^i'^^'i-'- .,ii^:;i'l;;jiii?;'^-'»Aji 1 WcS&ii(:A.y'^-'&Ui:'^ T te'^0 ■J^'-i 4 ,< t ^2^2'«-'<^'*-'*^'*^"*^''*^^ -^*0^ 1 ll ri Knf X LIBMS W 11 > >> • *>: •••• • ••• THE LIFE AND POEMS OK Sarah T. Bolton •••-tfjloG>fv3-**' ^ Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis; Nee niea Letha;is scripta dabuntiir aqiiis. -Ovidius. ILLUSTRATED, i^iA. INDIANAPOLIS: FRED. L. HORTON & CO. COPYRIGHT, SARJlH T. BOLTON REESE. j^ MARCH 30, ISSO. "X^ a: FRANK II. HMITH, l*rlRl«r. hi IUn«|>all«. KSTCHUM * WAKAMAKKR. KiENi>ix:. Title Ill Copyright IV Dedication — (Inscription) V Index to Appendix VI I Index to Poems VII Index to Illustrations XII The Life of Sarah T. Bolton XIII TO I»OE»IS» A Christmas Story 822 A Day at Ouchy, on Lake Leman 161 A Farmer's Protest 330 A Letter 397 Alp Land 108 An Hour in Mr. Cox's Studio 105 Anecdote of Horace Greeley 471 An Ode — Laying Corner Stone of Masonic Hall 319 A Pioneer Grandmother -)1 A Plea for My Farm Life 515 A Reply 481 A Scene in Ireland 440 A Street Arab's Prayer 408 A Tale of Chamouni 132 At Rest 31G A Vision 412 Awake to Effort 54 Away to the Battle of Life 463 VII INDEX. Baby Nettie 418 Call the Roll 407 Centennial Ode 492 Colonel James P. Drakr 234 Coming Home 73 Corinne to Oswald 399 Could Wo? 476 Dead 129 Death of Col. D. B. Moe 295 Dedication Ode 176 Diodati 288 Doubt 194 Edgar A. Poe 213 Genius and Talent 447 Germany 75 Going Down the Hill 94 Gone — Judge James Morrison 85 Harris's Mirror of Intemperance 310 He is Gone 222 Henry Clay 370 I can not Call Her Mother 366 I can not Choose but Sing 304 If I were the Light of the Brightest Stm- 170 Indiana 380 Infanticide 218 In M>'|Mi|»<>r Offiro 388 Leaving Switzerland 506 VIII INDEX. Le Chateau De Pregney 530 Left on the Battlefield 121 Legend of Chateau Chene gy Legend of the Castle Monnetier 5g Leoline 7 Let us be Glad While we May IG5 Life 298 Life's Changes 270 Little Ralph 196 Little Robert Churchman 384 Living Memories 209 Lofty and Lowly 240 Lost 207 Love 497 Married a Year 185 March 336 Miss Martha McClure 440 Mrs. Mary Malott Fletcher 137 Mrs. Melissa Goldsberry Downie 478 Mont Blanc 44 Morning Land of Life 239 Moses's Last Look over the Hills 485 My Daughter 521 My House 368 My Picture 333 Note the Bright Hours Only 245 One Night in a Lifetime 444 Only a "Woman 91 On the Death of Mrs. Louisa Wright 503 Paddle Your Own Canoe 277 Poems Written in Geneva in 1855 1*^6 Poems Written in Geneva in 1875 1^7 Prefatory 3 Professor Morse ^21 Ralph Farnham's Dream ^'^ Randolph Stephen Roache 283 Remorse ^^'^ IX INDEX. Seventy-One 116 Shall "NVe Kn< .'nds in Heuvt-n ? 78 She Found Hi. .- 199 Slander 263 Spring 124 Stella to Her Lovor 158 T. H. Bowles 465 The Bridal 537 The Children of Suinnur 485 The Dead 150 The Doctor's Story 99 The End 391 The Grave of Calvin Fletcher 404 The Iron Horse 71 The Land over the liiver 438 The Last Night 228 The Last Supper of the Girondists 153 The Lai^t Words of Hon. Daniel D. Pratt 527 The Little Hero— Joseph R. T. Gordon 300 The Miracle of Nain 424. The Mother-in-T.aw 414 The Murderer 409 The News of a Day 307 The Pastor 339 The Pestilence 96 The Sewing Girl 362 TheSnowflake 224 The Story of th. oil Oak of Elm Cr i: 546 The Tenement House 81 The Union 64 The Wreck of the Central America 430 They Met 189 To Ada 499 Toa Friend 147 To a Friend (Miss Maria KiUingerj 509 Toa Poet 140 To Geneva 174 X INDEX. To Little Baptiste Ritzinger ' 257 To Mary 112 To Miss Elise Malegue 501 To Miss Esther Malegue :,}•_; To Miss Lou M. Rankin j,;; To Miss Mary Love I'.st, To Mis. Love— On Receiving her Picture, Dec. 25, 1871 I'jl To Mrs. P. H. Drake 512 To Mrs. R. Swain, M. D 473 To Mrs. William J. Brown 248 To Mr. and Mrs. O. B. R , on their Marriage 292 To My Traveling Shoes 454 To Our Tetie 88 To the Arve at its Junction with the Rhone 47 To the Flowers , 489 To the Lady of Glen Myla 5;U To the Memory of Gen. T. A. Howard 460 To the Parents of Little Carrie Ray 524 Two Graves 178 Two Scenes 167 TJlik, and the King of Pandemonium 326 Union Forever 280 War 172 Waiting and Weaving 202 What Saith the Voice? 143 Where is Thy Home,Xove? 427 Why the Blush Rose is Imperfect 232 M: XI ^^iLMsniR^n^ieNg.- Artist. Page. Portrait — Sarah T. Bolton John Sartain Frontispiece Initial— " Inspiration " Alfred Fredericks 1 Leoline ./. D. Smillie 14 The Pitti Gardens ./. D. Smillie 22 Left on the Battlefield Jacob Cox 120 Lost — " She Sat Alone on a Cold Gray Stone"... ya^^j^^ Cox 206 The Pioneer Grandmother IV. J. Hennessy, N. A... 252 •♦The Little Hero" H. C. Chandler. 300 Ralph Farnham's Dream Felix 0. C. Barley, N. A 874 School Life W. WJiittredge, N. A... 441 The Children of Summer A. D.Shattuck, N. A... 486 Twilight, " Under the Beeches" ./ McEntee, N. A 519 Summer Twilight Alfred Fredericks 545 The Old Oak of Elm Crofl William Hart, N. A,.., 647 ^^o^c®^ xn •>fIiIEEv0K-f> ►^•^^i^^H-i-T.-BeiiTON.-?^ ARAH TITTLE BARRETT, THE ELDEST CHILD OF her parents, Jonathan B. Barrett and Esther Pendleton ^ Barrett, is a native of Kentucky. She was born at Newport, in that State, December 18, 1814. She is well descended on the part of both her parents, several of her ancestors bearing names distinguished in the history of the country for ability and patriotic services in the War of Independence. Among these stands her pater- nal grandfather, Lemuel Barrett, He was an English- man, who, with a brother, early emigrated to America. He settled in what was then the province of Novum- Caesarea, or New Jersey, where he soon found employ- ment in the service of the Government. He continued in this service several j'ears — how long exactly, it is impossible, from any data in the hands of the family, to say. His first commission is a curious old fashioned document, addressed to " Lemuel Barrett, Gentleman," "by His Excellency Jonathan Belcher. Esq., Captain General and Commander-in-Chief of the Province of Novum Cgesarea, or New Jersey, and the territories thereon depending, in America, Chancellor and Vice Admiral in the same," etc. It then proceeds to set forth the fact that the Governor did nominate, consti- xrrr THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. tute and appoint "said Lemuel Barrett, First Lieutenant of a company of one hundred and fifty men, now on the frontiers of this Colony, and commanded by Col. Jacob Doherty." It is dated " at Elizabethtown, in New Jersey, the sixteenth day of June, in the twenty-sixth year of His Majesty's reign, Annoque Domini, 1754." This old commission carries us back to the reign of George the Second; and is contemporaneous with Braddock's defeat. He was promoted to the rank of Captain, December 12. 1755. His promotion made him "Captain over a company of soldiers in the militia belonging to the north part of Newtown." His company •was part of the battalion under command of Col. Abraham Vincamper. He received still another commission from Governor Belcher, a little less than a year later. It gave him command of a company of volunteers, raised for some special service, but the precise nature of this service it is now impossible to say, owing to the obliteration of a line of the document. How long ho may have served under this appointment does not appear, and we have no means of determining. It is certain however, that he retained the highest possible regard for Governor Belcher as long as he lived. It was this, no doubt, that led him to call his youngest son by the name of his distinguished friend and early patron ; and to transmit, along with the name, a part of his own deep and affectionate gratitude. This, it has been said, and not without evidence, led the eon to emigrate from Kentucky, and settle in Indiana, whose Governor, at the time, was Jonathan Jennings, a nephew ; and, like himself, a namesake of Gover- nor Belcher. It is quite certain, however this may be, that as soon as the younger Barrett arrived in Indiana, he and Governor Jennings became fast friends, and remained such as long as the Governor lived. In August, 1763, wc find Captain Barrett in the Province of Pennsylvania, duly commissioned captain of a company of woodmen, or hunters, "by Col. Henry Bouquet, Esquire, Col. of Foot, and commanding His Majes- ty's troops in the Southern Department." His commission bears date "at Fort Bedford, the 25th day of July, 1768." It authorized him to raise a company of thirty woodmen, or hunters; fixes their pay and allowances; and specifies that they are to march with the troops under command of Col. Bouquet to Fort Pitt. This servit e was faithfully ren- dered; and there are now, along with Captain Barrett's commission, com- plete plans of Fort Pitt, together with "a sketch of Colonel Bouquet's engagement with four hundred Indians, near Busby liwi. (Hh Au-^ust, XIV THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. 1763." In this engagement Captain Barrett participated. This curious- old sketch is very quaint, and shows the battle at every stage of it. The royal troops, it would seem, were completely victorious. From this time on, for several years, we have no memoranda enabling us to know what he was doing. His next commission bears date nearly eleven years later. It is the evidence of his appointment as " Captain of the Militia of the county of Augusta, whereof Charles Lewis, Esquire, is Lieutenant and Commander," and was issued by " John Earl of Dunmore, Viscount Fincastle, Baron Murray of Blair, of Morlin and Tillimet, Lieutenant and Governor General of his Majesty's Colony and Dominion of Vir- ginia, and Vice- Admiral of the same." One is surprised at the extent of the authority which it claims for his lordship ''to appoint all officers, both civil and military," in the colony. It bears date '-at Williamsburg^ the eighth day of July, and in the fourteenth year of His Majesty's Eeign, Anaoque 1774." In less than a year after the date of this com- mission, the colonies had come to an open rupture with Great Britain; and, January 5, 1776, "the Delegates and Freemen of Maryland, in con- vention," constituted and appointed •' Lemuel Barrett, Esquire, Captain of the Sixth Independent Company of regular troops to be raised in this province in defence of the liberties thereof " Two years later, ♦' the State of Maryland appointed him Colonel of the Third, or AVestern battalion of Militia, in Washington county." His commission as such bears date " at Annapolis, the 16th day of May, Anno Domini, 1778." After his set- tlement in Maryland, he formed the acquaintance of the Tittles, a dis- tinguished family; and becoming attached to Sarah Tittle, the beautiful and accomplished daughter of the family, won her affections and made her his wife. Her mother appears to have been one of the most remark- able women of the stormy period in which she lived; and she won a just title to the grateful remembrance of posterity by the wise and constant exertion* of very superior intelligence and ability, with great zeal and patriotism in the cause of her country's liberty and independence. Her house was a rendezvous for patriots in the darkest hours of the great struggle: and none ever remained long where she was without being inspired with new hope and energy. She ranks deservedly with the Warrens, Elliotts and other distinguished women of her own times and country. The family resided at or near Hagerstown. There, too, Colo- nel Barrett and his young wife settled, and remained until after the birth XV THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. of their youngest child, whon they removed to the State of Kentucky, and settled on a farm luur Cynthiana. Their family consisted of eight children— five sons and three daughters. The sons were named, in the order of their birth, Peter, John, Abner, Lemuel and Jonathan B.; and the dauglutr.-. ^^■llie, Susan and Beulah. They all lived to become the heads of families, except Lemuel, who died when a lad of eighteen. They were all endowed with rare personal beauty, and intellectual powers; and some of them won a high place in the esteem and confidence of the public. Their father survived until 1814, when he died on his farm, not of old age, but of a wound received in the War of Independence, at the ripe age of ninety-two years. His wife survived him but a few years, dying at the residence of her youngest son in Newport, Kentucky, at the age of sixty-two years. Jonathan Belcher Barrett, the youngest son of Lemuel Barrett and Sarah Titib- Barrett, married Esther Pendleton, the daughter of James Pendleton, who was a member of the distinguished Virginia family of that name; and a first cousin and classmate of President James Madison. Thus, while it is not known that Mr. Pendleton con- tributed to the high distinction of his name, it is quite certain that scarcely another name in his native State was more illustrious for great and distinguished public services to the grand old Common- wealth than that which he inherited. He might, therefore, well afford to show the conflicts of public life for public honors, if any Amer- ican might ; and rest satisfied with the achievements of his relative Ed- mund Pendleton, the great Chief- Justice of the Court of Appeals of VirLMtiiu. \vli(»sc learning, patriotism and ability first brought the family to 1 ur^l. th iigh of plebeian origin, made himself the acknowl- edged chief of the aristocratic party in the Old Dominion. No means of information in our possession enable us to say what precise relation James Pendleton sustained to the Chief-Justice : but it is certain they were near relatives. It is well known, however, that he was the great uncle of the Hon. Edmund Pendleton, of our own day, who was, before the war of the rebellion, for several \ i;^ the representative in Congress of the Cul- pepper di?=trirt; and, at on.' tim.- distinguished as thf only AVhii:: in Con- gress from the Stat*' of X'iiL'iniu. No facts h:i\'' (.'inf lo t)iif li:inds. till-.. win- nny li-ht up-n th- l:i!i. Iv -f Mi--. .Inn. - I'.ii.ll.'t. mi. th.- iii..;hrr of Esther, li It th. . li:iractcr of the daughti r . pure and self-sacri- THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. ficing at every stage of her life, is a perpetual testimony to the rare good fortune of her husband in the choice of his companion and the mother of his children, who rose up to call her blessed. Soon after their marriage Jonathan B. Barrett and his wife fixed their home at Newport, then, as ever since, a military post of the Government. To their new home his mother came soon after the death of her husband, to share it with them, and to die. It is not known how long she was per- mitted to witness their happiness, but it could not have been long; for their daughter, her grand-child and namesake, has no remembrance of any incident of her life or death, or even of herself. She must, there- fore, have died while she was yet very young ; for a death in a family, and especially of so distinguished a member of it as grand-mother, would otherwise have been fixed in her memory forever. Her first recollection is not so old as her grand-mother's death ; for she herself says : " The oldest picture in my memory, represents my mother, in traveling dress, standing at the closed door of our old home, and weeping as she bids farewell to a few neighbors. She holds a young baby in her arms; and two little girls stand, one on either side of her, looking up into her face, and wondering what makes mamma cry." This was the moment of their departure from their first home at Newport, in quest of a new one in what was then the wilderness of Indiana. The picture which thus marks it, becomes henceforth the beginning of her mind's life. Whatever else may have been written before it, by the angel of memory, must lie buried and forgotten, until the light of recollection shall shine upon and reveal the record. Her conscious life begins at the moment when the door of her first home closes behind her and her family; and they go forth into the great world, bearing it in their hearts as sacred— a legend of their « Paradise Lost.' ' The young mother and her three children, in leaving their «♦ Old Kentucky Home," passed near the barracks, on the way to the boat which was to bear them to their new home in the wilderness. The military band at the p(j6t was playing a lively air ; and Sarah, for the moment, forgot the sad picture which we have just described in her own words, as she caught the inspiration of the music. But we must let her tell the effect which it had upon her. She says ; " I remember stopping to dance a measure XVII ^''^ > THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. to the merry martial music, as we went down the street to the boat which -was to convey us as far as Louisville toward our new home." Happy childhood to be thus able so soon to forget its sorrow and tears; or, remembering them still, so soon to find them divinely compensated by gladness and smiles. Blessed April of life ! in which sunshine and shadow chase each other with flying feet over the fields. In a few moments they were upon the boat. The husband and father, however, was not with them. They were going to join him in Indiana, whither he had gone many months before to prepare a place fbr them. We can not better describe the boat and voyage than she whose life began that day has done it in a letter to a friend ; and therefore we shall use her o-Jrn words. She says: "The boat, which was a cross between a flat-boat and a barge, had a cabin in one end just large enough to contain our trunks and beds ; in the other, stalls and provender for two horses. Between these was a nice cooking arrangement, with ample space for dining table and chairs. Upon this craft we floated down the beautiful Ohio, through fair days and starry nights, for two weeks — about as long as one would now require to sail from New York to Liverpool, transact a little business, and return. Arrived at Louisville, we found Grand-father's carriage waiting to take us to his house, some miles from the city. This grand-father was James Pendleton of Virginia." It had been previously arranged that Mr. Barrett should meet his family at the house of his wife's father. He kept this engagement ; and, after a delight- ful visit of three or four weeks, set out with them to their future home in Indiana. How they passed from the house of Mr. Pendleton to the Ohio river, and crossed it, wo are not informed; and Mrs. Bolton declares that she does not recollect, her memory having " dropped a link from its chain." Her recollection of their journey through the woods is vivid and perfect. "As there was no road for wheels," she says, " we were obliged to travel on horse-back. Our little caravan consisted of three pack-horses, laden with bedding, bacon, coffee and flour. Upon one of these horses my mother rode with the baby in her arms, and I on the pack, behind her or my father, who led the third horse. After picking our way for several days, along the trace which was little better than an Indian trail, wo came to the Muscatatuck, and found it swollen to a broad, angry looking river. What was to be done ? There was no ferry XVIU THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. no apparent ford, and nobody in reach to tell us of its depth, or of the danger of an attempt to cross it. After consulting with my mother, my father, on the tallest horse, tied me behind hira, took the baby in his arms, and ventured in. The water rose to the horse's back, but did not lift him from his feet; and steadily he climbed the opposite bank, waded through the flooded valley, and brought us at last safely to dry land. There my father laid the baby down, left me to watch it, and went back for my mother ; not knowing but that the bears might carry us both off before his return. It chanced however, that we all got safely over the river and arrived at Vernon, that night. Our new home was still six miles beyond the town, and we did not reach it until the next day. It was a little cabin, built of round logs, with a puncheon floor, a clapboard roof, and a door hung on wooden hinges, and fastened with a wooden latch, and standing in a dense forest, full of wild beasts and " tame Indians," as we called the few stagglers that remained after their tribes had been removed. It was a dreary outlook to my mother, a young and sensitive woman, brought up in cultivated society; and I saw the tears dropping from her dark eyes that first night as she spread our supper upon the rude table, which my father and his hired man had made. But with a true heart and strong hands she took up her burden and bore it bravely and patiently to the end. She has been dead more than thirty years; and, looking back on what she did and what she was, I do not hesitate to say, in view of all my observation and experience, that I have never known her equal in all that goes to make up a noble character." The farm, on which they settled, was situated on Six-Mile Creek, in a north-easterly direction from Vernon ; and while the soil was not of the best quality it was, nevertheless, good productive land. The creek ran close to their cabin, upon a rocky bed, and a spring, on the opposite shore furnished the family abundance of good pure water. This spring, indeed, formed one of the most pleasing and romantic features of the place, its waters rising from the level and leaping into the air, like those of a fountain, several feet high. To this spring Sarah was often sent, at night, for water to slake her father's thirst. AVe have frequently heard her tell of these nocturnal visits to the beautiful fountain, whose waters breaking into spray, shone like Orient pearls in the star-light. It had a voice too for her young spirit, that awakened visions which have mingled XIX THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. with all the realities of her life, lending the charm of beauty to them all. The memory of that fountain is to her, even yet, an inspiration and a solace. But even childhood had other tasks than to bear Avater from the spring and dream of its brightness and music. The family had to win bread from the soil, and clothe themselves from the fiber of the flax, and the wool of the sheep. The smallest hand in this battle for " the altogether indispensible " had to labor that none might sutler. None could afford to be idle. Such a family is an excellent school in which to establish good habits, both of mind and body; without which no life is worth the living. It was in this school that the foundations of Mrs. Bolton's character were laid. She says : " I shall never know when or how I learned to cook, wash, spin or sew ; but sometimes I had a spare hour when I stole away into fairy -land and, child as I was, dreamed the dreams that come with- out a sleep. And sometimes, too, we had a holiday, with permission to spend it with our neighbors, the Bakers. This gave us a delightful ride through the woods, of six miles, which we made upon the back of a safe old mare, with no other trappings than the bridle and a blanket girted upon her. Being the oldest, I rode before; and my little sister, two years younger than myself, behind. When she slipped oflT, as she sometimes did, 1 would bring the good old mare up to a great log, and she, with my help, would climb on again. One day, returning from one of these visits, we left the path to look for wild grapes and became lost in the woods. I was not frightened, and rode forward, as 1 thought in the right direc- tion, until we came to the wigwam of an Indian. Three or four half- , nude children were playing about their sick mother, who lay upon a bear skin before a smouldering fire. The father had just returned from a suc- cessful hunt, bringing home a fine deer, and seemed delighted with a prospective feast. Ue could speak only a few words of English, but understood us when we told him that we were lost. " Augh ! Augh ! '* he grunted, «• Mo know Gunnel," meaning our father. " Him good." My mother had given him a blanket for his wife, who was dying with con- sumption ; and he seemed anxious to aid us in getting home. So, after throwing another log upon the fire, and giving his squaw some directions, he went with us through the woods to the path which led us safely home." Such an incident tends to show the hardihood and self-reliance acquired by the children of the early settlers of our country; and that some of the best results .in the education of the young may be attained by the XX THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. spontaneous evolution of character, under circumstances purely adventi- tious, without designing or seeming to educate at all. But the education of frontier life has never been wholly derived from the unavoidable and grim conflict of labor against want, and the daily communion of the child's soul with nature's in her various phases and moods. These, indeed, are essential and mighty forces for human devel- opment; but alone they are not suflBcient. There must be added a human element that has floated in the current of life and thought from the ear- liest to the latest time, and which, collected, constitutes the memories and the hopes, the apprehensions and the aspirations of the race, or it will remain forever incomplete. This human element must be breathed into the soul of the taught, from the heart of the teacher. In vain shall the "wilderness rejoice and be glad for the young, if some inspired man or woman unfold not to them the mysteries of time and eternity, of life and death. The burden of human existence must be spoken — its infinite importance must be made known — by one who feels it. The pioneers of Indiana did not lack such teachers. They were serious people who preached the gospel to the inhabitants of the wilderness ; because, to them, it was divinely true, and supremely important to the children of men. The zeal of their vocation burned intensely, and they delivered the mes- sage of life and of death, with face and form illuminated with the light of a transcendent conviction, and in burning words that penetrated and awakened the souls of their hearers with corresponding faith and emo- tions. Like the old prophets, they startled those whom they found " at ease in their possessions," from their dream of security, and life hence- forth became charged for them with immortal consequences. One of these inspired men visited and preached in the neighborhood of Col. Barrett; and he and his family heard him preach. Sarah was, at the time, scarcely eight years old; but she has never forgotten the "strange, eccentric preacher — something after the manner of Lorenzo Dow," who came to her father's house from his labor among the Indian tribes. He told them that he would preach to them the next Sunday. They sent word to their neighbors, the Bakers, and invited the tow^n people to come and hear him. But she herself must tell about the meeting, and the sermon : " At the appointed time we were all met in the maple grove — some XXI THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. of the young men, and all the boys perched up in the trees, looking like great dodos, half a dozen mothers, each with her flock of little children, and as many horny-handed fathers, whittling and talking about the crops, or the coming election — all waiting for the preacher. At length he came — a tall, gaunt man in blue hunting-shirt fastened about his waist with a wampum belt, leather leggins, beaded moccasins, and a coonskin cap. After an eloquent and impressive prayer, he took his text from Revela- tions, and drew a word-picture of the final judgment which would rival Wie^ chef d' autre of Michael Angelo, in the Vatican. With lights and shadows playing athwart his weird face, his long black hair tossing to and fro in the summer wind, he described the darkened sun, the moon turned to blood, the falling stars, the judge coming in the clouds of heaven, the multitudes rising from their graves in the sea and on the land, the joy, the exaltation of the redeemed, going up to everlasting life, and the horror and despair of the doomed, going down to eternal burnings. Then fixing his wild, streaming eyes upon his little audience, as if he would look into their very souls, with a voice that rang out through the dim forest, thridding all its aisles, like the blast of a trumpet, and awakening echoes that came back to us from afar, he asked : 'Are you all ready ? ' The effect was amazing. Women shrieked, men groaned and sobbed, and little children clung crying to their mothers in an agony of wonder and terror! The sermon was done, and the preacher gone. When, how, or whither he had gone, none knew or will ever know. Perchance he returned to his self-imposed missionary work among the Indians. The rest of his life and human destiny lie hid, until the light of eternity shall reveal them. Even his name is lost to those of us with whom he left a grand and everlasting memory, A strangely gifted creature!— to live and to die in a wigwam." Let what will be said of such a teacher, or his work, they are both needful and helpful to people who intend to live serious lives, and to do lerious work while they do live. Such lessons make men better and stronger to do battle for the good that is in this world, and in that which lies beyond it In the deep poetic heart of Sarah T. Barrett the seed sowed that day took root and grew, producing, for all time and life, an bundredofold. In speaking of the impression made upon her young mind by the lesson of that day, she recently said to one of her friends; •• That xxn THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. sermon took such a hold on my imagination, that I could scarcely eat or sleep till I had composed a song upon the terrible scene which it so vividly set before us. This song 1 used to sing, when alone in the woods, to the accompaniment of whispering leaves, and murmuring waters. Years later in life, when 1 had learned to write, I transcribed it from memory. It was my first poem." As the years went by, Colonel Barrett beheld his lands constantly taking on the features of a farm. He was daily more and more impres- sing himself upon the spot he had chosen for his home. With some money, a brave heart, and a strong arm, he had soon cleared, fenced and put under cultivation nearly one hundred acres; and, in less than five years, had built a better dwelling house ; put a grist mill in operation, and surrounded himself with flocks and herds that promised, at no dis- tant day, to crown his life with comfort, if not with wealth. But with this pleasing prospect of prosperity and plenty just at hand, he was con- fronted by another, that, to his loving and fatherly heart, deprived it of all its charms. "With his constantly widening fields and increasing flocks, his daughters were rapidly approaching womanhood without learning, or any possible opportunity to acquire it. The country around him was an almost unbroken wilderness. The land on which Indianapolis now stands had been but just recently purchased from its savage owners. There were neither schools, nor churches in his neighborhood. He had, indeed, gained an assurance of food and clothing for himself and family; but he saw his children growing up in ignorance of books, and the culture which springs from the knowledge they impart. He could not endure to contemplate the prospect. But what was to be done? The true, wise father had no alternative but to sell the farm he had made, give up the home he had founded, and go to some place where his children could obtain an educa- tion. He did not halt in his cnoice between mere material wealth and the riches which dower the soul. It was far more important in his judg. ment, to find rations to feed and develope the minds of his daughters, even, if to do it, should entail poverty upon himself for the rest of his days, than, by starving and dwarfing their souls, to close his life in the midst of broad acres and wealth. He accordingly sold his farm at a ruinously low price, and so doomed himself to comparative poverty, for the remainder of his life. He moved at once to Madison, then, the chief xxm THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. center of trade and commerce, of education and social refinement in the State. At that time he had six children, the eldest being a little less than ten years old. This eldest child, whose career we are to follow to the present time, was then very large for her years, and, upon entering school found herself far behind all the children of her own size in learning. She felt ashamed to be so large and know so little, although the fault was none of her own. But her shame instead of paralyzing her energies, operated as a spur to urge her to increased effort to redeem the time. By great dilligence and labor, she advanced rapidly, and was soon abreast with the foremost scholars of the school. It only required two months to enable her to read, and to write sufficiently to transcribe her rhymes. It may be observed here, that educational facilities were not, in 1823, on a par with those which we now possess. The teachers, at that early day, were generally from the East, and only taught until they could find some more profitable business. The schools were constantly changing teachers. It was impossible, under such circumstances, for the scholars to pursue any regular system of study ; but, to a mind hungering and thirsting after knowledge, no system, however bad, can ever form an insurmountable barrier. Such a mind, when once started upon its career of development, was that of Sarah T. Barrett. She picked up every scrap of knowledge, from whatever quarter, that came within her reach. At one school she committed Kirkham's English Grammar to memory, together with Adams's Geography. At another, she made herself mistress of Blair's Rhetoric and Comstock's Natural Philosophy, and Chemistry. She was passionately fond of Chemistry ; and never ceased to pursue it until she had gone thoroughly over the great works of Sir Humphrey Davy upon the subject. But the text books of the school did not afford a field broad enough for her mind, which, under the spur of a tireless energy, sought libraries in which she might revel and slake its thirst to know. In this emergency of her life it was, that the Hon. Jeremiah Sul- livan opened his library to her, and assured her that she was free to use it as if it were her own. She still remembers him for this generous act with unbounded gratitude. It was through his kindness that she first obtained possession of a treatise on Logic, which she studied. A com- pendium of Grecian Mythology next attracted her attention, and she declares that she devoured it with far greater relish and enthusiasm than XXIV THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. the last novel would afford her now. She passed through the common schools into the academy, of which Mr. Bumont Parks was, at the time the principal. There she entered upon the study of the Latin language, but some of the neighbors of the family made so much ado about it, that she finally dropped it when about the middle of Virgil. *' Woman's rights," as she well observes, '* had found no place in the world's heart then ; " and she adds : " When an old lady said to me one day, * Sarah, I hear you are learning Latin. Do you intend to study Law, or Medicine?" I blushed at the indelicacy of the idea involved in the question she had asked." The study of the Classics by young ladies is no longer deemed matter of reproach, and the suggestion to-day that one was preparing herself to practice law or medicine, or even to enter the sacred desk and minister to the people in things divine, would bring no blush to her cheek, as fraught with any notion of indelicacy. Long before she gave up her Virgil she had begun to write verses for the press. Her first published poem appeared in the Madison Banner, of which Col. Arion was, at the time, editor. He introduced the poem with a compliment in which the words occurred : " Our fair, highly gifted correspondent is not yet fourteen years old." In giving a friend an account of this compliment she recently declared that " Byron, wh^n he awoke that memorable morning, and found himself famous, was not so happy as that little notice made me, as I read it over and over again, and wondered if my eyes did not deceive me. From that time on, Until I was married, in my eighteenth year, I wrote something nearly every week for the newspapers of Madison or Cincinnati." Her life may be regarded as fortunate after the removal of her family to Madison, where she found all the conditions essential to the develop- ment of her intellectual and moral nature; and, indeed, her residence in the wilderness of the interior was but a fitting preparation for the new circumstances in which she was ever after to live and grow. In passing from the loneliness and solitude of her country home in the vast forest, to the neat, busy, and bustling little city, which she found palpitating with a mighty hope of realizing, within a few years, a grand commercial and civic destiny, she caught, at once, the life and spirit of her new home, with the quick intuition of genius, and soon outran it upon all its chosen ways. Nature everywhere joined with society to touch her soul with an inspira- XXV THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. tion, whose flame consumed the local and the little within it, and expanded, purified and prepared it to receive and entertain the great and the uni- versal. The feet of the grand hill that, like the wall of some vast amphi- theatre, bends round the city on the north, and limits it in that direction, are laved by the waters of the beautiful Ohio, which, while it is suflScient to bear the travel and commerce of the world to its wharfs, bounds it upon the south. Thus enclosed by the river and hill, right eagerly and with earnest faith in its future, did it pursue, for more than a score of years, a career of unparalleled prosperity. It was the good fortune of Miss Barrett to grow up to womanhood, while its star was in the ascendant, in the midst of its activities ; and to leave it, for the great and restless out- side world, ere commerce, like the priest and Levite, had learned to " pass by on the other side." She thus escaped the stagnation and disappoint- ment which it was doomed to undergo ; and, like the river that she loved with all her heart, " went on forever," to reflect the passing shadows of earth, and the abiding lights of heaven. As soon as Miss Barrett began to write for the press, she attracted the attention of editors and other literary people. In this way she became acquainted with Nathaniel Bolton, Esquire, a young gentleman who had established a paper in Madison, before she became known to the public as a writer. Their acquaintance soon grew into friendship, and finally into love, ending in marriage, October 15, 1831. Mr. Bolton, the husband of the young poetess, was born at Chilli- cothe, in the State of Ohio, July 25, 1803. His father died soon after his birth, and left him helpless and poor. This cast him upon his own resources in childhood. His education was necessarily much neglected. Indeed, it may be said that he acquired most of his education in the printing oflSce where he learned the printer's art, which he knew so well that before he was sixteen years old he was able to earn journeyman's wages ; and to find constant employment in one of the best oflBces in Ohio. But he was not long satisfied to remain there. The spirit of ad- venture that led so many young men to Indiana in the first quarter of the present century, induced him to leave the home of his childhood before he had attained his nineteenth year, and to emigrate to Indianapolis. Upon arriving there, he went into business with his step-father. Judge Smith. They established the •• Indianapolis Gazette," the first newspaper XXVI THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. ever published in the State capital. Their printing and publishing house was a rude buckeye cabin, which sorted well with other houses of the place. Here he entered upon a life which was ever afterwards faithfully devoted to the promotion of the best interests of the State of his adoption. No citizen ever loved the State or its people better, or labored more ear- nestly and persistently to promote its development, and their prosperity and happiness. He was induced by some of the leading men of Madison and Jefferson county to remove to that city, and establish and conduct a newspaper there, which he did, as already stated. By industry and fru- gality he had acquired considerable property before his marriage. Imme- diately after that event, he and his young bride resolved to move to the capital and settle upon the tract of land upon which the Indiana Hospi- tal for the Insane now stands, which, at that time, he owned. Their bridal tour, accordingly, consisted of a journey on horseback from Madi- son to Indianapolis, which they reached without accident, after having spent a week on the way at the farm-house of the late Nathan B. Palmer, who then resided about ten miles nurth of the river. The house on the farm which they were to occupy, stood on or near the site of that part of the Hospital which was lirst erected by the State. The young couple moved in as soon as they arrived, and set up housekeeping for themselves. Their dwelling was a strange combination of materials and style. It was large — one part of it being built of round logs, another of hewed logs, and a third was frame. The pile displayed no unity of plan ; and was built entirely without any regard to the principles of architecture, or the attainment of beauty. Mr. Bolton built a very large room of round logs, from which he had previously peeled the bark. This house was a common resort for public men who were called to the capital on business. At the hospitable mansion all such visitors found social entertainment and recre- ation. But in the spring of 1833, Mr. Bolton's business arrangements compelled them to move into the city. He was called to the editor s chair of the " Democrat," a newspaper established to be the organ of his party at the State capital. No man in the State was better qualified, every way, for the duties of such a position. He was thoroughly conversant with the history of public affairs in the State and Nation, and capable at any time of taking a broad and complete view of the whole political situ- ation. He was a good writer, who could always state the question for discussion clearly and with precision, and, when it was stated, make the xxvn THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. argument in behalf of his views of it, with great force and completeness. He was besides, a man of great moderation and kindness of disposition, nearly always preserving a good temper, and so, capable of maintaining the amenities of social intercourse even with his adversaries, at a time when the political cauldron had reached the boiling point. He was diffi- dent, self-denying, and so modest withal, that none were afraid that he would ever assert his claims to their hurt, or step into preferments to which his services and fitness justly entitled him, to their exclusion. Such qualities and qualifications could not fail to find recognition and employment. It is no purpose of ours to consider further in this place, the manner in which he performed his editorial office. The files of his journal may yet be consulted, and must settle all questions on that score. Suffice it to say that he retained his position at the head of the "Demo- crat," until the early part of the year. 1836, when he returned with his family to the farm. During their residence in the city, their daughter, Sarah Ada was born, March 4, 1836; and their only other child, James, was born upon the farm July 25, 1838. At this date the father planted the trees that now line the lane from the National road to the Hospital, in commemoration of his son's birth. It was during their second residence upon the farm, that Mrs. Bolton underwent her first great trials, silenced within her own heart, for a series of years the spirit of song, and side by side with her husband made a protracted and earnest struggle to save their home from being sacrificed to pay the debts of friends for whom ho had indorsed. As already said, this house was near the National road, at that time greatly traveled, and they found it impossible to avoid entertaining many who pressed them for entertainment. They finally resolved to accept the situation, and open their house to the public. A sign was accordingly raised, bearing the words ; " Tavern by Nathaniel Bolton." This tavern was kept by them for about nine years, during which Mrs. Bolton was often her own house-keeper, chamber-maid and cook, besides superintending a dairy of ten cowa, caring for the milk, and making large quantities of butter and cheese for the market. We have heard her say, that she had on hand frequently, at one time, as many as thirty cheese, which required con- stant attention and turning to keep them from spoiling. While they did not succeed in holding, they did, nevertheless, prevent the sacrifice of their home. The exigencies of their circumstances forced them to sell it XXVIII THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. to pay the debts of others. The State became the purchaser, and has placed upon it the most magnificent public charity that exists anywhere in the West. They were able to save a considerable sum, after payino- all obligations which he had assumed. This they thought of investing in a farm, for having become used to that mode of life, ihey had learned to love it, and did not think of abandoning it. They accordingly traveled largely over that part of the State which lies north of Indianapolis m search of a situation that satisfied them. They finally selected and bought five hundred acres of land near Tippecanoe Battle-Ground. It was an improved farm, three hundred acres being under cultivation. It cost them five thousand dollars. They never moved upon it, but kept it until 1855, when it was sold for seventeen dollars an acre. Notwithstanding the hard toil and the many privations which she endured on the Mount Jackson farm, where the Hospital for the Insane now stands, we have often heard her say that there yet lingers in her memory many pleasant recollections connected with the place. Among them, she is wont to mention the fact that the young people of the city were accustomed to hold many brilliant parties and dances there, as long as it remained her home. She often speaks of the late W. H. Talbott and his brother John, as leaders on these gay and joyous occasions, and of others who, like them, have gone to " that undiscoveered country from whose bourne whence no traveler returns." Here, too, she gave parties to' members of the General Assembly at every session of that body. Other and more distinguished guests came thither also, from time to time, to receive and impart that entertainment which is born of " the thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." Among these stand such names as Tilghman A. Howard, Eobert Dale Owen, Jesse D. Bright, Michael G. Bright, James Whitcomb and others then prominent in the direction and control of State and National politics. Had she not been a woman of extraordinary ability and character, she could never have endured to do her household drudgery, and come from it to these social reunions with these really great and distinguished people, who moved in the highest circles and best society of the country. But they had learnad that " life is real, life is earnest," and that " all labor is holy;" and, therefore, held that he or she who labors most and is most in earnest, lives best and most enjoys life. In October, 1840, Col. Richard M. Johnson, Vice President of the XXIX THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. United States, and a candidate for re-election, visited Indianapolis. His party gave him a grand reception, and Mrs. Bolton gave up her house- hold cares to write a poetical address, which she delivered to the distin- guished guest, in the presence of a large assemblage of ladies and gentle- men. The poem was published at the time and attracted great attention ; but it is not included in her volume of poems published by Carlton. It is characterized rather by the feelings produced by the occasion, than by high poetical merit or rhythmical skill. During the dark days from 1836 to 1845, she seldom wrote anything, to which she was not prompted, as in the case of Col. Johnsons reception, by the occasion. The mar- riage or death of some friend, or any other event that smote the com- mon heart sharply called forth a strain of joy or grief, and then she re- lapsed again into silence. Among these events may be mentioned the bringing home to Indiana of the remains of Gen. Tilghman A. Howard, who died at his post of duty as Charge (T Affaires of the United States at the republican court of Texas; the refusal of Gen. Jackson to accept the Sarcophagus of Alexander Severus ; the failure of the revolution in Bhode Island, and the imprisonment of Governor Dorr; and the death of General Jackson. Her poem "suggested by the refusal of General Jackson to accept the Sarcophagus offered him by the National Insti- tute," contains a lesson that should be constantly set before American youths. The grandeur of a high and simple-hearted republicanism is felt in every line. Jackson could aff^ord to refuse the tomb of a Roman Emperor, for '*in his simplicity, sublime" he was greater than emperors. His refusal may be seen, written in his own clear strong hand, hanging upon the Sarcophagus, in the Patent OflSce at Washington. •'Firm and unwavering «iidst the strife, His soul has never faltered ; And standing on the verge of life. His feelings are unaltered; Its holy light, the gem of mind, Is brilliantly displaying. Though the frail casket where 'tis shriucd, Is silently decaying. XXX THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. " Lay him not in marble tomb, "Where sculptured forms are weeping: Let him rest in silent gloom, Where his cherished wife is sleeping : Make his grave where the bright blue skies And glorious stars are shining ; Where bright-ej'ed flowers, in rainbow dye Are lovingly entwining. " Rear no sarcophagus to tell, The patriot hero's story: Imperial splendor ne'er can swell The measure of his glory. There is a tide that can be stay'd In noble hearts that love him • The monument his deeds have made, The World will place above him." The triumph of the Charter-Government over that organized by Governor Dorr and his supporters in the State of Rhode Island and the subsequent imprisonment of that gentleman, inspired her with a deep sense of injury to the cause of liberty, and popular government in Amer- ica; and under the influence of the feelings of the hour, she wrote an apostrophe to the State, that overflowed with indignant bitterness. A single stanza must serve as a sample of the whole. "Thou blot on creation ! Thou claimest to be The home of the exile, the land of the free, While tyranny high on her vassal-raised throne, Still points to thy charter, and calls thee her own." It is not at all wonderful that her feelings should have been so moved, for the great Democratic party fully espoused the cause^of the Dorr Gov- ernmeiit; and during the political canvass of 1844, made such appeals to the popular heart in behalf of the imprisoned Governor, by paintings, songs and ora/ory, as often moved alJ hearts, and brought tears to all eyes. Yet it is now universally agreed by all who have studied the subject, that XXXI THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. the Dorr Government had no foundation in the principles of American constitutional government; and would, if it had met with the sanction of authority, have made a precedent upon which all revolutionary move- ments might have been justified. It was not, however, to have been ex- pected that a woman of a highly wrought, and exquisitely sensitive poetical temperament should have looked beyond the harsh consequences of the victory of the Charter-Government, to find means to justify the suffer- ings it inflicted ; and especially when a glance at the grounds of the dis- pute, showed that the victorious party stood upon a denial of political rights to a large body of the people of the State. At all events she sym- pathised with the weaker party ; and warmly espoused their cause against their stronger foe. It was impossible for her to have done otherwise; for her whole life has been, and still is, a passionate protest against "the op- pressor's wrongs," * * "and the spurns that patient merit of the un- worthy takes." It was her love of liberty and her hatred of oppression that in like manner led her with all her soul to espouse the cause of Texas in her long and bloody combat for independence with Mexico; and when, at last, the time came to annex the Lone-Star Republic to the American "Union, her genius did not fail to inspire the effort and crown the act with its earnest oflTerings. We venture to copy two stanzas from her poem entitled "Texas," or "Lines suggested by the speech of Gen. "Wick, Democratic District Elector for the Sixth Congressional District, delivered at Mt. Jackson, on the 27th June, 1844": ♦• Where myrtle trees arc growing, And mighty rivers flowing, — Where orange flowers are throwing Their fragrance to the air, There is a sister land, — A noble Spartan band, Who bring to» freedom's altar The offering's that exalt her, And never, never falter To bravely lay them there. xxxn THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. Loud o'er the land is pealing • The deep response of feeling, The glorious truth revealing That those we love are there. And they at last are free, And can not, shall not be Enslaved again. No; never! They're bound to us forever. What wretch that tie would sever? Where is the minion? Where?'' It was only in some such occasional effort that she broke away from the daily labor and cares of her household, during all the long, dark years from 1836 to 1845. Her sacrifice to duty during these years can not be overrated. But, like all such efforts, hers have been misstated by her best friends, who could have had no other motive but to commemorate them, and honor her. Thus, Prof. W. C. Larrabee, in his notice of Mrs. Bolton, published in the Ladies' Kepository at Cincinnati, in speaking of her husband's embarrassments, and their efforts to escape from them, says : "To extricate himself from his difficulties, he opened a tavern on his farm, a short distance west of Indianapolis. Mrs. Bolton, then scarcely seventeen years old, found herself encumbered with the care of a large dairy and public house. To aid as much as possible in relieving her hus- band from embarrassment, she dispensed with help, and, with her own hands, often for weeks and months, performed all the labor of the estab- lishment. Thus, for nearly two years, this child of genius, to whom song was as natural as to the bird of the greenwood, cheerfully resigned herself to incessant toil and care, in order that she might aid her husband in meeting the pecuniary obligations which honesty or honor might impose. During those long and dreary years of toil and self-denial, she wrote little or nothing. At last the crisis was reached, the work accomplished, and the bird, so long caged and tuneless, was free to soar into the region of song again." While this quotation very fitly and beautifully displays the heroic sacrifice of the young wife, and its effects upon the poetess, there are some grave mistakes in reference to facts in it, that for truth's sake it is xxxiir ^'^ THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. needful to correct. It plainly places the years of trial and silence imme- diately after her marriage, and ends them with her first residence upon the farm. This is clear from what is said of her age, and the length of their stay there at that time. She was then, indeed, scarcely more than seventeen years old, and did remain upon the farm but two years — not quite two. But the season of embarrassment had not then come upon Mr. Bolton. He did not experience it until he returned to the country, in 1836; and it did not end in two years, but lasted nearly nine, and, during the long night of darkness and silence, she had no resource but "to labor and to wait. " Relief at last came, as already seen, by the sale of the farm, and, in 1845 "the bird so long caged and tuneless was free to soar into the region of song again." Soon after the sale of the farm Mr. Bolton returned to the city, and took possession of the cottage, in which he continued to reside until 1853, when he removed. It was there that the genius of song reasserted its dominion over the soul of Mrs. Bolton, and it returned with all its powers to the worship of the Muse. Her invocation to the Muse shows that she had just emerged from the dominion of care and darkness: " Come to me. Muse! hast thou forsaken The heart that trembled in thy smile so long? Come ! touch my spirit-harp string and awaken The spell, the soul, the witchery of song. •' Too long have I been bound in Care's dominion ; Thou, only thou, canst break the strong control. Come with thy radiant brow and starry pinion, And bring again the sunlight to my soul. "I met thee, fairest one, in childhoods hours, And wandered with thee over dale and hill, Conversing with the stars, the streams, the flowers; 1 loved thee then, and oh ' I love thee still. *• Come to mof Life is all too dark and dreary When thou, my guiding spirit, art not near; Come! I have sought thee till my heart is weary. And still I watch and wait. Appear! appear!" XXXIV THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. It was in allusion to this "Invocation ' that William D. Gallagher, writing for the Columbian and Great "West, in 1850, said: " Her adjuration was answered, and since then the Muse has been her constant companion. * * * Some of her poems are the most beautiful of the day, and are entitled to an honorable place in the poetical literature of her country. * * « She sings, not because she has a demand from either the book trade or the magazine tr?de, but because song is the lan- guage of her heart, and she must sing, or her heart must ache with its suppressed emotions. She explains all this, truthfully and beautifully, in the following graceful stanzas ; " Breezes from the land of Eden, Come and fan me with your wing, Till my soul is full of music, And I can not choose but sing. ''When the sparkling fount is brimming. Let a fairy cloud bestow But another drop of water, And a wave Avill overflow, " When a thirsty flower has taken All the dew its heart can bear, It distributes the remainder To the sunbeam and the air. •'Her power of imitation is very strong. Of all attempts that have been made to copy the construction and flow of Poe's ' Raven,' hers is the most successful by far. It occurs in a poem on Poes Death, and one or two of the stanzas are equal, not only to the verse of the ' Raven,* but also to its poetry." Notwithstanding her comparative freedom from domestic cares after her removal to her cottage home in the city, and the opportunity which her new circumstances aflTorded her to devote her attention to subjects of general interest and worthy of her genius, she was still too closely bound by the ties of affectionate sympathy to the society in which she lived not to be thrilled by its joys and sorrows and constrained to celebrate, in XXXV THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. occasional poems, the events that brought to its members either the one or the other. It was in this way that she wrote '• Lines suggested by the presentation to the Legislature of the Banners of the Second and Third Regiments of Indiana Volunteers," in 1874-8. The occasion in itself was one long to be remembered; and was besides illustrated by one of the most remarkable and eloquent presentation speeches ever delivered in the State. This speech was delivered by Captain Thomas L. Sullivan, the eldest son of Mrs. Bolton's early friend, and it no doubt contributed to inspire her lines. We can not forbear quoting three stanzas : " Where the cannon's voice was loudest, Where the boldest deeds were wrought, Where the good, the true lay dying, Where the noblest, bravest fought; Ever foremost with the daring, Ever in the thickest fight. Did those hope-inspiring banners Meet the fainting soldier's sight. "And he hailed them, as the sailor Hails the beacon from the mast, When his gallant bark is struggling With the fury of the blast. He hailed them as the wanderer Hails the beaming of a star, That reminds him of his childhood, And his quiet home afar. •* Keep them ! keep them ! Indiana f Lay them on thy proudest shrine; For the dim and distant future No holier gift is thine. Thy fair and peerless daughters Wrought those stars of gloaming gold, And thy noble sons fought bravely Beneath their shadowy fold. Wreath the cypress with the laurel. Bind each worn and faded shred ; They are proud but sad mementoes Of thy gallant, gallant dead. XXXVI THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. The mind and pen of Mrs. Bolton were busy after her return to the city. She had leisure now to employ her thoughts upon many grand and constant themes that nature, in her various moods, offers to her gifted children to lead them to contemplation and inspire them with song. She did not, however, cease to share the joys and sorrows of her friends and neighbors, nor of the general public: and upon all occasions of joy or woe, whether public or private, her heartfelt and ready sympathy poured itself out in "harmonious numbers. " She was a high Mason's daughter, and in early childhood had learned to reverence and honor the ancient and venerable order to which her father had given his heart. Conse- quently, when, in October, 1848, the corner-stone of the Grand Masonic Hall was laid at the city of Indianapolis, she prepared an ode for the occasion, which was sung by the brethren and citizens, led by the choir of the Second Presbyterian Church of the city. It was worthy of the occa- sion, but is too long to be inserted here. The last stanza is as follows : '•Go, in the spirit of Him who is holy, Gladden the wastes and the by-ways of earth ; Visit the homes of the wretched and lowly, Bringing relief to the desolate hearth. Bind up the broken heart, Joy to the sad impart. Stay the oppressed, and strengthen the just; Freely do ye receive. Freely to others give, Great is your mission — ' in God is your trust.' " In May. 1849, the Grand Chapter of the State, remembering her services to the order, adopted the following resolutions of thanks . '^ Kesolved, unanimously. That the thanics of this Grand Chapter are due to Mrs. Sarah T. Bolton, for the beautiful Masonic ode composed by her, which was sung on the occasion of laying the corner-stone of Grand Masonic Hall, in said city, on the 25th day of October last. "Resolved, unanimously. That, as a token of the high regard which the members of the Grand Chapter entertain for the character of Mrs. Bolton, and to manifest their appreciation of her as a poetess, the Grand XXXVII THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. Chapter will present for her acceptance a silver cup, with an appropriate device and inscription. "Resolved, That a committee be appointed to carry these resolutions into effect, and that a copy of the rbsolutions, under the seal of the Grand Chapter, be furnished Mrs. Bolton with the presentation. " The design was duly executed, under the direction of the committee of the Grand Chapter, and on the evening of the 24th of May, 1850, Hon. James Morrison, in one of the principal churches of the city, and in presence of a large and appreciative audience, presented Mrs. Bolton the cup which had been voted her a year before. He delivered a neat and admirable speech, in which he glanced at her career as a poetess and the fame she had already won, and concluded by saying: "As Masons, Madam, we attach peculiar value to the signal service done our order by this free-will offering of your Muse, for we so consider it. I repeat the sentiment — we do consider it a most noble, glowing, and truthful defense of the cardinal principles of ancient Free Masonry; principles, alas, most grievously maligned and misrepresented, because they are not generally understood.* He then referred to the adoption by the Grand Chapter of the resolutions, and closed by saying: "And now, Madam, as the honored organ of the Grand Chapter, in their name and presence, I present for your acceptance this cup, the mam device of which you will notice is the Royal Arch, and under which, and between its sustaining columns, is this inscription : " • The Grand Chapter of the State of Indiana, to Mrs. Sarah T. Bolton, as a token of acknowledgment for her excellent Masonic ode on the lay- ing of the corner-stone of the Grand Masonic Hall at Indianapolis, October 25, A. D. 1848, A. L. 5848.* • "The minor device represents a craftsman in the act of adjusting a comer stone to its proper place. The inscription is one quite familiar to you, being three lines from your own inspiring ode: •• • Come lay the corner-stone Asking the Lord to own lAbors that tend to His glory and praise.' xxxvni THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. "This token, Mrs. Bolton, you will please receive as an acknowledg- ment by Masons that neither time nor circumstances will cancel or efface." To the resolutions and presentation speech, Mrs. Bolton made an appropriate and eloquent response, which was quite equal in all respects to that of the learned, venerable and eloquent Judge. She concluded with these sentences: " When, bowed and broken-hearted, our first parents were driven from the garden of Eden, to reap the bitter fruits of disobedience, the spirit of Free Masonry was commissioned in heaven to bless and cheer them in their loneliness. She has fed the hungry, reclaimed the wander- ing, ministered consolation by the bedside of the dying, and brightened the pathway of the bereaved and desolate. Mortals have witnessed her labors of love, and angels have recorded her annals in the archives of eternity. When the lion shall lie down with the lamb — when the new heaven and new earth are created — then, and not till then, may she fold her white wings on her spotless bosom and proclaim that her mission is accomplished." In the spring of the year 1851, the Grand Hall having been com- pleted, came to be dedicated to the purposes for which it was erected. A vast crowd assembled from ail parts of the State to witness the imposing ceremonies. Dr. Elizur Deming, the Grand Master, officiated on the occasion. "Age and childhood were commingled in that throng — man in his rugged strength and woman in her loveliness and purity." The Gover- nors of Ohio and Indiana were present, together with the officers of State and judges of the courts. Men of all professions, crafts and callings united to honor themselves by honoring the occasion. An address was delivered by the Rev. Dr. Thomas Lynch, and then an ode, written exprr--]y for the occasion by Mrs. Bolton, was sung with great effect. She wit- pit-tnt in the audience, and her daughter, Sarah Ada, a brilliant and beautiful girl of '• sweet sixteen,"' was one of the leading singers of the choir. The last two stanzas invoke the inspiration and support of the Father, and may be quoted with profit ; "Show us the truth, and the pathway of duty; Help us to lift up our standard sublime. Till earth is restored to the order and beauty XXXIX THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. Lost in the shadowy morning of time. Teach us to sow the seed Of many a noble deed ; Make us determined, unflinching and strongs Armed with the sword of right. Dauntless amid the fight, Help us to Jevei the bulwarks of wrong. ** Prompt us to labor as thou hast directed, On the foundation laid sure in the past; And may 'the stone which the builders rejected' Crown our endeavors with glory at last. Then, at the even tide. Laying the square aside, May we look calmly on life's setting sun; And at the mercy seat. Where ransomed spirits meet. Hear from the Master the plaudit, 'Well done.' " The visit of Gov. Louis Kossuth to the United States in the early part of the year 1852, awakened immense enthusiasm among the people. The fame of his deeds and sufferings had preceded him, and poetry and eloquence had already reared the column of his renown and glorified his name. The General Assembly invited him to Indianapolis, and so made him and his party the guests of the State. His wonderful eloquence swept all hearts, and men and women hastened to do him honor and fill his pockets with means, which he declared should be employed in the libera- tion of Hungary. "Mrs. Bolton, who had written a stirring poem to him in 1849, manifested a deep interest in his mission to America, and was chosen by the ladies of Indianapolis to present to him a purse containing one hundred and fifty dollars, which they had contributed. At the close of an address by Kossuth to a large audience, on the characteristics of the people of Hungary, a committee of ladies, among whom was the wife of Joseph A. "Wright, then Governor of Indiana, was presented; and Mrs. Bolton, with subdued earnestness of feeling, but in clear tones and with fitting elocution, presented the purse, in a few words which exactly repre- sented the spirit of the last stanza of her poem to the Magyar. XL THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. And hast thou striven with might and mind in vain? In vain? Ah ! no: the bread thy deeds have cast Upon the waters will be found again ; The seed thy thoughts have sown will ripen fast, Dewed by a nation's tears, and when at iast The harvest whitens until all are free, True hearts will turn with reverence to the past, And from the countless millions yet to be Will rise a paean song, brave, true Kossuth, to thee.' In his response, Kossuth said : " You say that you have prayed for the success of freedom in my native land. I know for yourself you have done more than this. You have contributed to that cause your genius — a genius which it is the pleasure of your State to honor and appreciate. I know that there is a chord in the heart of woman that ever responds to justice, and that her impulses are against oppression in every land, I entreat you to go on and bestow your sympathy, even as the mother bestows her love on her child. Human liberty is well worthy of a mother's fostering care." Between 1847 and 1853, Mr. Bolton was elected State Librarian, an oflSce which he held for four years. The salary was small, and Mrs. Bolton aided him in the discharge of his duties, which, as the library was then conducted, were onerous. It gave her great advantages for reading, and she did not fail to improve her opportunities. She read much and thoroughly. But she had still other work, not of the mind, to perform during these peaceful and fruitful days. As part of his official duties, along with the care of the library, Mr. Bolton had entire charge of the State House and grounds, and was bound to put them in order for the meetings of the General Assembly, and for other great meetings from time to time. During the excitement arising from the questions embraced in the compromise legislation of 1850, Governor Wright, who was an intense Union man, in the interest of the Union and of peace, invited several of the Governors of Western States, both North and South, to visit him at Indianapolis and hold a public reception. For this purpose it was necessary to open the Senate chamber and Hall of the House of Representatives. But, without new carpets, it was found that they were not fit for such a purpose. New carpets were purchased at once, but the XLI THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. furnishing business was then in its infancy in the Capital of Indiana, and the duty of sewing the carpets together devolved on Mrs. Bolton. The time was short, and help difficult to obtain on any fair terms, or, indeed, at all. She was at last compelled to do the sewing mostly herself, and. as she has always done in every emergency of her life, she did not hesitate a moment, but went to work at once with such zeal and energy that before the day fixed for the reception the carpets were all well stitched together and adjusted to the floors. It was during this week or ten days of inces- sant toil, both day and night, that she composed that magnificent and mspinng battie-hymr. of the victorious army of successful workers in every age and land, *' Paddle Ycur Own Canoe," which has been translated into many languages and is sung to-day ail round the globe. No life can fail that recognizes, feels and follows the last stanza: ••Nothing great is lightly won, Nothing won is lost; Every good deed, nobly done, "Will repay the cost. Leave to Heaven, in humble trust. All you will to do; But, if you succeed, you must Paddle your own canoe.'' Soon after his term as State Librarian expired, he was appointed clerk to one of the committees of the United States Senate, by Mr. Jesse D. Bright. "When he entered upon the duties of this new position, they removed to a house directly on Kentucky avenue, in the city, and resided there during the two years which ho was employed as committee clerk at Washington. His I'amily was often with him at the National Capital, and some of her poems have been published dating from that place. In this way "Paddlo Your Own Canoo" first went forth to the world. But it must not be forgotten that its genesis is truly given above. It is a product of our State, not of our National Capital. Mr. Bolton was appointed Consul at Geneva, Switzerland, by Presi- dent Pierce, in the spring of 1855. His wife and daughter accompanie must be occupied. The Ariel of genius must do His errands whose tire- less minister it is. She wrote many beautiful letters to her friends in the beloved home-land across the sea. Then she sung the songs that were ever ringing in her heart and brain. But still the laggard hours were all too slow to keep pace with her winged spirit. The letters were written and the songs were sung, and there were still vacant hours that nuist be filled up with some work of use or beauty— better if it may be of both. And so, no doubt, .-»h(; thou<;ht when she elected for her employment a labor as novel as it ua- j. m tieal and beautiful. She set about paintiDg LXVI THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. Meissen China, and writing original poems upon it in her own clear and elegant handwriting, and the visitor at " Beech Bank," who sits down at her hospitable board, will read upon every piece of table-ware some good and inspired thought turned into elegant verses by her own brain. The dear children and grandchildren are all remembered, and her love for each is recorded upon tablets as enduring as and far more beautiful than the cuneiform records of ancient Nineveh or Babylon, Many of these little poems are worthy of a place in this book, but it is crowded full already, and we only give a few specimens as samples of all. Thus she writes of Table-Talk : " Heaven bless the maiden fair, Who with skillful, kindly labor, Fills this plate with dainties rare To feast a worthy neighbor. '• May their table-talk portray Appetising facts and fancies — Follies, fashions light and gay, V Seasoned with romances. " May they never blight nor blame Absent people, rashly, blindly, Never judge their faults nor fame, Wrongly, nor unkindly. " Table-talk should never jar- Never moot a serious question: Pleasant chat is better far, For temper and digestion. " From another plate, as our chance may be, "The Voice of Memory" whispers : "When Memory's solemn undertone Is heard, in passion's pauses, Scanning minutely one by one, Our actions and their causes, Our reason fails to comprehend, LXVII THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. How such a small beginning Should warp our senses and extend To wrath and willful sinning. " And when her faithful voice repeats Harsh words that we have spoken, To one whose heart has ceased to beat, — Whose golden bowl is broken, — Too late repentant tears may fall ; Too late, the soul endeavor To blot them out beyond recall : They are for aye, — forever." The folly of borrowing trouble is thus handsomely rebuked by the cheerful face of another beautiful plate : " The trouble we borrow hurts us most, As moonshine maketh an oaken post. Resemble a ghastly ghoul or ghost. "The path of life is rugged and rough In its devious course o'er brier and bluff, And its every day hath pain enough. " Yet we look for something we fear to see And dare not face, and can not flee, Awaiting us in the realm To Be; "And poison the hours that might be sweet. By listening to hear the coming feet Of the ghoul or ghost we never meet." These lessons set before the guests, with their victuals, are many, and suggestive. But we may quote no more; and will end with those which she endeavors to impress upon her grandchildren. To Bolton Smith she dedicates a plate in these lines : "Value lime, each setting sun Numbers one day lost or won, — Twice twelve hours that scaled away Lxvni THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. Their accounts till judgment day Nor Saint nor Sibyl can recall One single moment of them all. Patient labor sows the seed Of excellence in word and deed. Honor be to him that delves — ' God helps those who help themselves.' " Another plate bears these words, surrounded by culsters of grapes "Ada Bolton. May no blessing be denied thee, ' Loving little one, — jVIay good angels walk beside thee Till thy work is done. Tender hearts are prone to sorrow, — Fine gold has alloy, — But, the comfort faith may borrow, Nothing can destroy. \ May thy heart retain its lightness, As the years go o'er. And thy spottless soul its whiteness Ever — evermore." In another plate, over a wreath of flowers, are these words: "Helena Bolton. "Helena, will thy soul of fire, To the Good and True aspire ? In the temple of Kenown, "Wilt thou wear a poet's crown ? With the gain, there shall be loss ; "With the crown, a heavy cross.'' In another plate, enclosed within a beautiful wreath of fruit, we read : " Grace Bolton. " When thy womanhood shall see What my pen has traced for thee, LXIX THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. I perchance shall be asleep, Where they neither write nor weep: But, if near the glorious throne Of the high and Holy One, Through His grace my soul shall be, Darling, I will pray for thee." On still another, in the midst of rose-buds and butterflies, stands this memorial : "In Memoriam: — Ralph Bolton. " No sorrows vex his heart or head. No bitter tears bedim his eyes, — His little dimpled hands instead Of daily toiling for daily bread Gather the fruits of Paradise." Upon a beautiful plate above white rose-buds, violets and flowers is written •. "Blanch Bolton. Blanch came and looked at life one summer day, Found it loo cold and dark, and went away." Our selections have been made from these beautiful dishes, of which there are nearly a hundred pieces, not because they are the best, but as illustrations of the design that is impressed upon the whole work. We regard the whole as well worthy of commemoration. It illustrates the taste, genius, affections and character of Mrs. Bolton. At the time she undertook this labor few, if any, of our American women had ever done a thing so noteworthy, and none, perhaps, when simply to be doing some- thing was the chief incentive to the work. Mrs. Bolton remained in Europe until 1873, when she returned to her home in America, leaving her grandson at Dresden. He had acquired enough German to be able to talk with his companions, and make his wants understood, and so could get along without her assistance. She staid at home only a little more than a year, and then went back to see how he was getting along. He had been removed from the school in Dresden to one in Geneva, and thither she hastened, not stopping, even for an hour in Paris or elsewhere, on the way. Finding her grandson LXX THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. well, and making satisfactory progress in his studies, she gave her atten- tion to acquiring more accurate knowledge of the climate, health and material and social condition of Switzerland. She looked more deeply into these subjects than, as a mere sight-seer, she had before cared to do; and was led to the conclusion that Switzerland has nothing to brag of over Indiana in any of these respects. She finds much to condemn and not much good enough for unstinted praise. She speaks of the climate thus : " We at home are always grumbling about our climate, its sudden changes, its frightful cold, its intense heat, but, with some knowledge of the subject, it is my opinion that our climate — I mean that of Indiana- polis — is better than that of France, Germany, Italy or Switzerland — better for soul and body. For no one who has not experienced it can have an idea what it is to live for two months without sunshine, not an uncommon occurrence in some of these lands." She looks closely into their schools and studies their modes of teaching, to be led to the conclu- sion that ours are better. She says, "at this time Geneva probably takes the lead of any city in Europe as an educational place. It is filled with English, American, French, Spanish, Russian, Tartar and Turkish chil- dren. And why ? Not because of any extraordinary excellence in the method of teaching, but because it happens to be the fashion. It has been my privilege to get behind the scenes frequently in the last few months, and I can see nothing in the manner of teaching or the amount learned in the Geneva schools which could give them preeminence over our schools in the United States, except the greater facility they afford for acquiring the French language. On the contrary, I believe it would take an American child ten years to learn in these schools what he could learn in our schools m five. Not from any fault of the educators, who are all savans, men of profound learning, but from the difficulties he must meet in acquiring mathematics, geography, or any other science, through the medium of a foreign language." She feels her patriotism touched to the quick by the notions foreigners have formed of the schools and teachers, of America, and adds; "Seeing the sacrifices parents make to educate their children here, Europeans have got the opinion that there are no schools of any account in the United States. The principal of a large school in Dresden said to me, when I was speaking of our schools at home: 'You have no schools; you have school-houses, but no teachers except those we send you.' This provoked me to say something rather LXXI THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. sharp, and this well-informed (?) educator closed the subject by adding: 'If you have schools, why do you bring your children here to be educated ?* This man did not mean to be impertinent or offensive; he only expressed a wide-spread opinion, and expected, no doubt, that I would confirm it; for it is not an uncommon thing for Americans in Europe to disparage their own country. They think it argues a high degree of cultivation and great superiority to seem enraptured with everything they see here and disgusted with everything they left at home, to make a proper dis- crimination between the elegant refinements of the Old- World aristocracy and vulgar simplicity of American republicanism. But where there is one person who thinks this, there are a hundred who would stand up for the land of the Stars and Stripes as the fairest and freest, the grandest and best land under the whole heavens — inhabited by the truest women and bravest men, protected by the strongest bulwarks, and governed by the wisest laws the world ever knew.** She returned to her home in 1875, with her patriotic feelings and principles intensified, and has little desire any more to visit foreign lands, being pleased and satisfied with her own country, which she regards as the most desirable on the face of the whole earth. She is cheerful and happy at home, and enters with heart and soul into all the delights of social intercourse with her many friends in the city and country. She may, indeed, feel at times, and even say that, "There is no friend "like the old friend, That shared our morning days ; No greeting like his welcome, No homage like his praise," but her heart is still young and her mind still capable of comprehending and sharing the thoughts, affections and aspirations of the young. Years have not quenched the enthusiasm with which she has pursued her chosen purposes, from the moment when the first picture was graven in her memory, at the closed door of her first home in Newport, Kentucky; and we are quite certain that her spirit adjusts itself as easily and lithely to-day to the ever changing circumstances of life, as it did that morning when, with eyes still wet with farewell tears, she stopped to dance to the merry martial music. Her life has never been confined to any single aim long LXXII THE LIFE OF SARAH T. BOLTON. enough to lose its power to pursue another when the first was attained or lost. This has made it a continual course of education. Every day has set some new lesson before her, and she has brought to its learning the same fresh earnestness of purpose that inspired her girlhood's studies ; and so it will be with her until the curtain shall fall upon this mortal scene and she shall rise to that grander stage of being and action where " that which is in part shall be done away," and " we shall know even as we are known." Entirely conscious that this sketch of Mrs. Bolton's life only exhibits the bright headlands of a noble and brilliant career, we shall not stop here, at its close, to attempt a delineation of the characteristics of mind and heart which have given her pre-eminence, both as a woman and an author, among those in the West who have enjoyed equal or better oppor- tunities. If our facts have been well chosen and fitly adjusted to eaeh other, our readers will be able better to do it for themselves. To them, in confidence that it will be well and justly done, we commit the duty of placing a right estimate upon her life and labors — her career and character. We shall close with what one wlio has passed from the earth, said of our subject long ago, feeling that it is both true and just: "Her person,' said Kobert Dale Owen, "is small but well proportioned, and beautifully moulded. With a finely formed head, and ample intellectual forehead, her countenance, without boasting regularity of feature, is of a highly pleasing expression, especially when lighted, as in conversation it usually is, by the bright and cheerful spirit within. Her manners are frank, lively and winning, with little of conventional form, and much of genuine propriety about them. The charge sometimes brought against literary ladies, to-wit: lack of due regard to dress and personal appearance, finds refutation in the case of Mrs. Bolton. Alike when taken unawares by a morning visit, or in the evening circle, her toilet, simple and unostatious, yet evinces that gracious and sedulous care of the person and its outward' adornings, which has ever seemed to me, in women especially, more or less allied to self-respect and purity of mind. " Indianapolis, July 4, 1880. jfK END OF THE LIFE. LXXIII Alfred Fbedbricks, A. '* INS PI R A TION, bi ►:|-P1^EF^T0^Y.-I^^ -»o» Jewelled fingers clasping tenderly, and glorious eyes revealing The impassioned thoughts that maiden lips would never dare to tell. Sweetest song and silver-chorded sound of harp and viol blending, Interweaving with soft cadences all tenderest words of love, 8 LEOLINE. As if hitherward the angel Israfel, from heaven descend- ing, Came to charm the soul with melody to brighter worlds above. There were fine, old, famous pictures, shrined in antique frames, carved quaintly ; Psyche in her wondrous beauty, Niobe in her despair ; The dear Child-God, and His mother, with her brow so pure and saintly. All illumined with the holiness that made a halo there. And statues, marvelous statues, modelled from the soul's ideal. With the longing love of genius for the beauty not of earth. In their purple-shadowed niches, grew so life-like and so real, That, in gazing on them, one forgot they had not mortal birth. In gay mazes went the dancers — softly sounded harp and viol ; Timid Love won sweet responses — crimson vnne flowed sparkling bright ; Until Pleasure, never measuring time by tell-tale clock or dial. Had stolen away the lightsome hours of that long win- ter night. LEOLINE. //. But the shadow of that palace fell athwart a lowly dwell- ing ; The red shimmer from its windows nearly kissed a cold hearthstone, And the voices of its revelr}^, voluptuously swelling, Went out amidst the darkness, blended with a sad heart's moan. In that lonely, dreary attic, where a feeble light was burn- ing, And the wintr}^ wind went in and out with sobbing wierd and wild. Sat a pale, despairing woman, with a mother's fond heart yearning, Softly singing a low lullaby to soothe her dying child. As the failing embers faded, and the lonely room grew drearer. She arranged the tattered mantle closer 'round the little form, And wailed so low and piteous ! There was none but God to hear her — And her wail was only answered by the wailing of the storm. Then she closed her wild eyes meekly, and her lips moved as in praying ; lO LEOLINE. She, perchance, besought Our Father to withhold his chastening rod ; But the chill air caught no whisper as the low words she was saying Went winging from her pallid lips to the white throne of God. Then she kissed that baby brow again, and parted, with cold fingers, The entangled, death-damp tresses of its silken, golden hair ; And gazed in its sweet, shadowy eyes with all the love that lingers, Lives and suffers in a mother's heart when hope has perished there. Still the dying embers faded, still the winds without kept wailing, And the weaiy human heart within throbbed w ilclly as before ; And the red light from the palace, where the revel was, kept trailing. Like the bright wing of an angel, on the carpedess tile floor. And she still sung that low lullaby, love's holiest words repeating, Even wiien the lingering rose-tint from its baby lip had flown ; II LEOLINE. And she never ceased her singing when the little heart stopped beating, Only kissed the icy forehead and kept singing on alone. But the murmurous sound of revel died away before the morning ; And the shimmer from the windows faded when the sky grew red ; But alone, in that drear attic, by the night-lamp dimly burning, That desolate-hearted mother still sat singing by her dead. Who was she — that friendless woman, in the wintry dawn- ing weeping? In the shadow of a palace, perishing of want and cold ; In the great heart of a city, all alone love's vigil keeping. With the dead child on her bosom ? Was her story ever told? She was bom and bred a lady. Menial hands obeyed her bidding, In her fine old home ancestral, grand from nature, fair from art : There her will was never thwarted, her caprices never chidden ; For she was the only daughter of her father^s ** house and heart." 12 LEOLINE. She had suitors of distinction, men of genius, men of learning ; Some adored her peerless beauty, others loved her gold and land, And a few, through all her waywardness, with critical discerning. Saw a w^oman's full-orbed mind and heart, and there- for, sought her hand. And they followed her with praises, but she listened to them coldly ; Thanked them for their gentle courtesy, or silenced them with scorn ; **One," she said, *' wooed far too tenderly — another far too boldly : One was wedded to his sciences, and one was lowly born." But she thanked them for their preference with a charming grace and seeming ; Declared that never a thought of love her heart had stilled or stirred ; And beneath the lofty lindens still went singing, still went dreaming. With unfettered fancy soaring like the free wing of a bird. Oh, that careless, happy maiden, coming from the path of childhood, 13 LEOLINE. With her feet all wet with dew-drops, and her heart all rich and rife With the sunshine of the spnng time, with the odors of the wildwood. The sweet dreams she went dreaming are the poetry of life. J. D. SMaLii. /F. It befell, a poor, pale artist wandered out, in summer weather. From the hot haunts of the city to the breezes of the hills; H LEOLINE. And they met, one pleasant afternoon, conversed and walkec* together, Till the sunset, with soft crimson, flooded all the vales and rills. She was fain, at first, to shun him. He craved pardon — " I am seeking,'' He said courteously, '' a charming view to copy in my book." There was such mute, earnest pleading, such low music in his speaking. Such deferential meaning in his manner and his look, That she could not choose but guide him to the moss-seat by the fountains. Where the south winds, through the osiers, kissed the lily's odorous bloom. In a little, quiet valley, all asleep betwixt two mountains, Where pale sunshine fleckt the waters, and abeles dropt purple gloom. So they wandered on together, listening to the wild bird's singing ; Plucking, now and then, a violet, that nesded at their feet; While the young oak leaves above made them a murmur of low ringing, And their words became unconsciously as musical and sweet. 15 LEOLINE. He discoursed of all things beautiful — things seen by poets only— For the poet and the painter are akin in mind and heart ; And he told her he was homeless, that his life was very lonely — Unbeloved and nothing loving, save his glorious mis- tress, Art. Thus he talked ; and she did listen, as if some strange spell had bound her. With her eyes bent down so consciously you could not see their light, Till the sweet winds with soft kisses wooed the flowers to sleep around her. And the summer stars looked tenderly upon the summer night. When, with pleasant words, they parted, there was such a tender sorrow. Soft beseeching, in the melancholy midnight of his e3'es, That she promised — promised timidly — to guide him, on the morrow. To another scene of beauty his artistic taste would prize. Long that night she sat, sat thinking, where the silver moonlight falling Through the crimson window curtains, tinged her pearly cheek with red ; 16 LEOLINE. Thinking of the dark-eyed stranger — ever and again recalHng His voice so softly cadenced in the eloquent words he said. So they met again at evening, 'midst the osiers and the rushes — Flow and sparkle of glad waters, flight and flutter of bright wings ; And the artist's earnest speaking, and the lady's conscious blushes, Gave sure token that an angel's hand had touched love's secret springs. ThencefonN'ard they met often, and he talked with vaiied learning Of the orators, philosophers, and bards of long ago ; Ever painting glowing pictures with impassioned words and burning. While the lady's heart kept beating to the measure of their flow. And he talked of Art's old masters, of their wonderful creations ; Of the glorious immortality for which they lived and strove ; Of the customs — he had traveled — and the characters of nations ; Of all feelings, all emotions, passions, sentiments, but love. 17 ^2 LEOLINE. And the lady sat beside him in her beauty, rarely speak- ing ; But she listened with a touching, aye, a most bewitch- ing grace ; And he found in her sweet silence the approval he was seeking — For he read her heart's responses in the changes of her face. But at length the pleasant summer died, with all her blushing flowers ; And the winds among the willows caught a wilder, sadder tone ; All the singing birds departed to the bright palmetto bowers ; And beneath the melancholy trees the lovers met alone ; Met to tell the same fond story, so bewildering in its sweetness. When obstructions insurmountable lie loving hearts between ; Met to talk of all life's lovely, but impossible complete- ness. And to sigh, as lovers always sigh, for that which might have been. But one day there came a parting, full of sadness, full of sorrow, i8 LEOLINE. And such tearful words as blighted to the sick heart's deepest core : Ah, for them there was no future ! — ah, for them no bright to-morrow I And they saw but desolation where all beaut\ was before. But they parted, and a sickness, very grievous, seized the lady, Till her voice, so sweetly musical, grew tremulous and and weak ; And her step, through all the autumn, went more languid and unsteady, And the shadow on her spirit stole the roses from her cheek. Far and near renowned physicians tried, with efforts unavailing. All the remedies suggested by the teaching of their art ; But her sickness mocked their wisdom, and her strength kept daily failing ; They concocted no elixir that could heal a breaking heart. But they recommended travel, and her doting father bore her Straight to Italy's unclouded skies, unending summer bloom ; Hoping that the ocean journey, milder climate, would restore her, 19 LEOLINE. Or, at worst, delay her going from life's morning to the tomb. So, the travelers came to Florence, when the Tuscan moonlight beaming, Bound the summits of the Apennines with bands of paley gold ; Folded shadows round the palaces where human hearts were dreaming ; Kissed and overflowed the Amo with its beauty mani- fold. 'VI, Soon, the lady seemed to waken in that land of classic beauty ; Now and then her pale face brightened with the sem- blance of a smile, Was she better, or but feigning, from a sense of filial duty, To dispel her father's sadness with a little, loving wile? But she took unlooked-for interest in the charming world around her ; . Stronger life, unwonted vigor, stirred the pulses of her heart; There, perchance, was some sweet sympathy between the tie tiiat bound her To her distant artist lover and that home of living art. She went daily to the palaces, enriched through many ages, 20 LEOLINE. With the dreams of genius glorified, enshrined by art sublime : Dreamed A\here dreamed the grand old masters, sculp- tors, painters, poets, sages. Whose voices are still ringing down the shadowy paths of time. To the consecrate Duomo she went often, rapt, admiring Its grand frescoes, rare mosaics, statues, many-colored glooms ; And her soul grew larger, loftier, with a sense of its aspir- ing, As she read the names engraven on the marble of its tombs. '*They sleep well," she said, "these masters of the pen- cil, lyre and chisel ; They sleep well beneath these monuments, since all their work is done ; They have laid aside forever model, measure, pen and easel. Bequeathing Time the legacy their life-long labor won. Oh, that I were poor and humble, or that he had gold and station ! Yet, the dust of these immortals was as humbly born as he; Not to kingly grace or favor did they owe their elevation ! Nay, the lordship of their genius won their right of patentee. 21 LEOLINE, J. D. Smillik, a. Strolled she in the Pitti gardens, 'round bright lakelets dimpled over By the odorous winds that drifted down the snows of orange flowers ; There the beaut}% all forgetdng, sweet, fond thoughts of her one lover Went like angels pure with noiseless feet adown the long, bright hours. LEOLINE. But, among the first and fairest, in that pleasure-loving city, In the festive halls of palaces, her's was the queenliest tread ; For she scorned to crave the sympathy that moves the heart to pity. And she smiled to others' smiling, scarcely hearing what they said. To fair, rural Miniato, regnant in its beauty doric ; To the tower where Galileo long watched nightly glow and gleam ; To Fiesole's Etruscan wall, and ruined shrines historic, She went, like one clairvoyant, like one walking in a dream. But her lip and cheek grew paler, and her sweet voice sadder, lower ; Then she rarely left her chamber, as the weary weeks went by — And still she failed and faded, still her steps grew feebler, slower. Till her father's heart, despairing, gave its idol up to die. VII, But one day — it was midwinter — came a stranger with a letter ; He was charged, he said, to give it only to the lady's hand ; 23 LEOLINE. No one ever knew its import, but she suddenly grew better, And they said it was the climate of that sunny Tuscan land. She forsook her silken cushions, and with every day grew stronger, Till the ripple of her laughter was like music's sweetest spell ; And there was a nameless trouble in her eyes* blue depths no longer ; And the sunshine of her presence made a glory where it fell. She grew famous for her beauty — proudest nobles sought her favor ; And she listened gently, kindly, to the passionate tales they told, But assured them, very earnestly, it was a vain endeavor To win her heart to loving — it was marvelously cold. But, one morning, she was missing, and her maidens vainly sought her In her boudoir, on the terrace, in the garden far and near ; And her father, through her chambers, wildly, vainly, called his daughter, With a face of ashy paleness, and a heart distraught with fear. 24 LEOLINE. Then they sought her in the pahices, and all familiar places ; But the terror-stricken messengers, with wondering eyes astare, Came hurr^dng back with flying feet and ashen-colored faces, And in voices all a-tremble said, "My lady is not there." And, alas ! the same wild questions won from all the same replying. Till the father, bowed and sickened, sat with heart and hope a-wTack — Sat all silent in his chamber, when the third day's sun- light, dying, Crowned with stars the nightly shadows, and the lady came not back. Very slowly, very sadly, wore the time away thereafter — Searching ever for the lost one, never finding track nor trace. Oh I the w^eary, weary longing for the ripple of her laughter. For the music of her footstep, for the sunshine of her face ! VIII, But there came at length a letter, from this trouble-dream awakening, 25 LEOLINE. Left, it seems, by some strange Signior, who had lately gone away ; . But the bearer, in his ignorance, the name addressed mistaking, Was unable to deliver it, at least, until that day. *' Who? What Signior?" asked the father. '* Have you seen the English lady? She has soft-blue eyes, brown ringlets ; she is slender, fair, and tall." "No — the Signior went to Pisa; he is there, no doubt, already ; He was all alone — an artist — and my lodger." That was all ! It contained but few lines, written by a hand that trembled greatly ; Here and there a word was blotted, as a tear had fallen between. It was written in a hurry — judging from its date not lately ; Addressed, " My dearest father ;" simply signed, "Your Leoline." Thus it ran : " Forgive me, father, for the strange step I have taken — Oh I my heart is veiy heavy, knowing it will gi\ o you pain ; You will miss and mourn your daughter, in the home she has forsaken ; But forgive me, O my father I — We may never meet ai^ain. 26 LEOLINE. ** He is gifted who has won me ; noble, too, beyond com- paring With the proudest lord or gentleman that sought me heretofore : But, as suitor to your daughter, you had spurned him past all bearing : For he is a simple artist, of the people, proud and poor. '* Knowing this, I was admonished by my duty, to forget him ; And I tried — how long, how vainly, let my lingering illness prove ; Therefore, when by chance befalling, some three months ago I met him, I had learned that life was valueless to me without his love. "Long before this scrawl will reach you, w^e shall be beyond 3^our seeking : My marriage, though irregular, will leave no social stain. God knows only how I love you — knows, too, how my heart is breaking With a sorrow for your sorrow. Oh, you never gave me pain ! But, forgive me, darling father — by the love we bore each gther In the old days, when your soothing all my babj^-cares beguiled ; 27 LEOLINE. By the sweet past, unretuming, by the memoiy^ of my mother, Oh, forgive me — bless me, father, as you blessed me when a child." IX, It is said that sudden terror has a force beyond our learn- ing- Power to blanch, in one night's passing, raven tresses, snowy white ; But a speechless indignation changed that proud man, iniy burning. Till he seemed to those a stranger who had known him y ester-night. Thenceforward none dared mention her, and never more they sought her. Nothing ever stirred the father from the shadow of his gloom ; But he made a will most cruel, disinheriting his daughter. And his coat of arms was graven, that same summer, on his tomb. But the artist and the lady — they were wedded at the altar Of Saint Peter of Livomo, by a consecrated light. The lady's cheek grew paler, but her sweet voice did not falter As she made the low responses of the holy marnage rite. 28 LEOLINE. Thence they journeyed to Genoa, the beautiful and queenly, Sitting on her marble mountains, with her white feet in the sea. And arrived at fair Palanza, when the next day died serenely, And the starry-fingered twilight veiled the lovely lake and lea. And they sailed away, next morning, on bright Lago- Maggiore, When the first tones of the silver-sounding angelus. outrung From cloistered Isola Madre, famous for its olden glory, And lovely as Elysian, by the ancient poets sung. Summer sunshine trailed its amber-gleaming tresses o'er the waters ; Bright wavelets danced, with dimpled feet, around the vessel's prow. Making murmurs of low music, like the voice of Nereus' daughters Singing love-lays in the grottos and coral groves below. And they sailed between two heavens : That beneath the waters gleaming Was as brightly blue and limitless as that which arched above. Common things won grace and beauty from the magic of their dreaming, 2g LEOLINE. And beauty gained a glory from the sunshine of their love. Breath of morning, odor- freighted from fair blossoms, dewy leafage. Waves that made a merr}^ singing as of bridal melody, Hills, empurpled by the distance, azure sky and golden rivage — All were rounded by their happiness to one grand har- mony. Far above the sound and silence, one white cloud went slowly sailing From the chambers of Aurora to the gateways of the West, Like a fairy ship, with snowy masts, and idle sails a-trailing In the sunshine of the tropics, when the winds are all at rest. As luminous seemed their future as that boundless upper ocean, And their life, like that fair cloud-ship sailing in the golden light, Freighted with the bliss and blessing of love's tenderest devotion , Should float adown Time's river, to the Islands of Delight. 30 LEOLINE. X, At Milan awhile they tarried, sought and saw the picture painted By heaven-inspired Da Vinci, painted on a convent's wall, Where our Lord and his apostles are so grandly repre- sented At that sorrowful " Last Supper," when the shadow fell on all. Much they found it marred and faded — not by Time's destroying fingers, Nor the damp gloom of the cloister, but by vandal hand of man ; Yet, through all, a nameless glory 'round its holy faces lingers, And through all, it is thy pilgrim-shrine, thy glor}% O Milan! Ay, far more than thy Cathedral, where a hundred rain- bows stealing In through story-pictured windows, on high altars shim- menng fall — More than all its statued pinnacles, and dome to heaven appealing. Is that picture, marred and faded, on the gloomy con- vent wall. 31 LEOLINE. Thence, they came through Domo D'Ossala, when purple evening lighted Up the stars that bind a coronal on Simplon's hoaiy brow ; And they met the early morning where the human eye affrighted Looks down on gorge and ghastly chasm, a thousand feet below. Slowly went the glooms departing, slowly came the sun and gilded The snow-clad domes and minarets, far above their path that stood, Slowly lighted up the arches, which some mighty earth- quake builded. When Jehovah, All-Creating, saw at evening ''it was good." And ever, as they journeyed lofty ramparts 'round and under, They saw the startled avalanche leaping from some hoary height. And heard its many voices, like successive peals of thun- der. Repeated by the echoes, in the pauses of its flight. But at length they heard the laughter of glad rivulets and fountains, And they passed the awful gorges, where the lonely glazier weeps, 32 LEOLINE. To a world of rural beauty, at the feet of many moun- tains, And awakened from their w^onder-dream, where lovely Valais sleeps. O mountain guards of Switzerland ! O valleys drest so queenly ! Golden-threaded summer sunshine, blossom-perfumed summer air ! Lakes that charm the soul to quiet, looking heavenward so serenely ! Never gave ye sweetest welcome to happier hearts than theirs. XI, A week therefrom, with blithesome feet, they climbed the rocky highland From which the tower of Rolanseck looks down through shade and shine On the gray walls of the convent, on the little quiet island Of Nonnenwerth, a-sleeping in the arms of father Rhine. Many a winding path they threaded ere they gained those lofty arches. Stopped and heard the bright waves singing Lurlei's siren songs below ; Ay, and listened — listened, dreaming — to the wind among the larches. Telling, with a sad, low sighing, stories of the long ago. LEOLINE. Then the lady, her face glowing with the roses w^on from climbing, While the evening sunshine drifted 'round her floods of crimson gold, Told the sad and touching story, in sw^eet words that made a chiming Of the noble knight, Von Toggenberg, who built that tower of old. '* Well, it chanced," she said, *' in ages dead, in ages long departed. This brave Ritter left his castle and a lady very dear, And with Peter, called the Hermit, eloquent and lion- hearted. Went to win from Turk and Saracen the Holy Sepulchre. <* * Oh,' the lady sighed, ' no ill betide !' till long, long years went over ; Sighed and waited, hoping, praying in her castle by the Rhine ; Waited till a holy palmer told her God had ta'en her lover — He had seen him dead and buried in the land of Pales- tine. **Ah, the weary woe, that cruel blow, that false, false story cost her ! Blighted all her maiden beauty, slowly, surely broke her heart ; 34 LEOLINE. And she left the world, now empty, took the veil and vow of cloister, In the convent of 'Our Lady,' on the isle of Nonnon- wert. ** When, with glory earned, the knight returned from Pal- estine to claim her. And they told him this sad stor}-, all his light of life grew dim : Never more could he behold her — nay, he dared not even name her ; For she was the bride of heaven, lost to love and dead to him. *'So he built this tower, and worshipped more than all the saints in heaven The convent walls, that shrouded all the light of his lost star; And he w^atched them, from the dawning to the purple fall of even — Watched them for long years, from dawning till * clinked her lattice bar.' *'But at last she died, his soul's true bride, and the con- vent bells went tolling — Tolling o'er the bright Rhine river, tolling to his heart so brave ! And they found him on the morrow (love his life's last hour controlling), 35 LEOLINE. With his dead-eyes, stark and staring, fixed upon his lady's grave." XII, Her own lovely eyes were tearful, when her touching tale was ended, And he said, ''So sweet a story^ sweet lips never told before." Then, along the crimson sunset, from the hill-top they descended. Through the purple-laden vineyards, to the golden- sanded shore. So, their lives ran on right brightly, and their pilgrim feet went straying From the rivers of the Rhineland to the cides by the sea ; The artist, painting pictures, wheresoever they were stay- ing. And, in palace, hall or cottage, was no happier wife than she. One fair summer found them dwelling in a rural home, embowered In chestnut trees, and climbing vines, and fairest flowers that blow, Where the grim old Dent du Jamin, like a giant warder, towered, 36 LEOLINE. And the waves of Lake Geneva went a-sin^in^ far below. Like some tender dream of beaut}-, that one half forgets awaking, And tries, vainly, ever after, to remember and recall, Were those months on Lake Geneva — she for his love all forsaking, He giving in fond recompense, his heart, soul, strength, Hfe, all. But the summer blossoms faded, and the autumn winds came wailing, And the lovely lake grew shadowy and forgot its sum- mer song ; Cold, gray mists, like tattered banners, 'round the lofty Alps went trailing. And the falling leaves, like little feet, kept pattering ail day long. Then the artist's brow grew paler, and his dark eyes lost their brightness. And he passed the sunny threshold with a slower, heavier tread ; Lip and cheek grew sometimes ghastly, with a strange, unnatural whiteness, And there often was a tremor in the loving words he said. Ne'ertheless, rare forms of beauty grew beneath his pencil daily ; 37 LEOLINE. He embodied many golden dreams of many golden years ; And, in working, he trilled snatches of familiar songs so gaily, That the young wife, all things hoping, half forgot her troubling fears. When the frosts came, in November, he seemed better, somewhat stronger. And the old light came, by flashes, to the darkness of his eyes ; But one evening, when she waited, and he tarried later, longer Than was usual, she started with a tremor of surprise ; And sought him in his studio. There, the tender moon- light, shining Through the lofty oriel window, made a glory 'round his head, As he sat, asleep in seeming, on his easel half reclining — Ay ; asleep he was, nor wakened when she called him. He was dead ! XIII. Then, a shriek, which those who heard it recollected ever after, Rang out from that lone chamber, rang through hall and corridor : 38 / LEOLINE. *' Dead ! no, no — O God — O darling ! " and she fell, with maniac laughter. As pale and cold as marble, in the moonlight, on the floor. Thence the days went by unheeded, till one morning in December, When the earth was hid with snow-drifts, and the sky with leaden gloom, She came back to dim, half consciousness, but never could remember Days and weeks which passed unnoted in that bare asylum room. '' O Karl ! " she said, " I dreamed a dream of such wild pain and hoiTor ! A dream that took my strength away and made me almost ill ; See, my darling, how I tremble with the memory of its sorrow ! Oh, its phantoms were so real, they seem hovering 'round me still !" Then, "Come love — it is morning; we have slept too long alread}^ ; That fine picture — is it finished ? They are coming for it soon ; Yes, I mean that lovely picture of the noble Russian lady ; She is going to Geneva, and the boat will leave at noon." 39 LEOLINE. Thus, for many a day she wandered, ever kind and sometimes cheerful ; But forgetting, through God's mercy, that one night in all the past. Till the sympathizing doctor, with a pallid face and tearful, Considering it his duty, came and told her all, at last. Then the agony and anguish that consumes the heart, and gathers Bitter daily food from memor}', again had made her wild ; But they brought a little baby, with deep, brown eyes, like its father's, Laid it on her aching bosom, whispering low, this is your child." And through all the woe and weariness with which her soul had striven. Through the darkness and the danger, through the madness and strife, That sweet litde one came smiling, like an angel sent from heaven — Came to charm her, with its helplessness and beauty, back to life. XIV, So, not very long thereafter, she took up again life's burden, 40 LEOLINE. And went down its rugged pathways, with sad heart and feeble feet ; But she found in holy mother-love a blessing and a guer- don, Making povert}^ long, lonely toil and sore privation sweet. Daily, nightly, from the attic, where she earned her meagre living, And where her one dear treasure, like a blossom, lived and throve, Trembled up the humble incense of her grateful heart's thanksgiving. To the dear, good God, whose mercy gave her some- thing still to love. ♦ He had learned to lisp that sweetest word of all our Saxon— " Mother," And it seemed to gather sweetness from the roses of his mouth, As birds catch sweeter singing from the voices of each other. Or as flowers win richer odors from the kisses of the South. Quickly comes the lore of babyhood, and he had learned already How to win her fond caresses, by repeating that one word ; 41 LEOLINE. While the patter of his little feet, uncertain and unsteady. Made the sweetest sound of music that her poor heart ever heard. But he sickened in the winter, sickened suddenly and faded — Faded when his little, happy life was scarcely two years old; Drooped upon his mother's bosom, like a blossom too much shaded ; Thus the silent angel found him on the night of which I told. Slowly through the attic window came the chilly winter morning ; Slowly stirre'd the city's pulses, down along the frosty air; But the mother still sat singing by the night-lamp dimly burning, As though soul and sense were frozen by the torpor of despair. Up and down went men and women, in their shut hearts ever bearing Their individual burdens — joy or sorrow, hope or fear; But in all those busy thousands, drifting, ebbing, flowing, faring. There was not one heart that trembled with a thought or throb for her. 42 LEOLINE. So the arteries of the cit)' beat, beat all day long around her, Till the setting sunlight painted crimson bars along the West— . When a neighbor, in chance passing, to her chamber came, and found her — Found her sitting, stark and silent, with the dead child on her breast. Indianapolis, April, 1865. 43 ^'^JiloN'P^Bii^j^io WORSHIPPER in heaven's far courts ! sub- lime Gleams thy white forehead, bound with purple air ; Thou art coeval with old, gray-haired Time ; Yet thy colossal features are as fair As when the Omniscient set his signet there. Wrapped in a royal robe, that human art Could never weave, nor mortal monarch wear. Thou sitt'st enthroned in majesty apart. Folding eternal rest and silence in thy heart. When the Almight}- mind went forth and wrought Upon the formless waters ; when lie hung 44 % MONT BLANC. New worlds on their mysterious paths, and brought Light out of brooding darkness ; when the young. Fair earth at his command from chaos sprung To join the universal jubilee ; When all the hosts of heaven his triumphs sung — God left his footsteps on the sounding sea, And wrote his glorious name — proud monument I — on thee. Tell us, earth-bom companion of the stars, Hast thou beheld when worlds were wrecked and riven ? Hast seen wild comets in their red simars O'er the far fields of space at random driven? Seest thou the angels at the gates of heaven ? Perchance they lend that glory to thy brow Which burns and sparkles there this summer even ! Perchance their anthems float around thee now : They worship God alway, and so, Mont Blanc, dost thou. vSolemn evangel of almighty power. The pillars of the earth support thy throne ; Ages unknown, unnumbered, are thy dower, Sunlight thy crown, the clouds of heaven thy zone. Spires, columns, turrets, lofty and alone ; Snow-fields, where never bird nor beast abode ; Caverns unmeasured, fastnesses unknown, Glaciers where human feet have never trod — Ye are the visible throne, the dwelling-place of God. W^hat is the measure of our three-score years? What the duration of our toil and care ? 45 MONT BLANC. What are our aspirations, hopes and fears? The joys we prize, the ills we needs must bear? The earthly goals we win, the deeds we dare? Our life is but a breath, a smile, a sigh ; We go, and time records not that we were : But thou wilt lift thy giant brow on high Till time's last hour is knelled, lost in eternity'. And we, beholding thee, do turn aside From all the little idols we have wrought ; Self-love, ambition, wealth, fame, power and pride Keep silence before thee ; and we are taught A nobler aim, a more enduring thought. Our souls are touched by the celestial fire That glows on holier altars ; what we sought With might, heart, mind, seems naught, and we aspire To win some surer good, some guerdon holier, higher. Thou art an altar, where the human soul Pays God the tribute of its prayer and praise ; Feelings, emotions passing all control Are bom of thee ; wondering, subdued, we gaze, Till soul and sense are lost in still amaze. And the o'erladen heart forgets to beat. We feel the invisible, we seem to raise The inner veil, to stand where two worlds meet, Entranced, bewildered, rapt, adoring at thy feet. -^AogA^' A^ ^r^ 46 We ¥HE ^RYE, m 113 JaNciieN wi^p TpE^peNs. f:- i' J ;HERE a glacier weeps forever, like the fabled Niobe, At the feet of monarch mountains in the vale of Chamouni, Thou wert bom, O rapid river ! nursed by torrents wild and strong. And the thunder of the avalanche was thy first cradle-song. Through a fair and fertile valley, with its purple-laden vines. Terraced gardens, groves of linden, Druid oaks and and ancient pines, Where the summer sunshine golden crowns the Bas Alps far above ; Where the butterflies and breezes woo the rhododendron's love ; 47 TO THE ARVE. Where the Ranz des Vaches comes ringing down from many a green plateau, While the vesper bells are chiming in the quiet vales below ; By lordly parks and palaces, by homesteads quaint and low, Where the peasants live as peasants lived five hundred years ago ; Thou hast wandered on for ages, like a pilgrim cowled and gray — Like a pilgrim sometimes kneeling on the shining sands to pra}^ Heedless of the bloom and beauty, of the shadow or the shine. Counting beads and Ave-Marie's on his way to Palestine. Thou hast hoarded in thy bosom many a rare and radiant gem That adorned Mount Bernard's girdle, or Argentier's diadem ; Thou hast stolen perfumed dew-drops from the fairest Alpine flowers. And filled thy curious scallop-shell from brightest summer showers. At thy feet the merry cascades fondly fold their snowy wings, And thee worship with libations from a thousand sparkling springs ; 48 TO THE ARVE. Summer sunshine gaily binds thee with its wealth of golden bars ; I'urple twilights clasp and crown thee with a coronal of stars. Yet thy spirit is as restless, and thy brow as dark and cold, As if thy life were weary with a trouble never told ; And the murmur of thy voices is like a wail of woe, Or a miserere chanted in some hopeless world below. By lordly parks and palaces, by mountains weird and grand, By ruins where the barons lived who whilom ruled the land. By peasant's hut and hovel, by hamlets quaint and gray, To the city of Geneva thou hast made thy winding way* Where that queen of old Helvetia from her ancient hill looks down. With the church of sainted Peter wearing still its triple crown, We have learned, O Arve, thy secret, learned the mean- ing of thy moan — For the lady of th}- worship is the graceful, blue-eyed Rhone. Never, surely, came a lover in such strange disguise before ; Never ancient Minne-singer, palmer-knight nor trouba- dour, 49 ^-4 TO THE ARVE. Offered life and love's devotion at so beautiful a shrine, With a brow so dark and solemn and a voice so sad as thine. But she scorns thy first advances, and, with most disdam- ful pride, Strives to keep her robes unsullied by the darkness of thy tide ; Turns offended from thy presence, spurns thee, shudders and recoils ; Flies, and flings her white arms wildly to unloose them from thy toils. Then ye journey on together, sad and silent, side by side ; But despair not, bold knight-errant, thou shalt win her for thy bride ; For a love so true is potent, in its passion and its power. To compel love's sweet responses in some gay, unguarded hour. Ah, now she turns coquettishly to thee her sunny face, And all her radiant loveliness is lost in thine embrace ; And forever ye are wedded, wheresoe'er your path may be. Through the shadow and the sunshine in your journey to the sea. Gbnbva, Switzbrland, 1858. so •fi<»-o j|-Ii;5KEvliEM;^]\[.^:< iHOU art beautiful, Lake Leman, When thy starn' waves are sleeping, Sleeping in the fond embraces Of the summer moon's soft light ; When thy waters seem to listen. To the blue Rhone, sadl}^ weeping As she parts from thee forever. Murmuring tenderly, " Good-night !" Thou art glorious when the morning. Nature's radiant evangel, Lays her cheek upon thy bosom, With her tresses all undone ; When the snowy mists that bound thee, Like the drapery of an angel, Are woven into rainbows In the pathway of the sun. 51 LAKE LEMAN. Thou art peerless when the twilight Of a quiet summer even Binds the Eastern sky with shadows, As the day dies in the West ; When the gold and crimson curtains Looped around the gates of heaven And the pathways of the angels, Are painted on thy breast. Thou art lovely when the vine-hills Are pictured in thy waters, Or when storm-winds from the Jura Crown thy waves with staiTy foam ; And the children of thy valleys. Old Helvetia's sons and daughters. When they leave thee, lake of beauty, Never find another home. But I dwell by thee a stranger. Of my exile grown so weary. That my soul is sick with sighing,. Waiting, longing to depart ; And the music of thy voices Makes me homesick, makes me dreary. Oh, I can not learn to love thee While my own land fills my heart ! I have climbed the snow-capped mountains. Sailed on many a storied river, And brushed the dust of ages From gray monuments sublime ; 52 LAKE LEMAN. I have seen the grand old pictures That the world enshrines forever, And the statues that the masters Left along the paths of Time. But my pilgrim feet are weaiy, And my spirit dim with dreaming Where the long, dead past has written Misty, hieroglyphic lore ; In a land whose pulses slumber, Or only beat in seeming, Where the pathway- of the Caesars Is a ruin evermore. Bear me back, O mighty ocean ! From this Old World, gray and gory, To the forests and the prairies Far beyond thy stormy waves, To the land that Freedom fostered To gigantic, strength and glory, To m}' home-land with its loved ones, And its unforgotten graves. Give me back m}- little cottage, And the dear old trees I planted, And the common, simple blossoms That bloomed around my door. And the old, familiar home-songs That m}' children's voices chanted, And the few who used to love me — And my heart will ask no more. Geneva, Switzerland, 1857. 53 ^^^W^KE-fT0 -fEEFeJRJF.-^^ The night cometh, when no man can work. ''AKE to effort while the day is shining ; The time to labor will not always last, And no regret, repentance, or repining, Can bring to us again the buried past. The silent sands of life are falling fast ; Time tells our busy pulses, one by one ; And shall our work, so needful and so vast. Be all completed, or but just begun. When twilight shadows veil life's dim, departing sun? What duties have our idle hands neglected? What useful lessons have we learned and taught? What warmth, what radiance, have our hearts reflected? What rich and rare materials have we brought For deep investigation, earnest thought? 54 AWAKE TO EFFORT. Concealed within the soul's unfathomed mine, How many a sparkling gem remains unwrought, That industry might place on learning's shrine, Or lavish on the world, to further God's design ! To effort ! ye whom God has nobly gifted With that prevailing power, undying song. For human good let every pen be lifted. For human good let ever^^ heart be strong. Is there no crying sin, no grievous wrong That ye may help to weaken or repress ? In wayside hut and hovel, midst the throng Down-trodden by privation and distress? Is there no stricken heart that ye can cheer and bless? Sing idle lays to idle harps no longer ; Go ! peal an anthem at the gate ot heaven ; Exertion makes the fainting spirit stronger. Sing, till the bonds of igorance are riven. Till dark oppression from the earth is driven ; Sing, till from every land and every sea One universal triumph-song is given. To hail the long-expected I'ubilee, When every bond is broke and every vassal free. And ye, whose birthright is the glorious dower Of eloquence to thrill the immortal soul. Use not unwisely the transcendant power To waken, guide, restrain, direct, control The heart's deep, deep emotions ; let the goal 55 AWAKE TO EFFORT. Of your ambition be a name enshrined, By love and gratitude, within the scroll Where generations yet unborn shall find The deathless deeds of those who loved and blessed mankind. Go ! use the mighty energies that slumber Unknown, unnumbered in the world's great heart ; Remove the stubborn errors that encumber The fields of science, literature and art ; Rend superstitions" darkening veil apart, And hurl to earth blind bigotr}-, the ban From which a thousand grievous evils start To thwart and mar the great Creator's plan, And break the ties that bind the brotherhood of man. And ye who sit aloft in earth's high places, Perchance amid your wealth you scarcely know That want and woe are leaving fearful traces Upon the toiling multitude below. From your abundance can ye not bestow A mite to smooth the thorny paths they tread? Have ye no sympathy with human woe? No ray of blessed hope and joy to shed Upon the weary hearts that pine and toil for bread? Amid the gorgeous splendor that bedizens Your palaces, no longer idly stand. While dens of wickedness and loathsome pnsons Arise, like blighting plague-spots o'er the land ; 56 AWAKE TO EFFORT. Go ! speak a word and lend a helping hand To rescue men from degradation's thrall, Nor deem a just and righteous God hath banned The toiling millions, while the rain-drops fall. And blessed sunbeams shine alike from heaven for all. The smallest bark on life's tempestuous ocean Will leave a track behind forevermore ; The lightest wave of injlzience set in motion Extends and widens to the eternal shore. We should be wary, then, who go before A myriad yet to be, and we should take Our bearing carefully, where breakers roar, And fearful tempests gather ; one mistake May wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake. Indianapolis, 1851. 57 "Nasci, pati, mori." ^Legend v6Ev3FPEvC^gTIrE:ei!vJlI©NNEnfIE]^.'?^^ & I HERE sunlight lends its softest summer smile, And Mont Saleve lifts his scarred brow toward heaven, There is a long-deserted feudal pile, To ruthless I'uin given. Beneath the precipice on which it stands. Like a gray warder endless vigil keeping, Geneva, like mosaic in gold bands. By Leman's side lies sleeping. No hardy flower, no clinging ivy trains A kindly leaf to veil its broken arches ; Of all its garden bowers no trace remains, Save some poor stunted larches. S8 A LEGEND. Upon its ancient gate, 'midst rime and rust, As a fit comment on its fearful story, Some cunning hand, long gone to mouldering dust, Graved ^^JVasct, pati, moriy The moss-grown iiiin of its massive wall Teaches the littleness of man's ambition ; But of its ancient glory and its fall. Speaks only -gray tradition. This saith, that in the olden, feudal times It w'as the stronghold of a warlike baron, Whose ghost, condemned for unrepented crimes, Still haunts the Styx with Charon. He loved a noble lady of the land. With eyes like summer twilight, blue and stany. Tresses like braided sunshine, lily hand — Gentle, bewitching faiiy. He loved her with a heart that could fulfill Its wildest purpose in the hour of trial. And sought her with the stubborn, lawless will That never brooked denial. But the fair lady w^as the promised bride Of one who w'ore the cross of a Crusader, Who gave his heart to lovely Linneleid, His sword to the invader. 59 A LEGEND. And he. Sir Athold, was at danger's post, The colors of his lady waving o'er him — The bravest leaders of the Paynim host Falling like grass before him. Long, but in vain, the warlike baron wooed ; The lady still was cold in word and bearing ; But in those cloudy times the world was rude, And chieftain lovers daring. And to compel what love could never gain. He sallied forth with many an armed vassal. Surprised the lady, put to flight her train. And bore her to his castle. And there, 'midst waving torches, gleaming swords, And iron hearts that never deigned to falter. And priestly mockery of holy words. He led her to the altar. She buried, then, the hopes of all life's years ; Her cruel anguish brooked not to be spoken ; Despair dried up the fountain of her tears ; Her gentle heart was broken. Yet there was breath upon her pallid lips. And light beneath her bluo-vcined eyelids gleaming ; Hers was not life, nor death, but that eclipse Which the soul knows in dn imiiiL;. 60 A LEGEND. She sat in her lone tower, in vague repose, Her sad gaze fixed upon the distant mountains ; And yet she did not see their winter snows. Nor hear their summer fountains. Heart, mind and being, wath one thought was rife ; One blessed image mocked her souFs endeavor ; It was the only star of her young life. Distant and dimmed forever. Night crowned the mountains with pale coronals, And moonbeams trembled down through Leman's- waters. To light the coral bowers and fairy halls Of Undine's iair-haired daughters. But, ho I there was a cry, a trumpet-blast, The castle's sleepy sentinels alarming ! ^, Wild words from palid lips, that spoke their last ; Shrieks, groans and hurried arming. They rallied, manned the ramparts ; but too late ! The baron's furious life-blood dyed the paving, And soon, from lofty tower and massive gate, The blood-red cross was waving. With fainting heart the lady heard that cry — Sir Athold's voice through the still night-air driven ;. She could not live to meet his altered eye, And — pity her, O Heaven ! 6i A LEGEND. The fight was over, and Sir Athold gone To seek his lady-love in hall and bovver ; The lamp burned in her turret-chamber lone — Where was she, in that hour? He breathed her name with loving words, in vain ; She heard him not, and there was no replying. Save the soft night- wind through the lattice-pane, Mournfully sighing. They sought her with swift feet — above, below ; The}' called her with wild words, but unavailing ; And morning found them hurrying to and fro, Their brave hearts faint and failing. Oh I never did a gloomier night depart, And never dawned a sadder, darker morrow. Than that which sealed, on brave Sir Athcld's heart, His loss and life-long sorrow. At length, a peasant came, with wild dismay. And hurried words of most temfic meaning : There was a lady dead a little way From where he had been gleaning. And on the sands, where two deep ravines meet, Half hidden by the pine plumes waving 'round her, Below her lattice full five hundred feet. Pale as the snows they found her. 62 A LEGEND. Oh I slowly, slowly tolled the solemn knell, As many a gallant knight and wondering vassal Wound with the black pall up Pas dc V Echelle And bore her to the castle. With tearful eyes they made her grave apart ; With loving hands the}^ laid the cross above her ; And there the lady with the broken heart Sleeps with her noble lover. But there are those who, on a certain night, Deem they can hear a w ail — a low, wild weeping- And see a lady, in a robe of white. From that same lattice leaping. The brave Sir Athold w^ent not forth again To tread the warrior's dizzy path of glory ; But as he lived, had suffered, loved in vain, Wrote, "•JVasci, pati, mori,''' Geneva, Switzerland, 1857. y 63 'The Union— It must be preserved." — Andrew Jackson. ISSOLVE the Union! Let the blush of shame Hide with its crimson glow the brazen cheek Of him who dares avow the trait Vous aim. 'Tis not the true, the wise, the good who speak Words of such fearful import ; but the weak, Drunk with fanaticism's poisonous wine, And, reckless of the future, madly seek To hold their saturnalia at the shrine Sacred to human Freedom, human rights divine. 64 THE UNION. Dissolve the Union ! Madmen, would ye rend The glorious motto from our country's crest? Would ye despoil the stars and stripes, that lend Home, food, protection to the world's opprest? Have ye no reverence for the high bequest That our immortal sires bestowed erewhile ? Has sin defaced the image God imprest On your humanity, that ye could smile To see the lurid flames of Freedom's funeral pile ? Dissolve the Union ! In the day, the hour Ye rend the blood-cemented tie in twain, The fearful cloud of civil war will lower, O'er every old blue hill and sunny plain, From torrid Mexico to frigid Maine, And men will arm, and strange, new banners wave, And pallid women look on kindred slain ; Brothers will battle, and the life-blood lave Thresholds that husbands, fathers died in vain to save. Dissolve the Union ! No ! ye can not part, With idle words the blessed ties that bind In one the interests of that mighty heart That treasures up the hopes of all mankind. Awhile, perchance, the blind may lead the blind, And men may follow phosphorescent light From beaten paths to quagmires, ere they find The ray that shone so beautiful and bright. Was but a phantom-lure to deeper, darker night. 65 ^6 THE UNION. Dissolve the Union I Never ! Ye may sow The seeds of vile dissension o'er the land, That men may reap in sorrow ; ye may show The world your disregard of all its grand Eternal interests ; but a noble band Of patriots, tried and true, will still remain, With heart to heart, and sinewy hand to hand, To guard from foul dishonor's cankering stain The jewels God has shrined in Freedom's holy fane. Dissolve the Union ! No ! destroy the page That gives to human sight the hideous scrawl. Let not the freemen of a future age Read these detested words ; they would recall Shame, madness, im.becility and all That mars the noon-tide glor}' of our time. True to the undivided, stand or fall. To waver now is little less than crime ; To battle for the right is glorious, is sublime. Indianapolis, July, 1850. 66 •^IlEeENDveEvCp^'FE^avCFENE.-Ss- # i HE Lad}' Loline was wond'rous fair, With a golden gleam in her rippling hair, And eyes of the deepest, darkest blue That ever a beautiful soul shone through. And the sweetest mouth The wind from the South Ever kissed to a daint}^ rose-leaf hue. And she had a lover true and brave, But lowly of birth and therefore banned And sent, men said, to an early grave In a foreign land. Living or dead, he was out of the wa}' Of the long pursuit of the Baron Bray For the lady's hand. 67 A LEGEND. The Baron was bent, wrinkled and gray — The Baron was querulous, crabbed and old, But the Baron was rich — broad lands had he From his castle gate clear down to the sea ; Had hounds, and horses, and hords of gold. And, at last, the lady's consent is given To wed the Baron to-night at seven. The day had died in a drizzling rain. And the purple glooms of twilight fall — It will soon be dark in the grand old park, And down by the moat and rampart wall, But radiant lii^ht Will stream to-night From every casement of Chateau Chene. The bride is arrayed in silken sheen, With snowy buds and flowers between The cloud-like folds of her costly lace. With diamonds rare In her gold-bronze hair ; Yet the eye could trace A fitful shadow of anxious care On her gentle face. The clock in the turret-tower strikes eight — But where is the groom That he does not come? The guests and the minstrels wondering wait, And the wind cries wild, Like a homeless child. In the sliivering elms of the casde gate. 68 A LEGEND. The yule fire burns with a ruddy glow, And the minstrel plays as the hours go by, But the garlands fade and the guests speak low. As if afraid of impending woe. The bride looks out from her lattice pane. But she only hears the soughing rain. And the sobbing wind in the turrets high. The clock tolls twelve in the ancient tower, And the night wind shrieks in eldrich glee ; The lights grow dim in hall and bower. And fair .cheeks pale, for ghosts have power In this weird hour To walk the green earth free. Hark ! " Comes the bridegroom?" Nay, not he. As a mail-clad form with a raven plume Comes slowly out of the nightly gloom ; He makes no pause, he speaks no word. Scarcely the fall of his tread is heard ; But the pale lights flare In the sulphurous air As he threads his way and mounts the stair To the bride's own room. There was a pause in the wind and rain. But the chateau shook, and tremors ran From dungeon keep to bartizan. The guests and the minstrels held their breath, As if they had looked on the face of death, And fled away in pale aflfright Into the dark and dismal night From the horror-haunted Chateau Chene 69 A LEGEND. The morning sunshine softly stole Over the scene of last night's dole, Burnished the board where the feast was spread ; Kissed the garlands pale and dead, And trembled into the purple gloom That hung its folds in my lady's room. But the lovely bride in silken sheen Was not where they crowned her yestere'en. They sought her east and they sought her west, Afar and near, by land and sea ; But all in vain was their anxious quest : Where could the lady be? When and how had she met her doom? And the phantom knight with the raven plume. From whence, and what was he? The wonder died, but the story ran That the Seneschal, an aged man, Avowed he had seen the phantom knight Bearing away the fair young bride In her robes of white. Over the moat and through the park, On a coal black steed, in the storm and dark, As never a mortal man could ride. Beech Bank. April, 1877. 70 &->^ ^2|-TpEvIr0]VIvP0R5E. iHEY have given the iron horse the rein, And he flies away o'er the sunny plain, Shrieking and clanking the bolts and bars That fetter his strength to the rumbling cars, Away through the valley and mountain pass, O'er the dark ravine and the dank morass. Panting and puffing his clarion peals. Shaking the earth with his iron heels. And flashing the sparks from his fiery eyes, Like a hunted fiend, he shrieks and flies ! On, on, through the tunnel so dark and drear. On, over the bridges that quake with fear, By the stagnant fens and the limpid rills. Through the clefted hearts of the ancient hills. Where the startled echoes faint and die In their vain attempts to repeat his cry. Now faster away, as if terrible need 71 THE IRON HORSE. Were adding a spur to his fearful speed. Hushed is the voice of the rushing river ; The winds are low, but the old trees shiver ; The sun, like a drunkard, reels around ; The wild beasts start from the haunted ground, And the bending sky seems rent apart With the dreadful throbs of his mighty heart ! Hurrah ! he is mocking the w^andering wind, And leaving the laggard far, far behind ; City, and hamlet, and river, and plain, Like pictures of chaos, confuse the brain, As they loom in sight and vanish away, Like dissolving views in a giant's play. And thus the horse with the iron heart. Bearing his burden from mart to mart, Panting and puffing his clarion peals, Shaking the earth with his clanging heels, Flashing the sparks from his fier^' eyes, Like a hunted demon, shrieks and flies. Indianapolis, October, 1856. 72 ^^CejaiNevPejaE.^^ (£^ UT by the work now, and heap up the fire, Till it crackles a welcome w^arm and bright ; ^^&^P Let the curtains down, draw the sofa nigher. For surely the boys will be home to-night. "Their letter was dated two weeks ago — They intended to start for home next day ; But as Freddy was weak, they have trav- elled slow. And so many chances might cause delay, "That I scarcely expected them sooner; and yet I have counted the hours from dark till dawn. And rejoiced to think, when the sun had set, That another wearisome day was gone. 73 COMING HOME. *'And Harry was wounded, the letter said ; Thank Heaven ! it added, the wound is shght. Hark I Hsten I I think I can hear their tread — No, no ; but they surely will come to-night. ''The year, like a tiresome dream, has passed — Twelve months of waiting, and weeping, and pain ; For I thought, when I saw their faces last, That I should not see them alive again. *' But the cars should be in by this time. Hark I Shall I go to meet them, or wait and pray? For the night is fearfully wild and dark — Ah ! some one is coming, at last, this way." Steadily on, through the wind and sleet, Like the tread of men who a burden bore, Came the measured fall of approaching feet Steadily on to the cottage door. And heavily into that cheerful room. With their heads uncovered and faces brown, Strong men came out of the night and the gloom, And laid two white, pine coffins down. And so, to the homestead that love and care Had made so cheerful, and warm, and bright — To the old, fond mother that waited there. Her two boys came from the war that night. Inoianapolis, February, 1863. 74 ^^6erji^NY.^> .OULD God command the Jightning from on YC To speak one word in thunder tones to thee ; To write, wdth lurid finger, on th}- sky, One spirit-stirring sentence, it would be : "Awake, and sleep no more till thou art free !" Then would an echo rise from patriot graves, And Rhine, far-flashing to the deep blue sea, Would murmur, with the voice of many waves ; "Awake, awake to arms I and be no longer slaves." Is there no word, no talisman, to still The bitter feuds that keep thy sons apart? 75 GERMANY. Is there no charm in liberty, to thrill The slumbering pulses of thy mighty heart? Oppressed, enslaved, down-trodden as thou art, Wilt thou in coming ages still remain? Or, with one arm, one heart, one effort start And rend at once the iron links in twain That bind upon thy sons the vassal's galling chain. Where are the children of the men whose frown Made Europe tremulous and pale of yore? The men, who trod the Roman legions down, Defending freedom on the Lippe's shore? Where is the spirit of the host that bore The "Angel's Banner'' o'er the gory sand, Beside Lech's sparkling w^aters, evermore? Has that free spirit left thee, father-land? And must thy sons still wear the bondman's scath- ing brand ? No, thou art 'wakening from thy torpid sleep. And sounds, like gathering waters, murmur by — Sounds of a coming tempest, low and deep ; And soon thine ancient hills and vaulted sky Shall echo back thy children's battle-crj^' I A still, small voice is heard, in solemn tones, Forever whispering, '' Let the tyrants die ! " New life and spirit breathe upon the bones That pillar and support thy blood-cemented thrones. 76 GERMANY. Thy blood-cemented thrones I is it not so ? Were they not built of sinews, blood and tears? Were they not founded deep in human woe? Sustained by human toils and human fears? But, lo I from out the shadow of old years — The deepening shadow of the dreamy past — A form of light and loveliness appears ; Thank Heaven, the soul returns to thee at last, To call thy sons to arms with Freedom's clarion blast. Send forth thy hosts from mountain, stream and glen. From hut and hamlet call the peasant — slave ; Though cowed and trampled on, they still are men ; Let weapons glitter, let thy banners wave. Stamped with the motto, '* Freedom or a grave I " Fight, till the Rhine is red from shore to shore, Red with the life-tide of the true and brave ; Sound, sound the clarion ! let the cannon roar ! Till thou art free again, as in the days of yore. Indianapolis, October 25. 1849. •-^|yio(%^ IsaJ ^x 77 ^if ^H^LIi : WE : Know : aUI^ : Fl^IENDg : IN : Pe^YEN.^^ E can not hear the fall of gentle feet Beyond the river they may cross no more, ^ Nor see familiar faces, angel sweet, ^v^^^-'j^^-^^^^ Through the dim distance, on the other shore. Where are the friends, companions down the years, Who shared our care and labor, gain and loss, Who wept with us, in sorrow, bitter tears, Who knelt beside us at the Savior's cross ? Some were a-weary of the world, and old ; And some had scarcely passed meridian prime; And some were gathered to the blessed fold In all the beauty of life's morning time. 78 OUR FRIENDS IN HEAVEN. A few had climbed the heights not many gain, And battled nobly for the good and true ; Many wrought humbly, on life's common plane. But all accomplished what they came to do. And as we walked together, by the way. They turned and left us — left us, one by one ; Love followed weeping, but they might not stay For all her pleading, when their work was done. Shall we not meet again, or soon, or late? Meet at the entrance to the final goal ? Did the Pale Angel, at the shadowy gate, Undo the tie that bound us, soul to soul? Nay. By the holy instincts of our love — By ever}^ hope humanity holds dear, I trust in God to meet my treasures trove, Tenderly loving, as we parted here. It must be so, if deathless mind retain The noblest attributes that God has given ; Love, hope and memory count but little gain. If what they win on earth be lost in Heaven. And if the human love, that underlies All that is true and good, in man's estate — All that remains to us of paradise, Were lacking there. Heaven would be desolate. 79 OUR FRIENDS IN HEAVEN. Nay. As the rich man knew, on Abraham's breast, The whilom beggar, at his palace gate ; As Saul knew Samuel, when, at God's behest, He came to v/am the monarch of his fate ; As Moses and Eli as, heavenly bright. Were recognized upon the mount sublime, Shall we know our beloved, in the light That lies beyond the shores of death and time. Beech Bank, March, 1876. 80 ^^WpE^TENEMENW-fPeagE/ 't' — i) THREADED my way, through wind and snows One w^inter night, to a tenement row. The place seemed under tlie ban and bhght Of a ghastly spell, that stormy night. Unearthly footsteps seemed to fall In the dismal darkness down the hall. Unearthly v^oices, deep and low, Seemed to whisper a tale of w^oe From reeking angle and rotten stair. As through the foul and fetid air I groped along to the broken door Of a certain room — or, rather, den — Such as some w^ealthy, prosperous men Build, and rent to the homeless poor. The door was ajar, within all dark ; Never an ember, never a spark Glowed or glimmered athwart the gloom That hung, like a pall, in that wretched room. 8 1 6-Q THE TENEMENT HOUSE. But I heard the patter of children's feet, And the sound of voices sad and sweet ; And one — he was onl^^ three years old — Said, ''Tissy, ot makes mamma so told ; Pease et me ake her? " the sweet voice plead, — ** I is so hungy ; I onts some bed — Only ze littlest piece ill do, And Donny ill dive a bite to oo." '* Hush, Johnny, hush," the sister said, ** There is not a single crust of bread. Don't wake poor mamma ; she's sick, you know- So sick and weak that she can not sew. Don't you remember how she cried. When she bade me put the work aside? And how she kissed us when she said, * The Father in Heaven will give us bread.' ''All day long, through the snow and sleet, I've wandered up and down the street ; And, Johnny, I held my freezing hand To crowds of ladies, rich and grand. But they did not hear me, when I said, ' Please give me a penny to buy some bread.' One beautiful lady turned and smiled. But she only said, ' Don't touch me, child." In their splendid clothes, they all swept by, And I was so cold — but I did not cry. O, Johnny, I never begged before ; But I went to-day from door to door, Till my ver^- heart grew faint and weak, And I shivered so I could hardly speak. 82 THE TENEMENT HOUSE. But when I remembered that mamma said, ' The Father in Heaven will give lis bread,' I quite forgot the shame and the pain. And w^ent on asking, and asking in vain. Till I scarce could move my freezing feet. And when they lighted the lamps in the street, I came away, through the mud and the mire. With nothing to eat or to make a fire ; But as I was passing Denny's shop, Some one called out, ' Stop, Katy, stop ! ' And out came little Sammy Dole, And filled my basket with wood and coal. So now we can have a fire, you see. And, O I how nice and warm it will be. And, Johnny, if 3'ou"ll be still and good, I'll tell you Little Red Riding Hood." " No, no ; I is hungy," the wee one said, ''Tant oo dive me a tumb of bed? Dest a tumb? I sink oo tould — And Donny'll go to seep, and be dood." " There is not a crumb of bread — don't cry ; Soon in the morning Sissy will try To get poor mamma a bit of meat. And some nice, white bread for Johnny to eat." By this time the little, cold-blue hands Had heaped together some half-charred brands And kindled a fire. Oh ! surely the light Never revealed a sadder sight Than greeted my eyes that winter night. Walls damp and broken, a window bare, 83 THE TENEMENT HOUSE. A rickety table, a bottomless chair, A floor discolored by soil and stain ; Snow driving in through a missing pane ; Wee, womanly Katy, scarce nine years old, Pinched and shmnken with hunger and cold ; Sw^eet baby Johnny, \^ith dimpled feet. Sobbing, pleading for something to eat ; A tattered bed, where the eye could trace A human form, with a thin, white face — A thin, white face, that had once been fair, Framed in a tangle of light-brown hair ; The sad eyes closed, the lips apart. The pale hands crossed on a quiet heart. Softly Katy approached it now. And pressed a kiss on the marble brow ; Then, with a smothered cr}-, she said : "Johnny, O Johnny ! — mamma is dead ! Speak to me, mamma — one word ! " she cried ; " Oh, speak to Katy !'' No voice replied ; But Johnny crept to the pulseless breast Where his golden head was wont to rest, And, nesding close to the icy form. Said, ** I tan teep sweet mamma orm." But the mother, outworn with the sti*uggle and strife. From the madness and toil of the battle of life, Had silently gone to that beautiful shore Where the rich man hath need of his gold never- more. 84 ^^6eNE.3i«. JUDGE JAMES MORRISON. ;ONE, O my friend ! not for a little space, To sojourn in some pleasant foreign land, IcS^^^e Whence we may hope to see again thy face. To clasp again thy hand. Ah, no ! The yule-fire on thy hearth may burn ; Friends meet around thy table, as of yore ; But they will watch and wait for thy return To the old home no more. Thy trees and garden bowers will bud and bloom ; Summer will bring the song of bird and bee, Soft lights and shadows, blossoms and per- fume. But ne\crmore for thee. 8s GONE. Gone, and the world is poorer by the loss Of one high, generous heart and noble mind, Tried as by fire, and purified from dross As fine gold is refined. O earnest worker ! true in word and deed. Through all the years that God appointed thee, Sowing in field and fallow precious seed, For harvests yet to be ; Walking through storm and sun, in faith sublime, By the still waters, by the arid waste. Leaving no track upon the shore of Time That we could wish eflaced ; Thy path grew brighter to the perfect day, Thy death triumphant crowned a life complete— A life whose light revcaU-d \he better way To our uncertain feet. We sorrow not for thee, O ransomed soul ! But for our lives, so lonely, so bereft — Not for the victor crowned within the goal. But for the void he left. Yet, looking through the shadows cold and gray, By Faith we see the ^lory thou hast won; Hold up our cMiiptN hands to Heaven and say, ** Father. 11iy will hr done." 86 GONE. We shall not stay behind thee long, dear friend, For every dawning day and closing night Our road hath fewer mile-stones, and the end Lies just beyond our sight. Soon we shall finish what we find to do, Soon our last hour shall toll its parting knell. Till then, O friend, long tried and ever true, Farewell ! farewell I farewell ! Elm-Croft, April, 1869. 87 ->^ ^ifTo :"0ai^ : TeTIE."-?:^ IE, in that far countiy where thou art, Thou canst not hear thy mother's cease- less moan ; hou canst not know the yearning of her heart, Nor see how desolate her path has grown. 'Tis better thus. I would not grieve thee now. Nor dare to murmur at our Father's will. But come and lay thy white hand on my brow, And whisper, ** Mother, Tetie loves thee still." Come, darling, come. 88 OUR TETIE. Together, long ago, we went life's way — A glad young mother and a fair-haired child ; I taught thy feet to walk, th}- lips to pray, And thy sweet prattle all my hours beguiled. And so we went together down the years, Noting time only when we were apart ; Sharing each other's joys, each other's tears ; Living and loving with one mind and heart In our old home. Thy feet grew w^eary ere life's morning sun Exhaled the dewdrops from its opening flowers ; Before its noon thy little day w^as done ; The gain was thine — the loss, the anguish ours. But while stem duties urge my footsteps on, And lonely, weary days their cares repeat, Immortal Hope stands pointing to the dawn Of that to-morrow when our souls shall meet On some bright plain. Sometimes I seem to hear thy baby feet Making the old, sweet music on the floor, Or turn, in glad expectancy, to greet Thy face, like sunshine stealing through the door. Alas ! that face is cold and silent now ; On the pale lips there is no life, no breath ; White blossoms, wreathed around thy marble brow. Crown thee, O m}- fair child I the bride of death. Ah ! bitter pain. 89 OUR TETIE. I call thee by the pet name, fond and dear, That bore such tender meaning to thy heart : Even this voice of love thou canst not hear. In such short time are we so far apart? Is it a long, long way to thy new home Beyond the skies, the stars, the worlds we see? Then rest thee, darling, if thou canst not come ; Through all that distance I will go to thee. Wait, Tctie, wait, Wait for me ; I am coming, coming fast ; Each fleeting moment bears me on my way ; These trembling pulses soon will beat their last ; Nor would I ask of Heaven an hour's delay. Come down and meet me on the other shore ; I will be with thee soon, by God's good grace ;. And when the struggle and the strife are o'er. Give me thy hand, take me to thine embrace. Wait, darling, wait. 90 -~^h -s ^2|•0]V[IIY♦^;'I^W0p^N.*^ 'NLY a woman, the live night long, Beating the air with her wasted hands, And telling a story of cruel wrong, That nobody heeds or understands. Jjj Only a woman, without a friend To soothe her sorrow for friendship's sake — Whom few will pity, and none defend ; What matter, then, if her heart should break ? There is nothing new in her w^oe and wail ; There is nothing strange in her bitter tears ; And the tale she tells is an old, old tale. The world has heard for a thousand years. 9^ ONLY A WOMAN. Only a woman, with wild, blue e3'es, Looking for something beyond her sight, And saying from dawn till daylight dies : '' He will come — he will sm-ely come to-night." He promised to wed her — the day \^ as set, And the trousseau laid on the bridal bed, But the day is past — did he forget The appointed time? Is he ill, or dead? Nay, he is away over land and sea, From the love he won, and the wreck he left He has not forgotten — but what cares he For a broken vow, to a mined weft? True, she was happ}- and well to do. In her humble home and honest fame, Till the luckless da}- he came to woo The love that cankered to sin and shame. But he is Patrician — born and bred In the regal purple of wealth and place ; It was only his right he thought, and said, "To kiss the bloom from a fair, sweet face." Was his the fault that she loved too well ? Was he to blame for her foolish trust? The record they kcvp in Heaven will tell ; And the day \\\\\ conn-, lor God is just. 92 ONLY A WOMAN. He moves serene in his orbit now With his ways and words so sweet and bland- No visible mark on his lofty brow, No stain of blood on his soft, white hand. Does he ever think of the idyl, read That summer time, in a fairy bower? Does he ever regret the careless tread. That crushed the heart of a wayside flower? No matter — the ^-ears will come and go ; Her heart will bleed and her eyes grow dim ; And, although "the mills of God grind slow,'^ They are grinding a fearful grist for him. Beech Bank, March 7, 1874. 93 -II-60IN6 -Down -THE :Piiiii.3i«" JOURNEY slowly down the hill, Whereon the sunshine lingers still — As one who goes against his will. The vale below is dark and cold, And fraught with mysteries untold. Concealed beneath the green-grown mold. The sluggish air is never stirred B}^ hum of bee or trill of bird. Or human voice, in song or word. The world goes on, or foul or fair, But brings of all its joy and care No tidings to the sleepers there. 94 GOING DOWN THE HILL. They make no moan, they shed no tears, They have no aims, no hopes, no fears. No memory of the by-gone years. They have no Hght of sun or moon ; No morning, eventide or noon ; No need of scrip or sandal-shoon. Therefore, I journey down the hill. Toward the valley, dark and still, As one who goes against his will. Faith says : O mortal ! cease thy wail, And look beyond the shadowy vale. Where lie the sleepers cold and pale. Beyond the realm of death and night — Beyond thy feeble human sight, There is a world of life and light. The blessed dead, whom men deplore. Are living on that radiant shore — They only left the robes the}^ wore. '' He who believes on me," He said, Whose precious blood for man was shed, " Shall live again, though he were dead." *' O Faith I " I cried, *' though thou canst see The glories of the life to be, Death stands between its light and me." Indianapolis, March 12, 1874. 95 C? A ^jf^E-fPE^TIIiENOE.JH- |RIME minister of Death ! mysterious, dread ! We can not see thy haggard form and face, We do not feel thy breath, nor hear thy tread, " Nor know the secrets of thy dwelling place. We tremble at thy name, and weeping, trace Thy footsteps by the victims left behind ; Yet, have no power to stay thee in thy race. As well might puny mortals hope to bind The lightning's flaming wing, or chain the wandering wind. By many a hearth, where light to joy were shed From sunny eyes and young hearts glad and free, 96 THE PESTILENCE. The last, lone mourner watches by her dead. Spirit of outer darkness ! can it be That human woe and wail delighteth thee? Art pleased to see the burning tear-drops start ; To wring the changes on pale agony, And rend the fondest ties of love apart? Ah, foulest fiend of hell, how pitiless thou art I Grave-digger of the nations ! though thy power Baffles our human knowledge, yet we know Though hast all lands, all oceans for thy dower. Youth, hoary age, fair childhood, friend and foe, Beauty and bravery, feel alike the blow They have no strength to ward, no time to shun. The shriek of anguish and the wail of woe, From tropic climes, where first thy work begun, Will follow thy drear path till time's last setting sun. Hovel and homestead, hut and lordly dome Are thine, all thine, if human hearts are there. Wan twilight finds thee in the quiet home. Moving unseen amidst the young and fair. Bright morning sees the anguish, the despair Of dear ones parting — some from all the fears And hopes of life ; some to live on and bear All bitter memories and burning tears. And loneliness of heart, through many weary years. The land is desolate that thou hast sown With death and sorrow, ruin and decay. 97 b-i THE PESTILENCE. The air of heaven is sick with grief and moan, Where thy grim shadow hides the light of day. Surely the Lord, our God, wall bid thee stay. From East to West, men joined in Christian bands, With one accord, for this devoutly pray. And all the noblest, best of many lands. Stretch to the suffering South well-filled and generous hands. Our minds are all too finite to conceive And comprehend God's purpose and intent, But we can trust His goodness and believe That he permitted thee in mercy meant To teach rebellious nations to repent ; And w^hen life reaps the harvest death has sown, When the full measure of time's years is spent, And all the secrets of God's love made knownn, Thy mission will be read before the eternal throne. Indianapolis, September, 1878. ^^' 98 ^l|*TpE^D0CT3R'g-f^T0^Y.$<- dead of night, I was called from bed To a place where sin had made its lair; The hastv messenorer only said : "A woman is dying there." A dance house down in a dismal row, Haunted and kept by the low and yile. Where the free winds neyer come and go, Nor a sunbeam deigns to smile. To the blare of music, rose and fell The mirth of the dancers, wild and loud. And the air was yexed as the smoke of hell Went up from that reeling crowd. I followed my guide from stair to stair. Where blood-stained hands had left their trace, And night lamps burned with a ghastly- glare. In the gloom of the haunted place. 99 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. '*That is the room, sir," he curtly said, *' Where the woman lies ; you may hear her moan." And I found her there, on a wretched bed, Gasping for breath and alone. A delicate woman, still young and fair. Ruined and wrecked on the world's cold strand, With a queenly brow, long golden hair, And a dainty, dimpled hand. •/ Her cheeks were stained with a hectic glow. Her eyes aflame with a strange, wild light ; * Doctor,' she said, * I am very low ; Do you think I shall die to-night ?' **Ah, yes," she added, *'you come too late; My desolate life is ebbing fast ; I have drained the dregs of a cruel fate, But the horror will soon be past. " I was not always the loathsome thing That good men pity and women shun ; My life was bright in its hopeful spring — Too bright for the goal it won. ** IVe sown the whirlwind, and garnered tears, I have stained my path with, sin and crime ; And, to me it socins a thousand years Since the da)'s of a better time. lOO THE DOCTOR'S STORY. *' When or whence the betrayer came, It matters little, nor need I tell Of his high position and sounding name ; 'Tis enough that I loved him well. *' Loved — nay, worshipped the ground he trod, And, never waiting to count the cost. Followed my idol, forgetting God, And worshipped till all was lost. *' He left me degraded, friendless, poor. Blighted, and banned without and within ; I dared not enter a good man's door. And was lost in a den of sin . *' I tried to bury remorse and shame ; But, under the mask of my soul's disguise, Still felt the unquenchable fire and flame 0{ the w^orm that never dies. I ** Loathing, abhorring the life I led. My every smile was a heartless lie ; But the world refused me honest bread, And, alas, I could not die. ** But once I stood in the driving snow. Famished and faint, on a winter night, And looked through a window, all aglow, Into a boudoir warm and bright. lOI THE DOCTOR^S STORY. **And there, at home, with his child and wife. In 'broidered slippers and velvet gown, Was the man that blighted my heart and life. And cast me adrift on the town. ** Many a time, in my guilt and pain, As the bitter years of life went by,. I said, ' If ever we meet again. The coward, betrayer, shall die.' " And there, alone with my aching heart, A homeless waif, on the cold, bleak street, I said, ' O perjured, though long apart. We have met, and revenge is sweet.' ** I raised my hand with a steady aim. But, O thank Heaven, ere the bullet sped, A better thought to the rescue came — Dizzy and blind, I turned and fled. ** Fled from the sight of that splendid room, With its wealth and warmth and golden light. Through the bitter storm and starless gloom, To the pitiless heart of night. •** Fainting, I fell on the frozen ground. And awhile forgot all pain and strife. But a watchman found me on his round. And tortured me back to life., I02 THE DOCTORS STORY. ** O, the rest of that dreamless sleep To my bleeding heart and burning brain ; To the eyes that only wake to weep — Will it ever come again?" I answered: "Yes, there is rest alway For the penitent soul at Mercy's door ; The Savior of sinners says, to-day, To the guilty, 'Go and sin no more.' " *' Alas," she murmured, " I dare not pray ; My doom is written ; it is too late ! O, that my soul could steal away. And hide from God and human hate." At length she slept ; and I w^ent my way From the loathsome place, in the dreary dawn, By the drunken gamblers, still at play, And the dancers reeling on. The world went 'round, with its throbs and throes. Its pride of place and its greed of gold. Till I had forgotten that sick girl's woes. And the stor}^ her white lips told. And then, by chance, I met' her again. In a home where peace and love abide ; Clothed and redeemed from her guilt and stain, By the blood of the Crucified. 103 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. There, saved in the Blessed Shepherd's fold, Counting all earthl}^ gain but loss ; Like Mary, the Magdelen of old. She wept by the Savior's cross. %. " Thank God," I said, '' that we may bring To Him, the harvest love has crowned. And join the anthem angels sing. In heaven, when the lost is found." 104 ^^^N*^J^0aR^IN*^JlII^.'^C0^'?^^TODI0. jH^"" J^ I dreaiy day in winter, when the wind with cold was crying; When the Frost King, from his palace, rode adown the crisped air ; When the drifted snow in hillocks on the frozen ground was lying, And the maples and the beaches stood shi\'ering brown and bare ; In the great heart of the city, walled about with brick and mortar, I found a bower of beauty where stern winter was denied ; And from all life's fret and worry gave my soul an hour to loiter. And away she gayly flitted, taking Fancy for her guide. 105 AN HOUR IN MR. COX'S STUDIO. Aye, away by blooming hedges, and green meadows starred with daisies ; By granite cliffs, where lichens hung their crimson ban- ners gay ; By shadowy dells and dingles, floored with mosses, hung with hazes, Where the fragrant water lilies bathe their faces in bright spray. Then, through woodland paths and bridges, to a cottage quaint and cosy. Embowered in odorous eglantine, from rustic porch to eaves ; By fields where youths and maidens, with bright faces round and rosy, Raked the hay with merr}' singing, or bound the golden sheaves. Thence she wandered down broad valleys, to the feet of snow-capp'd mountains ; Rested in the cool, green shadows of gigantic forest trees; Sailed along bright, winding rivers, caught the sparkle of glad fountains. And saw the sunset-crimson burn along the summer seas. Then away to classic Rhineland, to a i*uin grand and hoary, Where sculptured frieze and peristyle met their myste- rious fate ; io6 AN HOUR IN MR. COX'S STUDIO. Where mouldering aisles and arches whisper many a stirring story, Of knightly men and women fair, pomp, pageantry and state. Vines and many-colored grasses trailed bright leaves and blossoms tender, Along its broken arches, ruined wall and colonnade, And instead of princes, courtiers, coming, going in their splendor, A few poor peasants rested with their flocks beneath its shade. And my truant soul, forgetting all the lore of sterner duty — All the past, and all the future, in her dreaming wan- dered on ; Wandered on, enrapt, enchanted, in this new-found w^orld of beauty. Till common cares recalled her, when the little hour w^as gone. And, although her wings w^ere folded, she was richer, w^iser, better. And stronger for life's pathway, through the frost and through the snow ; And whatever may befall her, till she breaks life's mortal fetter, She will not forget that journey in the artist's studio. iNDIANAPOl.iS, JlNE, j868. ^^- •|^^^IiP-fli^]V[D.$<- STOOD upon the Wengern Alp and dreamed, One starry midnight in the autumn time, Till, soul and sense entranced, I saw, or seemed To see, a new, strange world, before the grime Of age had dimmed the wonder of its prime : Snows, glaciers, Alps, around, above, be- neath — Strength, beauty, grander, awful and sub- lime, Where never human footstep, human breath, Disturbed the rule and reign of everJasting death. 3o8 ALP-LAND. There was old Schreckhorn, with his hoary brow, The white-cowled Monk, great Eigher, seamed with scars, And, loftiest of all, the pure Jungfrau, Like a veiled vestal crowned with burning stars . By the high walls of heaven ; shining bars Of golden moonlight bound her zone, and where Clouds floated idly in their pale simars, Her gorgeous robe, like ermine rich and rare, Fell in colossal folds adown the purple air. In the unfathomed caverns, far below. The wandering winds sung anthems wild and sweet, x\nd torrents, new-born of the virgin snow. Mingled their many voices, like the beat Of mighty pulses, or the fall of feet That found no rest. Anon the avalanche, riven From its high home, fell thundering, far and fleet, Like some rebellious host that God had driven Down, down to the abyss, from the far fields of Heaven. Again, and nearer, that deep, fearful sound Lifted its clamor to the vaulted sky. Hissed in the air and groaned along the ground. Waking ten thousand echoes in reply. The roar of cannon, rattling musketry. Seemed blended and repeated, o'er and o'er, From hidden fosse and cloud-capped battery ; As if the Titans, mighty as of yore. Did battle with the gods on the invisible shore. 109 ALP-LAND. And so the hours wore on, and stole awa}^ The silver starlight from the brow of night ; A sudden shining heralded the day, And the pale Alps blushed in the dawning light. A crimson curtain fringed with pearly white. Slowly above the gray horizon rose, Slowly the slopes and frozen seas grew bright, But day was drraving midway to its close Ere the great sun climbed up to that lone land of snows. He scaled the eternal ramparts, length by length — O'er bastion, parapet and tower he came, Like a bold warrior, glorious in his strength, With a red banner and a crown of flame. He looked upon the snows, and they became Inlaid with diamonds, dazzling human eyes With a great glor}- that no tongue can name ; As though some angel, passing in the skies, Had opened suddenly the gates of Paradise, Eternal Alps ! in your sublime abode The soul goes forth untrammeled, and apart From little self, expands and learns of God. There it forgets awhile the busy mart Where strength, heart, life, are coined with cunning art To common currency : forgets the strife For gold, place, power and fame — the bitter smart Of disappointment, pain and sorrow rife, Where poor humanity walks in the paths of life. no ALP-LAND. Ye are unsullied by the serpent's trail Of sin and death, with all their weary woes, And ye do minister within the veil Of an eternity that never knows The changes of decay. Time overthrows Man's proudest glory, but his hand has striven In vain to mar your beauty. As ye rose When form and light to the young earth were given, Ye stand with your white brows by the closed gates of heaven. Indianapolis, 1863. ril @ J^ v^ Te^P^^Y.W ;ARY, it is many a day since we sat together On the lawn of '' While- A way," in the Autumn weather. Oaks were putting crimson on down the forest reaches, Maples wore a golden zone, russet-brown the beeches. Mists above the river hung ; clouds went trailing slower ; Meadow streamlets sighed and sung sadder songs and lower. Daffodils were dead and gone — gone the odorous gillies ; Frost had set his signet on the roses and the lilies. oMiss Mary E. Smith, New Albany 112 TO MARY. Mignonette and heliotrope, half their bloom departed, Blessed the air, as Faith and Hope bless the weary- hearted. Day was crowned with purple light, eve with shadows tender. And the full moon rose at night in a crimson splendor. Summer's silver-throated guests to the Southland hying, Left behind their empty nests where the winds were sighing. Katydids, all summer dumb, 'plained their story over ; Dusky bees, with drowsy hum, droned among the clover. Leaves kept dropping, all day long, from the trees that bore them. Driven by the winds that sung May-day songs before them. //. Now the gentle spring has come, from the tropic bowers. With her fragrance, beauty, bloom, sunshine, song and showers. Decorating shrub and tree, weaving flowers and grasses Into bright embroider}- wheresoe'er she passes. Bird and bee the livelong day, full of life and pleasure, Thank the Lord, as well they may, in a merry measure. 113 6-8 TO MARY. Hawthorns flaunt in robes of snow, in tassels green the larches, Red-buds kindle up a glow in the wildwood arches. Buckeyes starred with paly gold, willows pranked with fringes ; Aspens trembling to uphold leaves with silver tinges. Wavelets dancing on their way, tremulous with laughter. Tossing wreathes of diamond spray to those coming after. Softly sinks the setting sun, wrapped in golden hazes ; Merrily the south winds mn, kissing all the daisies. Seven months have gone their ways, with their cares and sorrows — With their weary yesterdays, and their bright to-morrows. O, what were their gifts to thee, gentle-hearted maiden? Have they left thee fancy-free, or spellbound in love's • Aidenn? Have they left thee free from scath, happy as they found thee— Morning's sunshine on thy path, Hope's fair rainbow round thee? Treading perfume from the flowers, weaving grand romances, Winging all the voiceless hours with delicious fancies? 114 TO MARY. Time is kind to such as thou, touching with Hght fingers Rosy lips and sunny brow, smiling while he lingers. May thy path be ever bright, bright the sky above thee ; May Heaven bless thee day and night, and all its angels love thee. 115 ^^^EYE]VW-f0]V[E.3l€<- dead of night, on a haunted height, Wierd spirits sung, *'Time is old and Time is young." Naiads and Undines, fresh and fair. With bright sea-pearls in their golden hair ; Gnomes and Satyrs, grim and gray. Brownies wrinkled and Fairies gay, All together in chorus sung ; '' Time is old and Time is young I " Till arch and aisle in Cloudland rung : "Time is old and Time is young ! " Then all the brazen bells below Went reeling, rollicking to and fro. And every one, with its iron tongue. Said or sung : ** Time is old and Time is young I Young, young, young, young. Time is old and Time is young !" Tl6 SEVENTY-ONE. And the new-born year, on pinions light, Flitted over the shores of night ; Ov^er the dreary Arctic land, Over the tropics bright and bland. Over the mountains, over the sea, Swift as a meteor's flash went he — Lightly touching all earthly things With the viewless tips of his mystic wings. But all the life in his heart congealed, His sight grew dim and his sensed reeled, When he came to a new-fought battlefield. The waves of a river ran blood-red, And the ground was covered with ghastly dead, Lying in heaps where they fought and fell, Mangled and torn by shot and shell. In the fire and hail of the battle's hell. Here was a tnmk with a bleeding heart, Trampled down in the seething sod ; There a head with the lips apart, As the dying groan went up to the throne Of a pitying God. Here was a foot with a silver spur. And there on the sand a milk-white hand With the troth-plight ring of a lady dear. Alas I for the pain, so bitter and vain. Of her who will clasp it never again. Alas, and alas, for her I *' What horror is this ?" asked the startled year Of a soldier digging a grave-trench near. " Only a sortie," the soldier said ; ''They left us, you see, to bury the dead." 117 SEVENTY-ONE. *' But what is the cause of this terrible war? What are the nations fighting for?" Dropping his pickaxe, after a pause, The man repHed : '' Well, as to the cause, It was, I think, some offensive thing The Emperor said to our Pmssian king." Then lighting his pipe and singing a stave. He picked away at the long, deep grave. *' Small cause for all this terrible strife. This waste of treasure and this waste of life," Mused Seventy-one. ** Small cause for woe, and wail, and tears. And blighted lands for scores of years ; For all the suffering and despair That human hearts can feel and bear Beneath the sun. But 'whether the cause be foul or just. This strain and struggle may rend apart The fetters and chains that rankle and rust To the core of the Old World's heart. No matter what crowns are won or lost. The fire and flame of the holocaust May bring a nobler birth — May hasten the time when czars and kings, Kaisers and princes, and all such things. Shall find no place on the earth." Elm-Croft, January, 1871. 118 120 ^IlEFT V8N :TPE vB^T5^l£EFIEIiD.> ;HAT : Was it a dream? Am I all alone In thedrear^^ night and the drizzling rain? Hist I — ah, it was only the river's moan ; They have left me behind, with the mangled slain. f Yes, now I remember it all too well I We met from the battling ranks apart ; Together our weapons flashed and fell, And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart. In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done. It was all too dark to see his face ; But I heard his death-groans, one by one, And he holds me still in a cold embrace. 121 LEFT ON THE BATTLEFIELD. He spoke but once, and I could not hear The words he said for the cannon's roar ; But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear : O God ! I had heard that voice before I Had heard it before at our mother's knee, When we lisped the words of our evening prayer ! My brother ! — would I had died for thee ! This burden is more than my soul can bear ! I pressed m}^ lips to his death-cold cheek. And begged him to show me, by word or sign. That he knew and forgave me. He could not speak, But he nestled his poor, cold face to mine. The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, And then for awhile I forgot my pain, And over the lakelet we seemed to glide In our little boat, two boys again. And then, in my dream, we stood alone On a forest path, where the shadows fell ; And I heard again the tremulous tone And the tender words of his last farewell. But that parting was years, long years ago : He wandered away to a foreign land. And our dear old mother will never know That he died to-night by his brother's hand. 122 LEFT ON THE BATTLEFIELD. The soldiers, who buried the dead away, Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, But laid them to sleep till the judgment day, Heart folded to heart, and face to face. » Indianapolis 1863. 123 ^^3p^IN6.31«^ ^HE young queen is coming, With piping and drumming, Is coming this way in her kingdom again ; With laughter and singing. And fair}'' bells ringing, And all the gay courtiers that follow her train. The lowlands and highlands, The sea-coasts and islands Are donning their jewels and mantles of green ; And bright waters meeting. Advancing, retreating. Are gladly repeating, "All hail to the queen ! '' 124 SPRING. . The blue sky is smiling. The warm sun beguiling The spirit of life from the chambers of gloom ; And timid young flowers, In hedges and bowers, Respond to his kisses with fragrance and bloom. Wee, brown buds peep over Their winter-time cover, To find themselves wrapt in a soft, golden sheen. And tenderly flushing. Unfolding and blushing. Lay all their sweet wealth at the feet of the queen. Bright cloudlets are sailing. Like fairy boats trailing White banners, afar, over woodland and wold ; While sunshine and shadow. On hillside and meadow. Are making mosaics, in purple and gold. Sweet south winds are straying. Like children a-Maying, Where wild reeds and rushes are waving their plumes. And gleanmg from edges Of streamlets and sedges, From thickets and ledges, a thousand perfumes. 1^5 SPRING. The ring-dove is cooing, The red robin wooing, Or building his nest with- a business-like mein ; Araignee beginning, Her summer-long spinning, And myriads of voices proclaiming the queen. April, 1876. 126 ^if- ^ JiIrs. vf^;^r(Y vfiil^ne^FinvFiiEJFcpEi^, i^ TO THOSE WHO LOVED HER. .— ^^=*3-g^i-. MOOTH the bands of her silken hair, On her queenly brow with tender care ; Gather the robe in a final fold Around the form that will not grow old ; Lay on her bosom, pure as snow, The fairest, sweetest flowers that blow. Kiss her and leave her, your heart's delight In dreamless peace she will sleep to-night. A shadowy gleam of life-light lies Around the lids of her slumberous eyes, And her lips are closed as in fond delay Of the loving words she had to say ; But her gentle heart forgets to beat, And from dainty head to dainty feet She is strangely quiet, cold and white ; The fever is gone — she will sleep to-night. :.?>7 MRS. MARY MALOTT FLETCHER. Put by her work and her empty chair ; Fold up the garments she used to wear ; Let down the curtains and close the door, She will need the garish light no more ; For the task assigned her under the sun Is finished now, and the guerdon won. Tenderly kiss her, put out the light, And leave her alone — she will sleep to-night. O, blessed sleep ! that will not break For tears, nor prayers, nor for love's sweet sake ; O, perfect rest ! that knows no pain, No throb, no thrill of heart or brain ; O, life sublime beyond all speech. That only the pure through dying reach I God understands and His ways are right ; Bid His beloved a long good-night. Weep for the days that will come no more, For the sunbeam flown from hearth and door, For a missing step, for* the nameless grace Of a tender voice and a loving face ; But not for the soul whose goal is won, Whose infinite joy is just begun — Not for the spirit enrobed in light, And crowned where the angels are to-night. Bbkch Bank, September, 1876. 128 7/ ^ w &^\v - ^^De^D.4:- }E is dead — so men said, fe^ . ri^TH J) ^^^ they bore him away from the sun, from the da}^ To his chamber of rest — To his chamber of darkness and rest By the shadow that Hes on his hps, on his eyes ; By the pallor and chill of his hands clasped and still, They knew he was dead. But the soul, the quick soul, That could move and control The inanimate clay that they buried away — The Promethian fire that did reach and aspire To a something beyond, something holier and higher, Has gone up to its goal — To the beauty and joy of its goal. 1 29 d-9 DEAD. It is free ; it has gone Through the paths of the night, through the gates of the dawn To a kingdom and crown, From poverty, moil, disappointment and toil To wealth and renown, From the dust, from the mold, from darkness and cold, To put on a king's raiment of purple and gold, To inherit a crown. The demon Despair, and the vulture called Care, Though they tortured him here, can not follow him there ; He is safe by the throne. And never again Can a pang or a pain wring from sick heart or brain Sigh or moan. He is safe by the throne. Ah ! how littie he deems this poor life, with its dreams, Its laughter, its crying, ambitions and schemes, The phantoms that lured it, the tempest that tost, The guerdons it won, or the prizes it lost. As he stands with his peers, Blood-washed from all stain, blood-redeemed from all tears, In the fullness of life never measured by years O fair, O sublime Lies the land far away, beyond Death, beyond Time, To which he has gone. Human feet never trod 130 DEAD. The bright paths where he walks with the angels of God. Human heart never dreams of the glory that beams From the crystalline throne, Over valleys and streams, Where he walks with the angels of God. Canton, April, 1866. 131 ^^T^IiE-faE^Cp^PGUNI/ RANDMA, I have hung up the curtains. And tacked the new carpet down, Made fruit cake white as a snow-drift, Sweet crullers and crumpets brown — Enough, at least, for the Christmas feast. When the dear ones come from town. There's golden cream in the pantry, And a score of tarts and pies, And every limb of the Christmas tree Is hung with a tempting prize ; I can almost see the joy and glee In the happy children's eyes. Now, grandma, tell me a story — A stoiy, weird and wild, Of the olden days when you were young, 132 A TALE OF CHAMOUNI. And mother a little child, With her voice so low and her face aglow, So angel-sweet and mild. <