IN WAR TIME 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 1864. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 
 
 JOHN GKEENLEAF WHITTIER, 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS: 
 
 WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY, 
 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
7Y? 
 SAMUEL E. SEWALL 
 
 AND 
 
 HARRIET W. SEWALL, 
 
 OF MELROSE. 
 
 OLOR ISCANUS queries : " Why should we 
 
 Vex at the land s ridiculous miserie ? " 
 
 So on his Usk banks, in the blood-red dawn 
 
 Of England s civil strife, did careless Vaughan 
 
 Bemock his times. O friends of many years ! 
 
 Though faith and trust are stronger than our fears, 
 
 And the signs promise peace with liberty, 
 
 Not thus we trifle with our country s tears 
 
 And sweat of agony. The future s gain 
 
 Is certain as God s truth ; but, meanwhile, pain 
 
 Is bitter and tears are salt : our voices take 
 
 A sober tone ; our very household songs 
 
 Are heavy with a nation s griefs and wrongs ; 
 
 And innocent mirth is chastened for the sake 
 
 Of the brave hearts that nevermore shall beat, 
 
 The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet ! 
 
 395703 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 IN AVAR TIME 
 
 THY WILL BE DONE 
 
 A WORD FOR THE HOUR . 
 
 "ElN FESTE BURG 1ST UNSER GOTT " 
 
 To JOHN C. FREMONT 
 
 THE WATCHERS . . . 
 
 To ENGLISHMEN . 
 
 ASTR^A AT THE CAPITOL 
 
 THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862 . 
 
 MlTHRIDATES AT CHIOS . 
 
 THE PROCLAMATION . 
 ANNIVERSARY POEM . . 
 AT PORT ROYAL 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE ... 
 
 PAGE 
 9 
 
 12 
 14 
 19 
 21 
 26 
 30 
 35 
 38 
 41 
 44 
 51 
 58 
 
 HOME BALLAD S 
 
 COBBLER KEEZAR S VISION 
 AMY WENTWORTH . 
 THE COUNTESS . 
 
 66 
 78 
 
 88 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 NAPLES. 1860. . . . ... . .101 
 
 THE SUMMONS . . . . . . . 105 
 
 THE WAITING . . . . . . 107 
 
 MOUNTAIN PICTURES. 
 
 I. FRANCONIA FROM THE PEMIGEWASSET . .109 
 
 II. MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSET . . . 112 
 
 OUR KIVER .116 
 
 ANDREW EYKMAN S PRAYER . . . . 121 
 
 THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL . . . . .133 
 
 ITALY . . . 137 
 
 THE RIVER PATH . . . . . . .140 
 
 A MEMORIAL. M. A. C. . . . . . 144 
 
 HYMN SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF 
 
 ST. HELENA S ISLAND, S. C. . . .150 
 

 IN WAR TIME 
 
THY WILL BE DONE. 
 
 WE see not, know not ; all our way 
 Is night, with Thee alone is day 
 From out the torrent s troubled drift, 
 Above the storm our prayers we lift, 
 Thy will be done ! 
 
 The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, 
 But who are we to make complaint, 
 Or dare to plead, in times like these, 
 The weakness of our love of ease ? 
 Thy will be done ! 
 
10 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 We take with solemn thankfulness 
 Our burden up, nor ask it less, 
 And count it joy that even we 
 May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee, 
 Whose will be done ! 
 
 Though dim as yet in tint and line, 
 We trace Thy picture s wise design, 
 And thank Thee that our age supplies 
 Its dark relief of sacrifice. 
 Thy will be done ! 
 
 And if, in our unworthiness, 
 Thy sacrificial wine we press 
 If from Thy ordeal s heated bars 
 Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, 
 Thy will be done ! 
 
 If, for the age to come, this hour 
 Of trial hath vicarious power, 
 
THY WILL BE DONE. 
 
 And, blest by Thee, our present pain 
 Be Liberty s eternal gain, 
 Thy will be done ! 
 
 Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys, 
 The anthem of the destinies ! 
 The minor of Thy loftier strain, 
 Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, 
 Thy will be done ! 
 
A WORD FOR THE HOUR. 
 
 THE firmament breaks up. In black 
 eclipse 
 
 Light after light goes out. One evil star, 
 Luridly glaring through the smoke of war, 
 As in the dream of the Apocalypse, 
 Drags others down. Let us not weakly weep 
 Nor rashly threaten. Give us grace to keep 
 Our faith and patience ; wherefore should we 
 
 leap 
 
 On one hand into fratricidal fight, 
 Or, on the other, yield eternal right, 
 Frame lies of law, and good and ill confound ? 
 What fear we? Safe on freedom s vantage 
 
 ground 
 
A WORD FOR THE HOUR. 13 
 
 Our feet are planted : let us there remain 
 In unrevengeful calm, no means untried 
 Which truth can sanction, no just claim denied, 
 The sad spectators of a suicide ! 
 They break the links of Union : shall we light 
 The fires of hell to weld anew the chain 
 On that red anvil where each blow is pain ? 
 Draw we not even now a freer breath, 
 As from our shoulders falls a load of death 
 Loathsome as that the Tuscan s victim bore 
 When keen with life to a dead horror bound ? 
 Why take we up the accursed thing again ? 
 Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more 
 Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion s rag 
 With its vile reptile blazon. Let us press 
 The golden cluster on our brave old flag 
 In closer union, and, if numbering less, 
 Brighter shall shine the stars which still re 
 main. 
 
 16th, 1st month, 1861. 
 
EIN FESTE BURG 1ST UNSER GOTT." 
 
 (LUTHER S HYMN.) 
 
 WE wait beneath the furnace-blast 
 The pangs of transformation ; 
 Not painlessly doth God recast 
 And mould anew the nation. 
 Hot burns the fire 
 Where wrongs expire ; 
 Nor spares the hand 
 That from the land 
 Uproots the ancient evil. 
 
 The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared 
 Its bloody rain is dropping ; 
 
LUTHER S HYMN. 15 
 
 The poison plant the fathers spared 
 All else is overtopping. 
 East, West, South, North, 
 It curses the earth ; 
 All justice dies, 
 And fraud and lies 
 Live only in its shadow. 
 
 What gives the wheat-field blades of steel ? 
 
 What points the rebel cannon ? 
 What sets the roaring rabble s heel 
 On the old star-spangled pennon ? 
 What breaks the oath 
 Of the men o the South ? 
 What whets the knife 
 For the Union s life ? - 
 Hark to the answer : Slavery ! 
 
 Then waste no blows on lesser foes 
 In strife unworthy freemen. 
 
16 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 God lifts to-day the vail, and shows 
 The features of the demon ! 
 
 North and South, 
 
 Its victims both, 
 
 Can ye not cry, 
 
 "Let slavery die ! " 
 And union find in freedom ? 
 
 What though the cast-out spirit tear 
 
 The nation in his going ? 
 We who have shared the guilt must share 
 The pang of his o erthr owing ! 
 Whate er the loss, 
 Whate er the cross, 
 Shall they complain 
 Of present pain 
 Who trust in God s hereafter ? 
 
 For who that leans on His right arm 
 Was ever yet forsaken ? 
 
LUTHER S HYMN. 17 
 
 What righteous cause can suffer harm 
 If He its part has taken ? 
 
 Though wild and loud 
 
 And dark the cloud 
 
 Behind its folds 
 
 His hand upholds 
 The calm sky of to-morrow ! 
 
 Above the maddening cry for blood, 
 
 Above the wild war-drumming, 
 Let Freedom s voice be heard, with good 
 The evil overcoming. 
 Give prayer and purse 
 To stay the Curse 
 Whose wrong we share. 
 Whose shame we bear, 
 Whose end shall gladden Heaven ! 
 
 In vain the bells of war shall ring 
 Of triumphs and revenges, 
 2 
 
18 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 While still is spared the evil thing 
 That severs and estranges. 
 But blest the ear 
 That yet shall hear 
 The jubilant bell 
 That rings the knell 
 Of Slavery forever ! 
 
 Then let the selfish lip be dumb, 
 
 And hushed the breath of sighing ; 
 Before the joy of peace must come 
 The pains of purifying. 
 God give us grace 
 Each in his place 
 To bear his lot, 
 And, murmuring not, 
 Endure and wait and labor ! 
 
TO JOHN C. FREMONT. 
 
 I ^HY error, Fremont, simply was to act 
 -L A brave man s part, without the states 
 man s tact, 
 
 And, taking counsel but of common sense, 
 To strike at cause as well as consequence. 
 0, never yet since Roland wound his horn 
 At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown 
 Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own, 
 Heard from the van of freedom s hope forlorn ! 
 It had been safer, doubtless, for the time, 
 To flatter treason, and avoid offence 
 To that Dark Power whose underlying crime 
 Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence. 
 
20 , IN WAR TIME. 
 
 But, if thine be the fate of all who break 
 
 The ground for truth s seed, or forerun their 
 
 years 
 
 Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make 
 A lane for freedom through the level spears, 
 Still take thou courage ! God has spoken 
 
 through thee, 
 
 Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free ! 
 The land shakes with them, and the slave s 
 
 dull ear 
 
 Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear. 
 Who would recall them now must first arrest 
 The winds that blow down from the free North 
 west, 
 
 Ruffling the Gulf ; or like a scroll roll back 
 The Mississippi to its upper springs. 
 Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack 
 But the full time to harden into things. 
 
THE WATCHERS. 
 
 BESIDE a stricken field I stood ; 
 On the torn turf, on grass and wood, 
 Hung heavily the dew of blood. 
 
 Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, 
 But all the air was quick with pain 
 And gusty sighs and tearful rain. 
 
 Two angels, each with drooping head 
 And folded wings and noiseless tread, 
 Watched by that valley of the dead. 
 
22 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 The one, with forehead saintly bland 
 And lips of blessing, not command, 
 Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. 
 
 The other s brows were scarred and knit, 
 His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, 
 His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. 
 
 " How long ! " I knew the voice of Peace, 
 " Is there no respite ? no release ? 
 When shall the hopeless quarrel cease ? 
 
 " Lord, how long ! One human soul 
 Is more than any parchment scroll, 
 Or any flag thy winds unroll. 
 
 " What price was Ellsworth s, young and brave V 
 How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, 
 Or count the cost of Winthrop s grave ? 
 
THE WATCHERS. 23 
 
 " brother ! if thine eye can see, 
 Tell how and when the end shall be. 
 What hope remains for thee and me." 
 
 Then Freedom sternly said : " I shun 
 No strife nor pang beneath the sun, 
 When human rights are staked and won. 
 
 " I knelt with Ziska s hunted flock, 
 I watched in Toussaint s cell of rock, 
 I walked with Sidney to the block. 
 
 " The moor of Marston felt my tread, 
 Through Jersey snows the march I led, 
 My voice Magenta s charges sped. 
 
 " But now, through weary day and night, 
 I watch a vague and aimless fight 
 For leave to strike one blow aright. 
 
24 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 " On either side my foe they own : 
 
 One guards through love his ghastly throne, 
 
 And one through fear to reverence grown. 
 
 " Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, 
 
 By open foes, or those afraid 
 
 To speed thy coming through my aid ? 
 
 " Why watch to see who win or fall ? - 
 
 I shake the dust against them all, 
 
 I leave them to their senseless brawl." 
 
 " Nay," Peace implored : " yet longer wait ; 
 The doom is near, the stake is great : 
 God knoweth if it be too late. 
 
 " Still wait and watch ; the way prepare 
 Where I with folded wings of prayer 
 May follow, weaponless and bare." 
 
THE WATCHERS. 25 
 
 \ 
 
 " Too late ! " the stern, sad voice replied, 
 " Too late ! " its mournful echo sighed, 
 In low lament the answer died. 
 
 A rustling as of wings in flight, 
 
 An upward gleam of lessening white, 
 
 So passed the vision, sound and sight. 
 
 But round me, like a silver bell 
 Rung down the listening sky to tell 
 Of holy help, a sweet voice fell. 
 
 " Still hope and trust," it sang; " the rod 
 Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, 
 But all is possible with God ! " 
 
TO ENGLISHMEN. 
 
 YOU flung your taunt across the wave ; 
 We bore it as became us, 
 Well knowing that the fettered slave 
 Left friendly lips no option save 
 To pity or to blame us. 
 
 You scoffed our plea. " Mere lack of will, 
 
 Not lack of power," you told us : 
 We showed our free-state records ; still 
 You mocked, confounding good and ill, 
 Slave-haters and slaveholders. 
 
 We struck at Slavery ; to the verge 
 Of power and means we checked it ; 
 
TO ENGLISHMEN. 27 
 
 Lo ! presto, change ! its claims you urge, 
 Send greetings to it o er the surge, 
 And comfort and protect it. 
 
 But yesterday you scarce could shake, 
 
 In slave-abhorring rigor, 
 Our Northern palms, for conscience sake : 
 To-day you clasp the hands that ache 
 
 With " walloping the nigger ! " * 
 
 Englishmen ! in hope and creed, 
 In blood and tongue our brothers ! 
 
 We too are heirs of Runnymede ; 
 
 And Shakespeare s fame and Cromwell s deed 
 Are not alone our mother s. 
 
 " Thicker than water, in one rill 
 Through centuries of story 
 
 * See English caricatures of America: Slaveholder and cow 
 hide, with the motto, " Have n t I a right to wallop my nigger? " 
 
28 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 Our Saxon blood has flowed, and still 
 We share with you its good and ill, 
 The shadow and the glory. 
 
 Joint heirs and kinfolk, leagues of wave 
 
 Nor length of years can part us : 
 Your right is ours to shrine and grave, 
 The common freehold of the brave, 
 The gift of saints and martyrs. 
 
 Our very sins and follies teach 
 
 Our kindred frail and human : 
 We carp at faults with bitter speech, 
 The while for one unshared by each 
 We have a score in common. 
 
 We bowed the heart, if not the knee, 
 
 To England s Queen, God bless her ! 
 We praised you when your slaves went free 
 We seek to unchain ours. Will ye 
 Join hands with the oppressor ? 
 
TO ENGLISHMEN. 29 
 
 And is it Christian England cheers 
 
 The bruiser, not the bruised ? 
 And must she run, despite the tears 
 And prayers of eighteen hundred years, 
 
 A-muck in Slavery s crusade ? 
 
 black disgrace ! shame and loss 
 Too deep for tongue to phrase on ! 
 
 Tear from your flag its holy cross, 
 
 And in your van of battle toss 
 The pirate s skull-bone blazon ! 
 
ASTK^EA AT THE CAPITOL. 
 
 ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF 
 COLUMBIA, 1862. 
 
 WHEN first I saw our banner wave 
 Above the nation s council-hall, 
 I heard beneath its marble wall 
 The clanking fetters of the slave ! 
 
 In the foul market-place I stood, 
 And saw the Christian mother sold, 
 And childhood with its locks of gold, 
 
 Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood. 
 
ASTRJ2A AT THE CAPITOL, 31 
 
 I shut my eyes, I held my breath, 
 
 And, smothering down the wrath and shame 
 That set my Northern blood aflame, 
 
 Stood silent where to speak was death. 
 
 Beside me gloomed the prison-cell 
 Where wasted one in slow decline 
 For uttering simple words of mine, 
 
 And loving freedom all too well. 
 
 The- flag that floated from the dome 
 Flapped menace in the morning air ; 
 I stood a perilled stranger where 
 
 The human broker made his home. 
 
 For crime was virtue : Gown and Sword 
 And Law their threefold sanction gave, 
 And to the quarry of the slave 
 
 Went hawking with our symbol-bird. 
 
32 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 On the oppressor s side was power ; 
 And yet I knew that every wrong, 
 However old, however strong, 
 
 But waited God s avenging hour. 
 
 I knew that truth would crush the lie, 
 Somehow, some time, the end would be ; 
 Yet scarcely dared I hope to see 
 
 The triumph with my mortal eye. 
 
 But now I see it I In the sun 
 
 A free flag floats from yonder dome, 
 And at the nation s hearth and home 
 
 The justice long delayed is done. 
 
 Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer, 
 The message of deliverance comes, 
 But heralded by roll of drums 
 
 On waves of battle-troubled air ! 
 
ASTRJEA AT THE CAPITOL. 33 
 
 Midst sounds that madden and appall, 
 
 The song that Bethlehem s shepherds knew ! 
 The harp of David melting through 
 
 The demon-agonies of Saul ! 
 
 Not as we hoped ; but what are we ? 
 Above our broken dreams and plans 
 God lays, with wiser hand than man s, 
 
 The corner-stones of liberty. 
 
 I cavil not with Him : the voice 
 That freedom s blessed gospel tells 
 Is sweet to me as silver bells, 
 
 Rejoicing ! yea, I will rejoice ! 
 
 Dear friends still toiling in the sun, 
 Ye dearer ones who, gone before, 
 Are watching from the eternal shore 
 
 The slow work by your hands begun, 
 
34 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 Rejoice with me ! The chastening rod 
 Blossoms with love ; the furnace heat 
 Grows cool beneath His blessed feet 
 
 Whose form is as the Son of God ! 
 
 Rejoice ! Our Marah s bitter springs 
 Are sweetened ; on our ground of grief 
 Rise day by day in strong relief 
 
 The prophecies of better things. 
 
 Rejoice in hope ! The day and night 
 Are one with God, and one with them 
 Who see by faith the cloudy hem 
 
 Of Judgment fringed with Mercy s light ! 
 
THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. 
 
 THE flags of war like storm-birds fly, 
 The charging trumpets blow ; 
 Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, 
 No earthquake strives below. 
 
 And, calm and patient, Nature keeps 
 
 Her ancient promise well, 
 
 : : 7 11 7 J 1 "" l!l r n nj ! *t 
 
 Hnness sweeps 
 
 urs 
 
 flowers 
 
36 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 What mean the gladness of the plain, 
 
 This joy of eve and morn, 
 The mirth that shakes the beard of grain 
 
 And yellow locks of corn ? 
 
 Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears, 
 And hearts with hate are hot ; 
 
 But even-paced come round the years, 
 And Nature changes not. 
 
 She meets with smiles our bitter grief, 
 With songs our groans of pain ; 
 
 She mocks with tint of flower and leaf 
 The war-field s crimson stain. 
 
 Still, in the cannon s pause, we hear 
 Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm ; 
 
 Too near to God for doubt or fear, 
 She shares th eternal calm. 
 
THE BATTLE AUTUMN. 37 
 
 She knows the seed lies safe below 
 
 The fires that blast and burn ; 
 For all the tears of blood we sow 
 
 She waits the rich return. 
 
 She sees with clearer eye than ours 
 
 The good of suffering born, 
 The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 
 
 And ripen like her corn. 
 
 0, give to us, in times like these, 
 
 The vision of her eyes ; 
 And make her fields and fruited trees 
 
 Our golden prophecies ! 
 
 0, give to us her finer ear ! 
 
 Above this stormy din, 
 We too would hear the bells of cheer 
 
 Ring peace and freedom in ! 
 
MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS * 
 
 KNOW ST thou, O slave-cursed land ! 
 How, when the Chian s cup of guilt 
 Was full to overflow, there came 
 God s justice in the sword of flame 
 That, red with slaughter to its hilt, 
 Blazed in the Cappadocian victor s hand ? 
 
 * It is recorded that the Chians, when subjugated by Mithri- 
 dates of Cappadocia, were delivered up to their own slaves, to 
 be carried away captive to Colohis. Athenseus considers this 
 a just punishment for their wickedness in first introducing 
 the slave-trade into Greece. From this ancient villany of the 
 Chians the proverb arose, u The Chian hath bought himself a 
 master." 
 
MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS. 39 
 
 The heavens are still and far ; 
 
 But, not unheard of awful Jove, 
 The sighing of the island slave 
 Was answered, when the ^Egean wave 
 
 The keels of Mithridates clove, 
 And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war. 
 
 " Robbers of Chios ! hark," 
 The victor cried, " to Heaven s decree ! 
 Pluck your last cluster from the vine, 
 Drain your last cup of Chian wine ; 
 Slaves of your slaves, your doom shall be, 
 In Colchian mines by Phasis rolling dark." 
 
 Then rose the long lament 
 From the hoar sea-god s dusky caves : 
 The priestess rent her hair and cried, 
 " Woe ! woe ! The gods are sleepless- 
 eyed ! " 
 
 And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves, 
 The lords of Chios into exile went. 
 
40 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 " The gods at last pay well," 
 So Hellas sang her taunting song, 
 " The fisher in his net is caught, 
 The Chian hath his master bought " ; 
 And isle from isle, with laughter long, 
 Took up and sped the mocking parable. 
 
 Once more the slow, dumb years 
 Bring their avenging cycle round, 
 And, more than Hellas taught of old, 
 Our wiser lesson shall be told, 
 Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, 
 To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their 
 blood and tears. 
 
THE PROCLAMATION. 
 
 SAINT Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds 
 Of Ballymena, wakened with these words : 
 
 " Arise, and flee 
 Out from the land of bondage, and be free ! " 
 
 Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven 
 The angels singing of his sins forgiven, 
 
 And, wondering, sees 
 His prison opening to their golden keys, 
 
 He rose, a man who laid him down a slave, 
 Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave, 
 
 And outward trod 
 Into the glorious liberty of God. 
 
42 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 He cast the symbols of his shame away ; 
 And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay, 
 
 Though back and limb 
 
 Smarted with wrong, he prayed, " God pardon 
 him ! " 
 
 So went he forth : but in God s time he came 
 To light on Uilline s hills a holy flame ; 
 
 And, dying, gave 
 The land a saint that lost him as a slave. 
 
 dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb 
 Waiting for God, your hour, at last, has come, 
 
 And freedom s song 
 Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong ! 
 
 Arise and flee ! shake off the vile restraint 
 Of ages ; but, like Ballymena s saint, 
 
 The oppressor spare, 
 Heap only on his head the coals of prayer. 
 
THE PROCLAMATION. 43 
 
 Go forth, like him ! like him return again, 
 To bless the land whereon in bitter pain 
 
 Ye toiled at first, 
 
 And heal with freedom what your slavery 
 cursed. 
 
ANNIVERSARY POEM. 
 
 [Read before the Alumni of the Friends Yearly Meeting 
 School, at the Annual Meeting at Newport, E. L, 15th 6th Mo., 
 1863.] 
 
 ONCE more, dear friends, you meet 
 beneath 
 
 A clouded sky : 
 
 Not yet the sword has found its sheath, 
 And on the sweet spring airs the breath 
 Of war floats by. 
 
 Yet trouble springs not from the ground, 
 
 Nor pain from chance ; 
 The Eternal order circles round, 
 And wave and storm find mete and bound 
 
 In Providence. 
 
ANNIVERSARY POEM. 45 
 
 Full long our feet the flowery ways 
 
 Of peace have trod, 
 
 Content with creed and garb and phrase : 
 A harder path in earlier days 
 
 Led up to God. 
 
 Too cheaply truths, once purchased dear, 
 
 Are made our own ; 
 Too long the world has smiled to hear 
 Our boast of full corn in the ear 
 
 By others sown ; 
 
 To see us stir the martyr fires 
 
 Of long ago, 
 
 And wrap our satisfied desires 
 In the singed mantles that our sires 
 
 Have dropped below. 
 
 But now the cross our worthies bore 
 On us is laid ; 
 
46 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 Profession s quiet sleep is o er, 
 And in the scale of truth once more 
 Our faith is weighed. 
 
 The cry of innocent blood at last 
 
 Is calling down 
 
 An answer in the whirlwind-blast, 
 The thunder and the shadow cast 
 
 From Heaven s dark frown. 
 
 The land is red with judgments. Who 
 
 Stands guiltless forth ? 
 Have we been faithful as we knew, 
 To God and to our brother true, 
 
 To Heaven and Earth ? 
 
 How faint, through din of merchandise 
 
 And count of gain, 
 Have seemed to us the captive s cries ! 
 How far away the tears and sighs 
 
 Of souls in pain ! 
 
ANNIVERSARY POEM. 47 
 
 This day the fearful reckoning comes 
 
 To each and all ; 
 
 We hear amidst our peaceful homes 
 The summons of the conscript drums, 
 
 The bugle s call. 
 
 Our path is plain ; the war-net draws 
 
 Round us in vain, 
 
 While, faithful to the Higher Cause, 
 We keep our fealty to the laws 
 
 Through patient pain. 
 
 The levelled gun, the battle brand, 
 
 We may not take ; 
 But, calmly loyal, we can stand 
 And suffer with our suffering land 
 
 For conscience sake. 
 
 Why ask for ecse where all is pain ? 
 Shall we alone 
 
48 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 Be left to add our gain to gain, 
 
 When over Armageddon s plain 
 
 The trump is blown ? 
 
 To suffer well is well to serve ; 
 
 Safe in our Lord 
 
 The rigid lines of law shall curve 
 To spare us ; from our heads shall swerve 
 
 Its smiting sword. 
 
 And light is mingled with the gloom, 
 
 And joy with grief ; 
 Divinest compensations come, 
 Through thorns of judgment mercies bloom 
 
 In sweet relief. 
 
 Thanks for our privilege to bless, 
 
 By word and deed, 
 The widow in her keen distress, 
 The childless and the fatherless, 
 
 The hearts that bleed ! 
 
ANNIVERSARY POEM. 49 
 
 For fields of duty, opening wide, 
 
 Where all our powers 
 Are tasked the eager steps to guide 
 Of millions on a path untried : 
 
 THE SLAVE is OURS! 
 
 Ours by traditions dear and old, 
 
 Which make the race 
 Our wards to cherish and uphold, 
 And cast their freedom in the mould 
 
 Of Christian grace. 
 
 And we may tread the sick-bed floors 
 
 Where strong men pine, 
 And, down the groaning corridors, 
 Pour freely from our liberal stores 
 
 The oil and wine. 
 
 Who murmurs that in these dark days 
 His lot is cast ? 
 
 3 
 
50 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 God s hand within the shadow lays 
 The stones whereon His gates of praise 
 Shall rise at last. 
 
 Turn and o erturn, outstretched Hand ! 
 
 Nor stint, nor stay ; 
 
 The years have never dropped their sand 
 On mortal issue vast and grand 
 
 As ours to-day. 
 
 Already, on the sable ground 
 
 Of man s despair 
 
 Is Freedom s glorious picture found 
 With all its dusky hands unbound 
 
 Upraised in prayer. 
 
 0, small shall seem all sacrifice 
 
 And pain and loss, 
 
 When God shall wipe the weeping eyes, 
 For suffering give the victor s prize, 
 
 The crown for cross ! 
 
AT PORT ROYAL. 
 
 THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, 
 The ship-lights on the sea ; 
 The night-wind smooths with drifting sand 
 Our track on lone Tybee. 
 
 At last our grating keels outslide, 
 Our good boats forward swing ; 
 
 And while we ride the land-locked tide. 
 Our negroes row and sing. 
 
 For dear the bondman holds his gifts 
 
 Of music and of song : 
 The gold that kindly Nature sifts 
 
 Among his sands of wrong ; 
 
52 IN WAR TIMS. 
 
 The power to make his toiling days 
 And poor home-comforts please ; 
 
 The quaint relief of mirth that plays 
 With sorrow s minor keys. 
 
 Another glow than sunset s fire 
 Has filled the West with light, 
 
 Where field and garner, barn and byre 
 Are blazing through the night. 
 
 The land is wild with fear and hate, 
 The rout runs mad and fast ; 
 
 From hand to hand , from gate to gate, 
 The flaming brand is passed. 
 
 The lurid glow falls strong across 
 Dark faces broad with smiles : 
 
 Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss 
 That fire yon blazing piles. 
 
AT PORT ROYAL. 53 
 
 With oar-strokes timing to their song, 
 
 They weave in simple lays 
 The pathos of remembered wrong, 
 
 The hope of better days, 
 
 The triumph-note that Miriam sung, 
 
 The joy of uncaged birds : 
 Softening with Afric s mellow tongue 
 
 Their broken Saxon words. 
 
 SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. 
 
 0, praise an tanks ! De Lord he come 
 
 To set de people free ; 
 An massa tink it day ob doom, 
 
 An we ob jubilee. 
 De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves 
 
 He jus as trong as den ; 
 
54 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 He say de word : we las night slaves ; 
 To-day, de Lord s freemen. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 K 
 
 We 11 hab de rice an corn ; 
 
 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 Ole massa on he trabbels gone ; 
 
 He leaf de land behind : 
 De Lord s breff blow him furder on, 
 
 Like corn-shuck in de wind. 
 We own de hoe, we own de plough, 
 
 We own de hands dat hold ; 
 We sell de pig, we sell de cow, 
 But nebber chile be sold. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 We 11 hab de rice an corn : 
 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
AT PORT ROYAL. 55 
 
 We pray de Lord : he gib us signs 
 
 Dat some day we be free ; 
 De Norf-wind tell it to de pines, 
 
 De wild-duck to de sea ; 
 We tink it when de church-bell ring, 
 
 We dream it in de dream ; 
 De rice-bird mean it when he sing, 
 De eagle when he scream. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 We 11 hab de rice an corn : 
 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 We know de promise nebber fail, 
 
 An nebber he de word ; 
 So, like de postles in de jail, 
 
 We waited for de Lord : 
 An now he open ebery door. 
 
 An trow away de key ; 
 
56 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 He tink we lub him so before, 
 We lub him better free. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 He 11 gib de rice an corn : 
 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 So sing our dusky gondoliers ; 
 
 And with a secret pain, 
 And smiles that seem akin to tears, 
 
 We hear the wild refrain. 
 
 We dare not share the negro s trust, 
 
 Nor yet his hope deny ; 
 We only know that God is just, 
 
 And every wrong shall die. 
 
 Rude seems the song ; each swarthy face, 
 Flame-lighted, ruder still : 
 
AT PORT ROYAL. 57 
 
 We start to think that hapless race 
 Must shape our good or ill ; 
 
 That laws of changeless justice bind 
 
 Oppressor with oppressed ; 
 And, close as sin and suffering joined, 
 
 We march to Fate abreast. 
 
 Sing on, poor hearts ! your chant shall be 
 Our sign of blight or bloom, 
 
 The Yala-song of Liberty, 
 
 ^ 
 Or death-rune of our doom ! 
 

 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 u 
 
 P from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep, 
 
 Fair as a garden of the Lord 
 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 
 
BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 59 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
 When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 
 
 Over the mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars, 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars, 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 
 
 In her attic-window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
60 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
 
 " Halt ! " the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
 " Fire ! " out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf ; 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
 But spare your country s flag," she said. 
 
BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 61 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman s deed and word : 
 
 " Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet : 
 
 All day long that free flag tost 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 
 
 And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
62 IN WAR TIME. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie s work is o er, 
 
 And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 
 
 Honor to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on StonewalPs bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie s grave 
 Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round thy symbol of light and law ; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 
 
HOME BALLADS 
 
COBBLER KEEZAR S VISION.* 
 
 THE beaver cut his timber 
 With patient teeth that day, 
 The minks were fish-wards, and the crows 
 Surveyors of highway, . 
 
 When Keezar sat on the hillside 
 
 Upon his cobbler s form, 
 With a pan of coals on either hand 
 
 To keep his waxed-ends warm. 
 
 * This ballad was written on the occasion of a Horticultural 
 Festival. Cobbler Keezar was a noted character among the first 
 settlers in the valley of the Merrimack. 
 
 E 
 
66 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 And there, in the golden weather, 
 
 He stitched and hammered and sung ; 
 
 In the brook he moistened his leather, 
 In the pewter mug his tongue. 
 
 Well knew the tough old Teuton 
 Who brewed the stoutest ale, 
 
 And he paid the good-wife s reckoning 
 In the coin of song and tale. 
 
 The songs they still are singing 
 Who dress the hills of vine, 
 
 The tales that haunt the Brocken 
 And whisper down the Rhine. 
 
 Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
 The swift stream wound away, 
 
 Through birches and scarlet maples 
 Flashing in foam and spray, 
 
COBBLER KEEZAR S VISION. 67 
 
 Down on the sharp-horned ledges 
 
 Plunging in steep cascade, 
 Tossing its white-maned waters 
 
 Against the hemlock s shade. 
 
 Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
 
 East and west and north and south ; 
 
 Only the village of fishers 
 Down at the river s mouth ; 
 
 Only here and there a clearing, 
 With its farm-house rude and new, 
 
 And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, 
 Where the scanty harvest grew. 
 
 No shout of home-bound reapers, 
 
 No vintage-song he heard, 
 And on the green no dancing feet 
 
 The merry violin stirred. 
 
68 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 " Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, 
 " When Nature herself is glad, 
 
 And the painted woods are laughing 
 At the faces so sour and sad ? " 
 
 Small heed had the careless cobbler 
 What sorrow of heart was theirs 
 
 Who travailed in pain with the births of God, 
 And planted a state with prayers, 
 
 Hunting of witches and warlocks, 
 Smiting the heathen horde, 
 
 One hand on the mason s trowel, 
 And one on the soldier s sword ! 
 
 But give him his ale and cider, 
 
 Give him his pipe and song, 
 Little he cared for church or state, 
 
 Or the balance of right and wrong. 
 
COBBLER KEEZAR S VISION. 69 
 
 " T is work, work, work," he muttered, 
 " And for rest a snuffle of psalms ! " 
 
 He smote on his leathern apron 
 With his brown and waxen palms. 
 
 " for the purple harvests 
 
 Of the days when I was young ! 
 
 For the merry grape-stained maidens, 
 And the pleasant songs they sung ! 
 
 " for the breath of vineyards, 
 
 Of apples and nuts and wine ! 
 For an oar to row and a breeze to blow 
 
 "Down the grand old river Rhine ! " 
 
 A tear in his blue eye glistened 
 And dropped on his beard so gray. 
 
 " Old, old am I," said Keezar, 
 " And the Rhine flows far away ! " 
 
70 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 But a cunning man was the cobbler ; 
 
 He could call the birds from the trees, 
 Charm the black snake out of the ledges, 
 
 And bring back the swarming bees. 
 
 All the virtues of herbs and metals, 
 All the lore of the woods, he knew, 
 
 And the arts of the Old World mingled 
 With the marvels of the New. 
 
 Well he knew the tricks of magic, 
 And the lapstone on his knee 
 
 Had the gift of the Mormon s goggles 
 Or the stone of Doctor Dee. 
 
 For the mighty master Agrippa 
 Wrought it with spell and rhyme 
 
 From a -fragment of mystic moonstone 
 In the tower of Nettesheim. 
 
COBBLER KEEZAR S VISION. 71 
 
 To a cobbler Minnesinger 
 
 The marvellous stone gave he, 
 
 And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, 
 Who brought it over the sea. 
 
 He held up that mystic lapstone, 
 
 He held it up like a lens, 
 And he counted the long years coming 
 
 By twenties and by tens. 
 
 " One hundred years," quoth Keezar, 
 
 " And fifty have I told : 
 Now open the new before me, 
 
 And shut me out the old ! " 
 
 Like a cloud of mist, the blackness 
 
 Rolled from the magic stone, 
 And a marvellous picture mingled 
 
 The unknown and the known. 
 
72 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 Still ran the stream to the river, 
 
 And river and ocean joined ; 
 And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, 
 
 And cold north hills behind. 
 
 But the mighty forest was broken 
 
 By many a steeple d town, 
 By many a white-walled farm-house, 
 
 And many a garner brown. 
 
 Turning a score of mill-wheels, 
 
 The stream no more ran free ; 
 White sails on the winding river, 
 
 White sails on the far-off sea. 
 
 Below in the noisy village 
 
 The flags were floating gay, 
 And shone on a thousand faces 
 
 The light of a holiday. 
 
COBBLER KEEZAR S VISION. 73 
 
 Swiftly the rival ploughmen 
 
 Turned the brown earth from their shares ; 
 Here were the farmer s treasures, 
 
 There were the craftsman s wares. 
 
 Golden the good-wife s butter, 
 
 Ruby her currant-wine ; 
 Grand were the strutting turkeys, 
 
 Fat were the beeves and swine. 
 
 Yellow and red were the apples, 
 And the ripe pears russet-brown, 
 
 And the peaches had stolen blushes 
 From the girls who shook them down. 
 
 And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, 
 
 That shame the toil of art, 
 Mingled the gorgeous blossoms 
 
 Of the garden s tropic heart. 
 
74 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 " What is it I see ? " said Keezar : 
 " Am I here, or am I there ? 
 
 Is it a fete at Bingen ? 
 
 Do I look on Frankfort fair ? 
 
 " But where are the clowns and puppets, 
 And imps with horns and tail ? 
 
 And where are the Rhenish flagons ? 
 And where is the foaming ale ? 
 
 " Strange things, I know, will happen, 
 Strange things the Lord permits ; 
 
 But that droughty folk should be jolly 
 Puzzles my poor old wits. 
 
 " Here are smiling manly faces, 
 And the maiden s step is gay ; 
 
 Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking 
 Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. 
 
COBBLER KEEZAR S VISION. 75 
 
 " Here s pleasure without regretting, 
 
 And good without abuse, 
 The holiday and the bridal 
 
 Of beauty and of use. 
 
 " Here s a priest and there is a quaker, 
 
 Do the cat and the dog agree ? 
 Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood ? 
 
 Have they cut down the gallows-tree ? 
 
 " Would the old folk know their children ? 
 
 Would they own the graceless town, 
 With never a ranter to worry 
 
 And never a witch to drown ? " 
 
 Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, 
 
 Laughed like a school-boy gay ; 
 Tossing his arms above him, 
 
 The lapstone rolled away. 
 
76 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 It rolled down the rugged hillside, 
 It spun like a wheel bewitched, 
 
 It plunged through the leaning willows, 
 And into the river pitched. 
 
 There, in the deep, dark water, 
 
 The magic stone lies still, 
 Under the leaning willows 
 
 In the shadow of the hill. 
 
 But oft the idle fisher 
 
 Sits on the shadowy bank, 
 And his dreams make marvellous pictures 
 
 Where the wizard s lapstone sank. 
 
 And still, in the summer twilights, 
 When the river seems to run 
 
 Out from the inner glory, 
 Warm with the melted sun, 
 
COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. 77 
 
 The weary mill-girl lingers 
 
 Beside the charmM stream, 
 And the sky and the golden water 
 
 Shape and color her dream. 
 
 Fair wave the sunset gardens, 
 
 The rosy signals fly ; 
 Her homestead beckons from the cloud, 
 
 And love goes sailing by ! 
 
AMY WENTWORTH. 
 
 To W. B. 
 
 AS they who watch by sick-beds find relief 
 Unwittingly from the great stress of 
 
 grief 
 
 And anxious care in fantasies outwrought 
 From the hearth s embers flickering low, or 
 
 caught 
 
 From whispering wind, or tread of passing feet, 
 Or vagrant memory calling up some sweet 
 Snatch of old song or romance, whence or why 
 They scarcely know or ask, so, thou and I, 
 Nursed in the faith that Truth alone is strong 
 In the endurance which outwearies Wrong, 
 
AMY WENTWORTH. 79 
 
 With meek persistence baffling brutal force, 
 And trusting God against the universe, 
 We, doomed to watch a strife we may not share 
 With other weapons than the patriot s prayer, 
 Yet owning, with full hearts and moistened eyes, 
 The awful beauty of self-sacrifice, 
 And wrung by keenest sympathy for all 
 Who give their loved ones for the living wall 
 Twixt law and treason, in this evil day 
 May haply find, through automatic play 
 Of pen and pencil, solace to our pain, 
 And hearten others with the strength we gain. 
 I know it has been said our times require 
 No play of art, nor dalliance with the lyre, 
 No weak essay with Fancy s chloroform 
 To calm the hot, mad pulses of the storm, 
 But the stern war-blast rather, such as sets 
 The battle s teeth of serried bayonets, 
 And pictures grim as Yernet s. Yet with these 
 Some softer tints may blend, and milder keys 
 
80 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 Relieve the storm-stunned ear. Let us keep 
 
 sweet, 
 
 If so we may, our hearts, even while we eat 
 The bitter harvest of our own device 
 And half a century s moral cowardice. 
 As Niirnberg sang while Wittenberg defied, 
 And Kranach painted by his Luther s side, 
 And through the war-march of the Puritan 
 The silver stream of Marvell s music ran, 
 So let the household melodies be sung, 
 The pleasant pictures on the wall be hung, 
 So let us hold against the hosts of night 
 And slavery all our vantage-ground of light. 
 Let Treason boast its savagery, and shake 
 From its flag-folds its symbol rattlesnake, 
 Nurse its fine arts, lay human skins in tan, 
 And carve its pipe-bowls from the bones of man, 
 And make the tale of Fijian banquets dull 
 By drinking whiskey from a loyal skull, 
 But let us guard, till this sad war shall cease, 
 
AMY WENTWORTH. 81 
 
 (God grant it soon !) the graceful arts of peace : 
 No foes are conquered who the victors teach 
 Their vandal manners and barbaric speech. 
 
 And while, with hearts of thankfulness, we bear 
 Of the great common burden our full share, 
 Let none upbraid us that the waves entice 
 Thy sea-dipped pencil, or some quaint device, 
 Rhythmic and sweet, beguiles my pen away 
 From the sharp strifes and sorrows of to-day. 
 Thus, while the east-wind keen from Labrador 
 Sings in the leafless elms, and from the shore 
 Of the great sea comes the monotonous roar 
 Of the long-breaking surf, and all the sky 
 Is gray with cloud, home-bound and dull, I try 
 To time a simple legend to the sounds 
 Of winds in the woods, and waves on pebbled 
 
 bounds, 
 
 A song for oars to chime with, such as might 
 Be sung by tired sea-painters, who at night 
 
 4* P 
 
82 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 Look from their hemlock camps, by quiet cove 
 Or beach, moon-lighted, on the waves they love. 
 (So hast thou looked, when level sunset lay 
 On the calm bosom of some Eastern bay, 
 And all the spray-moist rocks and waves that 
 
 rolled 
 
 Up the white sand-slopes flashed with ruddy gold.) 
 Something it has a flavor of the sea, 
 And the sea s freedom which reminds of thee. 
 Its faded picture, dimly smiling down 
 From the blurred fresco of the ancient town, 
 I have not touched with warmer tints in vain, 
 If, in this dark, sad year, it steals one thought 
 
 from pain. 
 
 HER fingers shame the ivory keys 
 They dance so light along ; 
 
 The bloom upon her parted lips 
 Is sweeter than the song. 
 
AMY WENTWORTH. 83 
 
 perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles ! 
 
 Her thoughts are not of thee ; 
 She better loves the salted wind, 
 
 The voices of the sea. 
 
 Her heart is like an outbound ship 
 
 That at its anchor swings ; 
 The murmur of the stranded shell 
 
 Is in the song she sings. 
 
 She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise, 
 But dreams the while of one 
 
 Who watches from his sea-blown deck 
 The icebergs in the sun. 
 
 She questions all the winds that blow, 
 
 And every fog-wreath dim, 
 And bids the sea birds flying north 
 
 Bear messages to him. 
 
84 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 She speeds them with the thanks of men 
 
 He perilled life to save, 
 And grateful prayers like holy oil 
 
 To smooth for him the wave. 
 
 Brown Yiking of the fishing-smack ! 
 
 Fair toast of all the town ! 
 The skipper s jerkin ill beseems 
 
 The lady s silken gown ! 
 
 But ne er shall Amy Wentworth wear 
 For him the blush of shame 
 
 Who dares to set his manly gifts 
 Against her ancient name. 
 
 The stream is brightest at its spring, 
 And blood is not like wine ; 
 
 Nor honored less than he who heirs 
 Is he who founds a line. 
 
AMY WENTWORTH. 85 
 
 Full lightly shall the prize be won, 
 
 If love be Fortune s spur ; 
 And never maiden stoops to him 
 
 Who lifts himself to her. 
 
 Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, 
 
 With stately stairways worn 
 By feet of old Colonial knights 
 
 And ladies gentle-born. 
 
 Still green about its ample porch 
 
 The English ivy twines, 
 Trained back to show in English oak 
 
 The herald s carven signs. 
 
 And on her, from the wainscot old, 
 
 Ancestral faces frown, 
 And this has worn the soldier s sword, 
 
 And that the judge s gown. 
 
86 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 But, strong of will and proud as they, 
 She walks the gallery floor 
 
 As if she trod her sailor s deck 
 By stormy Labrador ! 
 
 The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side, 
 And green are Elliot s bowers ; 
 
 Her garden is the pebbled beach, 
 The mosses are her flowers. 
 
 She looks across the harbor-bar 
 To see the white gulls fly ; 
 
 His greeting from the Northern sea 
 Is in their clanging cry. 
 
 She hums a song, and dreams that he, 
 
 As in its romance old, 
 Shall homeward ride with silken sails 
 
 And masts of beaten gold ! 
 
AMY WENTWORTH. 
 
 rank is good, and gold is fair, 
 And high and low mate ill ; 
 
 But love has never known a law 
 Beyond its own sweet will ! 
 
 87 
 
THE COUNTESS. 
 
 To E. W. 
 
 I KNOW not, Time and Space so intervene, 
 Whether, still waiting with a trust serene, 
 Thou bearest up thy fourscore years and ten, 
 Or, called at last, art now Heaven s citizen ; 
 But, here or there, a pleasant thought of thee, 
 Like an old friend, all day has been with me. 
 The shy, still boy, for whom thy kindly hand 
 Smoothed his hard pathway to the wonder-land 
 Of thought and fancy, in gray manhood yet 
 Keeps green tl... memory of his early debt. 
 To-day, when truth and falsehood speak their 
 
 words 
 Through hot-lipped cannon and the teeth of 
 
 swords, 
 
THE COUNTESS. 89 
 
 Listening with quickened heart and ear intent 
 To each sharp clause of that stern argument, 
 I still can hear at times a softer note 
 Of the old pastoral music round me float. 
 While through the hot gleam of our civil strife 
 Looms the green mirage of a simpler life. 
 As, at his alien post, the sentinel 
 Drops the old bucket in the homestead well, 
 And hears old voices in the winds that toss 
 Above his head the live-oak s beard of moss, 
 So, in our trial-time, and under skies 
 Shadowed by swords like Islam s paradise, 
 I wait and watch, and let my fancy stray 
 To milder scenes and youth s Arcadian day ; 
 And howsoe er the pencil dipped in dreams 
 Shades the brown woods or tints the sunset 
 
 streams, 
 
 The country doctor in the foreground seems, 
 Whose ancient sulky down the village lanes 
 Dragged, like a war-car, captive ills and pains. 
 
90 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 I could not paint the scenery of my song, 
 Mindless of one who looked thereon so long ; 
 Who, night and day, on duty s lonely round, 
 Made friends o the woods and rocks, and knew 
 
 the sound 
 
 Of each small brook, and what the hillside trees 
 Said to the winds that touched their leafy keys ; 
 Who saw so keenly and so well could paint 
 The village-folk, with all their humors quaint, 
 The parson ambling on his wall-eyed roan, 
 Grave and erect, with white hair backward 
 
 blown ; 
 
 The tough old boatman, half amphibious grown ; 
 The muttering witch-wife of the gossip s tale, 
 And the loud straggler levying his black mail, 
 Old customs, habits, superstitions, fears, 
 All that lies buried under fifty years. 
 To thee, as is most fit, I bring my lay, 
 And, grateful, own the debt I cannot pay. 
 
THE COUNTESS. 91 
 
 OVER the wooded northern ridge, 
 
 Between its houses brown, 
 To the dark tunnel of the bridge 
 
 The street comes straggling down. 
 
 You catch a glimpse through birch and pine 
 
 Of gable, roof, and porch, 
 The tavern with its swinging sign, 
 
 The sharp horn of the church. 
 
 The river s steel-blue crescent curves 
 
 To meet, in ebb and flow, 
 The single broken wharf that serves 
 
 For sloop and gundelow. 
 
 With salt sea-scents along its shores 
 
 The heavy hay-boats crawl, 
 The long antennae of their oars 
 
 In lazy rise and fall. 
 
92 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 Along the gray abutment s wall 
 
 The idle shad-net dries ; 
 The toll-man in his cobbler s stall 
 
 Sits smoking with closed eyes. 
 
 You hear the pier s low undertone 
 Of waves that chafe and gnaw ; 
 
 You start, a skipper s horn is blown 
 To raise the creaking draw. 
 
 At times a blacksmith s anvil sounds 
 With slow and sluggard beat, 
 
 Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds 
 Wakes up the staring street. 
 
 A place for idle eyes and ears, 
 A cobwebbed nook of dreams ; 
 
 Left by the stream whose waves are years 
 The stranded village seems. 
 
THE COUNTESS. 93 
 
 And there, like other moss and rust, 
 
 The native dweller clings, 
 And keeps, in uninquiring trust, 
 
 The old, dull round of things. 
 
 The fisher drops his patient lines, 
 
 The farmer sows his grain, 
 Content to hear the murmuring pines 
 
 Instead of railroad-train. 
 
 Go where, along the tangled steep 
 
 That slopes against the west, 
 The hamlet s buried idlers sleep 
 
 In still profounder rest. 
 
 Throw back the locust s flowery plume, 
 
 The birch s pale-green scarf, 
 And break the web of brier and bloom 
 
 From name and epitaph. 
 
94 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 A simple muster-roll of death, 
 Of pomp and romance shorn, 
 
 The dry, old names that common breath 
 Has cheapened and outworn. 
 
 Yet pause by one low mound, and part 
 The wild vines o er it laced, 
 
 And read the words by rustic art 
 Upon its headstone traced. 
 
 Haply yon white-haired villager 
 
 Of fourscore years can say 
 What means the noble name of her 
 
 Who sleeps with common clay. 
 
 An exile from the Gascon land 
 Found refuge here and rest, 
 
 And loved, of all the village band, 
 Its fairest and its best. 
 
THE COUNTESS. 95 
 
 He knelt with her on Sabbath morn, 
 He worshipped through her eyes, 
 
 And on the pride that doubts and scorns 
 Stole in her faith s surprise. 
 
 Her simple daily life he saw 
 
 By homeliest duties tried, 
 In all things by an untaught law 
 
 Of fitness justified. 
 
 For her his rank aside he laid ; 
 
 He took the hue and tone 
 Of lowly life and toil, and made 
 
 Her simple ways his own. 
 
 Yet still, in gay and careless ease, 
 
 To harvest-field or dance 
 He brought the gentle courtesies, 
 
 The nameless grace of France. 
 
96 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 And she who taught him love not less 
 
 From him she loved in turn 
 Caught in her sweet unconsciousness 
 
 What love is quick to learn. 
 
 Each grew to each in pleased accord, 
 
 Nor knew the gazing town 
 If she looked upward to her lord 
 
 Or he to her looked down. 
 
 How sweet, when summer s day was o er, 
 
 His violin s mirth and wail, 
 The walk on pleasant Newbury s shore, 
 
 The river s moonlit sail ! 
 
 Ah ! life is brief, though love be long ; 
 
 The altar and the bier, 
 The burial hymn and bridal song, 
 
 Were both in one short year ! 
 
THE COUNTESS. 97 
 
 Her rest is quiet on the hill, 
 
 Beneath the locust s bloom ; 
 Far off her lover sleeps as still 
 
 Within his scutcheoned tomb. 
 
 The Gascon lord, the village maid, 
 In death still clasp their hands ; 
 
 The love that levels rank and grade 
 Unites their severed lancjs. 
 
 What matter whose the hillside grave, 
 
 Or whose the blazoned stone ? 
 Forever to her western wave 
 
 Shall whisper blue Garonne ! 
 
 Love ! so hallowing every soil 
 That gives thy sweet flower room, 
 
 Wherever, nursed by ease or toil, 
 The human heart takes bloom ! 
 
98 HOME BALLADS. 
 
 Plant of lost Eden, from the sod 
 
 Of sinful earth unriven, 
 White blossom of the trees of God 
 
 Dropped down to us from heaven ! 
 
 This tangled waste of mound and stone 
 
 Is holy for thy sake ; 
 A sweetness which is all thy own 
 
 Breathes out from fern and brake. 
 
 And while ancestral pride shall twine 
 The Gascon s tomb with flowers, 
 
 Fall sweetly here, song of mine, 
 With summer s bloom and showers ! 
 
 And let the lines that severed seem 
 
 Unite again in thee, 
 As western wave and Gallic stream 
 
 Are mingled in one sea ! 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS 
 
NAPLES. 1860. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C. WATERSTON, OP BOSTON. 
 
 I give thee joy ! I know to thee 
 The dearest spot on earth must be 
 Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea ; 
 
 Where, near her sweetest poet s tomb, 
 The land of Yirgil gave thee room 
 To lay thy flower with her perpetual bloom. 
 
 I know that when the sky shut down 
 Behind thee on the gleaming town, 
 On Baise s baths and Posilippo s crown ; 
 
102 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 And, through thy tears, the mocking day 
 Burned Ischia s mountain lines away, 
 And Capri melted in its sunny bay, 
 
 Through thy great farewell sorrow shot 
 The sharp pang of a bitter thought 
 That slaves must tread around that holy spot. 
 
 Thou knewest not the land was blest 
 In giving thy beloved rest, 
 Holding the fond hope closer to her breast 
 
 That every sweet and saintly grave 
 Was freedom s prophecy, and gave 
 The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save. 
 
 That pledge is answered. To thy ear 
 The unchained city sends its cheer, 
 And, tuned to joy, the muffled bells of fear 
 
NAPLES. 103 
 
 Ring Victor in. The land sits free 
 And happy by the summer sea, 
 And Bourbon Naples now is Italy ! 
 
 She smiles above her broken chain 
 The languid smile that follows pain, 
 Stretching her cramped limbs to the sun again. 
 
 0, joy for all, who hear her call 
 
 From Camaldoli s convent wall 
 
 And Elmo s towers to freedom s carnival ! 
 
 A new life breathes among her vines 
 
 And olives, like the breath of pines 
 
 Blown downward from the breezy Apennines. 
 
 Lean, my friend, to meet that breath, 
 Rejoice as one who witnesseth 
 Beauty from ashes rise, and life from death ! 
 
104 
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Thy sorrow shall no more be pain, 
 Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain, 
 Writing the grave with flowers : " Arisen again ! " 
 
THE SUMMONS. 
 
 MY ear is full of summer sounds, 
 Of summer sights my languid eye ; 
 Beyond the dusty village bounds 
 I loiter in my daily rounds, 
 
 And in the noon-time shadows lie. 
 
 I hear the wild bee wind his horn, 
 
 The bird swings on the ripened wheat, 
 The long green lances of the corn 
 Are tilting in the winds of morn, 
 The locust shrills his song of heat. 
 
 Another sound my spirit hears, 
 
 A deeper sound that drowns them all, 
 
106 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 A voice of pleading choked with tears, 
 The call of human hopes and fears, 
 The Macedonian cry to Paul ! 
 
 The storm-bell rings, the trumpet blows ; 
 
 I know the word and countersign ; 
 Wherever Freedom s vanguard goes, 
 Where stand or fall her friends or foes, 
 
 I know the place that should be mine. 
 
 Shamed be the hands that idly fold, 
 
 And lips that woo the reed s accord, 
 When laggard Time the hour has tolled 
 For true with false and new with old 
 To fight the battles of the Lord ! 
 
 brothers ! blest by partial Fate 
 
 With power to match the will and deed, 
 To him your summons comes too late 
 Who sinks beneath his armor s weight, 
 And has no answer but God-speed ! 
 
THE WAITING. 
 
 I WAIT and watch : before my eyes 
 Me thinks the night grows thin and gray ; 
 I wait and watch the eastern skies 
 To see the golden spears uprise 
 Beneath the oriflamme of day ! 
 
 Like one whose limbs are bound in trance 
 
 I hear the day sounds swell and grow, 
 And see across the twilight glance, 
 Troop after troop, in swift advance, 
 
 The shining ones with plumes of snow ! 
 
 I know the errand of their feet, 
 
 I know what mighty work is theirs ; 
 
108 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 I can but lift up hands unmeet, 
 The threshing-floors of G-od to beat, 
 And speed them with unworthy prayers, 
 
 I will not dream in vain despair 
 
 The steps of progress wait for me : 
 The puny leverage of a hair 
 The planet s impulse well may spare, 
 A drop of dew the tided sea. 
 
 The loss, if loss there be, is mine, 
 
 And yet not mine if understood ; 
 For one shall grasp and one resign, 
 One drink life s rue, and one its wine, 
 And God shall make the balance good. 
 
 power to do ! baffled will ! 
 
 prayer and action ! ye are one ; 
 Who may not strive, may yet fulfil 
 The harder task of standing still, 
 
 And good but wished with God is done ! 
 
MOUNTAIN PICTURES. 
 
 FRANCONIA FROM THE PEMIGEWASSET. 
 
 * 
 
 ONCE more, Mountains of the North, 
 unveil 
 
 Your brows, and lay your cloudy mantles by ! 
 And once more, ere the eyes that seek ye fail, 
 
 Uplift against the blue walls of the sky 
 Your mighty shapes, and let the sunshine weave 
 Its golden network in your belting woods, 
 Smile down in rainbows from your falling 
 
 floods, 
 
 And on your kingly brows at morn and eve 
 Set crowns of fire ! So shall my soul receive 
 
110 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Haply the secret of your calm and strength, 
 Your unforgotten beauty interfuse 
 My common life, your glorious shapes and 
 
 hues 
 And sun-dropped splendors at my bidding 
 
 come, 
 Loom vast through dreams, and stretch in 
 
 billowy length 
 From the sea-level of my lowland home ! 
 
 They rise before me ! Last night s thunder-gust 
 Roared not in vain : for where its lightnings 
 
 thrust 
 Their tongues of fire, the great peaks seem so 
 
 near, 
 
 Burned clean of mist, so starkly bold and clear, 
 I almost pause the wind in the pines to hear, 
 The loose rock s fall, the steps of browsing deer. 
 The clouds that shattered on yon slide-worn 
 
 walls 
 
MOUNTAIN PICTURES. HI 
 
 And splintered on the rocks their spears of 
 
 rain 
 
 Have set in play a thousand waterfalls, 
 Making the dusk and silence of the woods 
 Glad with the laughter of the chasing floods, 
 And luminous with blown spray and silver 
 
 gleams, 
 While, in the vales below, the dry-lipped streams 
 
 Sing to the freshened meadow-lands again. 
 So, let me hope, the battle-storm that beats 
 The land with hail and fire may pass away 
 With its spent thunders at the break of day, 
 Like last night s clouds, and leave, as it retreats, 
 A greener earth and fairer sky behind, 
 Blown crystal-clear by Freedom s Northern 
 wind I 
 
112 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSET. 
 
 I WOULD I were a painter, for the sake 
 Of a sweet picture, and of her who led 
 A fitting guide, with reverential tread, 
 Into that mountain mystery. First a lake 
 Tinted with sunset ; next the wavy lines 
 
 Of far receding hills ; and yet more far, 
 Monadnock lifting from his night of pines 
 
 His rosy forehead to the evening star. 
 Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachuset laid 
 His head against the West, whose warm light 
 
 made 
 
 His aureole ; and o er him, sharp and clear, 
 Like a shaft of lightning in mid-launching stayed, 
 A single level cloud-line, shone upon 
 By the fierce glances of the sunken sun, 
 Menaced the darkness with its golden spear ! 
 
MOUNTAIN PICTURES. 113 
 
 So twilight deepened round us. Still and black 
 The great woods climbed the mountain at our 
 
 back; 
 
 And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day 
 On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay, 
 The brown old farm-house like a bird s nest 
 
 hung. 
 
 With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred : 
 The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard, 
 The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well, 
 The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell ; 
 Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed ; the 
 
 gate 
 Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry 
 
 weight 
 Of sun-brown children, listening, while they 
 
 swung, 
 
 The welcome sound of supper-call to hear ; 
 And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings 
 
 clear, 
 
114 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung. 
 Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path 
 
 we took, 
 
 Praising the farmer s home. He only spake, 
 Looking into the sunset o er the lake, 
 
 Like one to whom the far-off is most near : 
 " Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look ; 
 I love it for my good old mother s sake, 
 Who lived and died here in the peace of 
 
 God ! " 
 
 The lesson of his words we pondered o er, 
 As silently we turned the eastern flank 
 Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest 
 
 sank, 
 
 Doubling the night along our rugged road : 
 We felt that man was more than his abode, 
 The inward life than Nature s raiment more ; 
 And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill, 
 The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and 
 dim 
 
MOUNTAIN PICTURES. 115 
 
 Before the saintly soul, whose human will 
 Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, 
 Making her homely toil and household ways 
 An earthly echo of the song of praise 
 
 Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim ! 
 
OUR RIVER. 
 
 FOB A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT " THE LAURELS " 
 ON THE MERRIMACK. 
 
 ONCE more on yonder laurelled height 
 The summer flowers have budded ; 
 Once more with summer s golden light 
 
 The vales of home are flooded ; 
 And once more, by the grace of Him 
 
 Of every good the Giver, 
 
 We sing upon its wooded rim 
 
 The praises of our river : 
 
 Its pines above, its waves below, 
 The west wind down it blowing, 
 
OUR RIVER. 
 
 As fair as when the young Brissot 
 Beheld it seaward flowing, 
 
 And bore its memory o er the deep, 
 To soothe a martyr s sadness, 
 
 And fresco, in his troubled sleep. 
 His prison-walls with gladness. 
 
 We know the world is rich with streams 
 
 Renowned in song and story, 
 Whose music murmurs through our dreams 
 
 Of human love and glory : 
 We know that Arno s banks are fair, 
 
 And Rhine has castled shadows, 
 And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr 
 
 Go singing down their meadows. 
 
 But while, unpictured and unsung 
 
 By painter or by poet, 
 Our river waits the tuneful tongue 
 
 And cunning hand to show it, 
 
118 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 We only know the fond skies lean 
 Above it, warm with blessing, 
 
 And the sweet soul of our Undine 
 Awakes to our caressing. 
 
 No fickle Sun-God holds the flocks 
 
 That graze its shores in keeping; 
 No icy kiss of Dian mocks 
 
 The youth beside it sleeping : 
 Our Christian river loveth most 
 
 The beautiful and human ; 
 The heathen streams of Naiads boast, 
 
 But ours of man and women. 
 
 The miner in his cabin hears 
 The ripple we are hearing ; 
 
 It whispers soft to homesick ears 
 Around the settler s clearing : 
 
 In Sacramento s vales of corn, 
 Or Santee s bloom of cotton, 
 
OUR RIVER. 119 
 
 Our river by its valley-born 
 Was never yet forgotten. 
 
 The drum rolls loud, the bugle fills 
 
 The summer air with clangor ; 
 The war-storm shakes the solid hills 
 
 Beneath its tread of anger : 
 Young eyes that last year smiled in ours 
 
 Now point the rifle s barrel, 
 And hands then stained with fruits and flowers 
 
 Bear redder stains of quarrel. 
 
 But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on, 
 
 And rivers still keep flowing, 
 The dear God still his rain and sun 
 
 On good and ill bestowing. 
 His pine-trees whisper, " Trust and wait ! " 
 
 His flowers are prophesying 
 That all we dread of change or fate 
 
 His love is underlying. 
 
120 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 And thou, Mountain-born! no more 
 
 We ask the wise Allotter 
 Than for the firmness of thy shore, 
 
 The calmness of thy water, 
 The cheerful lights that overlay 
 
 Thy rugged slopes with beauty, 
 To match our spirits to our day 
 
 And make a joy of duty. 
 
ANDREW RYKMAN S PRAYER. 
 
 A NDREW RYKMAN s dead and gone 
 -/ V You can see his leaning slate 
 In the graveyard, and thereon 
 
 Read his name and date. 
 
 " Trust is truer than our fears " 
 Runs the legend through the moss, 
 
 " Gain is not in added years. 
 Nor in death is loss." 
 
 Still the feet that thither trod, 
 All the friendly eyes are dim ; 
 
 Only Nature, now, and God 
 Have a care for him. 
 
 6 
 
122 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 There the dews of quiet fall, 
 
 Singing birds and soft winds stray 
 
 Shall the tender Heart of all 
 Be less kind than they ? 
 
 What he was and what he is 
 They who ask may haply find, 
 
 If they read this prayer of his 
 Which he left behind. 
 
 Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare 
 Shape in words a mortal s prayer ! 
 Prayer, that, when my day is done, 
 And I see its setting sun, 
 Shorn and beamless, cold and dim, 
 Sink beneath the horizon s rim, 
 When this ball of rock and clay 
 Crumbles from my feet away, 
 And the solid shores of sense 
 
ANDREW RYKMAN S PRAYER. 123 
 
 Melt into the vague immense, 
 Father ! I may come to Thee 
 Even with the beggar s plea, 
 As the poorest of Thy poor, 
 With my needs, and nothing more. 
 
 Not as one who seeks his home 
 With a step assured I come ; 
 Still behind the tread I hear 
 Of my life-companion, Fear ; 
 Still a shadow deep and vast 
 From my westering feet is cast, 
 Wavering, doubtful, undefined, 
 Never shapen nor outlined : 
 From myself the fear has grown, 
 And the shadow is my own. 
 Yet, Lord, through all a sense 
 Of Thy tender providence 
 Stays my failing heart on Thee, 
 And confirms the feeble knee ; 
 
124 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 And, at times, my worn feet press 
 Spaces of cool quietness, 
 Lilied whiteness shone upon 
 Not by light of moon or sun. 
 Hours there be of inmost calm, 
 Broken but by grateful psalm, 
 When I love Thee more than fear Thee, 
 And Thy blessed Christ seems near me, 
 With forgiving look, as when 
 He beheld the Magdalen. 
 Well I know that all things move 
 To the spheral rhythm of love, 
 That to Thee, Lord of all ! 
 Nothing can of chance befall : 
 Child and seraph, mote and star, 
 Well Thou knowest what we are ; 
 Through Thy vast creative plan 
 Looking, from the worm to man, 
 There is pity in Thine eyes, 
 But no hatred nor surprise. 
 
ANDREW RYKMAN S PRAYER. 125 
 
 Not in blind caprice of will, 
 Not in cunning sleight of skill, 
 Not for show of power, was wrought 
 Nature s marvel in Thy thought. 
 Never careless hand and vain 
 Smites these chords of joy and pain ; 
 No immortal selfishness 
 Plays the game of curse and bless : 
 Heaven and earth are witnesses 
 That Thy glory goodness is. 
 Not for sport of mind and force 
 Hast Thou made Thy universe, 
 But as atmosphere and zone 
 Of Thy loving heart alone. 
 Man, who walketh in a show, 
 Sees before him, to and fro, 
 Shadow and illusion go ; 
 All things flow and fluctuate, 
 Now contract and now dilate. 
 In the welter of this sea, 
 
126 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Nothing stable is but Thee ; 
 In this whirl of swooning trance, 
 Thou alone art permanence ; 
 All without Thee only seems, 
 All beside is choice of dreams. 
 Never yet in darkest mood 
 Doubted I that Thou wast good, 
 Nor mistook my will for fate, 
 Pain of sin for heavenly hate, 
 Never dreamed the gates of pearl 
 Rise from out the burning marl, 
 Or that good can only live 
 Of the bad conservative, 
 And through counterpoise of hell 
 Heaven alone be possible. 
 
 For myself alone I doubt ; 
 All is well, I know, without ; 
 I alone the beauty mar, 
 I alone the music jar. 
 
ANDREW RYKMAN S PRAYER. 127 
 
 Yet, with hands by evil stained, 
 And an ear by discord pained, 
 I am groping for the keys 
 Of the heavenly harmonies ; 
 Still within my heart I bear 
 Love for all things good and fair. 
 Hands of want or souls in pain 
 Have not sought my door in vain ; 
 I have kept my fealty good 
 To the human brotherhood ; 
 Scarcely have I asked in prayer 
 That which others might not share. 
 I, who hear with secret shame 
 Praise that paineth more than blame, 
 Rich alone in favors lent, 
 Virtuous by accident, 
 Doubtful where I fain would rest, 
 Frailest where I seem the best, 
 Only strong for lack of test, 
 What am 1, that I should press 
 
128 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Special pleas of selfishness, 
 Coolly mounting into heaven 
 On my neighbor unforgiven ? 
 Ne er to me, howe er disguised, 
 Comes a saint unrecognized ; 
 Never fails my heart to greet 
 Noble deed with warmer beat ; 
 Halt and maimed, I own not less 
 All the grace of holiness ; 
 Nor, through shame or self-distrust, 
 Less I love the pure and just. 
 Lord, forgive these words of mine : 
 What have I that is not Thine ? 
 Whatsoe er I fain would boast 
 Needs Thy pitying pardon most. 
 Thou, Elder Brother ! who 
 In Thy flesh our trial knew, 
 Thou, who hast been touched by these 
 Our most sad infirmities, 
 Thou alone the gulf canst span 
 
ANDREW RYKMAN S PRAYER. 129 
 
 In the dual heart of man, 
 
 And between the soul and sense 
 
 Reconcile all difference, 
 
 Change the dream of me and mine 
 
 For the truth of Thee and Thine, 
 
 And, through chaos, doubt, and strife, 
 
 Interfuse Thy calm of life. 
 
 Haply, thus by Thee renewed, 
 
 In Thy borrowed goodness good, 
 
 Some sweet morning yet in God s 
 
 Dim, aeonian periods, 
 
 Joyful I shall wake to see 
 
 Those I love who rest in Thee, 
 
 And to them in Thee allied 
 
 Shall my soul be satisfied. 
 
 Scarcely Hope hath shaped for me 
 What the future life may be. 
 Other lips may well be bold ; 
 Like the publican of old, 
 
 6* I 
 
130 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 I can only urge the plea, 
 " Lord, be merciful to me ! " 
 Nothing of desert I claim, 
 Unto me belongeth shame. 
 Not for me the crowns of gold, 
 Palms, and harpings manifold ; 
 Not for erring eye and feet 
 Jasper wall and golden street. 
 What Thou wilt, Father, give ! 
 All is gain that I receive. 
 If my voice I may not raise 
 In the elders song of praise, 
 If I may not, sin-defiled, 
 Claim my birthright as a child, 
 Suffer it that I to Thee 
 As an hired servant be ; 
 Let the lowliest task be mine, 
 Grateful, so the work be Thine ; 
 Let me find the humblest place 
 In the shadow of Thy grace : 
 
ANDREW RYKMAN S PRAYER. 131 
 
 Blest to me were any spot 
 Where temptation whispers not. 
 If there be some weaker one, 
 Give me strength to help him on ; 
 If a blinder soul there be, 
 Let me guide him nearer Thee. 
 Make my mortal dreams come true 
 With the work I fain would do ; 
 Clothe with life the weak intent, 
 Let me be the thing I meant ; 
 Let me find in Thy employ 
 Peace that dearer is than joy ; 
 Out of self to love be led 
 And to heaven acclimated, 
 Until all things sweet and good 
 Seem my natural habitude. 
 
 So we read the prayer of him 
 Who, with John of Labadie, 
 
132 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Trod, of old, the oozy rim 
 Of the Zuyder Zee. 
 
 Thus did Andrew Rykman pray, 
 Are we wiser, better grown, 
 
 That we may not, in our day, 
 Make his prayer our own ? 
 
THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL* 
 
 IN that black forest, where, when day is 
 done, 
 
 With a snake s stillness glides the Amazon 
 Darkly from sunset to the rising sun, 
 
 A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood, 
 The long, despairing moan of solitude 
 And darkness and the absence of all good, 
 
 * Lieut. Herndon s Report of the Exploration of the Amazon 
 has a striking description of the peculiar and melancholy notes 
 of a bird heard by night on the shores of the river. The Indian 
 guides called it " The Cry of a lost Soul " ! 
 
134 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Startles the traveller, with a sound so drear. 
 
 So full of hopeless agony and fear, 
 
 His heart stands still and listens like his ear. 
 
 The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll, 
 Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale s thole, 
 Crosses himself, and whispers, " A lost soul ! " 
 
 " No, Senor, not a bird. I know it well, 
 It is the pained soul of some infidel 
 Or curse d heretic that cries from hell. 
 
 " Poor fool ! with hope still mocking his despair, 
 He wanders, shrieking on the midnight air 
 For human pity and for Christian prayer. 
 
 " Saints strike him dumb ! Our Holy Mother 
 
 hath 
 
 No prayer for him who, sinning unto death, 
 Burns always in the furnace of God s wrath ! " 
 
THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL. 135 
 
 Thus to the baptized pagan s cruel lie, 
 Lending new horror to that mournful cry, 
 The voyager listens, making no reply. 
 
 Dim burns the boat-lamp : shadows deepen 
 
 round, 
 
 From giant trees with snakelike creepers wound, 
 And the black water glides without a sound. 
 
 But in the traveller s heart a secret sense 
 Of nature plastic to benign intents, 
 And an eternal good in Providence, 
 
 Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes ; 
 And lo ! rebuking all earth s ominous cries, 
 The Cross of pardon lights the tropic skies ! 
 
 " Father of all ! " he urges his strong plea, 
 " Thou lovest all : thy erring child may be 
 Lost to himself, but never lost to Thee ! 
 
136 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 " All souls are Thine ; the wings of morning 
 
 bear 
 
 None from that Presence which is everywhere, 
 Nor hell itself can hide, for Thou art there. 
 
 " Through sins of sense, perversities of will, 
 Through doubt and pain, through guilt and 
 
 shame and ill, 
 Thy pitying eye is on Thy creature still. 
 
 " Wilt thou not make, Eternal Source and Goal ! 
 In Thy long years, life s broken circle whole, 
 And change to praise the cry of a lost soul ? " 
 
ITALY. 
 
 ACROSS the sea I heard the groans 
 Of nations in the intervals 
 Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones 
 Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones, 
 And sucked by priestly cannibals. 
 
 I dreamed of freedom slowly gained 
 
 By martyr meekness, patience, faith. 
 And lo ! an athlete grimly stained, 
 With corded muscles battle-strained, 
 Shouting it from the fields of death ! 
 
138 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight, 
 
 Among the clamoring thousands mute, 
 I only know that God is right, 
 And that the children of the light 
 Shall tread the darkness under foot. 
 
 I know the pent fire heaves its crust, 
 That sultry skies the bolt will form 
 To smite them clear ; that Nature must 
 The balance of her powers adjust, 
 
 Though with the earthquake and the storm. 
 
 God reigns, and let the earth rejoice ! 
 
 I bow before His sterner plan. 
 Dumb are the organs of my choice ; 
 He speaks in battle s stormy voice, 
 
 His praise is in the wrath of man ! 
 
ITALY. 
 
 139 
 
 Yet, surely as He lives, the day 
 
 Of peace He promised shall be ours, 
 To fold the flags of war, and lay 
 Its sword and spear to rusfaway, 
 
 And sow its ghastly fields with flowers ! 
 
THE RIVER PATH. 
 
 N 
 
 bird-song floated down the hill, 
 The tangled bank below was still ; 
 
 No rustle from the birchen stem, 
 No ripple from the water s hem. 
 
 The dusk of twilight round us grew, 
 We felt the falling of the dew ; 
 
 For, from us, ere the day was done, 
 The wooded hills shut out the sun. 
 
THE RIVER PATH. 141 
 
 But on the river s farther sicle 
 We saw the hill-tops glorified, 
 
 A tender glow, exceeding fair, 
 A dream of day without its glare. 
 
 With us the damp, the chill, the gloom : 
 With them the sunset s rosy bloom ; 
 
 While dark, through willowy vistas seen, 
 The river rolled in shade between. 
 
 From out the darkness where wo trod 
 We gazed upon those hills of God, 
 
 Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. 
 We spake not, but our thought was one. 
 
 We paused, as if from that bright shore 
 Beckoned our dear ones gone before ; 
 
142 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 And stilled our beating hearts to hear 
 The voices lost to mortal ear ! 
 
 Sudden our pathway turned from night ; 
 The hills swung open to the light ; 
 
 Through their green gates the sunshine showed, 
 A long, slant splendor downward flowed. 
 
 Down glade and glen and bank it rolled ; 
 It bridged the shaded stream with gold ; 
 
 And, borne on piers of mist, allied 
 The shadowy with the sunlit side ! 
 
 " So," prayed we, " when our feet draw near 
 The river, dark with mortal fear, 
 
 " And the night cometh chill with dew, 
 Father ! let thy light break through ! 
 
THE RIVER PATH. 143 
 
 " So let the hills of doubt divide, 
 So bridge with faith the sunless tide ! 
 
 " So let the eyes that fail on earth 
 On thy eternal hills look forth ; 
 
 " And in thy beckoning angels know 
 The dear ones whom we loved below ! " 
 
A MEMORIAL. 
 
 M. A. C. 
 
 O thicker, deeper, darker growing, 
 The solemn vista to the tomb 
 Must know henceforth another shadow, 
 And give another cypress room. 
 
 In love surpassing that of brothers, 
 
 We walked, friend, from childhood s day ; 
 
 And, looking back o er fifty summers, 
 Our foot-prints track a common way. 
 
A MEMORIAL. 145 
 
 One in our faith, and one our longing 
 To make the world within our rench 
 
 Somewhat the better for our living, 
 And gladder for our human speech. 
 
 Thou heardst with me the far-off voices, 
 
 The old beguiling song of fame, 
 But life to thee was warm and present, 
 
 And love was better than a name. 
 
 To homely joys and loves and friendships 
 
 Thy genial nature fondly clung ; 
 And so the shadow on the dial 
 
 Ran back and left thee always young. 
 
 And who could blame the generous weakness 
 
 Which, only to thyself unjust, 
 So overprized the worth of others, 
 
 And dwarfed thy own with self-distrust ? 
 
 7 j 
 
146 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 All hearts grew warmer in the presence 
 Of one who, seeking not his own, 
 
 Gave freely for the love of giving, 
 Nor reaped for self the harvest sown. 
 
 Thy greeting smile was pledge and prelude 
 Of generous deeds and kindly words ; 
 
 In thy large heart were fair guest-chambers, 
 Open to sunrise and the birds ! 
 
 The task was thine to mould and fashion 
 Life s plastic newness into grace ; 
 
 To make the boyish heart heroic, 
 And light with thought the maiden s face. 
 
 O er all the land, in town and prairie, 
 With bended heads of mourning, stand 
 
 The living forms that owe their beauty 
 And fitness to thy shaping hand. 
 
A MEMORIAL. 147 
 
 Thy call has come in ripened manhood, 
 The noonday calm of heart and mind, 
 
 While I, who dreamed of thy remaining 
 To mourn me, linger still behind : 
 
 Live on, to own, with self-upbraiding, 
 A debt of love still due from me, 
 
 The vain remembrance of occasions, 
 Forever lost, of serving thee. 
 
 It was not mine among thy kindred 
 To join the silent funeral prayers, 
 
 But all that long sad day of summer 
 
 My tears of mourning dropped with theirs. 
 
 All day the sea-waves sobbed with sorrow, 
 The birds forgot their merry trills ; 
 
 All day I heard the pines lamenting 
 With thine upon thy homestead hills. 
 
148 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Green be those hillside pines forever, 
 And green the meadowy lowlands be, 
 
 And green the old memorial beeches, 
 Name-carven in the woods of Lee ! 
 
 Still let them greet thy life companions 
 Who. thither turn their pilgrim feet, 
 
 In every mossy line recalling 
 A tender memory sadly sweet. 
 
 friend ! if thought and sense avail not 
 To know thee henceforth as thou art, 
 
 That all is well with thee forever 
 I trust the instincts of my heart. 
 
 Thine be the quiet habitations, 
 
 Thine the green pastures, blossom-sown, 
 And smiles of saintly recognition, 
 
 As sweet and tender as thy own. 
 
A MEMORIAL. 149 
 
 Thou com st not from the hush and shadow 
 To meet us, but to thee we come ; 
 
 With thee we never can be strangers, 
 And where thou art must still be home ! 
 
HYMN. 
 
 SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF ST. 
 
 HELENA S ISLAND, s. c. 
 
 ONONE in all the world before 
 Were ever glad as we ! 
 We re free on Carolina s shore, 
 We re all at home and free. 
 
 Thou Friend and Helper of the poor, 
 Who suffered for our sake, 
 
 To open every prison door, 
 And every yoke to break ! 
 
HYMN. 151 
 
 Bend low thy pitying face and mild, 
 
 And help us sing and pray ; 
 The hand that blessed the little child, 
 
 Upon our foreheads lay. 
 
 We hear no more the driver s horn, 
 
 No more the whip we fear, 
 This holy day that saw thee born 
 
 Was never half so dear. 
 
 The very oaks are greener clad, 
 
 The waters brighter smile ; 
 never shone a day so glad, 
 
 On sweet St. Helen s Isle. 
 
 We praise thee in our songs to-day, 
 
 To thee in prayer we call, 
 Make swift the feet and straight the way 
 
 Of freedom unto all. 
 
152 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
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