried, " there s a call for 
 
 more men ! 
 u And they ve made it before I can t hear it 
 
 again ! 
 " And no more t would mean me had they called 
 
 out my name !" 
 And his eyes were in tears, though his cheeks were 
 
 aflame. 
 
 kk Did they lie when they said that a man-child was 
 
 born / 
 " Tt could never be me* and T hid in the corn ! 
 
AN OLD-TIME PICT ORE. 35 
 
 " All the boys march by bugle, and I by that horn ! " 
 And he turned back a thumb at the pitiful thing, 
 Where it hung to the wall by its halter of string 
 44 Oh, my mother, say yes, " and he bent low 
 
 above her, 
 And he swallowed his heart like a pleading young 
 
 lover ; 
 44 Do you mind of that FOURTH in old grandfather s 
 
 time ! 
 44 T was the half of a couplet 1 11 finish the 
 
 rhyme. 
 
 Then she lifted her face with a shiver of pain, 
 For the surge from her heart had rolled back from 
 
 her brain, 
 And she said, " The Lord gave, and " " Oh, no," 
 
 he broke in, 
 
 " Let the sentence be ended right where you begin. 
 44 Oh, not 4 taken away but just borrowed awhile ;" 
 And then murmuring low, with a far-away smile, 
 44 1 11 come back in the blue, and we 11 bless Him 
 
 together, 
 44 And we 11 talk it all over, this dark heavy 
 
 weather. 
 
36 AN OLD-TIME PICTURE. 
 
 " J will go it is duty the way the thing looks ;" 
 
 And he took down the gun from the brown wooden 
 hooks, 
 
 And he said, "I WILL KEEP MY OLD GRAND 
 FATHER S FOURTH ! " 
 
 And he blent with the blue of the broad azure 
 North. 
 
 Then the June came again, and the bee and the 
 bird, 
 
 And the Thistle-down too, but he uttered no 
 word, 
 
 Though he came in the blue, as he said he would 
 
 come, 
 But with wailing of fife and the moaning of drum. 
 
 And the mother sat still in the sunny old porch, 
 And her eyes had burned down like a perishing 
 
 torch, 
 But she took up the verse at the very same 
 
 word : 
 " And has taken away, and be blessed the 
 
 Lord!" 
 
AN OLD- TIME PICTURE. 37 
 
 Do you think that the FOURTH OF JULY can go 
 
 down 
 While a Thistle - blow lives long enough to be 
 
 brown ? 
 
 It will yet be a child at an hundred years old ! 
 Lo ! the columns of Centuries grandly unfold ! 
 Rear rank, open order ! and front rank, about 
 
 face ! 
 
 And the Ages salute as they stand in their place, 
 And the DAY passes through with an eloquent 
 
 grace ! 
 See it shine down the lines with unquenchable 
 
 light - 
 Good morn, Boy in Blue ! Continental, GOOD 
 
 NIGHT ! 
 
THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 
 
 H, feel in your bosom, my darling, 
 
 If the flutter is there as of old, 
 The pant of Sterne s captive, the starling, 
 When this old - fashioned story is told. 
 Oh, the days sparkling up to the rim 
 
 That bounds the one world by the other ! 
 Oh, your heart even full to the brim 
 
 With love like the love of your mother ! 
 When you knew nothing more about sorrow or sin 
 Than the buttercups knew that she held to your 
 
 chin, 
 While she watched with a smile your small secret 
 
 unfold, 
 As it tinted the white with a glimmer of gold ! 
 
 We stood in the pasture together 
 
 With the clover - breath over our heads, 
 
 Right down from the Lord came the weather. 
 Right up went the larks from their beds ; 
 
THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 39 
 
 And we longed for a goldfinch s billow 
 
 As it rode the invisible flood 
 An oriole swung from a willow, 
 
 And the daisies were bowing to God ! 
 But the year was a harp, and like David the king s. 
 And the graver the cadence the longer the strings 
 One by one went the days, growing briefer and 
 
 fewer, 
 And we told them all off, and no tale could be 
 
 truer, 
 So we watched out the time with no thought of a 
 
 sigh, 
 For our hearts danced and sang, " Merry Christmas 
 
 is nigh ! " 
 
 Oh, honey-bee, gypsy of summer, 
 
 There s a flower that is sweeter than thine ! 
 For thee there s an Angel for comer, 
 
 With the sweep of a pinion divine. 
 Oh, Day on the hem of December ! 
 
 And oh, Star of old Bethlehem s brood ! 
 Shine down in my heart like an ember 
 
 With a glow from the altar of God. 
 
40 THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 
 
 Oh, fairest of flowers in the garden 
 
 That dost blossom the brightest and last, 
 When our Eden has furloughed its warden, 
 
 And the roses and lilies are past ; 
 When Euroclydon s fingers so sculpture the snow, 
 That you hardly can tell if the sleeper below 
 Is just waiting for Spring, or the Trumpet to blow -, 
 When the marble in motion and the Parian blend, 
 Till the sexton must say where " God s acre " 
 
 should end, 
 And mid these from the quarry and those from the 
 
 cloud, 
 Must declare which they are that are wearing a 
 
 shroud ! 
 
 Sit here by my side, like a lover, 
 
 Let us turn down the flare of the lamp. 
 And talk the dear story all over 
 
 Till around us the shadows encamp. 
 As we did in the days of the olden, 
 
 We will light a dim candle again, 
 For the blaze of a chandelier golden 
 
 Never shone from the Now to the Then. 
 
THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 41 
 
 We will blow a dull coal to its glowing, 
 
 As we blew it long ages ago, 
 While the Lord of the Harvest is sowing 
 
 With His tempest out there in the snow. 
 
 Do you see that gray roof, strangely drifted with 
 leaves, 
 
 And the moss all along on its low northern eaves ? 
 
 "Tis as if Robin Redbreast, on duty again, 
 
 Would have covered my dead from the vision of 
 men. 
 
 Each side of the gate a bold Lombardy stands, 
 
 As stately as warders, as graceful as wands, 
 
 That I watched long ago, while they swept the 
 blue sky 
 
 All clear of the clouds that were loitering by ! 
 
 I there in my cradle slowly rocking and dream 
 ing, 
 
 They clearing the road where the angels were 
 
 gleaming. 
 
 Now I pause on the threshold the loving feet trod 
 That have walked upon thorns, that have gone up 
 
 to God 
 
42 THE CHILD AND THE STAA\ 
 
 All traced here and there on threshold or stair 
 But the one pair that left not a print anywhere - 
 Ah, the little bare feet that had never been shod ! 
 
 ( )h, heart of the house, my dead Mother, 
 
 Give your boy the old greeting once more 
 That I never have heard from another 
 
 Since Death was let in at the door. 
 I can reach up my hand to the ceiling 
 
 Of the rooms once the world s greater part 
 Who wonders I cannot help feeling 
 
 They have narrowed to fit to my heart ! 
 
 Ah, these little green panes let the morning in late 
 But it never was stained by the emerald gate 
 And the clock has run down in its desolate place, 
 How we counted it in with its moon of a face, 
 When we said " Four were born but the dock is 
 
 alive," 
 
 And the household forever was numbered at five. 
 And dumb is the bell that did toll off the hours 
 And the boys and the blessings, the birds and the 
 
 flowers, 
 
THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 43 
 
 And dead are the hands that were lifted a space 
 When the noon seemed to halt while the father 
 
 said grace ! 
 Here s the place on the jamb where we " reckoned " 
 
 at night, 
 There s a mark on the wall where we measured 
 
 our height, 
 And a line on the sill where the sunbeam swung 
 
 round 
 Like a ship on a bar, as twas nearing the 
 
 ground. 
 Ah, how slowly it crept when some day was to - 
 
 morrow ! 
 Ah, how swiftly it went I have learned to my 
 
 sorrow ! 
 Oh, if Gibeon s sun could have shone there of 
 
 old, 
 And burnished the sill with unperishing gold ! 
 
 The air is alive with a shiver 
 
 There s a wandering chill in the room- 
 
 There s a foot that has forded the river 
 There s a hand feels for mine from a tomb : 
 
44 THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 
 
 I take it in silence, unshrinking, 
 
 And I warm it again in my grasp, 
 There is nothing of sadness in thinking 
 
 Two worlds may have met in the clasp. 
 My heart strangely longs as I linger, 
 
 To be decked with some darling old word, 
 Be clasped as a ring clasps a finger 
 
 By a trinket my boyhood had heard 
 Some fragment of speech by love broken, 
 
 As the emblem was broken by Christ. 
 That, passed round the homestead in token 
 
 Would a soul from a sod have enticed ! 
 
 Ah, th^ chimney 4 draws still ! It is drawing my 
 
 heart, 
 
 And that rudest of things ever fashioned by art 
 Does so kindle my soul with intensest desire 
 To become as a child and see faces in fire, 
 That I never can wonder the curling blue smoke. 
 As dull water was wine when Divinity spoke, 
 Always turned into crimson the instant it broke 
 Like a glory unrolled into sunshine and air 
 And then floated abroad like an archangel s hair! 
 For that chimney was ever the top of the stair 
 
THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 45 
 
 Where my Angel came down in the dear Christmas 
 
 Eve; 
 
 Oh, set back the old clock and still let me believe 
 That the saint of my childhood, Saint Nicholas 
 
 came 
 
 Down that tunnel of glory, the route of the flame ! 
 Here the stockings were swung in their red, whito^, 
 
 and blue, 
 
 All fashioned to feet that were light as the dew, 
 For they walked upon flowers without crushing a 
 
 bud, 
 That have trampled the flint till it blushes with 
 
 blood . 
 Ah, the fragrant old faith when we watched the 
 
 cold gray 
 
 Reluctantly line the dim border of day, 
 When we braved the bare floor with our little bare 
 
 feet- 
 
 No shrine to a pilgrim was ever so sweet. 
 When each heart and each stocking was burdened 
 
 with bliss 
 
 On the verge of two worlds there is nothing like this 
 But a mother s last smile and a lover s first kiss ! 
 
46 THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 
 
 " Merry Christmas," we cried, and in answer to 
 
 prayer, 
 The glad greeting came back like a gush ol .him- 
 
 air, 
 That had lurked out the night in those bosoms of 
 
 theirs 
 To waylay us at dawn when we stole down tlir 
 
 stairs. 
 
 God pity the man who has naught to remember, 
 With no heart anywhere if not in December, 
 Who abandons the Cross because Romans adore it, 
 And yet longs for the crown that is carried before it : 
 Who declaring the birth -day of Christ is uncertain 
 Would let down on the Manger Oblivion s cur 
 tain 
 
 Unheeding the birth of the Heir to the Throne 
 While he tells off the years, and then honors his 
 
 own! 
 Shuts the door on the angels commissioned by 
 
 Heaven 
 
 To belong to the children for one blessed even. 
 Locks out of their hearts the invisible land, 
 And tarnishes time with the touch of his hand. 
 
Oh, set back the old clock and still let me believe 
 
 That the saint of my childhood, Saint Nicholas came 
 
 Down that tunnel of glory, the route of the flame ! 
 
 Here the stockings were swung in their red, white, and blue, 
 
 All fashioned to feet that were light as the dew, 
 
THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 47 
 
 Where the birds had the freedom of window and 
 
 eaves, 
 And the walls were all garnished with Bethlehem s 
 
 sheaves. 
 The bright straw with its amber bestrewing the 
 
 floor, 
 
 The great eyes of the oxen like lamps at the door. 
 And their breath clouding up the dim air of the 
 
 place 
 
 As if censers were swinging round altars of grace, 
 Was the PRINCE of all worlds in humility born, 
 Who created the Christmas and crowned the new 
 
 morn. 
 
 There were ANGELS without but a flash from the 
 
 throne, 
 With the flow of their robes as two mornings in 
 
 one, 
 
 For those angels without brought their glory along, 
 And they sang to the planet its first Christmas 
 
 Song. 
 
 The Star in the East took its place in the choir, 
 While the Seraph sang alto the Angels sang air, 
 
48 THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 
 
 And they said : fc * Unto God all the glory be given !" 
 Ere it ended on earth it had mounted to heaven 
 And they said, and the cadence is lingering still, 
 " Be His peace evermore to the men of good will !" 
 
 There were SHEPHERDS hard by when the carol 
 
 arose, 
 And they came as they were, in their every - day 
 
 clothes ; 
 
 All above in the blue lay the Lord s shining sheep, 
 And below in the green were their own fast asleep ; 
 And their hearts of themselves just beginning to sing 
 What had fluttered to earth like a lark with one 
 
 wing, 
 But the anthem s grand surge swept it up to the 
 
 King ! 
 And that first Christmas Party stood- out in the 
 
 moon 
 As they watched the transfigured and glorified 
 
 tune. 
 
 And the Magi were seeking the Christmas that day, 
 And the Star went before them and blazoned the 
 way 
 
THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 49 
 
 Ah, the children and Christmas together belong, 
 As the melody marries the words of a song 
 That can float us right up. where the Seraphim 
 
 throng. 
 
 With their hands in a tremble the Magi unfold 
 All their treasures of myrrh and their tokens of gold, 
 And they swept the brown manger with beards 
 
 like the drift, 
 As the cloud turns to snow with the moon in the 
 
 rift, 
 
 And they led off the world with their first Christ 
 mas Gift. 
 
 And the Star and the Manger, the Carol and Child 
 Have been gladdening the planet since Bethlehem 
 
 smiled. 
 
 Bid the singers begin, and the Manger s old chorus 
 We will sing as they sang through the ages before 
 
 us : 
 
 Oh. lift your dull heart from its pillow, 
 Let me hold it awhile in my hand, 
 
 Till it warms at the sight of the willow 
 As the sailor at sight of the land ; 
 
50 THE CHILD A XD THE STAR. 
 
 Till it rallies some soul from its sorrow, 
 
 Till it smiles the dark winter away, 
 Lights the hope of a better To-morrow 
 
 With the glow of a brighter To - day. 
 Let us bid for a cloud to be lifted, 
 
 For a bed that is nothing but straw, 
 For a hearth that is ashen and drifted 
 
 For a debtor disastered by law ; 
 That the tables of stone may be broken 
 
 And the hearth be an altar of gold, 
 And the pillow of Bethel betoken 
 
 Not a couch but the Dreamer s of old ! 
 What song was born out of the grieving, 
 
 What a faith in its splendor began, 
 What worship of God by believing 
 
 In the angel that lingers in man ! 
 
 Oh, awake in your chambers, ye bells every 
 where, 
 
 Overturn, oh, ye goblets, and empty in air 
 All the music that swells to your resonant brims, 
 Till ye throb like our hearts, and it blends with 
 our hymns ! 
 
THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 51 
 
 Now be thanks to our God that this Eve of the 
 
 Christmas, 
 
 Uniting two worlds with its radiant Isthmus, 
 And joining again what transgression had riven, 
 Is the children s own road to the Kingdom of 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Oh, bells that are iron ! Oh. hearts that are 
 
 human ! 
 
 Oh, songs that are sweet as the loving of woman ! 
 Be ye blent all the while in a chorus sublime 
 As the carol of stars by the cradle of Time ! 
 And oh, spare us an angel from Bethlehem s choir, 
 Let him bring the same song that he helped to sing 
 
 there, 
 
 Be the grand old beatitude sounded again, 
 And to earth everywhere, Merry Christmas, 
 
 AMEN ! 
 
THANKSGIVING. 
 
 T AY out the earth in a sheet of snow, 
 * There is nothing at all to harm below, 
 Where men dream out the world together, 
 And pansies sleep till pleasant weather 
 The safest place in all the land 
 Is the narrow realm of the folded hand ! 
 Then THANKS to God that a flower will die, 
 T was made to time Thanksgiving by : 
 Breathe as it falls prophetic thing ! 
 " There 11 be an April in the Spring ! " 
 Then THANKS to God for u sister there 
 To stand on Glory s diamond stair, 
 And THANKS again, though I go late, 
 A mother gone shall smiling wait, 
 Shall breathe three names with reverent tone, 
 The Child s, the Virgin s, and her Own, 
 And lift the latch of Mercy s gate ! 
 
TI&NKSGIVING. 53 
 
 11. 
 
 Rouse up the fire to a costly glow, 
 Till the maple parts and the rubies show ! 
 Swing back the curtains now if ever, 
 And, rich and warm, the slender river 
 Shall cleave Thanksgiving - Night in twain 
 As the mantle parted the old Red Main ! 
 Ah, never fear shine as it will, 
 Enough is left to cheer us still. 
 Perhaps some wanderer going past, 
 Who tried all sorrows but the last, 
 And Avonders why he dares to live, 
 And thinks he has no thanks to give, 
 May see that glimmer on the ground, 
 His old dead heart give glad rebound, 
 It looks so like the road of gold 
 He trod himself in time of old 
 Look up and see Thanksgiving found ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Bring out the chairs from the empty wall, 
 Where fitful shadows used to fall, 
 
54 THANKSGlAxG. 
 
 The shapes of father, sister, mother. 
 
 Of slender sweetheart, friend, and brother. 
 
 No painted window half so fair 
 
 As the old home - room with its shadows there ; 
 
 No pictured hall, at king s desire, 
 
 Could match that group before the fire, 
 
 Who never cast a shade beside, 
 
 But on that wall, and when they died ! 
 
 And some went up at break of day, 
 
 Some waited longer by the way ; 
 
 Let them who will thank God for light, 
 
 Such shadows never made it night. 
 
 Come one, come all, there yet is room, 
 
 THANKS be to God, from heaven to home 
 
 Is nothing but a flash of flight ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wheel fi.ith the table, a laden palm, 
 
 We 11 all give thanks and we 11 sing a psalm 
 
 Some song old-fashioned, of Forever, 
 
 That floated safe across the river, 
 
 No note lost out, no cadence gone. 
 
 They warbled, died, and sang right on ! 
 
THANKSGIVING. 55 
 
 The girls shall come in their white and blue 
 
 As if they broke God s azure through, 
 
 Played truant to the realms of light 
 
 To be with us Thanksgiving night. 
 
 The boys are thronging through the hall, 
 
 They ve not grown old these years at all ! 
 
 Some marched away to muffled drum 
 
 But fling no shadows as they come 
 
 Without a sorrow or a sin 
 
 E en Death himself would let them hi- 
 
 Oh, Sweethearts! Comrades! Welcome home! 
 
A POET S LEGACY. 
 
 T)AST twenty -one and Love s of age, 
 ^ Has lost his wings and gained his eyes, 
 Looks down on life s unended page, 
 
 Looks up and sees the azure skies. 
 He s safe to stay while we abide, 
 
 His time for flight forever past, 
 T will be we three whate er betide, 
 
 While roses blow and lilacs last. 
 No bankrupt Firm is this of ours, 
 But rich as June in suns and showers. 
 
 Bring out the ledger ! Every thing 
 That men call gains shall be for sale 
 
 Ay, let them go for what they 11 bring, 
 We 11 keep our losses till we fail ! 
 
 56 
 
A POET S .LEGACY. ( 
 
 Of old when Judah s children wed, 
 
 They pledged their faith in crimson wine, 
 
 Then broke the crystal as they said : 
 " No lips shall touch its brim but mine ! 
 
 " This shall no meaner love profane ! 
 
 The shattered symbol fell like rain. 
 
 None stooped to pick the fragments up 
 
 All knew the thing the token meant : 
 Behold, one love had crowned the cup, 
 
 No matter where the goblet went ! 
 And so, my wife, in Judah s way 
 
 We ve drank life s golden draught of wine, 
 And strown the vase s glittering clay- 
 
 See where the sculptured fragments shine ! 
 The ledger now ! Let it be known 
 How rich and grand this Firm has grown. 
 
 The flock of clouds we always keep 
 Are marked with rainbows every one, 
 
 We know our own celestial sheep 
 
 That throng the blue and graze the sun ; 
 
 T is fine to see them trooping home, 
 Their fleeces tangled thick with stars ; 
 
f><S A POET S LEGACY. 
 
 Tis fine to watch them as they come 
 And wait at Evening s golden bar> : 
 Their shadows fall upon our way, 
 As if old Night had walked by day 
 
 And left her foot -prints as she went; 
 
 Some look like graves of friends that died, 
 Whose sunken mounds the sward indent. 
 
 Of babe and gallant bridegroom s bride, 
 Of golden tress and silver hair, 
 
 And some like hopes our hearts have shed. 
 That fell as leaves in autumn air 
 
 And crush beneath our thoughtful tread. 
 Dear wife, we have no clouds to sell, 
 They make the sunshine show so well ! 
 
 An angel troop this Firm commands, 
 
 A score and one they stand in line, 
 And swing aloft in radiant hands 
 
 A score and one of Eves divine ! 
 ( )f Christmas Eves and Christmas bells 
 
 And Christmas gifts with blessing twice 
 That bring us all, by mystic spells 
 
 In kissing range of Paradise ! 
 
A POET S LEGACY. 59 
 
 My wife, we would not give them up 
 To mend again the shattered cup ! 
 
 A score and one of kindling 1 Junes, 
 
 O 
 
 The warm and blushing brides of Time, 
 Are ranged along like notes in tunes, 
 
 And keep our hearts in rhythmic rhyme. 
 We own a score of belfryed towers 
 
 Where bird -like wishes bred and born 
 Are singing songs those birds are ours 
 
 We count our twentieth New Year s morn ! 
 No birds to sell, nor songs nor chimes, 
 We 11 keep them all till harder times ! 
 
 We have some castles gray and grand 
 
 That cloudless suns do shine upon, 
 Along their halls retainers stand 
 
 And speak Castilian every one. 
 Nobody dies who dwelleth there, 
 
 They have a clime where tempests swoon, 
 No graves to make, no empty chair, 
 
 And Christmas in the month of June ! 
 I 11 make the deeds you 11 sign them sure, 
 And castles twelve we ll give the poor! 
 
60 A POET S LEGACY. 
 
 We Ve had a wealth of dreams as rife 
 
 As corn along the bladed west, 
 We have them still in broider d life 
 
 Like flowers upon a wedding vest. 
 There comes a little sounder sleep, 
 
 There comes a richer flush of dawn, 
 Till then we 11 keep our flocks of sheep, 
 
 No castle, cloud, or angel gone. 
 Down flag of red ! We 11 make no sale 
 But hold our losses till we fail ! 
 
 To make all sure my Will behold : 
 
 " To her who kept this Firm alive 
 44 1 now bequeath my clouds of gold, 
 
 44 My angel choir, my castles five, 
 4 My score of belfries, all my sheep, 
 
 44 The fragments of the sculptured vase, 
 44 To have and hold and ever keep ! 
 
 And yet I ve done no act of grace, 
 They all are yours, but whose are you ? 
 I freely give and keep them too ! 
 
THE SONG OF THE AGE. 
 
 \T7OULD ye know the grand song that shall 
 
 * * sing out the age 
 That shall now down the world as the lines down 
 
 the page 
 That shall break through the zones like a North 
 
 and South river, 
 
 From winter to spring making music forever ? 
 I heard its first tone by an old-fashioned hearth 
 T was an anthem s faint cry on the brink of its 
 
 birth ! 
 
 T was the tea - kettle s drowsy and droning refrain 
 As it sang through its nose as it swung from the 
 
 crane. 
 
 T was a being begun and awaiting its brains 
 To be saddled and bridled and given the reins. 
 
 61 
 
2 THE SO.VG OF THE AGE. 
 
 Now its lungs are of steel and its breathings of 
 
 fire 
 
 And it craunches the miles with an iron desire ; 
 Its white cloud of a mane like a banner unfurled, 
 It howls through the hills and it pants round 
 
 the world ! 
 
 It furrows the forest and lashes the Hood 
 And hovers the miles like a partridge s brood ! 
 
 Oh, stand ye to-day in the door of the heart. 
 With its nerve raveled out, floating free on the air. 
 And feeling its way with ethereal art, 
 By the flash of the telegraph everywhere, 
 And then think, if you can, of a mission more grand 
 Than a mission to LIVE in this time and this land, 
 Round the world for a sweetheart an arm you can 
 
 wind. 
 And your lips to the ear of the listening mankind. I 
 
JUNE. 
 
 HHHE world is in June and it ripples in rhyme, 
 * June ! Sweetheart of Life and own darling 
 
 of Time. 
 The year, with glad laughter, plays truant to 
 
 Death, 
 
 Goes back so near Eden she catches its breath, 
 And follows that airy old fashion of Eve s, 
 And rustles abroad in an apron of leaves ! 
 She holds her cheek long to the kiss of the sun, 
 Days widen and warm like some volume begun. 
 Narrow night like a ribbon just marking the 
 
 page 
 Where some eloquent thought shall last out the 
 
 age. 
 
 Every bush has a blossom, a bee, or a bird, 
 A beauty to blow or a hum to be heard - 
 Battalions of legs all eyes or all stings 
 
 03 
 
64 JUNE. 
 
 And billions of monsters, musquitoes, and " things," 
 And needles like cherubs, with nothing but wings. 
 There s a promise to plead or a bill to present, 
 A grave to be opened, a shroud to be rent, 
 For they rise without trump ; resurrections in 
 
 J line 
 
 Are as blithe as the lark and as bonny as Doon. 
 From the tick of a heart in the breast of a wren 
 To the trumpets that make Agamemnons of men, 
 From the tear drop that trembles unflashed from 
 
 its brim 
 
 To the surly old storm that rolls over earth s rim, 
 Tramples out the white stars as daisies are trod, 
 While its red plumage shakes with the drum - beat 
 
 of God, 
 Till green world and blue world by tempest are 
 
 riven 
 And the lightnings dread squadrons charge right 
 
 up to Heaven, 
 
 As Sheridan went as if grim Mission Ridge 
 With its arches of fire were the pier of a bridge 
 Somebody had built to the gates of the sky 
 And he bound to go up without waiting to die 
 
JUNE. 65 
 
 Everything, everywhere, struggling up in the strife, 
 Is beginning to climb that strange ladder of life, 
 With an angel alight on its uppermost round 
 And an atom alive where it touches the ground. 
 From the blue music -box of the robin s old wife 
 A burglar breaks through into mansions of life. 
 
 Hearts are trumps here in June : heart of lion and 
 
 lark, 
 
 Heart of Richard and Rachel and Joan of Arc ; 
 Heart of iron and oak, steady, sturdy, and true, 
 When through lines of red fire broke the jackets 
 
 of blue ; 
 
 A world of life s rivers all ebbing and flowing, 
 A world full of hearts like hammers all going, 
 Yet instead of our hearing these drummers of 
 
 wonder 
 
 With their ruffle and roll pulsing out into thunder, 
 The earth is, for all of this turbulent crowd, 
 As still as a star, or the shape in a shroud. 
 
 I think it was June when the maiden looked down 
 On the dear little Moses just ready to drown, 
 
And, his basket of bulrushes rocked by the Nile, 
 That Columbus of Canaan looked up with a smile ! 
 
 When summer s green surges roll over the land 
 Till you hardly can tell as they break on the 
 
 strand, 
 
 Where this world doth end or the other begin. 
 They so hide all the graves, the first footprints of 
 
 sin, 
 Is it strange that Earth s singers should drift out 
 
 of June, 
 
 As if lifted by chance on the swell of a tune, 
 And fairly float over life s musical bars, 
 When the birds can go with them half way to the 
 
 stars ? 
 
 So went Sontagand Weber magnificent pair! 
 He was clerk to the angels and she sang in the 
 
 choir ; 
 He recorded in score, \n*t she passed down the 
 
 word 
 
 Till a turbulent world grew human and heard. 
 Ah, talk of the eye unsleeping, unwecping, 
 Undaunted, undying, its watch and ward keeping, 
 
JUNE. 67 
 
 To whose glance telescopic raveled midnight is 
 
 given 
 You can see to Orion, but you hear into Heaven ! 
 
 So went they in June who witli wonderful art 
 Put in English and rhythm the beat of the heart 
 The bard of Sweet Hope and the bard of Sweet 
 
 Home. 
 They wronged thee, oh Sexton ! They tenant no 
 
 tomb, 
 
 For Campbell shall live when the tartan is dim. 
 And Payne walk the world that is chanting his 
 
 hymn. 
 
 How came they in June who the rainbow unbent 
 And laid it alive on the fold of a tent ; 
 With fingers immortal the curtain withdrew 
 And the canvas was kindled and faces looked 
 
 through 
 
 Lips ruddy and ripe with the old loving glow 
 Somebody was kissing three ages ago ! 
 So Rubens, June born, the grand master of art, 
 With a nerve in his pencil strung straight from his 
 
 heart, 
 
68 JUNE. 
 
 At whose touch the Evangels gave Calvary up, 
 The Christ and the Cross and the Crown and the 
 
 Cup- 
 
 And Hebrew and Greek fell away from the story 
 And left it sublime in its gloom and its glory ! 
 
 And that Spaniard, June born, whose fame shed a 
 
 gleam 
 
 Ere Plymouth had pilgrim or Bunyan a dream 
 With no drop of blue blood in breast or in brain, 
 By a right far diviner than Philip s of Spain, 
 Was own king of colors whose banners so brave 
 Never lowered unto death, never struck to the 
 
 grave ; 
 Pride and pomp of the realm the Armada went 
 
 down, 
 
 Cleared the face of the sea like a vanishing frown, 
 But some child that he painted, its journey un 
 done, 
 Makes the transit of ages as Venus the sun ! 
 
 Christ lay in thy manger, oh, fairest of stars ! 
 June rocks in thy cradle, oh, brighter than Mars 
 
JUNE. 69 
 
 God walked in thy garden man sprung from thy 
 
 dust 
 
 Ah, who would not hold thy grand story in trust, 
 That no blade would be wielded nor battle be 
 
 born, 
 But the green waving sabres by ranks of young 
 
 corn? 
 Yet what broods of grim thunders have nested in 
 
 June, 
 Swooped from eyries of blue in the broad summer 
 
 noon, 
 Splashed the greenest sod red with the color of 
 
 fame, 
 Flared the flags into flower with their breathings 
 
 of flame, 
 And growled the world dumb all its eloquent 
 
 words, 
 
 The laugh of its girls and the songs of its birds. 
 Marengo roars down the long highway sublime, 
 Tis the Corsican clocks striking Bonaparte s 
 
 time 
 
 The grumble of guns that had hidden the stars 
 From the sands of the Nile to the land of the Czars ; 
 
70 JUNE. 
 
 Old Monmouth breaks in with its rattle and rain 
 To the flash of the flint and " mad Anthony 
 Wayne." 
 
 And Cromwell the trooper, half lamb and half lion, 
 For the wicked King Charles and the blessed 
 
 Mount Zion 
 Two hundred years nearer Time s morning than 
 
 now, 
 
 Rode into the storm naked blade and bare brow, 
 Wheeled his surly old squadrons as the Lord wheels 
 
 a cloud 
 
 Their hearts and their cannon all throbbing aloud 
 And rode down the King with a cavalry shock 
 That smote off his crown, bent his head to the 
 
 block, 
 Made royalists tremble and monarchy rock ! 
 
 But the throb of no battery ever has stirred 
 
 The world s mighty heart like some stout English 
 
 word, 
 
 Wherein a brave utterance sandaled and shod 
 Has inarched down the ages for Freedom and God ! 
 
JUNE. 71 
 
 "Mid the splendor of June the roar of the Shannon 
 Roused something more grand than the Chesa- 
 
 peake s cannon, 
 
 For she wrung out the words from Lawrence s lip 
 That shall linger for ever : " Do n t give up the 
 
 ship ! " 
 
 Ah, the click of flint locks is not half so divine 
 As the click of the type as they fall into line, 
 The audible step of unfaltering feet 
 To a mightier tune than our bosoms can beat. 
 
 I remember the heroes who sailed out of June, 
 Ross, Harvey, and Franklin, and Hudson s " Half 
 
 Moon," 
 
 Into realms where the sea has breathlessly stood 
 Like the scalps of the Alps dumb and white before 
 
 God; 
 Who have bended the oar and have lifted the 
 
 wing, 
 
 Fairly fled the dominions of caliph and king, 
 Broken out of horizons as old as mankind, 
 Shatter d shells of the worlds they were leaving 
 
 behind. 
 
72 JUNE. 
 
 Aye, Harvey, who stood by the brink of a heart, 
 And saw it brim over, turn crimson and start, 
 And discovered a river as truly God s own 
 As the river of crystal that flows by His throne. 
 
 Hear away, ye tall ships, farewell and all hail ! 
 Cloud up, main and mizzen, weigh anchor, and sail ! 
 Be lifted blue Heaven ! Let the admirals through. 
 There s a lubber ashore that is grander than you ! 
 Horn of rags and flung down on a marvelous 
 
 street, 
 
 All rough with the prints of a million of feet, 
 And cradled in iron and trampled with ink, 
 This poor dingy creature, I venture to think, 
 The frailest and feeblest of fluttering things, 
 As easily crushed as a butterfly s wings, 
 Has more power, oh, ye ships, than your canvas of 
 
 white 
 
 To let out the world and to let in the light, 
 And swing from their hinges the portals of night. 
 
 Let the ashes of Smithfield tell, if they can, 
 When this gift of the Pentecost fell upon man. 
 
JUNE. 73 
 
 It was born out of doors in that faded old June 
 When the chime of Christ s ages struck twelve 
 
 o clock noon, 
 And the barons of John plucked the heart of this 
 
 thing, 
 The Charter of Liberty, warm from the King. 
 
 Imperial June of the emerald crown ! 
 
 When angels had read the Lord s weather -roll 
 
 down, 
 
 They found but one June in all Heaven to spare, 
 And direct by the route of the answer to prayer 
 From the glory above thou didst fall through the 
 
 air. 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 r. 
 T WOULD not die in May : 
 
 When orchards drift with blooms of white like 
 
 billows on the deep, 
 And whispers from the Lilac bush across my senses 
 
 sweep, 
 That "mind me of a girl i knew when life was 
 
 always May, 
 Who filled my nights with starry hopes that faded 
 
 out by day 
 When time is full of wedding-days, and nests of 
 
 robins brim, 
 Till overflows their wicker sides the old familiar 
 
 hymn 
 The window brightens like an eye, the cottage 
 
 doors swing wide. 
 The boys come homeward one by one and bring a 
 
 smiling bride, 
 
 74 
 
OCTOBER. 75 
 
 The fire - % shows her signal light, the partridge 
 
 beats his drum, 
 
 And all the world gives promise of something 
 sweet to come 
 
 Ah, who would die on such a day ? 
 Ah, who would die in May ? 
 
 n. 
 
 I would not die in June : 
 
 When looking up with faces quaint the pansies 
 grace the sod, 
 
 And looking down, the willows see their doubles 
 in the flood 
 
 When blessing God we breathe again the roses in 
 the air, 
 
 And lilies light the fields along with their immor 
 tal wear 
 
 As once they lit the Sermon of the Saviour on the 
 Mount, 
 
 And glorified the story they evermore recount 
 
 Through pastures blue the flocks of God go troop 
 ing one by one, 
 
 And turn their golden fleeces round to dry them 
 in the sun 
 
jg OCTOBER. 
 
 When calm as Galilee the grain is rippling in the 
 
 wind, 
 
 And nothing dying anywhere but something that 
 has sinned 
 
 Ah, who would die in life s own noon ? 
 Ah, who would die in June ? 
 
 in. 
 
 But when OCTOBER comes, 
 And poplars drift their leafage down in flakes of 
 
 gold below. 
 And beeches burn like twilight fires that used to 
 
 tell of snow, 
 And maples bursting into flame set all the hills 
 
 , a -fire, 
 And Summer from her evergreens sees Paradise 
 
 draw nigher 
 
 A thousand sunsets all at once distil like Hermon s 
 dew, 
 
 And linger on the waiting woods and stain them 
 through and through, 
 
 As if all earth had blossomed out, one grand Co 
 rinthian flower, 
 
 To crown Time s graceful capital for just one 
 gorgeous hour ! 
 
OCTOBER. 77 
 
 They strike their colors to the king of all the 
 
 stately throng 
 He comes in pomp, OCTOBER ! To him all times 
 
 belong : 
 The frost is on his sandals but the flush is on his 
 
 cheeks, 
 September sheaves are in his arms, June voices 
 
 when he speaks 
 The elms lift bravely like a torch within a Grecian 
 
 hand, 
 See where they light the Monarch on through all 
 
 the splendid land ! 
 The sun puts on a human look behind the hazy 
 
 fold, 
 The mid -year moon of silver is struck anew in 
 
 gold, 
 
 In honor of the very day that Moses saw of old, 
 For in the Burning Bush that blazed as quenchless 
 
 as a sword 
 The old Lieutenant first beheld OCTOBER and the 
 
 LORD I 
 
 Ah, then, October, let it be 
 I ll claim my dying day from thee ! 
 
T 
 
 TORNADO SUNDAY. 
 
 HE winds sweetly sung 
 
 In the elms as they swung, 
 And the woods were in time and the robins in tune ; 
 One cloud just forgiven, 
 Lay at anchor in heaven. 
 And Iowa asleep on the threshold of June ! 
 
 All the air a great calm, 
 And the prairie a palm, 
 For the Lord when He blest, left the print of His 
 
 hand 
 
 All the roses in blow. 
 All the rivers a -glow, 
 
 Tims the Sabbath came down on the bud - laden 
 land. 
 
 On the bride and the bold, 
 On the clay and the gold, 
 
 78 
 
TORNADO SUNDAY. 79 
 
 On the furrow unfinish d, on fame to be won, 
 
 On the turbulent tide, 
 
 On the river s green side 
 Where the flocks of white villages lay in the sun. 
 
 All the world was in rhyme 
 
 Bid good morning to Time ! 
 
 Oh, sweet bells and sweet words of the dear golden 
 Then I 
 
 It is fair all abroad 
 
 From blue sky to green sod ! 
 Let us pray while we can : blessed Sabbath, Amen ! 
 
 Not a murmur in air, 
 
 Nor lament anywhere, 
 And no footfall of God on the ledges of cloud ; 
 
 Twas a breath, and it fled 
 
 Song and Sabbath were dead, 
 And the threads of gold sunshine the woof of the 
 shroud. 
 
 Oh, words never spoken, 
 Oh, heart and hearth broken, 
 
80 TORNADO SUNDAY. 
 
 Oh, beautiful paths such as loving feet wear ! 
 
 All erased from the land, 
 
 Like a name in the sand 
 As the thistle-down drifts on a billow of air! 
 
 Like the sighing of leaves 
 
 When the winter wind grieves, 
 Like the rattle of chariots driving afar, 
 
 Like the wailing of woods, 
 
 Like the rushing of floods, 
 Like the clang of huge hammers a -forging a star! 
 
 Like a shriek of despair 
 
 In the shivering air, 
 Like the rustle of banners with tempest abroad. 
 
 Like a soul out of heaven, 
 
 Like a tomb trumpet - riven, 
 Like a syllable dropped from the thunder of God ! 
 
 Then these to their weeping, 
 And those to their sleeping, 
 
 And the blue wing of heaven was over them all ! 
 Oh "sweet south" that singeth, 
 Oh, flower girl that bringeth 
 gushes of fragrance to hovel and hall ! 
 
TORNADO SUNDAY. 81 
 
 Oh, blue -bird, shed Spring 
 
 With the flash of thy wing, 
 Where December drifts cold in the bosom of June 
 
 Set our hearts to the words, 
 
 Dear as songs of first birds : 
 
 We are Brothers at night that were strangers at 
 noon! 
 
THE SKYLARK. 
 
 T HELD in my hand a wonder a hymn of a 
 
 thousand years ; 
 It was born in an English meadow it was older 
 
 than English cheers 
 Twas a hymn for the Roman eagles and a psalm 
 
 for the Norman Line 
 It was sung through the wars of the Roses, when 
 
 the York turned red as wine 
 It was heard on Bosworth field, when Gloster s 
 
 flint struck fire, 
 And Richard s soul to Richmond s steel did glim - 
 
 mer and expire ; 
 When the peans for the thane drowned the dirges 
 
 for the thing, 
 And he swept across the planet on fame s eternal 
 
 wing, 
 Who waged the battle as an earl but won it as a 
 
 king, 
 
THE SKYLARK, 83 
 
 And plucked the crown of England from the haw 
 thorn where it hung, 
 
 And lightly to his longing brow Golconda s clus 
 ter swung, 
 
 The crown upon the coronet, till the light of its 
 pearls grew thin 
 
 And pale as a morning star that has led the day 
 light in. 
 
 Charge ! and Marston Moor was a drum by gal - 
 
 loping cavalry beat, 
 Halt ! and each iron rank brought up with a clank, 
 
 and each trooper sat still in his seat. 
 Hark ! and down from the blue to the red was 
 
 floating that exquisite strain, 
 As if every rider had ridden, and never drawn sabre 
 
 or rein, 
 Right out of the hell of the battle to the door of 
 
 heaven ajar, 
 And thought he heard before his time the singing 
 
 of a star, 
 And thought he saw in the downy cloud the truant 
 
 from the choir, 
 As it hung in sweet lib ration an anthem in the air. 
 
84 THE SKYLARK. 
 
 And I held in my hand that wonder a book 
 
 with a single psalm, 
 That would not briin the hollow cf a woman s 
 
 loving palm ; 
 And the lyric was brown breasted, and the lids of 
 
 the book were wings, 
 And the bird was an English skylark, and the 
 
 feeblest of God s things, 
 That had fallen out of the azure like a mote from 
 
 a mighty eye, 
 And had shared the fate of the sparrow, for the 
 
 Father saw him die. 
 Oh, bravest bird of Britain! a little ounce of 
 
 death 
 Oh, song born out of heaven ! a clod without a 
 
 breath. 
 
 And then my soul grew reverent my heart beat 
 
 strong and grand, 
 As I thought of the broad commission of the atom 
 
 in my hand ; 
 
 That the Admiral of the fleets at anchor off the world, 
 Flung out his pennant with a touch that little pin - 
 
 ion furled 
 
THE SKYLARK. 85 
 
 Unrolled the scrolls of thunder, twixt the seraph 
 
 and the sod, 
 Dashed down a word of fire in the running hand 
 
 of God, 
 And stamped the stormy margins with His ring so 
 
 broad and brave, 
 
 One half is in the welkin the other in the waTC : 
 By Him to meet that bird mid -air, the misty morn 
 
 was driven, 
 Lest it should break away from earth and sing it - 
 
 self to heaven ; 
 He sowed the Grand Armada like grain upon the 
 
 breeze, 
 But gave to lark and lightning the freedom of the 
 
 seas! 
 
 The cattle asleep in the meadow and the shadows 
 
 asleep on the hill, 
 And the mists, like gray Franciscans, all standing 
 
 ghostly still 
 And the stars are drowsily shutting their eyes as 
 
 weary watchers will 
 
86 THE SKYLARK. 
 
 And the crescent moon in the west shows the flash 
 
 of a silver shoe, 
 As the steed that brought over the midnight is 
 
 bearing it down the blue, 
 And out of the silence and shadow there quivered 
 
 the slenderest song, 
 And a bird going up in the morning exultantly 
 
 followed along 
 And the mountains stood down in their places and 
 
 the clouds all timidly clung, 
 Hut a strand of Jehovah untwisted whereon the 
 
 lost Pleiads are strung, 
 When this bird with its music and motion, ere the 
 
 dawn had blooded its breast, 
 
 Up direct from the sod to the glory of God, tri 
 umphantly burst from the nest. 
 
BUNKER HILL. 
 
 TO the wail of the fife and the snarl of the drum 
 Those Hedgers and Ditchers of Bunker Hill 
 come, 
 
 Down out of the battle with rumble and roll, 
 Straight across the two ages, right into the soul, 
 And bringing for captive the Day that they won 
 With a deed that like Joshua halted the sun. 
 Like bells in their towers tolled the guns from the 
 
 town, 
 Beat that low earthen bulwark so sullen and 
 
 brown, 
 
 As if Titans last night had plowed the one bout 
 And abandoned the field for a Yankee redoubt ; 
 But for token of life that the parapet gave 
 They might as well play on Miles Standish s grave ! 
 Then up the green hill rolled the red of the 
 
 Georges 
 And down the green vale rolled the grime of the 
 
 forges 
 
 87 
 
88 BUNKER HILL, 
 
 Ten rods from the ridges hung the live surge, 
 Not a murmur to meet it broke over the verge, 
 But the click of flint- locks in the furrows along, 
 And the chirp of a sparrow just singing her song. 
 In the flash of an eye, as the dead shall be raised, 
 The dull bastion kindled, the parapet blazed, 
 And the musketry cracked, glowing hotter and 
 
 higher, 
 
 Like a forest of hemlock, its lashes of fire. 
 And redder the scarlet and riven the ranks, 
 And Putnam s guns hung, with a roar on the flanks. 
 Now the battle grows dumb and the grenadiers 
 
 wheel, 
 Tis the crash of clubbed musket, the thrust of 
 
 cold steel, 
 At bay all the way, while the guns held their 
 
 breath, 
 Foot to foot, eye to eye, with each other and 
 
 Death. 
 Call the roll, Sergeant Time ! Match the day if 
 
 you can : 
 Waterloo was for Britons Bunker Hill is for man ! 
 
THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 
 
 I HAVE fancied sometimes the Bethel-bent beam 
 That trembled to earth in the Patriarch s 
 
 dream, 
 
 Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest 
 From the pillow of stone to the blue of the Blest, 
 And the angels descending to dwell with us here, 
 " Old Hundred" and Corinth" and "China" 
 and " Hear." 
 
 All the hearts are not dead nor under the sod 
 That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and 
 
 God. 
 Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining 
 
 road, 
 
 Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, 
 But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned 
 
 choir, 
 To the girl that sang alto, the girl that sang air. 
 
90 THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 
 
 " Let us sing to God s praise ! " the minister said : 
 All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at 
 
 " York," 
 Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that 
 
 he read, 
 
 While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, 
 And politely picked up the key -note with a fork, 
 And the vicious old viol went growling along 
 At the heels of the girls in the rear of the song. 
 
 Oh, I need not a wing ; bid no genii come 
 
 With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, 
 
 To bear me again up the river of Time, 
 
 When the world was in rhythm and life was its 
 
 rhyme, 
 And the stream of the years flowed so noiseless 
 
 and narrow 
 
 That across it there floated the song of a sparrow ; 
 For a sprig of green caraway carries me there, 
 To the old village church and the old village choir. 
 Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung 
 And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they 
 
 sung, 
 
While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, 
 And politely picked up the key-note with a fork, 
 And the vicious old viol went growling along 
 At the heels of the girls in the rear of the song. 
 
THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 91 
 
 Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun 
 Seemed the rafters of gold in God s temple begun ! 
 
 You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown 
 Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down, 
 And dear sister Green, with more goodness than 
 
 grace, 
 Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her 
 
 place, 
 
 And where " Coronation " exultantly flows, 
 Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her 
 
 toes ! 
 To the land of the leal they have gone with their 
 
 song. 
 
 Where the choir and the chorus together belong. 
 Oh ! be lifted, ye gates ! Let me hear them again, 
 Blessed song ! Blessed Singers ! forever, Amen. 
 
GOING HOME. 
 
 by horses with decorous feet, 
 A carriage for one went through the street 
 Polished as anthracite out of the mine, 
 Tossing its plumes so stately and fine, 
 As nods to the night a Norway pine. 
 
 The passenger lay in Parian rest, 
 As if, by the Sculptor *s hand caressed 
 A mortal life through the marble stole. 
 And then till an Angel calls the roll 
 It waits awhile for a human soul. 
 
 He rode in state, but his carriage - fare 
 Was left unpaid to his only heir; 
 Hardly a man from hovel to throne 
 Takes to this route in coach of his own, 
 But borrows at last and travels alone. 
 
GOING HO ATE. 9, 
 
 The driver sat in his silent seat, 
 The world as still as a field of wheat 
 Gave all the road to the speechless twain, 
 And thought the passenger never again 
 Should travel that way with living men , 
 
 Not a robin held its little breath, 
 But sang right on in the face of death ; 
 You never would dream to see the sky 
 Give glance for glance to the violet s eye, 
 That aught between them ever could die. 
 
 A wain bound East met the hearse bound West, 
 Halted a moment, and passed abreast ; 
 And I verily think a stranger pair 
 Have never met on a thoroughfare, 
 Or a dim by-road, or anywhere: 
 
 The hearse as slim and glossy and still 
 As silken thread at a woman s will, 
 Who watches her work with tears unshed, 
 Broiders a grief with needle and thread, 
 Mourns in pansies and cypress the dead ; 
 
94 GOING HOME. 
 
 Spotless the steeds in a satin dress, 
 
 That run for t\vo worlds, the Lord s Express 
 
 Long as the route of Arcturus s ray. 
 
 Brief as the Publican s trying to pray, 
 
 No other steeds by no other way 
 
 Could go so far in a single day. 
 
 From wagon broad and heavy and rude 
 A group looking out from a single hood : 
 Striped with the flirt of a heedless lash. 
 Dappled and dimmed with many a splash, 
 " Gathered behind like an old calash, 
 
 It made you think of a schooner s sail 
 Mildewed with weather, tattered by gale. 
 Down "-by the run " from mizzeii and main - 
 That canvas mapped with stipple and stain 
 Of Western earth and the prairie rain. 
 
 The watch - dog walked in his ribs between 
 The hinder \vheels with sleepy mien ; 
 A dangling pail to the axle slung ; 
 Astern of the wain a manger hung 
 A schooner s boat by the davits swung. 
 
GOING HOME. 95 
 
 The white - faced boys sat three in a row, 
 With eyes of wonder and heads of tow ; 
 Father looked sadly over his brood : 
 Mother just lifted a flap of the hood . 
 All saw the hearse and two understood. 
 
 They thought of the one -eyed cabin small, 
 Hid like a nest in the grasses tall, 
 Where plains swept boldly off in the air, 
 Grooved into heaven everywhere 
 So near the stars invisible stair 
 
 That planets and prairie almost met 
 Just cleared its edges as they set ! 
 They thought of the level world s "divide," 
 And their hearts flowed down its other side 
 To the little grave of the girl that died. 
 
 They thought of childhood s neighborly hills 
 With sunshine aprons and ribbons of rills, 
 That drew so near when the day went down, 
 Put on a crimson and golden crown 
 And sat together in mantles brown ; 
 
96 GOING HOME. 
 
 The dawn s red plume in their winter caps, 
 And Night asleep in their drowsy laps, 
 Light ning the load of the shouldered wood 
 By shedding the shadows as they could, 
 That gathered round where the homestead stood. 
 
 They thought that pair in the rugged wain, 
 Thinking with bosom rather than brain; 
 They 11 never know till their dying day 
 That what they thought and never could say, 
 Their hearts throbbed out in an Alpine lay, 
 The old Waldensian song again : 
 Thank God for the mountains, and Amen ! 
 
 The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on - 
 
 A moment or two, and both were gone ; 
 
 The wain bound East, the hearse bound West, 
 
 Both going home, both looking for rest, 
 
 The Lord save all, and His name be blest! 
 
THE DEAD GRENADIER. 
 
 N the right of the battalion a grenadier of 
 
 France, 
 Struck through his iron harness by the lightning 
 
 of a lance, 
 His breast all wet with British blood, his brow with 
 
 British breath, 
 There fell defiant, face to face with England and 
 
 with death. 
 They made a mitre of his heart they cleft it 
 
 through and through 
 One half was for his legion, and the other for it 
 
 too! 
 
 The colors of a later day prophetic fingers shed, 
 For lips were blue and cheeks were white and the 
 
 fleur de Us was red ! 
 And the bugles blew, and the legion wheeled, and 
 
 the grenadier was dead. 
 
 97 
 
i8 THE DEAD GRENADIER. 
 
 And then the old commander rode slowly down 
 
 the ranks. 
 And thought how brief the journey grew, between 
 
 the battered tlanks : 
 And the shadows in the moonlight fell strangely 
 
 into line 
 Where the battle s reddest riot pledged the richest 
 
 of the wine, 
 And the camp-fires flung their phantoms all 
 
 doing what they could 
 To close the flinty columns up as old campaigners 
 
 would ! 
 On ho rode, the old commander, with the ensign 
 
 in advance. 
 And, as statued bronzes brighten with the smokv 
 
 torch s glance. 
 Flashed a light in all their faces, like the flashing 
 
 of a lance. 
 When, with brow all bare and solemn, " For the 
 
 King I " he grandly said, 
 " Lower the colors to the living boat the ruffle 
 
 for the dead ! " 
 
THE DEAD GKENADJEK. 99 
 
 And thrice the red silk flickered low its flame of 
 
 royal fire, 
 And thrice the drums moaned out aloud the 
 
 mourner s wild desire. 
 Ay, lower again thou crimson cloud again ye 
 
 drums lament 
 Tis Rachel in the wilderness and Ramah in the 
 
 tent! 
 
 44 Close up ! Right dress!" the Captain said, and 
 
 they gathered under the moon. 
 As the shadows glide together when the sun shines 
 
 down at noon 
 A stranger at each soldier s right ah, war s wild 
 
 work is grim ! 
 And so to the last of the broken line, and Death at 
 
 the right of him ! 
 
 And there, in the silence deep and dead, the Ser 
 geant called the roll, 
 And the name went wandering down the lines as 
 
 he called a passing soul. 
 Oh, then that a friendly mountain that summons 
 
 might have heard, 
 
KM) THE DEAD GRENADIER. 
 
 And flung across the desert dumb the shadow of 
 
 the word. 
 And caught the name that all forlorn along the 
 
 legion ran, 
 And clasped it to its mighty heart and sent it back 
 
 to man ! 
 
 There it stood, the battered legion, while the Ser 
 geant called the roll, 
 And the name went wandering down tlie lines as 
 
 he called for a passing soul. 
 1 1 urrah for the dumb, dead lion ! And a voice for 
 
 the grenadier 
 Rolled out of the ranks like a drum -beat, and 
 
 sturdily answered " HERE!" 
 " He stood," cried the sons of thunder, and their 
 
 hearts ran over the brim. 
 " He stood by the old battalion, and we 11 always 
 
 stand by him ! 
 " Ay, call for the grand crusader, and we 11 answer 
 
 to the name." 
 "And what will ye say?" the Sergeant said. 
 
 44 DEAD ON THE FIELD OF FAME!" 
 
THE DEAD GRENADIER. 101 
 
 And dare ye call that dying ? The dignity sub 
 lime 
 
 That gains a furlough from the grave, and then 
 reports to Time ? 
 
 Doth earth give up the daisies to a little sun and 
 rain, 
 
 And keep at their roots the heroes while weary 
 ages wane ? 
 
 Sling up the trumpet, Israfeel ! Sweet bugler of 
 our God, 
 
 For nothing waits thy summons beneath this bro 
 ken sod ; 
 
 They march abreast with the ages to the thunder 
 on the right, 
 
 For they bade the world " GOOD MORNING" when 
 the world had said " GOOD NIGHT ! " 
 
RHYMES OF THE RIVER 
 
 Kiver far - flowing, 
 How broad thou art growing ! 
 And the sentinel head - lands wait grimly for thee ; 
 And Euroclydon urges 
 The bold -riding surges, 
 That in white -crested lines gallop in from the sea 
 
 O bright - hearted river. 
 
 With crystalline quiver, 
 
 Like a sword from its scabbard, for- flashing 
 abroad ! 
 
 And T think, as I gaze 
 
 On the tremulous blaze, 
 That thou surely wert drawn by an angel of God ! 
 
 Through the black -heart of night. 
 Leaping out to the light, 
 102 
 
RHYMES OF THE RIVER. 1Q3 
 
 Thou, art reeking with sunset and dyed with the 
 
 dawn ; 
 
 Cleft the emerald sod 
 Cleft the mountains of God - 
 
 And the shadows of roses yet rusted thereon ! 
 
 Where willows are weeping, 
 Where shadows are sleeping, 
 Where the frown of the mountain lies dark on thy 
 
 crest ; 
 
 Arcturus now shining, 
 Arbutus now twining, 
 
 And - 1 - my castles in Spain " gleaming down in thy 
 breast ; 
 
 Then disastered and dim, 
 Swinging sullen and grim, 
 Where the old ragged shadows of hovels are 
 
 shed; 
 
 Creeping in, creeping out, 
 As in dream, or in doubt, 
 
 In the reeds and the rushes slow rocking the 
 dead. 
 
104 RHYMES OF THE RIVER. 
 
 When all crimson and gold. 
 
 Slowly home to the fold 
 
 Do the fleecy clouds flock to the gateway of 
 even. 
 
 Then, no longer brook -born. 
 
 But a way paved with morn, 
 Ay, a bright golden street to the city of Heaven f 
 
 In the great stony heart 
 
 Of the feverish mart, 
 Is the throb of thy pulses pellucid, to-day ; 
 
 By gray mossy ledges, 
 
 By green velvet edges, 
 
 Where the corn waves its sabre, thou glidest 
 away. 
 
 Broad and brave, deep and strong, 
 
 Thou art lapsing along ; 
 And the stars rise and fall in thy turbulent tide, 
 
 As light as the drifted 
 
 White swan s breast is lifted. 
 Or a June fleet of lilies at anchor may ride. 
 
RHYMES OF THE RIVER. 105 
 
 And yet, gallant river, 
 
 On -flashing forever, 
 
 That hast cleft the broad world on thy way to the 
 main, 
 
 I would part from thee here, 
 
 With a smile and a tear, 
 And a Hebrew, read back to thy fountains again. 
 
 Ah, well I remember, 
 
 Ere dying December 
 
 Would fall like a snow-flake and melt on thy 
 breast, 
 
 O er thy waters so narrow 
 
 The little brow,n sparrow 
 Used to send his low song to his mate on the nest. 
 
 With a silvery skein 
 Wove of snow and of rain, 
 Thou didst wander at will through the bud -laden 
 
 land, 
 
 All the air a sweet psalm, 
 And the meadow a palm, 
 As a blue vein meanders a liberal hand. 
 H 
 
RHYMKS OF THE RIVER. 
 
 When the school - master s daughter 
 
 With her hands scooped the water, 
 And laughingly proffered the crystal to me, 
 
 Oh, there ne er sparkled up 
 
 A more exquisite cup 
 
 Than the pair of white hands that were brimming 
 with thee ! 
 
 And there all together, 
 
 In bright summer weather, 
 Did we loiter with thee along thy green brink ; 
 
 And how silent we grew 
 
 If the robin came too, 
 
 When he looked up to pray, and then bent down 
 to drink ! 
 
 Ah, where are the faces, 
 
 From out thy still places, 
 
 That so often smiled back in those soft days of 
 May? 
 
 As we bent hand in hand, 
 
 Thou didst double the band, 
 As idle as daisies and fleeting as they ! 
 
RHYMES OF THE RIVER. 107 
 
 Like the dawn in the cloud 
 Lay the babe in its shroud, 
 And a rose - bud was clasped in its frozen white 
 
 hand : 
 
 At the mother s last look 
 It had opened the book, 
 
 As if sweet -breathing June were abroad in the 
 land! 
 
 O pure placid river 
 
 Make music forever 
 In the gardens of Paradise, hard by the throne ! 
 
 For on thy far shore, 
 
 Gently drifted before, 
 
 We may find the lost blossoms that once were our 
 own. 
 
 Ah, beautiful river, 
 
 Flow onward forever ! 
 Thou art grander than Avon, and sweeter than Ayr ; 
 
 If a tree has been shaken, 
 
 If a star has been taken, 
 In thy bosom we look bud and Pleiad are there ! 
 
108 RHYMES OF THE RIVER. 
 
 I take up the old words, 
 
 Like the song of dead birds, 
 
 That were breathed when I stood farther off from 
 the sea : 
 
 When I heard not its hymn, 
 
 When the headlands were dim : 
 Shall I ever again weave a rhythm for thee? 
 
LAZY, 
 
 T TNDER the maple tree lying supine, 
 ^ Timing the beat of a pendulum vine, 
 Swinging the Delawares turning to wine. 
 
 Gazing straight upward a mile in the blue, 
 Watching a cloud that has nothing to do, 
 Wishing a deed for an acre or two ; 
 
 Nothing to do but come down in the rain, 
 Born of the mist unto Heaven again, 
 Nothing to sow and no reaping of grain. 
 
 Watching a bee in his pollen pant loon 
 Droning him home in the chrysolite noon, 
 Ghost of a drummer -boy drumming a tune. 
 
 Watching a jay on the cherry tree nigh, 
 Stranger to love, with its cruel bright eye ; 
 What of that jacket as blue as the sky ? 
 
 Splashing his crest with the cherry s red blood, 
 Jauntiest robber that ranges the wood, 
 
 Nothing will name him but blue Robin Hood. 
 
 109 
 
110 LAZY. 
 
 Hearing a bird with her English all right 
 Calling somebody from morning till night, 
 Waiting forever the mystic " Bob White." 
 
 Woman s own cousin since Adam began, 
 Beautiful Voice that is wanting a man, 
 Quail in a coif of the time of Queen Anne. 
 
 Counting the leaves as they drift from the rose 
 Strowing with fragrance my place of repose ; 
 Dying ? Ah no, only changing its clothes. 
 
 Watching a spider pay out her last line, 
 Working at Euclid s Geometry fine, 
 Web is all woven and weaver will dine ! 
 
 Watching a fly laze along to its doom, 
 Silken the meshes but death in the loom, 
 Shrouded and eaten but never a tomb ! 
 
 Sparrow a-drowse on a limb overhead, 
 Opens an eye when the spider is fed, 
 Opens a bill and the spider is dead ! 
 
LAZY. HI 
 
 Watching a butterfly slowly unfold, 
 Crowning a post with a blossom of gold 
 Strange as the rod that did blossom of old. 
 
 Hinged on a life is the duplicate page, 
 Lettered in light by a wiser than sage, 
 Lasting a summer and read for an age. 
 
 Burst from the bonds ! For that coffin was thine, 
 Tenaiitless thing where the sycamores shine, 
 Riven and rent and the worm is divine ! 
 
 Born from the dust and its veriest slave, 
 Hail to the herald direct from the grave ! 
 Pinion of beauty, resplendently wave ! 
 
 Bringing from far, what no angel could say, 
 Something of them who have vanished away, 
 Left me alone on this amethyst day. 
 
 Rent is the chrysalis hid in the sod, 
 All the dear tenantry dwelling abroad, 
 Gone through the gate of the glory of God ! 
 
DEARBORN OBSERVATORY. 
 
 my chamber last night I looked out on 
 the sky 
 
 No mortal can reach without waiting to die, 
 And I saw a few ships of Infinity s fleet, 
 And the light at their bows lit the dew in the street 
 That dying men crush with irreverent feet. 
 Broadside to this port ridged and roughened with 
 
 graves, 
 Not a boat from the shore, not a gun from the 
 
 waves, 
 
 There they lay off and on in the Blue of the Blest 
 Like the thoughts of the Lord in His sabbath -day 
 
 rest ! 
 Are we chained here for life ? Are we bound to 
 
 the clod 
 When the lark with a song springs direct from the 
 
 sod 
 
 To the breakers of day and the glory of God ? 
 m 
 
DEARBORN OBSERVATORY. 
 
 Have you heard of the man who was calling the roll 
 Of the stars till the Seraphim called for his soul ? 
 Who began the Lord s census and prayed for clear 
 
 night 
 
 While he counted for life the squadrons of light ? 
 Do you know how the Pleiads made sail at the 
 
 word 
 
 And Arcturus bore down, till he fancied he heard 
 The wash of the sky as it rocked off a shore 
 It never had touched at a signal before ! 
 Port of Entry for stars ! Where great admirals 
 
 come 
 
 And flotillas report to a Herschel at home 
 In that wonderful tower whose window commands 
 Not a thing in the universe fashioned with hands. 
 There s an eye at the window that never can sleep, 
 That no ages can dim and that never can weep 
 Always gazing at life, never seeing the graves, 
 Though the land with its tombs mocks the sea with 
 
 its waves 
 
 That beckons a world and it dawns into sight, 
 Gives a glance at the blue and it sparkles with 
 
 light, 
 
114 DEARBORN OBSERVATORY. 
 
 Sweeps a field that the Lord had forgotten to sow 
 When He scattered the worlds like His treasures 
 
 of snow, 
 
 And a sun blossoms out of the infinite space 
 Like the first flower of Spring in God s garden of 
 
 grace. 
 
 Oh, second Fort Dearborn I Oh, Lookout sublime ! 
 Stand fast till God s morning shall break upon time ! 
 
JENNIE JUNE. 
 
 LIKE a foundling in slumber, the summer day 
 lay 
 
 On the crimsoning threshold of even, 
 And I thought that the glow through the azure- 
 arched way 
 
 Was a glimpse of the coming of Heaven. 
 There together we sat by the beautiful stream, 
 We had nothing to do but to love and to dream 
 
 In the days that have gone on before, 
 These are not the same days, though they bear the 
 
 same name, 
 With the ones I shall welcome no more. 
 
 But it may be that angels are culling them o er 
 For a Sabbath and summer forever ; 
 
 When the years shall forget the Decembers they 
 
 wore, 
 And the shroud shall be woven, no, never. 
 
 115 
 
116 y/:.\vr/A JUNE. 
 
 In a twilight like that, Jennie June for a bride, 
 Oh ! what more of the world could one wish for 
 beside, 
 
 As we gazed on the river unrolled, 
 Till we heard, or we fancied, its musical tide 
 
 When it flowed through the gateway of gold ! 
 
 " Jennie June," then I said, " let us linger no more 
 
 4% On the banks of the beautiful river ; 
 " Let the boat be unmoored, and be muffled the 
 oar, 
 
 44 And we 11 steal into heaven together. 
 44 If the angel on duty our coming descries, 
 4k You have nothing to do but throw off the disguise 
 
 44 That you wore while you wandered with me, 
 " And the sentry shall say, 4 Welcome back to the 
 skies, 
 
 44 4 We long have been waiting for thee. 
 
 Oh, how sweetly she spoke, ere she uttered a word, 
 With that blush, partly hers, partly even s ; 
 
 And a tone like the dream of a song we once heard, 
 As she whispered, 44 This way is not heaven s, 
 
There together we sat by the beautiful stream, 
 We had nothing to do but to love and to dream 
 In the days that have gone on before, 
 
JENNIE JUNE. 117 
 
 44 For the river that runs by the realm of the blest 
 4t Has no song on its ripple, no star on its breast : 
 
 44 Oh ! that river is nothing like this : 
 k4 For it glides on in shadow, beyond the world s 
 West, 
 
 44 Till it breaks into beauty and bliss." 
 
 I am lingering yet, but I linger alone, 
 On the banks of the beautiful river : 
 
 T is the twin of that day, but the wave where it 
 
 shone 
 Bears the willow -tree s shadow for ever. 
 
BURNS CENTURY SONG. 
 I. 
 
 T_T OPE, her starry vigil keeping 
 J~l (Tor a Campbell by the Clyde 
 By the Tweed a ^ Wizard " sleeping 
 
 u Shepherd" by the Yarrow s side 
 Land of glory, song, and story, 
 Land of mountains and of men, 
 
 Did ye dream that Song could die ? 
 Banks and braes be glad again, 
 
 ROBERT BURNS is passing by ! 
 
 Everywhere, everywhere, 
 Smiles will break and tears will start, 
 Making rainbows round the heart, 
 
 Ploughman, Brother, BARD OF AYR! 
 
 118 
 
URNS CENTURY SONG. H9 
 
 II. 
 
 Heart of leal ! Can this be dying, 
 
 Coming thus sublimely down ! 
 Lo, an hundred winters sighing 
 
 Leave unstrown thy holly crown ! 
 Not in sorrow dawns thy morrow, 
 " Bonny Jean" is by thy side, 
 
 Making life and love keep time ; 
 Beauty be thy deathless bride, 
 
 Weaving all our hearts in rhyme ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Heavy heart and smoky rafter 
 
 Growing light with Burns s song 
 Calmer tears and clearer laughter 
 
 Plaided bosoms brave and strong ; 
 Birds are singing, blue - bells ringing, 
 Naked Heart in open palm ! 
 
 With thy " days of auld lang syne," 
 With thy Cotter s evening Psalm, 
 
 Thou hast made all ages thine. 
 I 
 
120 BUXNS CENT UK Y SONG. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now the thrush s silver sonnet 
 
 Trembling from the blossom d thorn, 
 Winter floating white upon it - 
 
 Sweetest Lyric ever born ! 
 BRUCE is breaking WALLACE waking. 
 From the clasp of mighty Death, 
 
 Morven swells the Doric song ! 
 Lads and lassies blended breath. 
 
 Gushes sweet all summer long ! 
 
 v. 
 
 O er the daisy in the furrow 
 
 Bending low with loving words 
 By the mouse s broken burrow 
 
 Songs of burnies and of birds - 
 Breezes blowing rivers flowing 
 Hark, the beat of bonny DOON, 
 
 LOGAN, DEVON, AFTON, AYR, 
 Braided in a pleasant tune, 
 
 " HIGHLAND MARY" in the choir ! 
 
BU.RNS CENTURY SONG. 121 
 
 Everywhere, everywhere, 
 Smiles will break and tears will start, 
 Making rainbows round the heart, 
 Ploughman, Brother, BARD OF AYR I 
 
THE COLORED IfARBLE. 
 
 ON marble beds where violets die 
 And the moss rose pillows its pride, 
 The marble looks like an azure sky 
 Where a cloudless day lias died. 
 
 The years go by, and out of the shroud 
 The statue stands naked in noon ; 
 
 Out of the tint and out of the cloud 
 Of a long - forgotten J une ! 
 
FLOWERS. 
 
 T7LOWERS bloom in Christ s Sermon, and all 
 M 
 
 the year long 
 You can gather a " Sharon " from Solomon s Song. 
 
 123 
 
THE NEW CRAET TN THE OFFING. 
 
 T^ WAS a beautiful night on a beautiful deep. 
 And the man at the helm had just fallen 
 asleep, 
 And the watch on the deck, with his head on his 
 
 breast, 
 
 Was beginning to dream that another s it pressed. 
 When the look-out aloft cried, " A sail! ho! a 
 
 sail ! " 
 And the question and answer went rattling like 
 
 hail : 
 fc A sail ! ho ! a sail ! " * k Where away ? " " No th- 
 
 no th-West!" 
 
 " Make her out ? " " No, your honor." The din 
 drowned the rest. 
 
 There indeed is the stranger, the first in these seas, 
 Yet she drives boldly on in the teeth of the breeze. 
 
 134 
 
THE NEW CRAFT IN THE OFFING. 125 
 
 Now her bows to the breakers she steadily turns, 
 
 Oh ! how brightly the light of her binnacle burns ! 
 
 Not a signal for Saturn this rover has given, 
 
 No salute for our Venus, the flag-star of heaven ; 
 
 Not a rag or a ribbon adorning her spars, 
 
 She has saucily sailed by " the red planet Mars ;" 
 
 She has doubled triumphant the cape of the Sun 
 
 And the sentinel stars, without firing a gun ! 
 
 " Helm a -port ! " " Show a light ! " " She will 
 
 run us aground ! " 
 ^ Fire a gun ! " " Bring her to ! " " Sail a -hoy ! " 
 
 Whither bound?" 
 
 Avast there, ye lubbers ! Leave the rudder alone : 
 T is a craft in commission the Admiral s own ; 
 And she sails .with sealed orders, unopened as 
 
 yet, 
 
 Though her anchors she weighed before Lucifer 
 
 set. 
 Ah, she sails by a chart no draughtsman could 
 
 make, 
 Where each cloud that can trail and each wave 
 
 that can break ; 
 
126 THE NEW CRAFT IX THE OFFING. 
 
 Where that sparkling flotilla, the Asteroids, lie. 
 Where the scarf of red Morning is flung on the sky ; 
 Where the breath of the sparrow is staining the 
 air 
 
 On the chart that she bears you will find them all 
 
 there ! 
 Let her pass on in peace to the port whence she 
 
 came, 
 With her trackings of fire and her streamers of 
 
 flame ! 
 
THE VANE ON THE SPIRE. 
 
 THERE S an arrow aloft with a feather d shaft 
 That never has flown at the bow-string s 
 draft, 
 
 And the goldsmith has hidden the blacksmith s 
 craft. 
 
 For its heart is of iron, its gleam of gold, 
 It is pointed to pierce and barbed to hold, 
 And its wonderful story is hardly told. 
 
 It is poised on a finger from sun to sun, 
 And it catches the glimmer of dawn begun, 
 And is floating in light when the day is done. 
 
 And it turns at the touch of a viewless hand, 
 And it swings in the air like a wizard s wand, 
 By the tempest whirled and the zephyr fanned. 
 
 187 
 
ANE OX THE SPIKE. 
 
 And the sinewy finger that cannot tire 
 Is the lifted hush of the old church spire 
 That vanishes out as heaven is nigher ; 
 
 And the arrow upon it the rusted vane 
 As true to its master as faith to fane, 
 That is swinging forever in sun and rain. 
 
 Right about to the North ! And the trumpets blow 
 
 And the shivering air is dim with snow, 
 
 And the earth grows dumb and the brooks run slow : 
 
 And the shaggy Arctic, chilled to the bone, 
 Is craunching the world with a human moan, 
 And the clank of a chain in the frozen zone ; 
 
 And the world is dead in its seamless shroud. 
 And the stars wink slow in the rifted cloud, 
 And the owl in the oak complains ftloud. 
 
 But the arrow is true to the iceberg s realm, 
 As the rudder staunch in the ghastly whelm 
 With a hero by to handle the helm ! 
 
THE VANE ON THE SPIRE. 129 
 
 Is it welded with frost as iron with fire ? 
 Up with a blue -jacket ! Clamber the spire 
 And swing it around to the point of desire ! 
 
 It sways to the East ! Arid the icy rain 
 
 With the storm s " long roll" on the window pane 
 
 And a diamond point on the crystal vane. 
 
 And the cattle stand with the wind astern, 
 And the routes of the rain on eave and urn 
 As the drops are halted and frozen in turn 
 
 Are such pendants of wonder as cave and mine 
 Never gave to the gaze when the torches shine, 
 But right out of Heaven and half divine ! 
 
 Ah, it swings due South to the zephyr s thrill ! 
 
 In the yellow noon it lies as still 
 
 As a speckled trout by the drowsy mill, 
 
 While the bugle of Gabriel wakes the sod 
 And the beautiful life in the speechless clod, 
 Till the crowded June is a smile for God ! 
 
130 THE VA\ E OX THE SPIKE. 
 
 Resurrection to -da}- ! For the roses spoke ! 
 Resurrection to-day ! Fur the rugged oak 
 In a live green billow rolled and broke. 
 
 And the spider feels for her silken strings, 
 
 And the honey-bee hums and the world has wings, 
 
 And blent with the blue the bluebird sings. 
 
 While the cloud is ablaze with the bended bow. 
 And the waters white with the lilies snow, 
 On the motionless arrow, all in a row, 
 
 Are four little sparrows that pipe so small 
 Their carol distils as the dew-drops fall, 
 And we only see they are singing at all I 
 
 Now the arrow is swung with a sweep so bold 
 Where the Day has been flinging his garments gold 
 Till they stain the sky with a glow untold. 
 
 Ah, the cardinal point of the wind is West ! 
 And the clouds bear down in a fleet abreast, 
 And the world is as still as a child at rest ! 
 
THE VANE ON THE SPIRE, 
 
 There s a binnacle light like an angry star, 
 And the growl of a gun with its crash and jar, 
 And the roll of a drum where the angels are ! 
 
 And it tumbles its freight on the dancing grain, 
 And it beats into blossom the buds again, 
 And it brightens a world baptized in rain, 
 
 And it gladdens the earth as it drifts along, 
 And the meadow is green and the corn is strong, 
 Arid the brook breaks forth in the same old song ! 
 
 And I looked for the arrow it hung there yet, 
 With the drops of the rain its barb was wet, 
 And the sun shone out in a crimson set ; 
 
 And behold, aloft in the ruddy shine 
 Where the crystal water again was wine, 
 And it hallowed the dart like a touch divine ! 
 
 Under the sun and under the moon, 
 Silver at midnight, golden at noon, 
 
 Could Dian have lost it out of her hair ? 
 
 Phoebus s quiver have shaken it there ? 
 
 That wonderful arrow sweeping the air ! 
 
DECORATION DAY. 
 
 H, be dumb all ye clouds 
 
 As the dead in their shrouds, 
 Let your pulses of thunder die softly away, 
 Ye have nothing to do 
 
 O 
 
 But to drift round the blue. 
 For the emerald world grants a furlough to-day ! 
 
 Bud, blossom, and flower 
 
 All blended in shower, 
 In the grandest and gentlest of rains shall be shed 
 
 On the acres of God 
 
 With their billows of sod 
 Breaking breathless and beautiful over the dead ! 
 
 They do flush the broad land 
 With the flower -laden hand, 
 
 132 
 
DECORATION DAY. 188 
 
 Drift the dimples of graves with the colors of even ; 
 
 Where a BOY IN BLUE dreams 
 
 A " Forget-me-not" gleams 
 No rain half so sweet ever fell out of Heaven ! 
 
 From no angel was caught 
 
 The magnificent thought 
 To pluck daisies and roses, those bravest of things, 
 
 For they stand all the while 
 
 In their graves with a smile, 
 And to strew with live fragrance dead lions and 
 kings ! 
 
 It was somebody born. 
 
 It was Rachel forlorn, 
 
 T was the love they named Mary, the trust they 
 called Ruth ; 
 
 T was a woman who told 
 
 That the blossoms unfold 
 A defiance to death and a challenge for truth ; 
 
 That the violet s eye, 
 
 Though it sleep, by and by 
 
 Shall watch out the long age in the splendor of 
 youth. 
 
\:\4 DECORATIOX DAY. 
 
 Ah, she hallowed the hour 
 
 When she gathered the flower ; 
 When she said, " This shall emblem the fame of 
 my brave ! " 
 
 When she thought, " This shall borrow 
 
 wi Brighter azure to-morrow ;* 
 When she laid it to - day on the crest of a grave ! 
 
A WINTER PSALM. 
 
 A SONG for the meek old Mountains the 
 Mountains grand and strong. 
 That lifted winter clear of earth all spring and 
 
 summer long, 
 And made it gay with evergreen, and then with 
 
 one accord 
 
 They shouldered the snows in silence and stood 
 before the Lord. 
 
 They did it for the roses sake that robins might 
 
 be born, 
 And Indian gold might flash along the rank and 
 
 file of corn. 
 And sheafy wigwam everywhere lift up its tawny 
 
 cone, 
 And Rachel sing the harvest home where harvest 
 
 moons had shone : 
 
 J 135 
 
186 -> /r/.v/y-.A- PSALA* 
 
 They did it for the little graves bade flowers 
 
 and children say, 
 We 11 smile together by and by and fill the world 
 
 with May ! 
 
 Well done for the grim old Mountains ! And well 
 for the King who laid 
 
 Upon their shoulders stout and brave his gold and 
 crimson blade. 
 
 T was meet that the princely Morning, with ban 
 ners all unfurled, 
 
 Should knight them with his royal touch across 
 the blushing world. 
 
 As softly as on mountain air beatitudes were 
 
 shed, 
 As gently as the lilies bud among the words He 
 
 said, 
 So did the dear old Mountains lay the sparkling 
 
 winter down 
 Upon the poor dumb bosom of a world so bare and 
 
 brown 
 

 : 
 
 Upon the pine s green fingers set, flak<s after flake they land, 
 Upon the farmyard s homely realm, on ricks and rugged bars, 
 Till riven oak and strawy heap were domes and silver spars ; 
 
A WIXTER PSALM. 137 
 
 So noiselessly and silently, such radiance and rest ! 
 As if a snowy wing should fold upon a sparrow s 
 breast. 
 
 Far through the dim uncertain air, as still as asters 
 
 blow. 
 
 The downy drowsy feet untold tread out the world 
 we know : 
 Upon the pine s green fingers set, flake after flake 
 
 they land. 
 And flicker with a feeble light amid the shadowy 
 
 band : 
 Upon the meadows broad and brown where maids 
 
 and mowers sung ; 
 Upon the meadows gay with gold the dandelions 
 
 flung ; 
 Upon the farmyard s homely realm, on ricks and 
 
 rugged bars, 
 Till riven oak and strawy heap were domes and 
 
 silver spars : 
 The cottage was an eastern dream with alabaster 
 
 eaves. 
 And lilacs growing round about with diamonds for 
 
 leaves ; 
 
138 ./ WINTER 
 
 The well -sweep gray above the roof a silver accent 
 stood, 
 
 And silver willows wept their way to meet a silver 
 wood ; 
 
 The russet groves had blossomed white and budded 
 full with stars, 
 
 The fences were in uniform, the gate-posts were 
 hussars ; 
 
 The chimneys were in turbans all, with plumes of 
 crimson smoke, 
 
 And the costly breaths were silver when the laugh 
 ing children spoke ; 
 
 And gem and jewel everywhere along the tethers 
 strung 
 
 Where mantling roses once had climbed and morn 
 ing glories swung. 
 
 So through the dim, uncertain air, as still as asters 
 blow, 
 
 The downy drowsy feet untold tread out the world 
 we know. 
 
 The glimmer of the violet s eye goes out beneath 
 their tread, 
 
A WINTER PSALM. 139 
 
 White silence lines* the ringing street and drifts 
 
 around the dead, 
 But more than all they trample out the crooked 
 
 paths of men, 
 And make the stained and wrinkled world all clean 
 
 and young again ! 
 The summer rain hath won sweet song from many 
 
 a tuneful soul 
 Since God did paint day s alphabet upon the cloudy 
 
 scroll, 
 But who for the snow shall give us one grand 
 
 angelic psalm, 
 The beautiful feet of the snow the feet so pure 
 
 and calm ? 
 
 Thanks be to God for winter time ! That bore the 
 Mayflower up, 
 
 To pour amid New England snows the treasures 
 of its cup, 
 
 To fold them in its icy arms, those sturdy Pilgrim 
 sires, 
 
 And weld an iron brotherhood around their Christ 
 mas fires ! 
 
14<! A WINTEX / .V.-//.JA 
 
 Thanks be to God for winte/time ! How strong 
 the pulses play, 
 
 And ah, the pulses of the bells are not less sweet 
 than they ! 
 
 Dear heart of winter, throb again with old melo 
 dious beat, 
 
 Around thy glow for ever heard the play <>t 
 childhood s feet, 
 
 Worn smooth and beautiful the Rock where later 
 Pilgrims come 
 
 To harvest all their loves and hopes around the 
 hearth of home I 
 
SAILING OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 T MMORTAL they made it, if anything could, 
 -- That wonderful day when Columbus s brood 
 Slipped silently out from the earth s azure eaves, 
 Like a flock of young swallows when summer-time 
 
 leaves, 
 
 And plumed up their pinions and parted the blue, 
 And the sky was unrent, and the trinity through ! 
 Shook off the old world and shook out for the new ! 
 Were they shrived ere they went ? Were their 
 
 sins all forgiven ? 
 For they 11 flutter their wings at the windows of 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Hark ! The Admiral s hail : " World ahoy ! Whither 
 
 bound ?" 
 
 And the answer comes back on a breaker of sound. 
 And the flag of the Andes in fire is unfurled, 
 And Niagara s thunder of welcome is hurled, 
 4 - We re at anchor, your honor ! It is Liberty * 
 
 World ! " 
 
 141 
 
THE CHRYSALIS. 
 
 A COFFIN gray and spotted with gold 
 **^ With a mulberry leaf for bier, 
 And silken shroud with a silver fold, 
 On a shelf is lying near. 
 
 They say when April comes to the door, 
 And the blue -eyed foundlings wake, 
 
 The humble thing that was dead before 
 From its silken sleep shall break ; 
 
 A folio flower, in duplicate done, 
 Like the face in the eyes of a wife, 
 
 Two leaves shall open slow in the sun 
 With a dissvllabic life. 
 
 142 
 
O 
 
 THE FLAG. 
 
 H, glimpse of clear heaven, 
 
 Artillery riven, 
 The Fathers old fallow God seeded with stars, 
 Thy furrows were turning 
 When plowshares were burning, 
 And the half of each bout is redder than Mars I 
 
 Flaunt forever thy story 
 
 Oh, wardrobe of glory ! 
 Where the Fathers laid down their mantles of blue, 
 
 And challenged the ages, 
 
 Oh, grandest of gages ! 
 In covenant solemn, eternal, and true. 
 
 143 
 
THE HERO OF NE\\ HAMBURG. 
 
 r I "HE grandest charge of cavalry 
 
 That ever was seen or sung 
 The solitary trooper made 
 
 Who spoke in the Latin tongue. 
 Bring out your Roman rider 
 
 Who carried the Gulf by storm, 
 And the dumb earth closed forever 
 
 And shrouded his vanished form ; 
 Sowed like the seed that has fallen, 
 
 Mid the multitude s acclaim, 
 How it blossomed through the ages 
 
 Till it ripened into fame ! 
 
 I can match your daring rider, 
 Tell the Roman not to wait ! 
 
 There s another hard behind him 
 Drawing rein at Glory s gate I 
 
 144 
 
THE HERO OF NEW HAMBURG, 145 
 
 Gomes the deathless Engineer, 
 
 Clears the ages at a leap, 
 Crowds the flock of years together 
 As a shepherd folds his sheep 
 Right across historic pages 
 
 With a clatter and a clank, 
 Craunches time to scintillations, 
 Closes up the broken rank, 
 Smites the Roman in the flank ! 
 
 Nevermore shall mighty boatswain 
 
 Pipe all hands with panting fire ; 
 Sweep thy soul, oh lion-hearted, 
 
 As Apollo swept the lyre ! 
 Loose thy grasp, immortal Brakeman ! 
 
 Flinging free the iron rein, 
 Earth! be taught articulation, 
 
 Learn by heart the dread refrain, 
 Jar and thunder back again ! 
 Dare ye quench Elijah s chariot, 
 
 Lightning touch and Titan tread ? 
 Abandon every wheel and axle, 
 
 Furl forever, flags of red ! 
 
146 ^ ///- UKKO 01- XEW HAMBURG. 
 
 Halt him not with battle lantern, 
 Show a light as white as day ! 
 
 Let him pass, O signal stations, 
 
 His for aye " THE EIGHT OF WAY ! " 
 
 Flanked by rugged rock and river, 
 
 Death and double side by side 
 Hand upon the mighty bridle, 
 
 See the gallant horseman ride ; 
 See the ponderous creature coining, 
 
 Sway and swing along the track, 
 Brave postilion in the saddle, 
 
 Flying chambers at his back 
 Chambers bright with hope and drearr ng, 
 
 Chambers dark with terror dire 
 Chambers ? Altars for a demon s 
 
 Dreadful sacrifice of fire ! 
 
 On it comes, the sinewed being, 
 With its rider grand and calm, 
 
 Watch and heart keep steady beating 
 Like an old long-meter psalm ! 
 
THE HERO OF NEW HAMBURG. 147 
 
 Stolen out of Eastern story, 
 
 Garbed in brass, this Arab s dream 
 Plunges through the tunneled thunder, 
 
 Cambric needle through a seam ; 
 Flickering dimly in the distance, 
 
 Flaring broadly into sight 
 With his dawn of human making, 
 
 Break of day in heart of night ! 
 Grumbling in the lairs of mountains, 
 
 Roaring down the valley broad, 
 Rounding out a sturdy headland, 
 
 Blazing like a Grecian god ! 
 
 Now this rider strangely changes 
 Touch him with a wizard s wand, 
 He shall seem a wondrous gunner 
 
 With the lanyard in his hand ; 
 Taking sight across the kingdoms. 
 Cloud by day, by night a flame, 
 He trains his winged artillery, 
 At a target taking aim, 
 Sure to watch if not to pray, 
 
14s i UK III-.KO OF .v/ . ir IIAMHURG. 
 
 Drift December, blossom May, 
 
 At ;i target night and <la\. 
 Full a thousand mih-s away 
 Tu k inn ii 
 
 Columned smokes built high and mighty 
 
 Colonnade the dome of night : 
 Kindles like a face the dial 
 
 With the bursts of furnace light, 
 And the rider at his window. 
 
 Watching with a pleasant smile, 
 Sees the friendly world to meet him 
 Coming down the track the while, 
 Sixty seconds make a mile ! 
 
 Halt him on your rounds, ye Angels, 
 
 Swinging wide the lights of God ! 
 Watchmen, flash afar the signal, 
 
 kt Death is waiting down the road ! " 
 Halt him with your dropping lanterns, 
 
 Shed like stars from ripened sky 
 Halt him, glances red and lurid, 
 
 Glaring like an angry eye ! 
 
THE HERO OF NEW HAMBURG. 149 
 
 All run down the clocks of danger, 
 
 Dials with the sunshine passed ! 
 Come the keen shrill cry and challenge, 
 
 Death and Duly meet at last ! 
 Now transfigured stands the rider, 
 
 Flinging down his rude disguise, 
 Sturdy hand upon the bridle, 
 
 Telling how a hero dies. 
 4/ Hold her hard," he bade the brakeman, 
 
 Clutched the monster by the throat 
 Till the bell with sudden clangor 
 
 Tolled as if the sexton smote. 
 And the grand rebellious creature 
 
 Plunged into the empty air, 
 Swung him out to resurrection 
 
 Clad in Fame s immortal wear ! 
 Born alive to song and story 
 
 Comes this Engineer again, 
 Comes this man to plead for honor 
 
 As the gage of kingly men ; 
 Pleading that the grace of dying 
 
 Is the rarest grace of all : 
 That the earth s sublimest heroes 
 
 Never heard a bugle call ; 
 
150 / ///; UI-.KO Of- XKl\- HAMBURG. 
 
 That the clock of Christ s own ages 
 Never yet had sounded k * one," 
 
 If this planet s grandest jewel 
 Had been nothing but a crown ! 
 
 To his steed they lashed Mazeppu, 
 
 Smithfield clanked with martyrs chains, 
 But this man, bound round with honor, 
 
 Gathering up the iron reins. 
 Free as Chimborazo s eagle 
 
 Flaps his pinion over head. 
 Charged forlorn at utter danger 
 
 As if Death itself were dead ! 
 Halt him not with battle lantern. 
 
 Show a light as white as day ! 
 Let him pass, signal stations, 
 
 His for aye " THE RIGHT OF WAY ! " 
 
THE GOSPEL OF THE OAK. 
 
 WAR TIMM, 18i;:-). 
 
 T T P to the Sun magnificently near, 
 ^ The Lord did build a Calif ornian oak, 
 And took no Sabbath in the thousandth year, 
 
 But builded on until it bravely broke 
 Into that realm wherein the morning light 
 Walks to and fro upon the top of night ! 
 Around that splendid shaft no hammers rang, 
 Nor giants wrought nor truant angels sang, 
 But gentle winds and painted birds did bear 
 Its corner - stones of glory through the air ; 
 Grand volumes green rolled up like cloudy weather, 
 And birds and stars went in and out together; 
 When Day on errands from the Lord came down, 
 It stepped from Heaven to that leafy crown ! 
 
 God s mighty mast with all its sails unfurled. 
 That ought to make a Druid of the world, 
 
 151 
 
/ //A (/O.sy /.V. (V- THE OAK. 
 
 S.une Vandal girdled with a zone of death. 
 A life of ages perished in a breath ! 
 Good night, Live Oak ! Frond admiral, farewell . 
 The world has wailed when meaner monarch* 
 fell! 
 
 The year went on, and with it inarched sublime. 
 Month after Month, the journeymen of Time. 
 Then came tin May. such wings as angels wear. 
 Buds in her hands and blossoms in her hair : 
 Above that oak she shook her flowing sleeves 
 The poor dead tree laughed out with living leaves ! 
 Thank God ! Too vast, too grand to die forlorn 
 It lived right on ! Brave heart of oak, or O od 
 
 I d be a Roman for the omen grand 
 
 That thunders on the left through all the land- 
 
 God and the Fathers tree forever stand ! 
 
 Oh, growth immortal, reddened in the rain 
 
 That beats out hearts as tempests beat the grain, 
 
 All wrongs died out like breath upon a blade. 
 
 A hunted world fled panting to thy shade 
 
THE GOSPEL OF THE OAK. 153 
 
 Thy roots have searched earth s bosom all around, 
 Felt out the graves that make it holy ground - 
 Like living hands with love and faith been laid 
 In benediction on the sleeping dead ! 
 
THE TWO JOHNS. 
 
 you think we are Crushed out of loving and 
 living 
 
 By the fall of a clod, when the planet is giving 
 To the delicate foot of an ounce of a wren, 
 And then surges right up as she lifts it again / 
 Oh, Gibeon s Sun ! He is yet under orders, 
 You can halt him to-day on death s gloomy bor 
 ders : 
 
 Hid brave thoughts and grand deeds the dead 
 Joshua play - 
 
 " Stand still, mighty Sun ! " and the blaze shall 
 obey. 
 
 Take a page of blind JOHN that angels have 
 
 tramped 
 Till it looks as if stars broke ranks and encamped 
 
THE TWO JOHNS. 155 
 
 So strown about with fine gold from Ormus and 
 
 Ind 
 That you wonder how angels could ever have 
 
 sinned, 
 
 When old English brocade at such exquisite cost, 
 To tell the strange story of " Paradise Lost " 
 Did bankrupt the bard, so nothing remained 
 To tell us the story of Eden " Regained." 
 Look down on the page and declare if you can 
 What business the grave-digger had with the 
 
 man ! 
 
 Dare Hamlet s own sexton, or one of his tribe, 
 Lay an ounce of dead clay upon Cromwell s old 
 
 scribe ? 
 Those angels of his they have put them to 
 
 rout ! 
 
 Those angels of his they have lifted him out ! 
 As free of the ages as the winds of the waves, 
 And abolished that gloomy old fashion of graves ! 
 
 In this Christendom s realm, in some year of our 
 
 Lord, 
 Men attacked with a fagot the soul of a word ; 
 
THE Tll O 76>/A\.s. 
 
 Ah, hundreds of years Christinas carols were sung, 
 Kiv they dwelt in this world and spoke in our 
 
 tongue 
 Who groped in the ashes where martyrs were 
 
 chained, 
 
 If perchance a live coal of the embers remained. 
 And they blew it to life in the name of the kings. 
 And the books of this MILTON all took to their 
 
 wings 
 
 Like his own bird -of -paradise, crimson and gold. 
 And the princes grew warm as the ashes grew cold ! 
 T was as if some old Vandal should vainly aspire 
 To strike David dumb by just burning his lyre ; 
 The books played Elijah left their mantle be 
 hind, 
 And it fell and unfurled, till it kindled mankind. 
 
 And that Prince of all Pilgrims, the other twin 
 
 JOHN, 
 
 He will walk in his sleep till the ages are gone ; 
 Blow softly, oh Angel ! Let him slumber right on. 
 With the swing of the sledge for the music ot flutes 
 He beat up the world for celestial recruits ; 
 
THE TWO JOHNS. 157 
 
 He dreamed himself through to the " Beautiful 
 
 Gate," 
 With " Christian" for comrade and " Mercy" to 
 
 wait. 
 Time s sentries cry " halt ! Hark the sturdy 
 
 reply : 
 
 Oh, be lifted, ye gates, for old BUNYAN goes by ! 
 Pass on, grand crusader ! Hearts warm to thy 
 
 <D 
 
 name 
 
 Good night to thy form but good morn to thy fame ! 
 
BEAUTIFUL "MAY." 
 
 , have you not seen on some morning in June. 
 When the llowers were in tears and the 
 
 forest in tune* 
 
 And the billows of dawn broke bright on the air, 
 On the breast of the brightest a star clinging there ? 
 Some Sentinel Star, not ready to set, 
 Forgetting to wane and watching there yet ? 
 How yon gazed on that vision of beauty awhile. 
 How it wavered till won by the light of God s 
 
 smile, 
 How it passed through the portals of pearl like a 
 
 bride. 
 IIo\\ it paled as it passed, and the Morning Star 
 
 died! 
 
 The sky was all blushes, the world was all bliss. 
 And the prayer of your heart. " Be my ending like 
 
 this!" 
 
BEAUTIFUL "MAY: 159 
 
 So my beautiful MAY passed away from life s even, 
 So the blush of her being was blended with Heaven ; 
 So the bird of my bosom fluttered up to the dawn - 
 Ah, a window was open my darling was gone 
 A truant from time, from tears, and from sin, 
 For the angel on watch took the wanderer in ! 
 When she warbles to me the New Song that she 
 
 sings, 
 
 I shall know her again notwithstanding her wings, 
 By those eyes full of heaven by the light on her 
 
 hair 
 And the smile she wore here she will surely wear 
 
 there ! 
 
THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. 
 
 r I ^O claim the Arctic came the 8uu, 
 
 Witli banners of the burning zone ; 
 Unrolled upon their airy spars 
 They froze beneath the light of stars ; 
 And there they float, those streamers old. 
 Those Northern Lights, forever cold ! 
 
 160 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 THEN past the yellow regiments of corn 
 There came an Indian Maiden, autumn born, 
 And June returned and held her by the hand. 
 And led Time s smiling Ruth through all the land ; 
 A veil of golden air was o er her flung. 
 The South wind whispered and the robins sung. 
 
 161 
 
THE SHATTERED RAINBOW. 
 
 \ 1 7 HEN blazed the trinket of the cloud abroad, 
 
 The bent and broken jewelry of God, 
 That fragment of a ring its tlu>r part 
 Was lost, I dreamed, within the forest s heart. 
 And when October came with eager < -l;^p, 
 The jewel shivered in his frosty grasp 
 And showered the maples with celestial red 
 The oaks were sunsets though the days were drad. 
 The green was gold, the willows drooped in wine. 
 The ash was fire, tin- humblest shrub divine. 
 
When blazed the trinket of the cloud abroad, 
 The bent and broken jewelry of God, 
 That fragment of a ring its other part 
 Was lost, I dreamed, within the forest s heart. 
 
FIRE AND WATER. 
 
 MAGNIFICENT AGE! When water and fire, 
 The lamb and the lion, together conspire, 
 And the atom of rain the robins are drinking 
 Can set the dull iron to throbbing and thinking. 
 It enters the heart of a ship in her sleep - 
 There s a cloud on the sky a wake on the deep - 
 There s a soul in the oak that would kindle a 
 
 king, 
 And she crashes away without lifting a wing ! 
 
 Take the old " Franklin press," where the dead 
 
 were laid out, 
 
 And the printer in mourning went plodding about, 
 Till a creak and a groan broke the pages repose, 
 And the specters in sheets, one by one, in their 
 
 clothes, 
 To a late resurrection reluctantly rose ! 
 
 163 
 
1 1 ; 4 
 
 Now inspire the machine with flood and with flame, 
 
 And call it a brother and give it a name ! 
 
 It comes down to the work with a will and a 
 
 clank, 
 Strikes the types in the face and the wrongs in the 
 
 flank ; 
 
 In the flash of an eye the creature has caught 
 And kindled and glowed with the life of the 
 
 thought ! 
 
 Stand clear of the thing ! It is nearing the brink 
 Where a being unborn is beginning to think ! 
 It flutters its plumage, and drifts the world white 
 And it snows down the ages its treasures of light ! 
 It flutters its plumage this marvelous bird, 
 Put a lock on your heart and beware of the word 
 That it pulses abroad, for creation has heard. 
 The lightning s vernacular thunder, is dumb, 
 The bolts strike the word, talk English and come ; 
 The surge tells the billow, the breakers repeat, 
 Till the waves of the sea wash the words to your 
 
 feet, 
 
 Dry-shod from the anchorage down in the brine, 
 Swung up by the cable, a creature divine. 
 
FIRE AND WATER. 165 
 
 See the forge s first-born with its sinews of steel, 
 A nerve at each lever and axle and wheel, 
 All ready to fly and just ready to feel, 
 Pluck out of its caskets great handfuls of power, 
 The flocks of mankind all shorn in an hour 
 And the fleeces just granted this Thirtg for a dower, 
 To weave as it went a wonderful robe 
 To be flung on the sea and apparel the globe ! 
 Born last of a furnace and first of a dream, 
 It learned elocution from eagles that scream ; 
 Lo, the flash of its eye as it kindles the track 
 With the wild at its front and the world at its 
 back ! 
 
 I beg you to think of the pioneer s stroke 
 That the sleep of the Avilderness lazily broke : 
 The blow of that axe was the beat of the clock 
 That timed the whole route from Plymouth s gray 
 
 rock. 
 Now you bend your ear down to the marvelous 
 
 wire, 
 
 That orbit man strung for articulate fire, 
 For globe and for lightning a nerve and a lyre, 
 
!;; /-/A /. .-M7J WATER. 
 
 And you start at a grander chronometer s beat, 
 As strong and distinct as a step in the street, 
 Away there in the desert, away here in the mart. 
 So near that you think it the beat of your heart. 
 When the silver -bound laurel lay fast in its place. 
 And they ga^e to the work its finishing grace. 
 And you heard with your soul, when the hammer 
 
 let fall, 
 
 Drove the golden spike home for good and for all ! 
 That couplet of iron match the line if you can, 
 The grandest of epics yet uttered by man 
 Has heaved up the sky, reft the blue from the 
 
 green ! 
 
 See the western horizon sublimely careen 
 To let in the East and its kingdoms between ! 
 
"ATLANTIC." 
 
 AY, build her long and narrow and deep ! 
 She shall cut the sea with a scimetars sweep, 
 Whatever betides and whoever may weep ! 
 
 Bring out the red wine ! Lift the glass to the lip ! 
 
 With a roar of great guns, and a " Hip ! hip ! 
 
 " Hurrah ! * for the craft, we will christen the ship ! 
 
 Dash a draught on the bow ! Ah, the spar of 
 
 white wood 
 
 Drips into the sea till it colors the flood 
 With the very own double and symbol of blood ! 
 
 Now out with the name of the monarch gigantic 
 That shall queen it so grandly when surges are 
 
 frantic ! 
 Child of fire and of iron, God save the ATLANTIC I 
 
 10! 
 
168 "A TL AN 
 
 All freighted with power below and above, 
 The heart of a fiend and the wing of a dove 
 Fumble in the brave cargo of life and of love ! 
 
 Good for a thousand souls ! Hustle them in ! 
 Your mother and mine shall the census begin ; 
 Then tell off the children too little to sin ! 
 
 With furnace of fire and forest of mast, 
 
 She can conquer the calm and rally the blast ; 
 
 But fuel is costly ! Coal - heavers avast ! 
 
 Ah, those ebony heaps that cumber the hold 
 Can never be reckoned in silver and gold 
 Ten lives to the ton, and an anguish untold ! 
 
 Alas for the lack of a handful of coals : 
 Alas for the ship that is haunted with souls : 
 Alas for the bell that eternally tolls ! 
 
 All aboard, my fine fellows ! " Up anchor ! " the 
 
 word 
 
 Ah, never again shall that order be heard, 
 For two worlds will be mourning ye gone to a third ! 
 
-ATLANTIC: 169 
 
 To the trumpet of March wild gallops the sea ; 
 The white - crested troopers are under the lee 
 Old World and New World and Soul -World are 
 three 
 
 Great garments of rain wrap the desolate night ; 
 Sweet Heaven disastered is lost to the sight ; 
 " ATLANTIC," crash on in the pride of thy might ! 
 With thy look-out s dim cry, " One o clock, and 
 all right ! " 
 
 Ho, down with the hatches ! The seas come 
 
 aboard ! 
 
 All together they come, like a passionate word 
 Like pirates that put every soul to the sword ! 
 
 Their black flag all abroad makes murky the air, 
 But the ship parts the night as a maiden her 
 
 hair 
 Through and through the thick gloom, from land 
 
 here to land there, 
 Like the shuttle that weaves for a mourner to 
 
 wear ! 
 
170 "ATLANTIC." 
 
 <;<>d night, proud -ATLANTIC!" One tick of 
 
 the clock, 
 
 And a staggering crannch and a shivering shock 
 T is the flint and the steel ! T is the ship and 
 
 the rock ! 
 
 Deathless sparks are struck out from the bosoms 
 of girls, 
 
 From the stout heart of manhood in scintillant 
 whirls, 
 
 Like the stars of the Flag when the banner un 
 furls ! 
 
 What hundreds went up unto God in their sleep ! 
 What hundreds in agony baffled the deep 
 Nobody to pray and nobody to weep ! 
 
 Alas for ths flag of the single " White Star," 
 With light pale and cold as the woman s hands are 
 Who, froze in the shrouds, flashed her jewels 
 
 afar, 
 Lost her hold on the world, and then clutched at a 
 
 spar ! 
 
" A TLANTIC." 171 
 
 God of mercy and grace ! How the bubbles come 
 
 up 
 
 With souls from the revel, who stayed not to sup ; 
 Death drank the last toast, and then shattered the 
 
 cup ! 
 
 Who crushed these poor hearts that wild terror 
 
 environ ? 
 
 Atlantic of water ? Atlantic of iron ? 
 The den where they bearded the granite old 
 
 lion ? 
 The God of the sparrows ? A breath from Mount 
 
 Zion? 
 
 Bring the World into court ! Bid the verdict be 
 
 given ! 
 
 " To this true word we render, resistlessly driven, 
 " And so say we all NOT GUILTY, fore Heaven ! " 
 
 Poor handful of carbon ! Call humanity s roll 
 For the fellow who thought, 4fc Ah, how costly is 
 
 coal ! " 
 He loses who bids any price for his soul ! 
 
172 "ATLANTIC" 
 
 And Christ died for this man this pitiful crea 
 ture ! 
 
 Made like the noblest in fashion and feature 
 Saint John the Belov d and the Wilderness 
 Preacher ! 
 
 Too sordid for soul and too subtle for sod, 
 Let us lock out of heart the poor animate clod, 
 And leave the new Cain and his brother with God ! 
 
 In the clash of the leaves of the frantic woods, 
 And the turbulent whirl of the angry floods, 
 And the rumble and roar of the cloudy broods, 
 
 In the height of the storm, you have sometimes 
 
 heard 
 
 The melodious voice of an unseen bird, 
 And so clear and so brave that your heart was 
 
 stirred ; 
 
 It seemed to be Faith set anew to a song. 
 
 That the weakest of things need never fear wrong 
 
 If they only believe in the true and the strong. 
 
" A TLANTICr 173 
 
 In that bitterer storm, when the plunge of the 
 
 wreck 
 Tossed the white forms at will that were strewing 
 
 the deck, 
 As the foam -flakes are tossed on a war-horse s 
 
 neck, 
 
 And men growing grim in their hunger for life, 
 And husband in frenzy abandoning wife 
 To struggle alone in the desperate strife, 
 
 Then a voice brave and young rose sweet through 
 
 the din : 
 
 " Lend a hand ! I m alone with a lifetime to win ! 
 T was the song of an angel rebuking the sin. 
 
 Then the brute that s in men slunk back to its 
 
 lair 
 Strong fingers were wound in the boy s curly 
 
 hair 
 " Pass the lad right along ! My chance he shall 
 
 share ! " 
 
THE CAVALRY CHARGE 
 
 T T ARK ! the rattling roll of the musketeers, 
 * And the milled drums and the rallying 
 
 cheers, 
 
 And the rifles burn with a keen desire 
 Like the crackling whips of a Hemlock fire, 
 And the singing shot and the shrieking shell 
 And the splintered fire of the shattered hell, 
 And the great white breaths of the cannon smoke 
 As the growling guns by batteries spoke ; 
 And the ragged gaps in the walls of blue 
 Where the iron surge rolled heavily through, 
 That the Colonel builds with a breath again 
 As he cleaves the din with his " Close up, men ! " 
 And the groan torn out from the blacken d lips, 
 And the prayer doled slow with the crimson drips. 
 And the beaming look in the dying eye 
 As under the cloud the STARS go by, 
 
 174 
 
THE CAVALRY CHARGE. 
 
 " But his soul marched on," the Captain said, 
 For the Boy in Blue can never be dead ! 
 
 And the troopers sit in their saddles all 
 
 Like statues carved in an ancient hall, 
 
 And they watch the whirl from their breathless 
 
 ranks, 
 
 And their spurs are close to the horses flanks, 
 And the fingers work of the sabre hand 
 Oh, to bid them live, and to make them grand ! 
 And the bugle sounds to the charge at last, 
 And away they plunge and the front is passed ! 
 And the jackets blue grow red as they ride, 
 And the scabbards too, that clank by their side, 
 And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron shod 
 As they gallop right on o er the plashy red sod 
 Right into the cloud all spectral and dim, 
 Right up to the guns black - throated and grim. 
 Right down on the hedges bordered with steel, 
 Right through the dense columns, then " right 
 
 about wheel ! " 
 
 Hurrah ! A new swath through the harvest again ! 
 Hurrah for the Flag ! To the battle, Amen ! 
 
FORT DEARBORN. 
 THE OLD October 8//;, 71. THE NEW October S//, 73. 
 
 T3ORN of the prairie and the wave the blue 
 *-^ sea and the green, 
 
 A city of the Occident, CHICAGO lay between ; 
 Dim trails upon the meadow, faint wakes upon 
 
 the main, 
 On either sea a schooner and a canvas - covered 
 
 wain. 
 
 I saw a dot upon the map, and a house-fly s filmy 
 wing 
 
 They said t was Dearborn s picket -flag when 
 Wilderness was king ; 
 
 I heard the reed -bird s morning song the In 
 dian s awkward flail 
 
 The rice tattoo in his rude canoe like a dash of 
 April hail 
 
FORT DEARBORN. 177 
 
 The beaded grasses rustling bend the swash of 
 
 the lazy tide, 
 Where ships shake out the salted sails and navies 
 
 grandly ride ! 
 
 I heard the Block -house gates unbar, the column s 
 
 solemn tread, 
 I saw the Tree of a single leaf its splendid foliage 
 
 shed 
 To wave awhile that August morn above the 
 
 column s head ; 
 I heard the moan of muffled drum, the woman s 
 
 wail of fife, 
 The Dead March played for Dearborn s men just 
 
 marching out of life, 
 The swooping of the savage cloud that burst upon 
 
 the rank 
 And struck it with its thunderbolt in forehead and 
 
 in flank, 
 The spatter of the musket - shot, the rifles whistling 
 
 rain 
 The sand-hills drift round hope forlorn that never 
 
 marched again ! 
 
 L 
 
ITS FORT DEARBORN. 
 
 I SKI-: in tasseled rank and file the regiments of 
 
 corn, 
 Their bending sabres, millions strong, salute the 
 
 sunir.irr morn : 
 The harvest -fields, as round and red as full - grown 
 
 harvest -moon. 
 That fill the broad horizons up with mimic gold of 
 
 noon ; 
 I count a thousand villages like flocks in pastures 
 
 grand, 
 I hear the roar of caravans through all the blessed 
 
 land 
 CHICAGO grasps the ripened year and holds it in 
 
 her hand ! 
 44 Give us this day our daily bread ! " the planet s 
 
 Christian prayer ; 
 CHICAGO, with her open palm, makes answer 
 
 everywhere ! 
 
 I hear the march of multitudes who said the map 
 
 was wrong 
 They drew the net of Longitude and brought it 
 
 right along, 
 
FORT DRARKORX. 179 
 
 And swung a great Meridian Line across the 
 
 Foundling s breast, 
 And the city of the Occident was neither East 
 
 nor West ! 
 Her charter is no dainty thing of parchment and 
 
 of pen, 
 But written 011 the prairie s page by full a million 
 
 men ; 
 
 They use the ploughshare and the spade, and end 
 less furrows run, 
 Line after line the record grows, and yet is just 
 
 begun ; 
 They rive the pines of Michigan and give them to 
 
 the breeze 
 The keel -drawn Charter s draft inscribes the 
 
 necklace of the seas, 
 Tis rudely sketched in anthracite, engraved on 
 
 copper plate, 
 And traced across the Continent to Ophir s Golden 
 
 Gate! 
 The Lord s Recording Angel holds the Charter in 
 
 his hand 
 He seals it on the sea, and he signs it on the land ! 
 
1*0 I-ORT DEARBORN. 
 
 I M roll the royal Charter now! It "inarches" 
 
 with the West. 
 Embossed along its far frontier. Siena s silver 
 
 crest ; 
 Along its hither border shines a sacred crystal 
 
 chain : 
 God cursed of old the weedy ground, but never 
 
 cursed the main, 
 As free to-day from earthly sin as Eden s early 
 
 rain ! 
 
 " I found a Rome of common clay/ Imperial 
 Caesar cried ; 
 
 " I left a Rome of marble !" No other Rome be 
 side ! 
 
 The ages wrote their autographs along the sculp- 
 tured stone 
 
 The golden eagles llew abroad Augustan splen 
 dors shone 
 
 They made a Roman of the world ! They trailed 
 the classic rob.-. 
 
 And flung the Latin toga around the naked 
 
 o-l <>he ! 
 
FORT DEARBORN. 181 
 
 44 1 found Chicago wood and clay," a mightier 
 
 Kaiser said, 
 Then flung upon the sleeping mart his royal robes 
 
 of red, 
 And temple, dome, and colonnade, and monument 
 
 and spire, 
 
 Put on the crimson livery of dreadful Kaiser Fire ! 
 The stately piles of polished stone were shattered 
 
 into sand, 
 And madly drove the dread simoon, and snowed 
 
 them on the land ! 
 And rained them till the sea was red, and scorched 
 
 the wings of prayer ! 
 
 Like thistle -down ten thousand homes went drift 
 ing through the air, 
 And dumb Dismay walked hand in hand with 
 
 frozen - eyed Despair ! 
 CHICAGO vanished in a cloud the towers were 
 
 storms of sleet, 
 Lo ! ruins of a thousand years along the spectral 
 
 street ! 
 The night burned out between the days ! The 
 
 ashen hoar - frost fell, 
 
182 I ORT DEARliORX. 
 
 As if some demon set ajar the bolted gates of hell, 
 And let the molten billows break the adamantine 
 
 bars, 
 And roll the smoke of torment up to smother out 
 
 the stars ! 
 The low, dull growl of powder -blasts just dotted 
 
 off the din, 
 As if they tolled for perished clocks the time that 
 
 might have been ! 
 The thunder of the fiery surf roared human accents 
 
 dumb ; 
 The trumpet s clangor died away a wild bee s 
 
 drowsy hum. 
 And breakers beat the empty world that rumbled 
 
 like a drum. 
 O cities of the Silent Land ! O Graceland and 
 
 Roselnll ! 
 No tombs without their tenantry ? The pale host 
 
 sleeping still ? 
 Your marble thresholds dawning red with holo- 
 
 O 
 
 caustal glare, 
 
 As if the Waking Angel s foot were set upon the 
 stair ! 
 
FORT DEARBORA. 183 
 
 But ah, the human multitudes that marched before 
 the flame, 
 
 As mid the Red Sea s wavy walls the ancient 
 people came ! 
 
 Behind, the rattling chariots ! the Pharaoh of Fire ! 
 
 The rallying volley of the whips the jarring of 
 the tire ! 
 
 Looked round, and saw the homeless world as 
 dismal as a pyre 
 
 Looked up, and saw T God s blessed Blue a firma 
 ment so dire ! 
 
 As in the days of burning Troy, when Virgil s 
 hero fled, 
 
 So gray and trembling pilgrims found some younger 
 feet instead, 
 
 That bore them through the wilderness with bold 
 elastic stride, 
 
 And Ruth and Rachel, pale and brave, in silence 
 walked beside ; 
 
 Those Bible girls of Judah s day did make that 
 day sublime 
 
 Leave life but them, no other loss can ever bank 
 rupt Time ! 
 
184 FORT DEARBORN. 
 
 Men stood and saw their all caught up in chariot* 
 
 of flame 
 No mantle falling from the sky they ever thought 
 
 to claim, 
 And empty-handed as the dead, they turned away 
 
 and smiled, 
 And bore a stranger s household gods and saved a 
 
 stranger s child ! 
 What valor brightened into shape, like statues in 
 
 a hall, 
 When on their dusky panoply the blazing torches 
 
 fall, 
 Stood bravely out and saw the world spread wings 
 
 of fiery flight, 
 And not a trinket of a star to crown disastered 
 
 night ! 
 
 " Who runs these lines of telegraph ?" A clock- 
 lick made reply : 
 
 " fc The greatest of the three has brought this 
 message from the sky, 
 
 " abettor* tot ll sent) an .Httgd fcoton to toorfc tf)e*r 
 lines t 
 
FORT DEARBORN. 185 
 
 Charge all the batteries good and strong ! Give 
 
 GOD the right of way ! 
 
 And so the swift evangels ran by telegraphic time, 
 And brought the cheer of Christendom from every 
 
 earthly clime ; 
 Celestial fire flashed round the globe, from Norway 
 
 to Japan, 
 Proclaimed the MANhoodof the race, the BROTHER- 
 
 hood of man ! 
 Then flashed a hundred engines arms then flew 
 
 the lightning trains ; 
 They had that day the right of way gave every 
 
 steed the reins 
 The minutes came, the minutes went the miles 
 
 fled just the same 
 And flung along October night their starry flags 
 
 of flame ! 
 They all were angels in disguise, from hamlet, 
 
 field, and mart, 
 CHICAGO S fire had warmed the World that had 
 
 her woe by heart. 
 
 " Who is my neighbor ? " One and all : " We see 
 her signal light, 
 
181) FORT SM.-IA fiOA .Y. 
 
 4 And She our utdy neighbor now, this wild Octo 
 ber nig] n ! " 
 
 "I found CHICAGO wood and day." the royal 
 
 Kaiser cried, 
 And flung upon the sleeping mart the- mantle in 
 
 his pride ; 
 It lay awhile he lifted it, and there beneath the 
 
 robe 
 
 A city done in lithograph, the wonder of the globe ; 
 Where granite grain arid marble heart, in strength 
 
 and beauty wed, 
 ki I leave a mart of palaces," the haughty Kaiser 
 
 said. 
 
 Now, thanks to GOD, this blessed day, to whom 
 
 all thanks belong 
 The clash of silver cymbals, the rhyme of the little 
 
 song 
 Whose Hand did hive the golden bees that swarm 
 
 the azure dome, 
 Whence honey -dews forever fall around this 
 
 earthlv IK. me 
 
FORT DEARBORN. 187 
 
 Did constellate the prairie sod and light it up with 
 flowers 
 
 That Hand defend from fire and flood this Prairie 
 Flower of ours ! 
 
 This volume of the royal West we bring in grate 
 ful gage, 
 
 We open at the frontispiece and give it to the Age, 
 
 Who wrote the word CHICAGO twice upon the 
 title - page ! 
 
THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO. 
 
 , a wonderful stream is the River Time, 
 As it flows through the realm of Tears, 
 With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
 And a broader sweep and a surge sublime 
 As it blends with the ocean of Years. 
 
 ii. 
 How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow ! 
 
 And the summers like buds between ; 
 And the year in the sheaf so they come and 
 
 they go 
 
 On the River s breast with its ebb and flow, 
 As they glide in the shadow and sheen. 
 
 in. 
 There s a magical Isle up the River Time 
 
 \Vliere the softest of airs are playing : 
 There s a cloudless sky and a tropical dinn -. 
 And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime. 
 
 And the Junes with the roses are staying. 
 
 188 
 
THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO. 189 
 
 IV. 
 
 And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, 
 
 And we bury our treasures there ; 
 There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow 
 They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so ! 
 There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 
 
 v. 
 
 There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 
 
 And a part of an infant s prayer, 
 There s a harp unswept and a lute without strings, 
 There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 
 
 And the garments that she used to wear. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There are hands that are waved when the fairy 
 shore 
 
 By the mirage is lifted in air ; 
 And we sometimes hear through the turbulent 
 
 roar 
 Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 
 
 When the wind down the River is fair. 
 
190 THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO. 
 
 VII. 
 
 < Hi. remembered for aye be the blessed Isle 
 
 All tin- day of our life till night, * 
 And when evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
 And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile, 
 May that " GREENWOOD" of soul be in 
 
THE ROSE AND THE ROBIN, 
 
 * I ^HE yellow rose leaves falling down 
 
 Pay golden toll to passing June, 
 The robin s breast of golden brown 
 Is trembling with an ancient tune. 
 
 The rose will bloom another year, 
 The robin and his wife will come, 
 
 But he who sees may not be here, 
 And he who sings be dumb. 
 
 Thy grace be mine, oh yellow rose ! 
 
 My heart like thine its blossoms shed, 
 Grow fragrant to the fragrant close, 
 
 And sweetest when I m dead. 
 
 And so like thee 1 11 pay my way 
 In coin that time can never rust, 
 
 And footsteps sound another day 
 Though feet have turned to dust ! 
 
 191 
 
192 THE ROSE AND THE KOB1N. 
 
 Thy gift be mine, oh singing bird ! 
 
 My song like thine round home and heart 
 To Song, God never said the word 
 
 " To dust return, for dust thou art ! " 
 
NOTES. 
 
 TORNADO SUNDAY. The memorable tornado that swept over 
 Iowa, destroying the village of Camanche and leaving across the 
 State a broad track of death and desolation. A meeting for the 
 relief of the sufferers was held in Chicago, and the poem was 
 written for the occasion. 
 
 THE HERO OF NEW HAMBURG. On the night of February 
 6th, 1871, an oil train was wrecked on the track near the bridge 
 at New Hamburg, on the Hudson River Railroad. The Express 
 train bound West ran into the wreck, the bridge took fire and fell, 
 and twenty - one persons in the Buffalo sleeping car were killed. 
 The Engineer, E. H. SIMMONS, remained upon his engine, doing 
 what he could to avert the threatened disaster, and failing in this, 
 looked death in the face, chose it to desertion, and perished at his 
 post. 
 
 GOING HOME. A poor disheartened emigrant returning to his 
 Eastern home from the far West, met in the streets of La Porte, 
 Indiana, a hearse on its way to the City of the Silent. He turned 
 aside, halted, and, with his wife and children, watched the sad 
 procession. The poor fellow had told his story to some one never 
 suspected of a spark of poetry, who, as he watched the meeting 
 from the sidewalk, said, " Well, one is going East and the other 
 going West, but they re bound the same way after all both going 
 home !" 
 
 THE VANE ON THE SPIRE. During the bitter and death-dealing 
 days of the winter and spring of 1872 I often watched the gilded 
 
Ill t 
 
 arrow that swings upon the spire of the Methodist Church. And 
 it always had a meaning for me sometimes sad, a few times glad, 
 and always true. Day after day, week after week, that arnm 
 pointed North pointed East : ahwrs North, always East like 
 ilie linger of Fate. The chill winds blew ; the cold storms came ; 
 there were beds of languishing ; there were new-made graves. 
 l- ro^t, sorrow, and death ruled the air in company. And all the 
 while the arrow told the story. 
 
 At last there came some genial days, when flower-, blossomed. 
 birds sang, the weak grew strong, and the graves were green. 
 
 The arrow on the spire had swung round to the South ; it told 
 the story still. It was no longer the finger of Fate, but a thing ot 
 beauty a piece of aerial jewelry. It had eloquence enough to 
 inspire a little song, had there been anybody to write it. 
 
 FIRF. AND WATER. All being ready to connect the two grand 
 divisions of the Union Pacific Railroad, delegations from the 
 Atlantic and Pacific coasts met, and the last spike was driven with 
 >imple but impressive ceremonies. The tie was silver-bound 
 laurel and the spike of California!! gold. The wires of the tele 
 graph were so connected that the fall of the hammer was echoed 
 at nearly the same instant in offices thousands of miles away. 
 
 44 ATLANTIC." The steamship " Atlantic," struck a rock on the 
 morning of April i>t, 1873, and was wrecked, with a fearful sacri 
 fice of human life. The ship was out of her course, and if any 
 i en ,on existed for the fatal variation it was the fear that the supply 
 of coal was insufficient to take it into its destined port. The inci 
 dent of the saving of the lad, John Hanly, awakened universal 
 interest and sympathy. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 BERKELEY 
 
 Return to desk from which borrowed. 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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