THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 FROM AN ORIGINAL PAINTINO BY THB LATB JNO B. BLAIR. NOW IN POSSESSION OF E MARSH 
 
 "Hurled as many deadly arrows deep 
 beneath the monsters' winjis." 
 
 [Page 7-j
 
 POEMS OF THE PIASA 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK C. RIEHL 
 
 ALTON, ILL. 
 
 MELLING & GASKINS, PUBLISHERS 
 1896
 
 COPYRIGHT 1896, 
 
 BY 
 FRANK C. RIEHL. 
 
 M FILLING & OASKINS. 
 
 PRINTERS AND BINDBRS
 
 -PS 
 
 llnto ma mother anb mu, totfe, 
 
 urin fyearts of tDomankinb, 
 3n tt^at ttjeg t)aoe bclteoeb in me, 
 
 Qnb nencr fatleb to finb 
 Some points of merit in mg roork: 
 
 IDttl} fercencij tmbtbeb 
 3n mutual gratitube anb looe, 
 
 (Ellis pohime is tnscribeb. 
 
 762885
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 this little venture into the field of modern 
 literature, appealing to the generosity of the 
 public in general, and of his friends in particular, 
 the author has only to say that it is issued 
 under the advice and at the earnest solicitation 
 of a few persons who believed that the poems 
 contained therein are of sufficient merit to deserve 
 to live, and to have a wider circulation than that 
 afforded by a single publication in the local 
 papers or current magazines. 
 
 Of his own thought toward the work, he 
 cannot give better expression than by quoting the 
 following crude lines, which he wrote when a boy 
 of 20 years: 
 
 O, could I but command the words 
 
 With which to give my feelings wing, 
 
 I'd sing as blithely as the birds 
 Of every fair and noble thing ; 
 
 Of all that glads the human soul, 
 
 And makes life better, I would sing.
 
 I'd sing of friendship, fair and bright, 
 Of wayward souls by love redeemed ; 
 
 Of countless themes whereon the light 
 Of poets' lamp hath never beamed, 
 
 If only I could write the songs 
 
 Which, musing, I have often dreamed. 
 
 But no, I never can command 
 
 The words to set my feelings free; 
 
 Stern Fate, with her resistless hand, 
 Is constantly restraining me, 
 
 And I can never be the half 
 
 Of what I fain would wish to be. 
 
 Yet is there many a tender strain 
 
 That ne'er escaped the warbler's tongue; 
 
 There's many a harp of finest grain 
 That ever must remain unstrung, 
 
 And many a vision haunts the brain 
 Of poets, that shall ne'er be sung. 
 
 A boundless gulf must aye remain 
 
 Between the longed-for and the real ; 
 
 Earth's feathered songsters strive in vain 
 To warble forth the joy they feel; 
 
 And every song the poet sings 
 Is but the shade of his ideal. 
 
 And I will bid my muse sing on, 
 
 Although 'tis but a simple strain ; 
 
 Content if, when my life is done, 
 
 And I have left this world of pain, 
 
 Some fond soul, pausiiig at my grave, 
 
 Shall say: "He has not lived in vain."
 
 The poems of Indian legend are given 
 prominent place because they are deemed to be 
 somewhat novel in themselves, and to possess a 
 peculiar local interest in the vicinity of the birth 
 place of the writer. 
 
 The other selections are made from many 
 hundreds of poems, all of which, presented at one 
 reading, might prove an overplus that would pall 
 upon the taste of the kindly disposed and aesthetic 
 patron. 
 
 Cordially yours, 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 INDIAN LAYS AND LEGENDS. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE PIASA i 
 
 SONG OF THE SETTING SUN 9 
 
 THE LEGEND OF LOVER'S LEAP 13 
 
 OUATOGA 20 
 
 THE WARRIOR'S LAMENT ." 21 
 
 THE CROSSING OF THE Sioux 26 
 
 ILLIOLA'S PENANCE 31 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF SITTING BULL 37 
 
 RlCHARDVILLE 38 
 
 A DUEL ON THE PLAINS 47 
 
 PAWNADAWA'S VENGEANCE 50 
 
 PASSING OF THE MONARCH 63 
 
 'PILOT'S GUIDE" 65 
 
 VERSES ON VARIOUS THEMES. 
 
 THE FOIL OF FATE 73 
 
 THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN 77 
 
 PEARLS OF POESY , 79 
 
 'MiD SCENES OF YOUTH 80 
 
 A LESSON FOR LENT 82 
 
 CHRISTIAN WOMANHOOD 83 
 
 Bv THE RIVER 85
 
 THE SILVER WEDDING 88 
 
 THE Two ANGLERS 91 
 
 MAMMA'S VALENTINES ,. 93 
 
 THE NOBLER CREED 94 
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 96 
 
 CONVALESCENCE 97 
 
 BLIGHTED 99 
 
 THE COMING OF THE BRIDE 101 
 
 THE SCHOOL-HOUSE ON THE HILL 104 
 
 GLAD EASTER TIME 107 
 
 A CAMPSIDE REVERIE 109 
 
 THE FISH WE FAILED TO LAND in 
 
 THE HUNTSMAN 113 
 
 NOT IN THE PAST 115 
 
 MONOTONE 116 
 
 THE IMAGE BREAKER 117 
 
 To A TREE FROG 118 
 
 THE LESSON OF COLUMBUS 119 
 
 BALLAD OF THE BRAVE 121 
 
 ONCE MORE WITH REJOICING 123 
 
 LIFE'S RURAL WAV 125 
 
 LIKE AS A STAR 127 
 
 WHAT MIGHT NOT BE 129 
 
 HEROES UNREVEALED 130 
 
 IN THE OLD PRISON CEMETERY 131 
 
 A WORD 133 
 
 THE SUBMERGED CITY 134 
 
 A THRENODY OF TEARS 135 
 
 A SONG OF LABOR DAY 137 
 
 DEFERRED 139 
 
 SING WE OF LOVE 141 
 
 THE SILENT SENTINEL 143
 
 THE Music OF THE WHEEL 144 
 
 HYPOCRISY 145 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BRAINS 146 
 
 IN AFTER YEARS 148 
 
 WHEN THE HOUSEWIFE is AWAY 150 
 
 A WINTER'S STORM 151 
 
 IF Wu WERE YOUNG AGAIN 152 
 
 THE ROSE 154 
 
 SEPTEMBER SYMPHONIES 156 
 
 THE FAIREST SCENE 157 
 
 PILGRIM'S PRAYER 158 
 
 IN LATE OCTOBER 160 
 
 A PICTURE 162 
 
 A PLAINT OF THE ANCIENT GREEK 163 
 
 THE POET AND His SONG 165 
 
 APPENDIX. . . . 168
 
 Indian Lays and Legends
 
 SONG OF THE SETTING SUN. 
 
 AA7HILE the sunset glories linger 
 VV Or^the cloud-hills of the West, 
 The anmelia's tell-tale finger 
 
 Pointing out each rugged crest, 
 Let us rest here by the river, 
 
 Where the twilight shadows creep, 
 As of old, with bow and quiver, 
 
 Stole the warrior up the steep. 
 
 Now the day's reflected glories 
 
 Their soft colorings impart: 
 As the wit of well -told stories 
 
 Leaves their impress on the heart. 
 Truly 'tis a charmed surrounding, 
 
 And the very stones we cast, 
 On the rugged bluffs rebounding, 
 
 Echo the forgotten past,
 
 Till fond fancy, backward fleeting, 
 
 Paints a picture of the time 
 When each sun these regions greeting 
 
 Marked the Indian in his prime: 
 When, his title undisputed, 
 
 He was lord of all he saw, 
 And his valor, widely bruited, 
 
 Held all rival tribes in awe: 
 
 When his pointed arrow speeding 
 Faster than the winds are fleet, 
 
 Brought the luckless quarry bleeding 
 Down within its dark retreat: 
 
 While the women, ne'er contending, 
 
 Worked until each task was done, 
 . , ,, th. tdr.e /i 
 And the urchins, war pretending, 
 
 Aimed their rnfssiles at the sun. 
 
 'Tis a vivid presentation, 
 
 Beautiful to look upon, 
 But it passes, like the nation, 
 
 Into dreamland, and is gone; 
 Even as the scenes it cherished, 
 
 Even as the day was fair, 
 So the memory has perished, 
 
 And the damp of d/eath is there.
 
 Now the fields of maize are growing 
 
 Where the Indian lies at rest, 
 And the farmer's furrows, flowing, 
 
 Shift the soil above his breast. 
 Nor shall warrior e'er reviewing 
 
 Here behold the grave's disgrace, 
 For the stern plowshare of Ruin 
 
 Hath run havoc through the race. 
 
 Since they crossed yon peaceful water 
 Toward the far Pacific shore, 
 
 They have shared the bison's slaughter, 
 And pursue the herds no more: 
 
 Save the few, who, still remaining, 
 
 By a thankless land ignored, 
 T-L i*"? VIA ****'>*' , Stf"-"" 1 ? 
 Their captivity disdaining, 
 
 Choose to perish by the sword. 
 
 So this tragedy of nations, 
 Like the passing of a day, 
 
 Saddest of the world's narrations, 
 
 f >-*i 
 Marks an epoch passed away; 
 
 And the pen that writes the story 
 Will have much of good to tell 
 
 In the book, of Indian glory, 
 
 Ere the last great chieftain fell.
 
 True, they fought like demons, fired 
 
 With a zeal that stands alone, 
 Yet their fury was inspired, 
 
 For they did but 'fend their own. 
 Sparing all equivocation, 
 
 We usurped the red -man's crown 
 When he spurned civilization, 
 
 By whose *scepfre lie went down. 
 
 Aye, the sun of life is setting 
 
 O'er the Indian's vale of rest, 
 And the mad world, soon forgetting, 
 
 Surges onward toward the West: 
 While he waits, with many another, 
 
 When the final trumpet sounds, 
 To receive his paleface brother 
 
 On the Happy Hunting Grounds.
 
 THE LEGEND OF LOVER'S LEAP.* 
 
 CLOW the summer day lies dying, in the 
 
 shadowy arms of night, 
 And the wind, its requiem sighing, sweeps around 
 
 the headlands white. 
 Hear it; like a soul in anguish, that, distracted, 
 
 comes to weep, 
 Fretting its fantastic pinions on the rocks of 
 
 Lover's Leap: 
 Here, while pale the moonbeams glisten, let us 
 
 sit and muse awhile, 
 And the prospect will repay us for the moments 
 
 we beguile. 
 
 Soft the landscape is, and dreamy, and the stars 
 
 shine overhead: 
 Far below the rippling waters glide along their 
 
 sandy bed; 
 Over stream and hill and valley Nature holds her 
 
 court supreme, 
 And I catch the tender cadence of a golden, 
 
 olden dream. 
 
 *NOTE II. Appendix. 13
 
 Sitting here beneath the shelter of the over 
 hanging rock, 
 
 Comes a Presence stealing o'er me, and it seems 
 inclined to talk 
 
 To unfold the hidden legend of this point of 
 Indian fame, 
 
 All the strange, unwritten story how it came to 
 bear its name. 
 
 Long ago, so runs the record, ere the paleface 
 
 saw the land, 
 And the red man in his glory trod the river's 
 
 shining sand, 
 Came a maiden here to worship every evening, 
 
 when the sun 
 Dipped behind the Western woodland, and the 
 
 daily chase was done 
 Came to thank the Blessed Spirit for the many 
 
 mercies sent, 
 And to ask for all her people grace and plenty, 
 
 and content. 
 
 Fair she was, this dusky damsel, daughter of the 
 
 tribal chief, 
 And she bore a charmed existence in the popular 
 
 belief:
 
 Many of the brave young warriors had contended 
 
 for her hand, 
 And though all had failed to win her, all were 
 
 slaves to her command. 
 
 But it chanced one fatal evening, gazing hence 
 
 across the stream, 
 She beheld a youthful boatman in the early 
 
 twilight gleam, 
 And she hailed the comely stranger, till he 
 
 turned in at the shore: 
 He was of another people, whom she ne'er had 
 
 known before. 
 Each found pleasure in the other, and the chance 
 
 acquaintance grew 
 Till they vowed to bide together, and exchanged 
 
 love's pledges true. 
 But, alas! one eve they lingered, gazing on the 
 
 peaceful tide, 
 As the youth told his devotion, kneeling fondly 
 
 by her side, 
 When their tryst was rudely broken, through a 
 
 jealous rival's eyes 
 Who beheld an interloper winning thus his 
 
 cherished prize,
 
 And at once did spread the story that a hated 
 
 enemy 
 Was enticing their fair princess from her native 
 
 tribe to flee. 
 
 Then the chieftain, flushed with anger, siezed 
 
 his trusty bow and dart, 
 And forbade his warriors weapons he would 
 
 pierce the villain's heart: 
 Stealthily he stole upon them, all unconscious of 
 
 their doom, 
 Till his shout of warning echoed like a death - 
 
 knell through the gloom ; 
 Instantly the maiden, pleading, sprang to shield 
 
 her lover's form ; 
 
 Woe! the deadly arrow speeding, sought her life- 
 blood, fresh and warm: 
 Then the grim old warrior staggered, he, a 
 
 master in his art, 
 Who had never missed a target, shot his 
 
 daughter through the heart; 
 And the youth, when comprehending, caught the 
 
 fair form in his arms 
 While the angry horde, advancing, pressed him 
 
 close with wild alarms; 
 
 16
 
 When he sprang upon yon boulder, stood a 
 
 moment calmly there, 
 Cast at them a cold defiance then leaped out 
 
 upon the air. 
 
 Afterwards they found them, mangled, lying on 
 
 the rocks below, 
 And the hills re-echoed, sadly, the remorseful 
 
 cries of woe. 
 Tenderly the twain were buried, on the summit, 
 
 side by side, 
 While the Indian priest, foreknowing, at the 
 
 service prophesied 
 That the place should e'er be sacred to the 
 
 spirit it had served, 
 As the home of many people who these favors 
 
 well deserved 
 That the Manitou's best blessings, ever coming 
 
 from above, 
 Here would hold his chosen children in the 
 
 happy bonds of love. 
 
 * 
 # * 
 
 Little dreamed the savage savant how his words 
 
 would be fulfilled, 
 That another, conquering nation on this sacred 
 
 spot would build,
 
 When his own had crossed the river, driven, 
 
 never to return, 
 To the distant, arid regions where the sunset 
 
 glories burn: 
 Little recked he of the changes, coming down the 
 
 vales of Time, 
 That should blight his native woodlands in the 
 
 grandeur of their prime, 
 When a wilderness of wigwams, mountain high 
 
 beside his own, 
 Should obliterate his footprints from the land 
 
 which he had known. 
 But he spoke with truth inspired: Though the 
 
 Indian's sun hath set, 
 And his memory, most forgotten, only lingers 
 
 with us yet 
 In a score of doubtful legends, such as that 
 
 rehearsed above} 
 Illustrative of his nature, passionate with hate 
 
 and love: 
 Other hearts here oft have spoken loves as true 
 
 as theirs of old, 
 And exchanged some tender token as the fateful 
 
 tale was told: 
 
 18
 
 And we hold the place in rev'rence, as each 
 
 passing season brings 
 Joys that bide in every household, like a dove 
 
 with folded wings, 
 While the voice of new endeavor, ever just before 
 
 us, leads 
 On to braver, worthier efforts, loftier aims and 
 
 better deeds. 
 Yes, methinks I have been dreaming, and we, 
 
 too, must go to rest, 
 For the morrow brings new duties and another, 
 
 nobler quest: 
 Peace enwraps the slumbering city, but the winds 
 
 their vigils keep 
 Crooning their prophetic murmurs round the point 
 
 of Lover's Leap.
 
 OUATOGA.* 
 
 DRAVE Chieftain of that honored tribe 
 
 Of Red Men, who presided o'er 
 These fertile regions of the West, 
 
 By mighty Mississippi's shore: 
 We owe thee much of gratitude 
 
 Who gavest the name of lllini 
 A deathless honor, facing death 
 
 As one who does not fear to die 
 When duty calls. 'Twas thine to make 
 
 The noblest conquest life may know, 
 Of sacrifice for others sake, 
 
 When evil shadows hover low. 
 A savage king of savage land, 
 
 'Twas by creation's highest law 
 That thou wast nerved to raise thy hand 
 
 Against the monster, Piasa. 
 Thou and thy warriors little kenned 
 
 That, in the course of years to be, 
 Another nation would commend 
 
 The deed that set thy people free. 
 Thine was the impulse; ours the meed 
 
 Of profit, in the fruit it gave, 
 Through that fair flower of val'rous deed 
 
 That blossoms o'er thy nameless grave. 
 
 *NOTE III. Appendix.
 
 THE WARRIOR'S LAMENT. 
 
 r. dfv*^ 
 
 CROWNING stood the grizzled chieftain on the 
 
 desecrated mound, 
 Gazing like a wounded eagle on the fertile fields 
 
 around ; 
 Stern and sad, his brows were furrowed with the 
 
 seams of many woes, 
 And his waving locks were whitened by the fall 
 
 of countless snows. 
 Silently he gazed about him, over all the varied 
 
 scene 
 Saw the waving fields and orchards and the 
 
 roads that wound between: 
 Marked the sites of happy homesteads, studding 
 
 all the rolling plain, 
 And across his clouded visage came a look of 
 
 stifled pain.
 
 "O, Great Spirit of my fathers," thus at last 
 
 his thought found breath, 
 "Who for many years have slumbered in this 
 
 mound the sleep of death, 
 Why, when you laid down the hatchet on the 
 
 battlefield of life, 
 Did you leave your luckless children to keep up 
 
 the bitter strife? 
 Ah, my mother, you who bore me, when those 
 
 bones were laid to rest, 
 Why was I not buried with you, locked in 
 
 slumber on your breast? 
 Better to have died in childhood, better have 
 
 remained unborn, 
 Then have lived to see my people made to bear 
 
 the white man's scorn! 
 O, great Father, mighty river, when we crossed 
 
 yon silver tide 
 Little thought we of the sorrows which that fatal 
 
 step implied! 
 Banished from our native forests, driven from our 
 
 fathers' graves, 
 We were promised peace and plenty 'yond the 
 
 Mississippi's waves; 
 
 22
 
 Thus we went away, in sadness, left our 
 
 heritage behind, 
 On the far-off Western prairies other hunting 
 
 grounds to find. 
 Did the pale-face keep his promise? No, for 
 
 scarcely had we gone 
 When his armies, coming after, forced my people 
 
 to move on! 
 Onward still the white man's powder drives us 
 
 toward the setting sun, 
 And will never cease to urge us till the fatal race 
 
 is run: 
 Westward yet across the mountains is the Indian 
 
 forced to flee 
 And ere long his race must perish, 'whelmed 
 
 beneath the rolling sea. 
 Blame us not, Eternal Spirit, that we should 
 
 resist so long 
 
 it, (fti >n 
 
 That we rise anon in protest to resent this 
 mighty wrong. 
 
 "Once again the gray-haired warrior stands 
 
 beside the tribal grave, 
 'Mid the maze of desolation, by his native river's 
 
 wave:
 
 Could an Indian's curses blight them, in their 
 
 arrogance and pride, 
 I would lay these fields in ruin, scatter all their 
 
 homesteads wide! 
 
 (j *"M '''>! t 
 
 Not the gauntlet of the death -dance and the torture 
 
 at the stake, 
 Not the Indian's darkest vengeance could enough 
 
 atonement make 
 For the wrongs which he has suffered at the 
 
 spoiler's ruthless hand, 
 Who now rules in proud dominion in my people's 
 
 native land. 
 But 'tis vain, my race is fallen, and can never 
 
 rise again 
 Till the Manitou shall call us to the happy 
 
 regions. Then, 
 When the Indian and the pale -face stand before 
 
 him in the throng, 
 He will hold his mighty council and decide which 
 
 one was wrong. 
 Farewell, Spirit of my Fathers, for the time is 
 
 growing late, 
 1 must go to join my people, and to share their 
 
 final fate."
 
 Yet he stood awhile in silence, as if fettered by 
 
 a spell, 
 Stooping then to earth he kissed it: thus he took 
 
 his last farewell. 
 Then he wrapped his cloak about him and in 
 
 silence strode away, 
 Off, toward the sunset regions, passing with the 
 
 dying day.
 
 THE CROSSING OF THE SIOUX.* 
 
 DORTAGE des Sioux, historic place, 
 
 Nestled beside the peaceful shore, 
 An unpretentious village now, 
 
 But rich in legendary lore, 
 Where plods the busy throng to-day, 
 
 And from yon lofty steeple side 
 The chimes that call to evening prayer 
 
 Float o'er the restful river's tide- 
 Where sings the farmer as he guides 
 
 His plowshare through the mellow soil, 
 And bounteous harvests every year 
 
 Reward him well for honest toil. 
 
 Time was when all was wild and drear 
 Within the dark, primeval wood, 
 
 Save here and there, where on the ridge 
 A straggling group of wigwams stood. 
 
 *NOTE IV. Appendii. 2 6
 
 Here reigned the red man all supreme, 
 
 Plied undisturbed the huntsman's art, 
 Nor owned a foe more brave than he 
 
 Who dared to cross his deadly dart. 
 The battle cry, the fleeting chase, 
 
 Roused all his passions, all his joy; 
 And many a haughty challenge met 
 
 The neighboring tribes of Illinois. 
 
 And once, so runs the legend old, 
 
 There came a panic to the land: 
 A foe so terrible to meet, 
 
 The bravest did not dare withstand. 
 Small tribal feuds were soon forgot 
 
 In the dread fate which threatened all, 
 The strongest turned his back and fled 
 
 Before the awful monster's call. 
 Then came, howe'er, a day of joy 
 
 When every warrior, child and squaw, 
 In savage exultation danced 
 
 About the slaughtered Piasa. 
 
 Where towers yon holy temple now, 
 
 Marquette the earliest white man trod, 
 
 And standing 'midst the pagan throng 
 
 First taught them of the Christian's God.
 
 'Twas later yet by many moons 
 
 When that historic struggle came 
 Which brought about the strategy 
 
 Wherefrom the village has its name. 
 Two nations ruled these lowland plains, 
 
 The wily Sioux and fiery Crow 
 And ne'er two feudal warriors met 
 
 But flint was sped from bended bow. 
 
 Thus once a scouting band of Sioux 
 
 Ventured too far on foreign soil, 
 Nor ever thought of danger till 
 
 Encircled by the foeman's toil. 
 But with a quick, decisive move 
 
 The Sioux broke through the attacking rank, 
 Seizing a score of staunch canoes 
 
 Moored close beside the sandy bank; 
 Then down the dark Missouri's flood 
 
 A race of life and death began, 
 Two scores of fugitives pursued 
 
 By hosts a score to every man. 
 
 Wild is the flight; with deafening yells 
 
 The Crows come surging down the stream; 
 
 Like lances glinting in the sun 
 
 Their paddles o'er the waters gleam: 
 
 28
 
 And six good throws below, the Sioux 
 
 With features set in sullen pride, 
 Bend every muscle to the strokes, 
 
 As through the rushing waves they glide. 
 With courage fostered of despair 
 
 They forge ahead and surely gain ; 
 But still the murderous host comes on 
 
 While flint-capped arrows fall like rain. 
 
 For hours the maddening contest lasts, 
 
 The strongest failing, faint and sore, 
 When suddenly, around a bend, 
 
 They vanish and are seen no more. 
 Just where, almost, the rivers meet, 
 
 When, veering sharply in its flow, 
 The mad Missouri turns to join 
 
 The Mississippi miles below, 
 With practiced eye the Sioux perceived 
 
 A chance to 'scape the victim's doom: 
 Landed, and carrying their canoes, 
 
 Quick vanished in the forest gloom. 
 
 Brief was the march, and soon they found 
 Them by their native river's waves, 
 
 Re-launched, and paddled safely back 
 To join their squaws and fellow braves.
 
 The Crows, not 'ware that aught was wrong, 
 Kept madly on their fruitless course, 
 
 And were in turn pursued, engaged, 
 And routed by superior force. 
 
 Thus did the village find its name; 
 
 The race that since hath settled here, 
 Descendants of De Soto's men 
 
 Still hold the legend fondly dear. 
 Ask any burgher you may meet; 
 
 He will avow the story true, 
 And point that narrow neck of land 
 
 That marks the crossing of the Sioux.
 
 ILLIOLA'S PENANCE.* 
 
 \X/ALKING down the peaceful valley, 'neath 
 the silvery summer moon, 
 
 To the spring whose crystal waters gurgle forth, 
 a precious boon, 
 
 From the hills whose rock-ribbed contour cir 
 cumscribes the starry sky, 
 
 Comes to me a dreamful story, whence 1 know 
 not, neither why, 
 
 Comes as from the sparkling fountain, through 
 the music of its flow, 
 
 In an idyl of devotion from the days of long ago. 
 
 Dwelt there once an Indian Princess yonder by 
 
 the river side, 
 Graced with Nature's richest favors, and a boon 
 
 of tender pride 
 In the wigwam of her people, who esteemed her 
 
 half divine, 
 As the Manitou had sent her to achieve some 
 
 great design. 
 
 *NoTE V. Appendix. 3 1
 
 Frail of form, yet fair and graceful as the fern 
 
 leaves at her feet; 
 True and tender and devoted, and of bearing 
 
 rarely sweet; 
 Guileless as the dappled deerling, brought her 
 
 when the hunt was done: 
 Winsome as the woodland roses smiling at the 
 
 morning sun: 
 Was the Princess Illiola, daughter of the reigning 
 
 chief, 
 On the eve of her great sorrow, in the gloomy 
 
 vale of grief. 
 
 Never womanhood so perfect lived of manhood 
 unadmired, 
 
 And the hope to gain her favor many daring 
 deeds inspired 
 
 In the warriors of her people, who were never 
 loth to go 
 
 To the chase, or e'en to battle, with an un 
 relenting foe. 
 
 Of the many, two were favored by her fond 
 approving eye; 
 
 Both were counted brave and manly, and no arm 
 with theirs could vie;
 
 Each adored the peerless maiden, and their 
 
 trophies, one by one, 
 Graced the entrance to her wigwam when the 
 
 daily hunt was done: 
 Brothers were they in relation, twin of birth and 
 
 one of mind, 
 But she vowed the love to neither that to either 
 
 was inclined. 
 
 Came a day of autumn glory, when the Princess 
 
 walked alone, 
 Aimlessly about the valley, wrapped in musings 
 
 all her own; 
 Thinking of the ardent lovers maybe searching 
 
 in her heart 
 Whom to give the wifely favor, whom to send 
 
 the cruel dart, 
 For she felt in sense of duty that the time to act 
 
 was near, 
 And the sound of angry voices broke upon her 
 
 startled ear: 
 'Twas the brothers hot in parley; and she stole 
 
 with noiseless tread 
 Till she heard, in trembling terror, all the bitter 
 
 things they said, 
 
 33
 
 Standing there in grim defiance. It was Illiola's 
 
 name 
 That had drowned all thought of kinship in a 
 
 flood of savage flame. 
 They had slain an antlered monarch; each had 
 
 hunted unaware 
 Of the other's like endeavor, each had aimed his 
 
 missile fair, 
 And each claimed the noble quarry, vowed the 
 
 conquest all his own 
 For a gift to Illiola. Woe! Upon that bed of 
 
 stone 
 Fell two forms athwart the carcass, and an arrow 
 
 in each breast 
 Told the 'wildered, weeping maiden what her 
 
 heart had never guessed. 
 
 When they found her on the morrow, reason's 
 
 light had left her eyes, 
 And the soul of Illiola moaned its requiem to the 
 
 skies. 
 All the sages of the nation came to minister, in 
 
 vain, 
 To the Chieftain's beauteous daughter; none 
 
 could ease the fatal pain; 
 
 34
 
 Like a broken flower she faded, pining by the 
 
 valley-side 
 Where the tragedy transpired, and, with the new 
 
 moon, she died. 
 
 But that night there came a Presence, and her 
 
 people heard a voice, 
 Softer than the sound of waters, and it counseled 
 
 thus: "Rejoice! 
 
 Do not weep for llliola, for the Manitou hath said 
 That her spirit, here abiding, shall redeem the 
 
 life-blood shed, 
 In a consecrated fountain; washing out the 
 
 crimson stain 
 Of the lover's last encounter, to the nation's 
 
 lasting gain. 
 Here shall sorrows be requited, while the ill find 
 
 health anew, 
 And all jealous passions mingle in a better, 
 
 broader view, 
 When the people meet to counsel, in the dawn 
 
 of brighter day, 
 As yon stains by these bright waters are suffused 
 
 and washed away." 
 
 35
 
 Looking, they beheld the wonder of the boulder 
 
 rent apart, 
 And from out the fissured crevice saw the 
 
 sparkling water start; 
 Stooped the Chief, and quaffing deeply, spoke: 
 
 "The Manitou be praised; 
 Be this valley consecrated to His service," and 
 
 he raised 
 In his hands a shining pebble, and concluded, 
 
 calm and clear: 
 "So may llliola's penance brighten all who tarry 
 
 here." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Hath it seemed a Pagan story? Here we are 
 
 beside the spring; 
 Drink we to the spirit maiden, while the service 
 
 vespers ring, 
 And the words of counsel falling from the 
 
 platform seneschal, 
 Seem to echo llliola's benediction over all.
 
 ON A PICTURE OF SITTING BULL. 
 
 /^RIM warrior, as we gaze upon 
 
 ^^ The painted likeness of thy face, 
 
 How sadly we recall with thee 
 
 The story of thy ill-starred race. 
 Resistless will and manly power 
 
 Are on those features interlined, 
 And stamped upon that lofty brow 
 
 The impress of a haughty mind. 
 
 The last and greatest of the line 
 
 Of fighting chiefs, majestic, brave; 
 
 We honor thee despite thy deeds; 
 And oft beside that lonely grave 
 
 The patriot in awe will pause, 
 
 Remembering thee and thy lost cause. 
 
 37
 
 RICHARDVILLE.* 
 
 DESIDE St. Mary's silver stream, 
 
 Whose laughing waters, all agleam, 
 Flow past the city of Fort Wayne, 
 Through Indiana's fertile plain, 
 There stands within a churchyard gray 
 Long since surrendered to decay 
 A weather-beaten shaft of stone, 
 With moss and lichens overgrown, 
 Upon whose surface may be traced 
 These words, by time almost effaced: 
 
 "Here rest the bones of Richardville, 
 
 Great chief of the Miami tribe. 
 An Indian statesman of great skill, 
 Who never gave nor took a bribe." 
 
 The story of the warrior's name, 
 Although, perchance, unknown to fame, 
 Is still remembered and revered 
 Upon the plains where he was reared, 
 
 NOTE VI. Appendix. 38
 
 And honored as among the few 
 
 Red men who upright were, and true. 
 
 Though now his race has passed away, 
 
 And scarcely in this latter day 
 
 Do we take trouble to recall 
 
 The hated people from whose fall 
 
 We date our own prosperity, 
 
 Yet in this chieftain's life we see 
 
 Enough of nobleness to prove 
 
 That one, at least, could feel and love. 
 
 Full ten-score years ago, and more, 
 
 When on St. Mary's wooded shore 
 
 The swarthy Indian proudly stood, 
 
 Unchallenged monarch of the wood; 
 
 When first the white man dared to brave 
 
 The wilds beyond Ohio's wave, 
 
 And many a hero lost his life 
 
 Upon the stake or by the knife, 
 
 One day the tribe, in council grave, 
 
 Met by the peaceful river's wave. 
 
 Some, boasting, showed their battle scars, 
 
 While others plotted future wars; 
 
 From wigwams swaying in the breeze 
 
 Blue smoke .curled upward through the trees, 
 
 39
 
 Within, the dusky squaws were bent, 
 
 Each on some toilsome task intent, 
 
 And on the stream to instinct true 
 
 The urchin plied his fleet canoe, 
 
 Or launched into a tree the dart 
 
 That should have pierced a foeman's heart; 
 
 Thus grouped the savage host, serene, 
 
 Encamped upon the peaceful scene. 
 
 But this was not the business yet 
 
 For which the braves that day were met; 
 
 'Twas matter of a darker dye 
 
 That spoke in every warrior's eye. 
 
 Near by, though from the throng away, 
 There stood a squaw with locks of gray, 
 And standing by her side a youth 
 Whose eye betrayed a heart of truth, 
 A soul with wild ambition fired, 
 A mind of lofty thoughts inspired, 
 His every look and act confessed 
 A nobler lineage than the rest, 
 Gathered within the camp that day 
 To while the loitering hours away. 
 The woman was the widowed dame 
 Of him, now gone, whose peerless name 
 
 4 o
 
 Honored by all the tribe had stood 
 Supreme, as patriarch of the wood. 
 Her fondest hope and single prayer 
 
 Was that she might survive the hour 
 To see the lad beside her there 
 
 Invested with his father's power. 
 
 But valor was the only rod 
 By which these warriors would be ruled, 
 In danger's front had they been schooled, 
 
 And they would brook no other god. 
 Thus, though they owned the stripling's blood, 
 And mourned his mother's widowhood, 
 Those heroes of a hundred wars 
 Deep seamed by honored battle scars 
 Would never bow beneath his will 
 Until, by some brave act of skill, 
 Or master deed he should evince 
 The prowess of an Indian prince. 
 Hence was the tribe together come 
 To choose, from out their number, one 
 To lead their wars and councils sage 
 Till their young chief should come of age.
 
 But hark! Above the lazy breeze 
 That whispered soft among the trees 
 Was heard the sound of many feet, 
 As through the forest's still retreat 
 A party came with hurried tramp, 
 Dragging a prisoner into camp. 
 With hands and feet securely bound, 
 The captive sank upon the ground. 
 A son of that despised race! 
 Reflected on that manly face 
 The resignation of despair: 
 For well he knew no friends were there 
 To save him from that awful fate 
 The savage zeal to satiate. 
 
 Past was the time of lethargy; 
 
 All danced about in ghoulish glee, 
 
 Anticipating soon to see 
 
 Their victim writhing at the stake, 
 
 Which awful rite alone could slake 
 
 The vengeance of the Indian's heart. 
 
 Briefly the braves communed apart, 
 
 Not long, for in each mind foredoomed, 
 
 The verdict was: "To be consumed 
 
 By torture at the burning stake." 
 
 So spake they all ; none there to take
 
 The pale -face' part. The dread decree, 
 
 Announced, was hailed with wildest glee. 
 
 Some hastened to prepare the tree, 
 
 While others for the fagots went 
 
 In frenzied zeal ; each soul was bent 
 
 On hastening the fearful rite. 
 
 The captive, lying pale and white, 
 
 Heroically endured the taunts, 
 
 The cruel blows and savage vaunts, 
 
 Cast upon him from every side. 
 
 At last he stood, securely tied; 
 
 All was prepared; the lighted brand 
 
 Blazed in the iron warrior's hand. 
 
 'Now go, my son, and do thy part!" 
 Cried she who all the while apart 
 Beside the youth in silence stood: 
 'Now go and prove thy sire's blood 
 Runs not for nothing in thy veins. 
 Quick! or too late will be thy pains!" 
 Then suddenly the flames leaped out, 
 As round the pile with deafening shout, 
 The awful dance of death began, 
 When, lo! across the circle ran, 
 Resistless as a thunder storm, 
 With lightning speed, a slender form, 
 
 43
 
 Scattered like reeds the crackling brands, 
 Released the prisoner's feet and hands, 
 And, placing in his grasp the knife, 
 Bade him be gone and fly for life. 
 Then, turning to the astonished band, 
 He shouted, with uplifted hand: 
 
 'If you must kill, then murder me, 
 But let this hapless man go free! 
 My sire's blood is in these veins, 
 And well ye know his soul disdained 
 Thus cowardly to take the life 
 Of one with whom he had no strife." 
 
 Half stupefied, the warriors gazed 
 Upon the youth, and saw, amazed, 
 Him who had dared this brave relief, 
 The son of their departed chief. 
 The flash of anger in their eyes 
 Gave place to looks of deep surprise: 
 Then admiration for his deed 
 Secured for him the highest meed 
 Which a brave warrior could receive. 
 Thus what began an awful rite-, 
 Ended a feast of proud delight; 
 Each warrior in that swarthy band 
 
 44
 
 Advanced to kiss the stripling's hand, 
 And owned him ruler of the land. 
 
 Long lived the youth, a ruler brave, 
 
 Beside St. Mary's peaceful wave. 
 
 He drew his bow in many a fight, 
 
 But ever on the side' of right, 
 
 And through his life, until the end, 
 
 He still remained the white man's friend. 
 
 In battle strong, in council skilled, 
 
 He won the name of Richardville, 
 
 And over Indiana's plains, 
 
 Where erst this noble savage reigned, 
 
 His name is known and honored still. 
 
 In after years, when wars had ceased, 
 While signing documents of peace, 
 He met the man whose life was saved 
 When first his people's wrath he braved. 
 Each clasped the other as a friend, 
 And so remained until the end. 
 The debt of life was well repaid, 
 And when the chieftain's bones were laid 
 To rest beside their native stream, 
 The other, showing his esteem, 
 
 45
 
 Raised o'er his grave this shaft of stone, 
 And carved the lines you see thereon: 
 
 'Pilgrim, when idly passing here, 
 
 Tread lightly o'er this sacred mound, 
 
 And grudge it not one manly tear, 
 
 For know, you tread on sainted ground. 
 
 4 6
 
 A DUEL ON THE PLAINS. 
 
 1YJUNECHI and Swapi were warriors as brave 
 
 As ever encountered an enemy's glave, 
 And oft through the Nation, when ranges were 
 
 wide, 
 They chased the fleet quarry, or fought side by 
 
 side; 
 Each man was endowed with the gift of his 
 
 race, 
 
 Great physical powers and sinewy grace, 
 Both highly esteemed in the great tribal creed, 
 That dare-devil courage is valor, indeed, 
 And each held the other in highest regard, 
 As worthy an Indian's most cherished reward. 
 
 But one sorry day when their passions were fired 
 They changed to the likeness of demons inspired. 
 'Twas at the wild race -meet, where each tribal 
 
 steed 
 
 Was run o'er the courses for mettle and speed, 
 There, first in the saddle and last in the field, 
 These twain were victorious, but neither would 
 
 yield 
 
 47
 
 The other his laurels, till, breaking at last, 
 
 The steeds interfered, and the challenge was 
 
 cast. 
 
 Impulsively savage, their passions once crossed, 
 The friendship of years in an instant was lost, 
 And, glaring defiance, each in the same breath 
 Demanded the right of a fight to the death. 
 
 Friends, half comprehending, looked on in dismay, 
 But in the dread finale had little to say, 
 For deep in the heart of the Indian is set 
 The maxim to never forgive or forget, 
 And having inflicted the greatest offense 
 Their customs afforded, through hatred intense, 
 Each bystander knew that to protest were vain, 
 Since only their life-blood could wipe out the 
 
 stain. 
 
 Hence sadly the old chieftain gave his consent, 
 And straight the two warriors, on murder intent, 
 Selected their seconds, the surest of shot, 
 And armed them as guards of the dueling spot; 
 When, clasping a glittering knife in each hand, 
 They entered the circle and took their last stand. 
 
 In all the vast concourse no murmur was heard, 
 The contestants, glaring, exchanged not a word,
 
 Forgetting the onlookers standing inert, 
 Each nerve at full tension, each fibre alert. 
 They stood as the panther preparing to spring, 
 Then cautiously crossed and recrossed in the 
 
 ring. 
 
 Each felt that his uttermost skill would be tried, 
 And knew what a single false movement implied. 
 Look! quick as the lightning each turns on his 
 
 heel, 
 And naught save the flashing and clashing of 
 
 steel 
 Is marked for a moment, then, breaking, they 
 
 part, 
 
 With neither a scratch, what a marvel of art! 
 But quick as a flash they return to the fray, 
 And now there is blood, and Nunechi gives way; 
 No! see, 'tis a feint; aye! and Swapi goes down, 
 But not for Nunechi the conqueror's crown; 
 For e'en as he bends the last blow to impart, 
 He falls and expires with a knife in his heart. 
 Now hail they the champion, whose conquering 
 
 yell 
 
 Defies the poor clay of the warrior who fell; 
 But see how he falters, how lowers his head! 
 He falls, and both victor and vanquished are 
 
 dead. 
 
 49
 
 PAWNADAWA'S VENGEANCE.* 
 
 the shore of Lake Superior, one eventful 
 afternoon, 
 
 'Twas a quiet summer's evening in the pleasant 
 month of June 
 
 Stood a scornful Indian beauty, fondly dreaming, 
 half awake, 
 
 Idly gazing at the shadows on the bosom of the 
 lake, 
 
 Stood the winsome Pawnadawa, lost in medita 
 tion sweet, 
 
 Thinking of the pale-face lover whom she waited 
 there to meet. 
 
 Nature had bestowed upon her symmetry of form 
 
 and face, 
 Graces that were seldom granted to the daughters 
 
 of her race; 
 
 *NOTK VII. Appendix.
 
 Yes, she was indeed a beauty, as she stood 
 
 serenely there, 
 Playfully the evening breezes tossed about her 
 
 raven hair, 
 While, commingled with her tresses was a veri- 
 
 colored wreath, 
 And her pouting lips, half parted, showed two 
 
 rows of pearly teeth. 
 
 Yet her bearing condescending showed a pride 
 
 that made her vain, 
 And she looked upon her sisters of the camp with 
 
 cold disdain; 
 Many times had she been courted by the gallants 
 
 of her tribe, 
 Many braves from other nations came to woo 
 
 with costly bribe, 
 But no words or wiles could win her, and she 
 
 sent each one away 
 To be mocked by luckless rivals, who had seen 
 
 their humble day. 
 
 For the shaft had not been feathered that should 
 
 pierce her wanton heart, 
 Till the stranger from the city came to woo with 
 
 practiced art,
 
 As a special trusted agent for the traders in the 
 
 East, 
 Giving for their furs munitions and provisions 
 
 for the feast. 
 Dwelt he as a prince among them, far removed 
 
 from home and friends, 
 And the kindred social joys whereon so much of 
 
 life depends. 
 
 Sought he oft her father's wigwam, coming as an 
 honored guest, 
 
 Where he saw the little maiden, ever bright and 
 self-possessed, 
 
 Till he came almost to love the sportive, way 
 ward forest child; 
 
 Many happy, fleeting hours in her presence he 
 beguiled, 
 
 And resolved at last to woo her to submission, if 
 he could; 
 
 She would make a sweet companion for him in 
 this lonely wood. 
 
 When the time should come for leaving, and his 
 
 mission here was o'er, 
 He could leave her with her people oft had this 
 
 been done before,
 
 So he flattered and caressed her, pressed his suit 
 
 with presents gay, 
 Told her fancy-colored stories of his people, far 
 
 away, 
 Told the tale of Pocahontas, and the homage she 
 
 received 
 From the lofty lords and ladies in the land beyond 
 
 the seas: 
 
 Told her that the pale -face maidens, spite of all 
 their wordly goods, 
 
 Could they see her, all would envy his dear 
 princess of the woods. 
 
 Thus with cajoleries and falsehoods he aroused 
 her love and pride 
 
 Till he knew that he had won her, that she fain 
 would be his bride. 
 
 Thus we find her by the lakeside on this sum 
 mer's evening fair, 
 
 Waiting for the fair deceiver who had vowed to 
 to meet her there. 
 
 Hist! she must have heard him coming, for a 
 
 smile is on her lips, 
 And as lightly as a feather to her bark near by 
 
 she skips, 
 
 53
 
 When, with burst of merry laughter, quick she 
 glides out from the shore, 
 
 Leaves him standing disconcerted, though reluc 
 tant to implore. 
 
 "Ha, my Ernest is a sluggard; you have kept 
 me waiting long, 
 
 And I've half a mind to leave you here, to suffer 
 for my wrong." 
 
 "O, my Bright Eyes, do not leave me, come; 
 
 see here what I have got." 
 And her eyes beheld the present; further words 
 
 he needed not. 
 She returned, received the trinket, and repaid 
 
 him with a kiss, 
 So the twain embarked together in an ecstacy of 
 
 bliss; 
 When she headed for an island, gaily laughing, 
 
 full of glee, 
 And went skipping o'er the water like a gull 
 
 upon the sea. 
 
 There the fatal farce was acted; there, before 
 
 the twilight came, 
 He had asked the maid to wed him, she had 
 
 vowed to bear his name. 
 
 54
 
 Ah! If on that fateful evening then he thought 
 
 he held his prize, 
 He had seen the fiends of passion hid beneath 
 
 those laughing eyes! 
 Could he then have known her truly, quickly 
 
 had he changed his mind, 
 But the soul of man is willful, and a lover 
 
 always blind. 
 
 He had with him an assistant who was better 
 
 versed than he 
 In the book of Indian nature, and it pained his 
 
 heart to see, 
 This young, self -deluded lover rushing onward to 
 
 his fate, 
 Yet he had not dared to caution, till, alas! it 
 
 was too late. 
 But that night he was returning from a hunt 
 
 along the strand, 
 And beheld the tender parting of the twain upon 
 
 the sand; 
 
 Heard the fulsome words they uttered, saw their 
 
 kisses fondly blend, 
 And resolved to wait no longer, but at once to 
 
 warn his friend. 
 
 55
 
 Hence that evening, after supper, as he laid 
 aside his pan, 
 
 He sat down beside his messmate, cleared his 
 throat and thus began: 
 
 "I'm afraid you are in danger from an unsus 
 pected foe, 
 
 Would you mind if 1 should tell you?" "Heavens, 
 no, what is it, Joe?" 
 
 "Do you mean to wed that maiden?" "Does it 
 
 matter if I do?" 
 "Not to me," Joe answered, dryly, "but, my 
 
 boy, it does to you; 
 Take my warning, if you wed her, you will rue 
 
 it ere you part, 
 Better try to tame a serpent than that little 
 
 witch's heart." 
 "Gracious! man, what makes you think so?" 
 
 asked Lefare with wounded pride; 
 "What would make me think of otters if 1 came 
 
 across their slide? 
 
 "I have roamed these woods too often with the 
 
 rifle and the axe, 
 And have seen too many varmints not to know 
 
 them by their tracks;
 
 I have spent my life among them and my hair 
 
 is turning gray 
 Yet I never met a creature half as treacherous as 
 
 they." 
 "No, Joe, you are much mistaken, she is deep 
 
 in love with me." 
 "Well, perhaps she is at present, but this will 
 
 not always be. 
 
 "Do you mean to take her with you when this 
 
 trading business ends?" 
 "Take a copper-colored wife home, to be 
 
 laughed at by my friends? 
 Heavens, man, you must be crazy: 1 shall leave 
 
 her here, of course 
 Here, among these savage people there's no ban 
 
 upon divorce." 
 "Well, then, wed her if you want to, but 
 
 remember what I say, 
 Better watch the vixen's motions, or you'll come 
 
 to grief some day. 
 
 "You had rather quit this business and great 
 
 gophers! what was that?" 
 "Nothing but a startled otter, or a frightened 
 
 water rat." 
 
 57
 
 Yes, an otter; had he seen her, crawling by the 
 
 water's edge, 
 Every fibre of her being quivering with stifled 
 
 rage! 
 She had listened to their council, overheard the 
 
 whole debate, 
 And her passion in a moment turned from love to 
 
 burning hate. 
 
 Ah! If e'er the King of Evil sat enthroned on 
 
 human brow, 
 He was undisputed master of the Indian beauty 
 
 now. 
 On she flew, her headlong passions broken loose 
 
 from all control, 
 Raging like a band of furies through the chambers 
 
 of her soul. 
 Yet she met him on the morrow with a lover's 
 
 gentle zest, 
 And no sign betrayed the tempest that was 
 
 raging in her breast. 
 
 Till he questioned, all unconscious of the maiden's 
 
 fell design: 
 "O my Bright Eyes, little darling, tell me when 
 
 you will be mine?" 
 
 58
 
 "At the foot of yonder boulder, if to-morrow 
 
 morn be fair, 
 There will Bright Eyes come to meet thee; go 
 
 and wait thy answer there." 
 Gladly he obeyed her summons, in the morning 
 
 fair and clear, 
 He sat waiting by the tryst-place for the maiden 
 
 to appear. 
 
 Long he lingered, till the sunshine, rising clear 
 above the hills, 
 
 Kissed the dew from off the grasses, dried the 
 mists above the rills, 
 
 Yet he did not see her coming; what could make 
 her stay so late? 
 
 Surely something had detained her. He deter 
 mined yet to wait. 
 
 Then he heard a sound behind him, turned, and 
 with a shudder sprang 
 
 As a rattlesnake that moment, hissing, struck 
 with gaping fang, 
 
 Then another and another: from all sides he saw 
 
 them come, 
 Wakened by their leader's challenge, and he 
 
 stood with terror dumb, 
 
 59
 
 When a shout of ringing laughter grated harshly 
 on his ear: 
 
 "O, my Bright Eyes! help me! save me!" cried 
 he, almost crazed with fear; 
 
 "Ha! Lefare! thy tongue is falser than the ser 
 pents at thy feet, 
 
 But I am the only maiden whom its lies will 
 ever cheat. 
 
 "On that same accursed evening when I promised 
 
 to be thine, 
 I was close beside thy wigwam, overheard thy 
 
 fell design; 
 Made a wife and then deserted for another? We 
 
 shall see; 
 Here I bade thee seek thy answer, fiery tongues 
 
 will give it thee." 
 "If you have a woman's pity," cried he, almost 
 
 choked for breath, 
 "If you have a heart within you, save me from 
 
 this awful death." 
 
 But the venom touched his vitals, and he leaped 
 
 in air and fell; 
 
 Then she watched them pile upon him like a 
 thousand fiends of hell, 
 
 60
 
 Saw him fight like one enchanted, with the 
 
 courage of despair, 
 While the reptiles coiled about him, mingled with 
 
 his flowing hair; 
 And at last when all was ended, and the tortured 
 
 soul was gone, 
 Still she stood there, high above them, shouting 
 
 loud to hiss them on. 
 
 Then she sought old Joe, the trapper; with a 
 
 laugh no tongue could mock, 
 "Go," she said, "thy master waits thee at the 
 
 base of yonder rock." 
 O, the agonies that filled him when he saw that 
 
 awful sight, 
 Others might have been deluded, but he judged 
 
 the scene aright. 
 He secured the mangled body from the vengeance 
 
 of the snakes, 
 And with tender care interred it in a vale beside 
 
 the lake. 
 
 Even then he saw the woman, still unsatisfied, 
 
 he thought, 
 Laughing like some fiend incarnate at the havoc 
 
 she had wrought. 
 
 61
 
 "God forgive me," said the veteran, in an 
 agony of strife, 
 
 "It is very wrong I know for man to take a 
 human life 
 
 But," the ringing of a rifle cut the final- sen 
 tence short, 
 
 And the soul of Pawnadawa took its flight with 
 the report. 
 
 Quickly, then, he hurried forward, saw the Indian 
 
 girl was dead, 
 And, beset with sudden terror, leaped in his 
 
 canoe and fled. 
 Judge not harshly, gentle reader, 'twas a murder 
 
 to be sure, 
 But a man is only mortal there are things he 
 
 can't endure.
 
 PASSING OF THE MONARCH.* 
 
 CILENCE deep, and keenest sorrow, shroud the 
 valley like a pall, 
 
 While the news, in whispers broken, casts a 
 death -damp over all. 
 
 Rolls the mighty Mississippi past the wigwam at 
 the feet 
 
 Of the braves, so late victorious, abject now, in 
 dumb retreat: 
 
 And the very heart of Nature seems to ache with 
 stifled pain, 
 
 For that life-chord, rudely broken, fondly cher 
 ished, mourned in vain. 
 
 He is gone, the brave and noble, child of Nature, 
 
 master-man, 
 Chief by right of native merit, crowned and 
 
 honored by the clan; 
 
 *NOTE VIII. Appendix. 63
 
 Peerless in the field of action, strong and stead 
 fast, sure of aim; 
 
 In the council fair and fearless, true to every 
 fireside claim. 
 
 Fell with him his royal station, there is none to 
 fill his place: 
 
 Though his life's interpretation lingers, like a 
 parting grace. 
 
 In the river's grasp they found him, where, full 
 
 robed, he sank to sleep; 
 While the birds forgot their carols, and the skies 
 
 above did weep: 
 Yet we know, could he have willed it, he had 
 
 chosen so to die, 
 And each mortal course is ordered by the Mani- 
 
 tou on high. 
 Soft in mother earth they laid him, far beyond 
 
 the rolling wave, 
 And the winds of passing seasons sigh their 
 
 requiems o'er his grave. 
 
 6 4
 
 "PILOT'S GUIDE."* 
 
 "CAPTAIN," queried my companion we were 
 
 ^ speeding with the stream, 
 In the early summer twilight, as it were a 
 
 pleasant dream, 
 Just below old Hamburg city, steaming toward 
 
 the Illinois, 
 Where it meets the Mississippi, and the steamer's 
 
 graceful poise, 
 As she glided o'er the waters like a thing of 
 
 conscious pride, 
 Formed an interesting contrast to the scene on 
 
 either side: 
 "Captain, yonder on the hill -top, towering lofty 
 
 and alone, 
 1 perceive a strange white object, like a chiseled 
 
 shaft of stone: 
 
 *NOTF. IX. Appendix,
 
 Am 1 right in the conjecture that' it represents 
 
 some mark 
 
 Of historical occurrence of some depredation dark 
 Wrought by gory -handed Indians on the sturdy 
 
 pioneers, 
 Who sought here to found their homesteads in 
 
 the nation's early years?" 
 
 "Well, no," said the Captain slowly, stepping 
 
 to the larboard side, 
 "That old monument up yonder is the river 
 
 pilot's guide, 
 And no Indian as 1 know of caused it to be 
 
 planted there, 
 Though the redskins once were plenty in these 
 
 regions everywhere. 
 Over there they fought their battles, on that 
 
 desolated plain, 
 And they say that one whole nation in a single 
 
 fight was slain; 
 People go there every season in the grass to 
 
 search around, 
 And some very ugly weapons have been taken 
 
 from the ground. 
 
 66
 
 Over here the dead were buried, and these bluffs 
 
 are lined with graves, 
 Where repose the crumbling frames of many 
 
 hundred fallen braves; 
 Scientists oft come to dig them from beneath 
 
 the covering stones, 
 And have sometimes found old arrows sticking in 
 
 the brittle bones. 
 
 "But excuse me, sir; you asked about the story 
 
 of the shaft 
 Standing on yon crowning hill -top, which we are 
 
 just leaving aft. 
 You have read of Enoch Arden? Well, sir, this 
 
 was such a man, 
 Only no one ever found out where his troubled 
 
 life began. 
 And he never told his secret; he was here before 
 
 we came, 
 Yes, a pioneer of pilots, Marvin -Thomas was his 
 
 name. 
 He came with the early traffic on this noble 
 
 inland stream, 
 Of the first to stem its current by the agency 
 
 of steam.
 
 Many years he plied these waters, and sometime 
 
 the boys still feel 
 As if Thomas were beside them, with his hand 
 
 upon the wheel; 
 He was liked by all who knew him, though he 
 
 never sought a friend, 
 
 Always ready, on occasion, with a helping hand 
 to lend. 
 
 "Thus he lived and died among us; but before 
 
 he passed away, 
 Made us take his little savings, hoarded for a 
 
 rainy day, . 
 
 And exacted solemn promise that his clay should 
 
 be interred 
 On that hillside, where the murmur of the waters 
 
 can be heard 
 In their tender, mournful cadence, whose refrain 
 
 shall never cease, 
 That he might lie down contented, and his spirit 
 
 rest in peace. 
 So we buried him up yonder, and that monument 
 
 was raised 
 In remembrance of him and of the early boating 
 
 days. 
 
 68
 
 And whenever we are passing, any time of day 
 
 or night, 
 Every eye in that direction seems to turn with 
 
 keen delight; 
 Like a sentinel on duty, high above the river's 
 
 tide, 
 It fulfills its friendly mission, and we call it 
 
 'Pilots' Guide.' "
 
 Verses on Various Themes
 
 THE FOIL OF FATE.* 
 
 LJARK, ye who have listened to stories of old, 
 
 From history's pages and narratives told, 
 Of mortal encounters on honor's grim field, 
 Where blood paid the ransom that pride would 
 
 not yield: 
 
 Not oft in the book of American fame 
 Do such things reflect on the nation's fair name; 
 But once, eight and forty long summers ago, 
 Where yon river's waters so placidly flow, 
 There crossed out of Alton a boat -load of men, 
 Intent on a conflict as thrilling as when 
 Burr pointed his pistol with well -practiced art, 
 And sent a ball crashing through Hamilton's heart. 
 
 The flower and pride of the young Prairie State 
 The veterans of finance and peers of debate 
 Were parties to that dread excursion, whose end 
 Each dreading, fore -guessed in the death of his 
 friend 
 
 *NOTK X. Appendix.
 
 Or one or the other of two men, whose life 
 Was linked with the issues of national strife; 
 Each young in the vigor of manhood and deeds, 
 Espousing the tenets of opposite creeds; 
 Each standing for principles equally strong, 
 Inspired by the lilt of ambition's glad song, 
 Though holding already high places of trust 
 In office and council. They came to adjust 
 A personal question of honor so grave 
 That nothing, they deemed, short of bloodshed 
 
 could save 
 
 The fair name of either; and yet was the cause 
 A matter so small that, reflecting, we pause 
 To wonder how men of their metal could deem 
 Their precepts and prospects and friendly esteem 
 So easily blighted. The records, though dim, 
 Depict a good joke and a giddy girl's whim, 
 Which wrought the estrangement and brought by 
 
 degrees 
 The challenge which nothing but blood might 
 
 appease. 
 
 On yonder green isle of Missouri's dark soil 
 The field was selected, and swords without foil, 
 
 74
 
 Keen -edged were the weapons, whose thrust 
 
 neither feared; 
 
 The fighting arena was speedily cleared, 
 And there, in the shade of the towering trees, 
 Whose canopy waved in the murmuring breeze, 
 The distance was measured, each man to his place, 
 The referee called to attention and "face." 
 
 But then, as their weapons flashed forth into place, 
 A pitying protest was marked on each face 
 Of those who stood by, and, by common consent, 
 They cried as one voice the first blow to prevent; 
 And one, in behalf of the company, said 
 A sunbeam enshrining his uncovered head: 
 "By all you believe, friends, by those whom you 
 
 love 
 By Him who looks down on this scene from 
 
 above 
 
 By party and state and your own simple worth, 
 I pray you desist; cast your weapons to earth." 
 
 A flood of revulsion as strong as the tide 
 That rolled in the river so near to one side, 
 Swept over each heart as, with weapons at rest, 
 The duelists, clasping, their errors confessed. 
 
 75
 
 A friendship was formed on that spot, which, 
 
 though tried 
 
 In many political battles, defied 
 All thought of enstrangement. Each held in his day 
 Positions of power, and conquered his way 
 Through national conflict as bitter, and fraught 
 With venomous hate, as the battle they sought; 
 But, martyr and statesman, each willingly classed 
 The other in highest esteem to the last. 
 
 'Twas well for the nation that, by their own 
 
 hands, 
 Their blood was not spilt on those dank river 
 
 sands. 
 
 Their history is written, and each honored name 
 Preserved in the national archives of fame, 
 Rings down through the ages, a lesson sublime 
 Of manhood and progress that counts for all 
 
 time. 
 
 The Father of Waters still washes to-day 
 The point where they met, as he rolls on his 
 
 way; 
 
 And oft as the steamer goes laboring by, 
 The passenger seeks with inquisitive eye 
 Some landmark recalling, upon those green fields, 
 The bloodless encounter of Lincoln and Shields.
 
 THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN. 
 
 J TPON the old familiar height, 
 
 Time-stained and weather-worn, 
 It stands in hallowed majesty 
 
 The house where I was born. 
 I gaze upon it, deeply moved, 
 
 And live, in fancy, o'er 
 The pleasant scenes and incidents 
 
 Of youth, that's mine no more. 
 
 'Twas here I first beheld the light 
 
 And found the world so fair, 
 Till young ambition, waked by love, 
 
 Undid the clasp of care; 
 Here, too, I learned the earliest truth 
 
 By blest surroundings taught, 
 And builded nobler works each day 
 
 Than since my hands have wrought. 
 
 77
 
 The casements in the sunset glow 
 All burnished seem with gold, 
 
 And sparkle with reflected light 
 Of memories bright and old; 
 
 E'en as the fading day was fair 
 With all that makes complete, 
 
 Recalling of its brief career 
 The story fond and sweet. 
 
 Ah, well, if, when my work is done, 
 
 Others its worth shall see, 
 And grant that 1 have wrought as well 
 
 As thou, old home, for me; 
 Whose influence still, my safest guide, 
 
 Is with me every day; 
 An arm of strength and star of hope 
 
 On life's uncertain way. 
 
 Those humble walls are rich compared 
 
 With others gay and grand, 
 Holding a charm which none but one 
 
 Who lived may understand. 
 No grace of Nature could enhance, 
 
 Nor artist's touch adorn 
 The sacred halo that pervades 
 
 The house where I was born.
 
 PEARLS OF POESY. 
 
 , pearls of purest poesy, 
 So beautiful and rare! 
 Could we but find their dwelling place, 
 
 'Twere sweet to linger there, 
 'Mid scenes of radiant light and love, 
 
 Where inspiration's fount 
 Springs up in rich abundance, from 
 The heart of pleasure's mount. 
 
 But, even as the ocean pearls 
 We cherish, dearly bought, 
 
 These jewels of the intellect, 
 
 With life's best essence fraught, 
 
 Are only seldom captured from 
 The deepest wells of thought. 
 
 79
 
 'MID SCENES OF YOUTH. 
 
 DACK upon the dear old homestead, with the 
 
 ones who love me well, 
 And each object wakes an echo of fond memories 
 
 that swell 
 
 Like a surging tide around me, 
 Where my happy childhood found me, 
 Till my soul is wild within me with a joy I may 
 not tell. 
 
 Every voice is rich with music, as of far-off 
 
 minstrelsy, 
 And each tender thought, responsive, tells how 
 
 good it is to be; 
 'Tis an ecstasy as holy 
 As the Christ- love, and as lowly 
 As the humble scenes that sanctify this hallowed 
 spot for me. 
 
 80
 
 Every landmark is familiar, and my heart, prone 
 
 to enjoy, 
 Finds old friends with pulse ecstatic as it hailed 
 
 its earliest toy; 
 
 While each woodland whisper falling 
 Seems an old companion calling 
 From the undulating pastures where I wandered 
 as a boy. 
 
 All is rare and fair and fragrant, and awhile 
 
 life's worries cease, 
 As the spirit unencumbered springs aloft in glad 
 
 release ; 
 
 While a warmth beyond concealing 
 Sounds the depths of fellow-feeling, 
 And I walk as one transported, in a realm of 
 perfect peace.
 
 A LESSON FOR LENT. 
 
 , rest from thy troubles, thou world-weary 
 
 soul ; 
 
 Embrace and find peace in the Lord; 
 Grieve not for thy failure to reach the longed goal, 
 But turn to His comforting word. 
 
 The sorrows that sadden the journey of life 
 Are mellowed by prayer's earnest pleas; 
 
 The longed-for relief from earth's jostle and strife 
 The Savior's fond love will appease. 
 
 Whenever the Tempter entices away 
 
 Thou'lt always find help at the throne; 
 
 And passions that rise in the world's bitter fray 
 God quells and gives strength to disown.
 
 CHRISTIAN WOMANHOOD. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY FRIEND ON HER UNITING WITH THE CHURCH. 
 
 \/OU did not need to join the church 
 To be and act a Christian's part, 
 For truth was always on your lips, 
 And God dwelt ever in your heart. 
 
 And yet your brave admission comes 
 Like a blest message from above 
 
 An inspiration to the world 
 
 Reflective of the Savior's love. 
 
 When woman's head is bowed in prayer, 
 The listening angels pause to hear, 
 
 And each petition uttered there 
 
 Shall echo through the boundless spheres. 
 
 Who knows how much of all the good 
 Which man has compassed by degrees, 
 
 Was given in answer to the plea 
 
 Of women on their bended knees, 
 
 83
 
 Whose intercessions never cease 
 
 Their missions at the Throne of Grace, 
 
 Petitioning the Prince of Peace 
 For favors to the human race. 
 
 Blest be the Christian woman's life: 
 Heav'n ordained gift, on earth divine, 
 
 Since man, degenerate child of strife, 
 First worshipped at its holy shrine. 
 
 8 4
 
 BY THE RIVER. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 , river that flowest so peacefully on, 
 
 What is it I hear in thy mellow refrain 
 That comforteth me for the hopes that have 
 
 flown, 
 And bringeth the peace I have prayed for in 
 
 vain? 
 Methinks as I list to thy murmuring song, 
 
 Thou speakest in tones of condolence to me, 
 And bearest my turbulent spirits along, 
 
 Confessing a bond of relation with thee." 
 
 "O, heart grown aweary with sorrow and care, 
 Weep not for the dreams thou hast failed to 
 
 attain, 
 
 What brooks it to yield to the voice of despair, 
 Or mourn for the hopes we have cherished in 
 vain? 
 
 85
 
 We are but the children of Infinite will 
 Small atomic parts of the formative plan 
 
 Performing the tasks we were sent to fulfill, 
 And ending at last where at first we began." 
 
 "Yet thou art so merry and singest of rest 
 
 To me who am weary of life and its woes, 
 Reviving a hope in my sorrowing breast 
 
 Of comfort and peace which this world never 
 
 knows. 
 Hast thou never troubles to ruffle thy tide, 
 
 That ever thou seemest so cheerful and gay 
 As on through the beautiful valley dost glide? 
 
 Blest wanderer, tell me thy secret, 1 pray." 
 
 "Yes, yes, dearest heart, 1 have troubles enow, 
 
 As many, I trow, as thy pulse ever knew, 
 Yet ever fulfilling my duties I go, 
 
 Refreshing the land while meandering through. 
 I nurture the fishes that bide on my breast, 
 
 Support on my bosom the traffic of trade: 
 I am but a servant, yet service is blest, 
 
 And duty accomplished goes never unpaid. 
 
 86
 
 "Do therefore be patient and cease to complain, 
 
 Fulfilling each duty with gentle accord, 
 Sure, nothing was ever created in vain, 
 
 And time, in due season, will bring the reward. 
 Aye, down at the end of the journey we plod 
 
 The haven is waiting for thee, friend, and me: 
 Thou goest to rest on the bosom of God, 
 
 And I to my bed in the billowy sea."
 
 THE SILVER WEDDING. 
 
 f^VEAR sweetheart, let us dream to-night the 
 
 old dreams o'er again, 
 Recall once more the joyful throng that gathered 
 
 round us then, 
 Just five -and -twenty years ago, when thou, my 
 
 bonny bride, 
 First plighted me thy maiden troth here standing 
 
 at thy side: 
 And I did promise all to thee that my fond heart 
 
 could give, 
 To cherish, honor, and protect, long as we both 
 
 should live; 
 While fond ones pressed to wish us well, and 
 
 sought to calm the fears 
 That overflowed through those dark eyes in half 
 
 regretful tears. 
 
 So long ago, and yet, dear heart, it seems but 
 
 yesterday, 
 Since erst you left your childhood's home and 
 
 came with me away; 
 
 88
 
 Much have we seen and felt since then of hap 
 piness and pain, 
 
 That left its threads of gray and gold in memory's 
 silken skein: 
 
 Together we have loved and worked through 
 swiftly passing years, 
 
 In fields of sunshine and success, and sorrow's 
 vale of tears. 
 
 Thy tresses show the silver now, but yet thou 
 art as fair 
 
 As when they wound the bridal wreath among 
 thy raven hair. 
 
 And now, as on that day when first their blessings 
 
 freely fell, 
 A merry circle gathers round, once more to wish 
 
 us well ; 
 But now they are our children dear, with faces 
 
 fresh and fair, 
 Fond hearts whose warm and tender love have 
 
 well repaid our care. 
 Yes, all are gathered round the hearth, not one 
 
 has gone away; 
 And listen, dear, for they would speak. What 
 
 have they come to say!
 
 "Kind parents, to whose constant care and all- 
 
 enduring love 
 We owe a debt of gratitude which naught can 
 
 e'er remove, 
 All that the coming years can give, to bless this 
 
 quiet scene, 
 We fain would have them bring to cheer and 
 
 grace your life serene; 
 And we will labor to fulfill the grateful thought 
 
 we pray, 
 That you may live as happy till your golden 
 
 wedding day."
 
 THE TWO ANGLERS. 
 
 A WAY with dull duties, with business away! 
 We're foot -loose for once, and are off for 
 
 the day. 
 
 Out into the country with sunlight agleam, 
 'Mid infinite freedom of forest and stream. 
 Here scorn we the lore and the legends of books, 
 To study the science of tackle and hooks 
 With interest profound, that denotes this a sport 
 As rich as the rarest that mortal may court. 
 But even while luring with minnow and fly 
 The deep-water denizens, wary and shy, 
 E'en during the typical strike, while I feel 
 The weight of the captive that tugs at the reel, 
 A mem'ry of childhood, a vision of old, 
 Comes over me now, like a glimmer of gold 
 Athwart the horizon at set of the sun, 
 Recalling the dawn of a day that is done. 
 And, as with a glass, where the dim shadows meet, 
 I see a young hopeful, with unstockinged feet, 
 Steal over the stile to the pasture beyond, 
 To fish, though forbidden, down at the old pond.
 
 Though years intervene 'twixt the boy and the man, 
 
 A kindred affinity bridges the span. 
 
 So quickly the latter is lost, and the lad 
 
 Revisits the scene which his elders forbade. 
 
 No day holds such promise, no skies are so fair, 
 
 No pleasure so perfect or nearly so rare; 
 
 No latest invention appeals to his soul 
 
 As those angle worms and the sassafras pole, 
 
 With cord-line and pin-hook he's wont to employ, 
 
 Whenever occasion permits it the boy 
 
 Who down by the old pasture stile, and beyond, 
 
 Went fishin' for suckers in grandfather's pond.
 
 MAMMA'S VALENTINES. 
 
 f~\F all the pretty valentines that circulate 
 
 to-day, 
 Methinks by far the fairest are my little ones at 
 
 play; 
 Nor aught of wit or sentiment these messengers 
 
 convey 
 Can match my babies' pathos, or the cunning 
 
 things they say. 
 
 There's more of joy in one brief hour of this dear 
 
 trinity 
 Of faces bright as hope's own star, of life from 
 
 guile so free; 
 And in these thumb -leaved nursery rhymes of 
 
 sweet simplicity, 
 Than all the valentines that e'er the postman 
 
 brought to me. 
 
 No thought by Cupid e'er transcribed on sta 
 tioner's designs, / 
 
 Though laden with heart's treasures that o'er- 
 flowed between the lines, 
 
 Was quite so pure and holy as the trusting love 
 that shines 
 
 In every little sunny face of Mamma's valentines. 
 
 93
 
 THE NOBLER CREED. 
 
 , Ingersoll, how hast thou taught 
 That "death is but a dreamless sleep," 
 And that life's pilgrimage is fraught 
 
 With nothing sacred in our keep, 
 That all our service may command 
 
 Is that which may be compassed in 
 The span of earth's existence, and 
 E'en "suicide is not a sin." 
 
 An' this be true, what recompense 
 
 Were there for all the toil and pain, 
 Encountered here; what consequence 
 
 Save that all strife, all hope were vain? 
 Then truly were all things but chance 
 
 On this forlorn, terrestrial ball, 
 With life an aimless circumstance, 
 
 And man the puppet of it all. 
 
 94
 
 A nobler creed was his who penned 
 
 The "Psalm of Life," whose lines extol 
 The truth that death is not the end 
 
 Of life: "The tomb is not its goal." 
 How warms the heart to perfect trust 
 
 In that divinely simple scroll; 
 Surmounting e'en the "dust to dust," 
 
 As never "spoken of the soul." 
 
 Indeed, who reads great Nature's book 
 
 Can doubt not life's immortal dower; 
 The forest, field and running brook 
 
 Teach resurrection every hour: 
 Who, then, would choose with Ingersoll 
 
 His gloomy gospel of despair? 
 When "Hope" is written over all 
 
 The earth, in lessons bright and fair. 
 
 95
 
 OUT OF THE PAST. 
 
 IN listless mood I sat me down to rest 
 
 Upon the lintel of an oaken door 
 Deserted years agone, and now possessed 
 
 By clambering vines whose verdure covered o'er 
 The crumbling walls that framed the happy home 
 
 Of sturdy pioneers, whose heirs to-day 
 Dwell in the shadow of yon towering dome, 
 
 Where wealth is king, all else but common clay. 
 
 And musing here, methought I heard the chimes 
 
 Of music soft, attuned to sturdy toil, 
 By those brave spirits of the early times 
 
 Who drove the furrows through the virgin soil : 
 The glad refrain ere gold and gilded sin 
 
 Had caught the land in their dread undertow 
 Of blithesome lives that drank the sunshine in; 
 
 And cheery voices, hushed long, long ago.
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 '"THERE came a robber into my home 
 
 One dreary September day; 
 His name was Death, and he sought to steal 
 The love of my life away. 
 
 Full armed was he in his sinister quest, 
 
 To smite with remorseless hand, 
 And when I bade him begone, he scorned 
 
 The plea of my rash demand. 
 
 The world was drear in mine eyes that day, 
 Though brightly the sun did shine, 
 
 Hope's lamp burned low, and the birds' glad song 
 Seemed nothing at all divine. 
 
 But faith is stronger than fate, 1 ween, 
 And love than a moment's fears; 
 
 Through Him, who orders the tide of life 
 And shapeth the course of years. 
 
 97
 
 The hand that threatened was turned aside, 
 
 And into the house there came 
 A boundless joy when my darling woke, 
 
 And smiled as 1 spoke her name. 
 
 Her dear face glows by the hearth once more 
 
 And, marry, this heart of mine 
 Hears, 'mid the sough of the autumn gale, 
 
 The lilt of a song divine. 
 
 98
 
 BLIGHTED. 
 
 DDT yester' eve I proudly strolled 
 *^ Among the greening orchard trees, 
 Bedecked with bursting buds that told 
 
 Of mellowy fruits in all degrees. 
 Methought I saw the harvest time 
 
 Already dawning, and the air 
 Forescented by the summer's thyme, 
 
 With plenty smiling everywhere. 
 So happy in the promised yield, 
 
 I held it e'en as certain gain, 
 And all that fancy's flight revealed 
 I counted in mine own domain. 
 
 Alack! to-day 1 walked again 
 
 Those orchard rows, how sadly changed! 
 Where all was growth and promise then 
 
 Is naught of either. All estranged 
 The landscape seems, and crumpled leaves, 
 
 Their symmetry and beauty gone, 
 Like prematurely gathered sheaves, 
 
 Droop from the boughs they grew upon. 
 
 99
 
 On every hand is quick decay 
 
 Sad sequence of the Frost King's blight, - 
 By whom the buds of yesterday 
 
 Were blasted in a single night. 
 
 So have I seen the fairest hope 
 
 That blossomed in the heart of youth, 
 Crushed out in its divinest scope 
 
 And withered by the fires of ruth. 
 What lesson, what example here? 
 
 What recompense for so much pain? 
 The stricken flower, the smarting tear, 
 
 How can we count its passing gain? 
 We may not tell; we are but blind; 
 
 We trust because we cannot know, 
 That in this loss we still may find 
 
 The wiser plan which willed it so.
 
 THE COMING OF THE BRIDE. 
 
 '"THE peace that comes of perfect love 
 
 And warms the constant heart, 
 Be o'er this home and bless this hour 
 
 With all its vows impart, 
 While we are gathered, as of old, 
 
 Responsive Nature stayed, 
 When angels wrote the plighted troth 
 
 Of first fond man and maid. 
 
 Obedient to the master touch, 
 
 The ivory keys proclaim 
 A happier triumph than was e'er 
 
 Achieved on field of fame, 
 For ne'er was holier circumstance 
 
 By music ratified, 
 Than when the wedding march proclaims 
 
 The coming of the bride.
 
 The hopes and fears of other years 
 
 The day-dreams that have sped, 
 Are vanished like the summer dews 
 
 That bowed the lily's head; 
 The vague regrets and might-have-beens 
 
 That vex the youthful breast, 
 Are merged in blessed certainty 
 
 That that which is, is best, 
 
 Florescent sprays of mignonette, 
 
 The pansy's graceful pose, 
 The drooping branch of bleeding heart 
 
 That blushes with the rose, 
 Are symbolized in yon pure gift 
 
 Of Flora's fairest dower, 
 That sanctifies this circle with 
 
 Its crown of orange flower. 
 
 And as, anon, the clergyman 
 
 With voice distinct and slow, 
 Conducts the solemn services 
 
 That join for weal or woe, 
 The loftiest pledge that language e'er 
 
 Has turned to human skill, 
 Twice spoken, seals the compact with 
 
 The glad response, "I will."
 
 Amen! We greet the bride and groom, 
 
 And wish them, with the flow 
 Of life's fleet tide, a peaceful cruise, 
 
 Inspired as we go 
 To draw the portieres of our hearts 
 
 About this love -lit scene, 
 And pray, "God bless them through the course 
 
 Of years that intervene." 
 
 103
 
 THE SCHOOL-HOUSE ON THE HILL. 
 
 T~\OWN the lane and up the valley, through 
 
 the pasture by the mill, 
 Lies the pathway, and I follow, as it were, a 
 
 child at will, 
 Till it ends beneath the belfry of the school - 
 
 house on the hill. 
 
 Like a hymn of consecration, and with meaning 
 
 as complete 
 As the score of rude initials carved upon the 
 
 rearmost seat, 
 Are the merry peals of laughter and the rush of 
 
 nimble feet 
 
 On the playground, as I linger, fain to be a boy 
 
 again, 
 And forgetful of the changes that have marked 
 
 my way since then 
 Innocent of all the worries of this world of busy 
 
 men. 
 
 104
 
 As by some magician's challenge, all the past is 
 
 swept away, 
 And the boys and girls of forty are the children 
 
 of to-day, 
 In this hour of intermission, given up to joyous 
 
 play. 
 
 Some contending in the forum to redeem the 
 
 Golden Rule, 
 Some are weaving webs of fancy from tradition's 
 
 mystic spool ; 
 Others, passed to broader vision in a better, 
 
 higher school, 
 
 Since they heard that bell at recess sound its 
 
 summons, as sublime 
 And as potent in its echoes down the endless 
 
 course of Time, 
 As the Sabbath morning message of the grandest 
 
 steeple chime. 
 
 Seems as if the voice of conscience, speaking 
 
 through that oaken door, 
 Would reproach me as unworthy of the lessons 
 
 learned of yore 
 That those precepts should have fruited in a fund 
 
 of riper lore.
 
 Yet, a deeper sense assures me that whate'er I 
 
 may have wrought 
 Worthy of commemoration in the argosies of 
 
 thought, 
 Grew e'en from this humble temple where my 
 
 A. B. C.'s were taught. 
 
 Every memory is sacred, and the eye of fancy sees 
 Joy or penitence responsive to the teacher's stern 
 
 decrees ; 
 And what pastimes! From the ball -field to the 
 
 jolly spelling bees. 
 
 Through the mist of life's emotions it conveys a 
 
 subtle thrill; 
 So, God grant that in the gloaming 1 may see it 
 
 standing, still, 
 And inhale the inspiration of the school -house on 
 
 the hill. 
 
 106
 
 GLAD EASTER TIME. 
 
 OAIL the resurrection anthems 
 Sounding merrily and free, 
 As of old their music echoed 
 
 O'er the tide of Gallilee; 
 Heralding the final triumph 
 
 Over sorrow and the tomb, 
 Sung by every voice of nature, 
 
 Symbolized in every bloom 
 That adorns the smiling landscape 
 
 On this merry Easter morn, 
 Bright with hope and fair with promise 
 
 Of a higher life, new-born. 
 
 Bringing peace to all the nation 
 Through the grace of love divine, 
 
 Warming every Christian spirit, 
 Like the thrill of sacred wine: 
 
 107
 
 With the pulse of fellow feeling 
 
 In the pleasure we impart, 
 By the gifts which bless the giver, 
 
 Sending joy to every heart; 
 Happy in the glad fulfillment, 
 
 Told in every steeple chime, 
 Of the promises of Christmas 
 
 In the fact of Easter time. 
 
 1 08
 
 A CAMP-SIDE REVERIE. 
 
 CORGETTING all the world's affairs, 
 Its endless, vexing grind of cares, 
 Perplexities and cunning snares: 
 
 Recumbent by the fire 
 Of smouldering logs, on summer night, 
 Just thinking, by the flickering light, 
 Good, lazy thoughts; to what delight 
 
 More pure could man aspire? 
 
 With nothing to disturb the mind, 
 Lulled and caressed by whisp'ring wind, 
 Here may the spirit, self -resigned, 
 
 Repose in perfect peace; 
 Where life's elixir comes unsought, 
 Borne in the breezes, fragrance fraught, 
 By every touch of nature taught, 
 
 'Mid songs that never cease. 
 
 109
 
 Songs of the insects, soft and sweet, 
 Frogs in the waters at thy feet, 
 And night-birds in their dark retreat, 
 
 All help to weave the spell, 
 Whose charm surcharges all my heart 
 With subtle joy, the rarest art 
 Of worded language to impart 
 
 Has not the power to tell. 
 
 No monarch in his princely bower 
 
 E'er reveled in a richer hour, 
 
 Nor found the subjects of his power 
 
 More tractile to his wish, 
 Than I in this Arcadian dream, 
 While pondering many a subtle scheme 
 For luring from his native stream 
 
 My finny friend, the fish.
 
 THE FISH WE FAILED TO LAND. 
 
 ""THROUGH the early twilight shadows, singing 
 
 in falsetto shrill, 
 Comes an urchin o'er the meadows from the 
 
 creek across the hill ; 
 Nimble footed, though so tired from his romps 
 
 along the stream, 
 Like a hero, self-inspired, while his dark eyes 
 
 fairly gleam 
 With exultant animation as he holds aloft his 
 
 "string," 
 
 And begins his proud narration, with the crafts 
 man's coloring. 
 
 And he tells us, bidding slyly for another holiday, 
 Of the catch of Jimmy Riley and what whoppers 
 
 got away! 
 Then observe the tone of sorrow, as he lays the 
 
 tempting lure 
 If he might but go to-morrow he could do much 
 
 better, sure.
 
 How his daft adroitness moves you with a 
 
 kindred feeling deep; 
 And a subtle sense reproves you, as you say, 
 
 "The fish will keep." 
 For the voice of memory reasons from those little 
 
 sunburned feet, 
 Backward through a score of seasons thronged 
 
 with happenings sad and sweet, 
 Ruminating fancy lingers over many a fickle dream 
 That has slipped between your fingers since you 
 
 fished in yonder stream; 
 And you read the grave condition, which this lad 
 
 is yet untaught, 
 In the shade of each ambition and the recompense 
 
 it brought; 
 That the life of man forever echoes to some vain 
 
 regret, 
 And its bravest, best endeavor was the fish he 
 
 failed to get.
 
 THE HUNTSMAN. 
 
 T IP in the morn with the first peep of daylight, 
 
 Out in the meadows ahead of the sun; 
 Off for a respite from dull office duties, 
 Over the hills with dog, tackle and gun. 
 
 Buoyant and free as the breezes of autumn, 
 Murmuring soft over woodland and wold; 
 
 Tingles each fiber with anticipation, 
 
 Watching each moment a mark to behold. 
 
 Up and away, jovial and gay, 
 
 Far from the grind of care, calm in his glee; 
 Over the field, pleasure must yield, 
 
 Joy to the hunter, contented and free. 
 
 List! over yonder the partridge is calling, 
 
 Hear how he thrashes the air with his wings; 
 
 Steady! well done! see the bird lightly falling, 
 Caught by my trusty retriever; he springs 
 
 "3
 
 Back and away where the covey has settled, 
 What tho' we miss them, the sport is the same; 
 
 Failure but sharpens the sportman's ambition; 
 Lives there a man of infallible aim? 
 
 Thus goes the day; tell me, I pray, 
 
 Is there a pastime as healthful and free? 
 
 Truce to all sport others may court, 
 
 Gun, field and dog are the fairest for me. 
 
 Or if the scene be the river or marshland, 
 Whether for feathered or four-footed game, 
 
 So but success crown the earnest endeavor, 
 Matters but little, the pleasure's the same. 
 
 Sing who may list of the ball -field's attractions, 
 Games that have flourished awhile and declined ; 
 
 None may compare with the pleasures that, hidden, 
 Fostered by Nature, here 'wait who shall find. 
 
 List to the horn, fresh on the morn, 
 Echoing clear over woodland and lea, 
 
 Seek if you will elsewhere, but still 
 
 Forest and field are the fairest for me. 
 
 114
 
 NOT IN THE PAST. 
 
 IVIOT in the past, 'midst fallen thrones, 
 
 Haunted by ghosts of vanished power, 
 Can we find answers for the needs 
 And questions of the present hour. 
 
 Not he is great who idly mourns 
 The downfall of an ancient State, 
 
 But he who strives and thinks to save 
 His country from as dark a fate. 
 
 Muse not on haughty Caesar's rule, 
 
 Whose bones long since returned to clay; 
 But in the present busy world 
 Be thou the Cassar of to-day. 
 
 O, dreamer in the aisles of Time, 
 
 Arouse thee from thy reverie, 
 Awake! Come to the front and fight 
 
 For thy own home and liberty: 
 Turn from the ruins of the past 
 
 To that whjch js, and is to be!
 
 MONOTONE. 
 
 , monotone, of warring words 
 That echo to life's vain appeal, 
 Or weave their phantom frames about 
 
 The image of each lost ideal, 
 Of winds that whistle evermore, 
 
 And seem to mock, malignantly, 
 All things that bide upon the earth 
 And, fettered, struggle to be free. 
 
 Oh, voice of Nature, vast and lone, 
 
 Though by each passing sound instilled, 
 
 Gathered through all the ages flown, 
 And with quintescent sadness filled; 
 
 Like some lost spirit making moan 
 For every promise, unfulfilled. 
 
 116
 
 THE IMAGE BREAKER. 
 
 CTAND back! thou rash iconoclast! 
 
 Lift not thy prodding spade to blast 
 Yon sacred temple of the dead! 
 What wouldst thou with the weapons dread 
 That guard this long-lost people's dust? 
 To pander an ignoble lust, 
 And steal the secrets of the past! 
 No grave can hold its treasure fast; 
 No fame so high, no shrine so pure 
 No hallowed image is secure 
 Against the sacrilegious blade 
 That marks the relic-hunter's trade! 
 
 In every nook of every land 
 Are works of his defacing hand; 
 And why? What has he for his toil? 
 A pile of useless, crumbling spoil, 
 Which cannot serve one worthy end, 
 Much less his lawless work defend. 
 
 O, cease, traducer of the grave, 
 Leave to the past her rusted glave; 
 Leave them in peace these mummied things- 
 And study truth from living springs; 
 Confine thyself to modern bounds, 
 And let tradition guard these mounds. 
 117
 
 TO A TREE FROG. 
 
 CAUCY little elfin prophet, 
 
 Challenging the thirsty wold 
 From its fitful mid -day slumber 
 
 With thy croaking, harsh and bold- 
 How dost know a storm is brewing, 
 
 When no cloud is in the sky? 
 And each drooping thing about thee 
 
 Seems to give thee back the lie? 
 
 Hast some subtle intuition 
 
 In thy secret cell of bark? 
 Or a mystic cipher message 
 
 From the Rain God's distant ark? 
 Or art merely telling falsely 
 
 To awaken doubt and strife? 
 If so, and I had thee captive, 
 
 It should quickly cost thy life, 
 
 Nay, but I believe thee, truly; 
 
 Thou wast reared in Nature's heart, 
 Where no falsehood e'er is nourished, 
 And shouldst know thy single art 
 Over more pretentious prophets: 
 
 Else thy lot were wholly vain. 
 All athirst the world is waiting, 
 Speed the promise let it rain. 
 
 118
 
 THE LESSON OF COLUMBUS.* 
 
 "/^OLUMBUS!" how the chorus swells in 
 
 ^^ honor to the name, 
 As on this festal day we meet to celebrate his 
 
 fame, 
 And fling the flags of freedom on the sombre 
 
 autumn breeze, 
 E'en as of old they waved for him upon the 
 
 friendly seas, 
 As from the court of Spain his ships went out 
 
 with sails unfurled, 
 To battle with the elements and find another world. 
 
 Four hundred years ago, and yet it does not 
 
 seem so long: 
 The memory is so well preserved in history and 
 
 song; 
 Each child has heard the story of that earnest, 
 
 fearless man, 
 Who braved a thousand unknown deaths to verify 
 
 his plan, 
 That, far beyond the Western skies, where none 
 
 had gone before, 
 The sun that seemed to dip the wave, shone on 
 
 some fairer shore. 
 
 *NOTE XL Appendix. 119
 
 A mighty thought it was, than which no nobler 
 
 e'er was known; 
 And greater still the master mind that faced the 
 
 world alone, 
 With fortitude to bear the taunts of unbelief, 
 
 and then 
 Persuade a doubting monarch to provide the 
 
 means and men 
 
 To prove his theory correct, or forfeit with his own, 
 Those other lives, and bring reproof upon the 
 
 Spanish throne. 
 
 Thus from the life which gave the world this 
 
 Western hemisphere 
 We learn our noblest lesson still, to dare and 
 
 persevere. 
 All that we have achieved since then is from that 
 
 precept drawn, 
 Still nerving us to better deeds and pointing on 
 
 and on: 
 E'en as of old Columbus' ships, with silken sails 
 
 unfurled, 
 Were guided o'er the trackless deep to find 
 
 another world.
 
 BALLAD OF THE BRAVE. 
 
 HARK! hark to the beating 
 Of music repeating 
 The charge for the meeting 
 
 Of armies of old. 
 But softly, more slowly, 
 More hallowed and holy, 
 Each patriot bows lowly 
 Whenever 'tis told; 
 
 The story recalling 
 Of battles befalling 
 With carnage appalling 
 
 From sabre and shell; 
 Where heroes unbending 
 For honors contending, 
 Their colors defending, 
 
 Fought, conquered and fell.
 
 This day does the Nation 
 In proud celebration 
 Of commemoration, 
 
 Bring flowers and tears, 
 Their graves fondly strewing, 
 And praises renewing, 
 The fame of whose doing 
 
 Fades not with the years. 
 
 Old comrades repeating, 
 Ere once more retreating, 
 The bivouac's greeting 
 
 Above the green mold; 
 And they, in their glory 
 Of battle-fields gory, 
 Sleep on through the story 
 
 That never grows old.
 
 ONCE MORE WITH REJOICING. 
 
 more with rejoicing, fair day, in thy 
 glory, 
 
 We welcome the memories thy echoes recall; 
 From pulpit and stage we repeat the glad story, 
 How freedom first echoed through liberty's hall. 
 In glad celebration 
 The sons of the nation 
 
 Assemble again 'neath the red, white and blue 
 With memories glowing, 
 And hearts overflowing. 
 With all that is loyal and tender and true. 
 
 'Tis meet that we come thus in fancy reviewing 
 The scenes where was planted fair liberty's tree, 
 Each young generation the pledges renewing 
 That made our country "the land of the free;" 
 
 With rocket and rattle 
 
 Repeating the battle 
 Wherein the oppressor was conquered and fell ; 
 
 Each stroke from the steeple 
 
 And shout of the people 
 Recalling the chimes of the Liberty bell. 
 
 123
 
 Dear land for whose welfare our fathers have striven, 
 
 To free thee forever from tyranny's rod 
 Thy past we bequeath to the keeping of heaven 
 Thy future we trust to the mercy of God. 
 With hearts proudly beating, 
 Hozannas repeating, 
 
 We leave .thee again to the guidance Divine; 
 May wars never scatter 
 Thy homesteads, or shatter 
 The banner that waves over Liberty's shrine. 
 
 124
 
 LIFE'S RURAL WAY. 
 
 R from the city's noisome scenes away 
 Happy are those who thread earth's rural way. 
 Not in the crowd that throngs the busy street, 
 Among the fleeting faces that we meet; 
 Not in the whirl of the commercial mart, 
 The school of pleasure or the hall of art, 
 Nor anywhere in this chaotic round 
 Is life's complete fulfillment ever found, 
 
 Go ye who this most fragrant flower would find, 
 Of sweet contentment to the soul and mind, 
 Go seek where nature's bounty freely yields 
 The restful opulence of sunny fields; 
 Aye, go and be as yonder sturdy swain 
 Who knows or cares not that his dress is plain, 
 Whose best ambition from his daily toil 
 To glean the product of the native soil. 
 
 125
 
 Nothing to him is fashion's frail regard, 
 The thirst for office or its false reward: . 
 He worships fortune with his own right hand; 
 Is self-dependent, bows to no command, 
 And spurns the dullard who presumes to scorn 
 The honest value of an ear of corn. 
 
 With him to dwell among the orchard trees, 
 Inhale the fragrance of the fruitful breeze, 
 Or in the woods, of other days to dream, 
 Soothed by the ripple of some pasture stream ; 
 Here dwells the peace of pleasure most profound, 
 Spiced by the salt of duty's daily round. 
 Blessed beyond the common ken are they 
 Who thus elect to tread life's rural way. 
 
 126
 
 LIKE AS A STAR. 
 
 T STOOD upon the vernal height 
 Of youth, and gazing out afar, 
 Beheld the iridescent light 
 
 Of Fortune, like a shooting star; 
 Harnessed to hopes that in their reach 
 
 Outspanned the noblest mind's desire; 
 And which, translated into speech, 
 
 Would glow with inspiration's fire. 
 
 Then, looking down, I saw below 
 
 A shadow flitting in the dark, 
 And threading cables to and fro 
 
 To drag to earth that shining mark. 
 To rise or fall to wane or shine, 
 
 Such is the struggle, passing o'er; 
 Transcendent as a light divine, 
 
 Or falling, to be seen no more. 
 
 127
 
 E'en such is life an orb of light 
 
 Drifting athwart the vault of Time; 
 A day-star jeweled in the night 
 
 Of earth's dark ways a spark sublime 
 That, tending upwards in its course, 
 
 And growing still to more and more, 
 Would thrill the droning world, and force 
 
 Its light beyond the finite shore. 
 
 But in the shadow- lands of sin 
 
 There lurk the demons of despair, 
 Weaving their webs of doubt, wherein 
 
 Bright spirits find their fatal snare. 
 'Twixt hope to rise, and fear to fall 
 
 So passes every mortal span; 
 While One, presiding over all, 
 
 Works out the great Creative Plan. 
 
 128
 
 WHAT MIGHT NOT BE. 
 
 ]\]AY, do not think me cold of heart 
 
 Because I never spoke of love; 
 Nor charge me with so base a part 
 
 As these old letters seem to prove. 
 Friends let us be, as erst we were; 
 
 And though we may not quite forget, 
 Let naught that others may aver 
 
 Bring back to us one vain regret. 
 
 Had 1 but dared, 1 might have told 
 But no, this cannot help us now: 
 Duty forbade that sacred vow. 
 
 Perchance the future yet may hold 
 For us some sweet reward in store, 
 When love illumes a brighter shore. 
 
 129
 
 HEROES UNREVEALED. 
 
 \A7HO said our heroes all were gone? 
 Not so! By heaven, 'tis untrue! 
 Ye measure but what men have done, 
 And not what others yet may do. 
 
 True, those were brave who fought our wars 
 And, honor-crowned, have gone to rest, 
 
 But then it needs not battle scars 
 The spirit's valor to attest. 
 
 The land has many sons as brave, 
 Who never saw the bloody field, 
 
 As those who faced a nameless grave 
 
 Their country's flag from shame to shield. 
 
 Though yet, perchance, it sleeps unkenned 
 Uncalled, and therefore unconfessed, 
 
 Let but Columbia call: "Defend!" 
 The fire will blaze in every breast. 
 
 "To arms!" let once the trumpet peal, 
 And mark the answering host immense: 
 
 With courage strong and hearts as leal 
 As ever fought in her defense. 
 
 130
 
 IN THE OLD PRISON CEMETERY. 
 
 LJARK, to the beat of myriad feet that over hill 
 
 and dell 
 Come to dispose the graves of those who for 
 
 their country fell! 
 Sad recompense for their defence of this fair land 
 
 of ours; 
 We go each year with grateful tears, and strew 
 
 their graves with flowers. 
 With fife and drum again we come, and flags 
 
 unfurled to view, 
 As erst they came, and laud their fame the boys 
 
 who wore the blue. 
 
 But where are they who wore the gray and 
 
 perish'ed far from home, 
 Whose life, enthralled in prison walls, went out 
 
 unwept, unknown? 
 Fond hearts that yearned for their return were 
 
 anxious all in vain, 
 Straining the view till their life, too, went out in 
 
 silent pain.
 
 Unmarked to-day they sleep, and, aye, the voice 
 
 of love is mute; 
 None visit here, with flowers and tears, to fire 
 
 the grave's salute; 
 Yet who may tell but, just as well, they rest 
 
 beneath the moss, 
 As those whose bed is heralded by towering 
 
 shaft and cross? 
 The stone that marks the soldier's rest, here 
 
 'neath the greening sod, 
 Points from these quiet meadows, through the 
 
 shadows, up to God. 
 
 132
 
 A WORD.* 
 
 A WORD, a breath, that scarcely moves, 
 
 ^* Which to no soul one tremor brings 
 
 A word, that shakes earth's deepest grooves 
 
 And bears the whirlwind on its wings. 
 
 A word, a sound, in earnest spoken, 
 
 That thrills the heart with quickening touch, 
 
 Has oft united, oft has broken 
 A word, so little yet so much. 
 
 "A word of doom; ah! who knows whether 
 He hath not lengthened that dark scroll? 
 
 A word of love, like unctioned feather, 
 It heals some weary, wounded soul. 
 
 A word of light, illumes the mountain, 
 
 Or shrouds the vale of life's reverse. 
 A word! 'tis joy's or sorrow's fountain: 
 A benediction, or a curse. 
 
 NOTE XII. Appendix.
 
 THE SUBMERGED CITY.* 
 
 CROM the ocean's depths 'mid sea-weeds 
 springing, 
 
 Curfew bells are ringing soft and low, 
 To the sailors' eyes strange tidings bringing 
 
 Of the grand old town that lies below. 
 
 Deep within the heaving depths of the ocean 
 Are its turrets standing far below, 
 
 And above them is the billow's motion 
 Lighted with a strange and fitful glow. 
 
 And the sailor who, at sunset peering, 
 Saw the magic light from off the shore, 
 
 In that same direction still is steering, 
 
 Though the billows round him madly roar. 
 
 * * * 
 
 From my heart's deep fountains, sadly springing, 
 
 Memory's bells are ringing soft and low; 
 To my sea-sick soul strange tidings bringing 
 
 Of the dear old friends of long ago. 
 Ah! a beauteous city there lies sleeping 
 
 Like a glimpse of paradise it seems 
 Oft when I beheld its turrets, weeping, 
 
 In the blessed mirror of my dreams. 
 
 *NOTE XIII. Appendix. 134
 
 A THRENODY OF TEARS. 
 
 DEPRESS not the bright tear that dims thine eye, 
 Since, dear, I know that it was meant for me : 
 May I but kiss the love -lit token dry 
 
 That trembles on thy lids so witchingly! 
 Through tears like these angelic spirits shine, 
 And I would know thee never less divine. 
 
 Yet every tear, alas, betokens pain, 
 
 And is the sign of tender soul's unrest; 
 
 And I do pray thee, dearest, to refrain 
 
 From judgment, if my tongue hath seemed to jest. 
 
 Claim thou my heart's blood, who hast wept for me, 
 
 And hold me still for aye in debt to thee. 
 
 Sometimes, when others dared to call me base, 
 And sinister hatred barred my humble way; 
 
 1 found sweet inspiration in thy face, 
 
 As angels pure, who at God's footstool pray. 
 
 And were I bad at heart as they have said, 
 
 No seraph for me had bowed her weeping head. 
 
 135
 
 Peace, darling, 1 will dry them, every one 
 The tears thou'st wept on this devoted breast, 
 
 Thus they have gone: their holy work is done, 
 And through the pain there comes love's per 
 fect rest. 
 
 Nay, weep no more and at God's altar fair, 
 
 I'll weave the myrtle in thy silken hair. 
 
 136
 
 A SONG OF LABOR DAY. 
 
 'TO -DAY the toilers of the land, with sturdy 
 
 voice and tread, 
 Proclaim how good a thing it is to strive for 
 
 honest bread. 
 A mighty bannered host they march, like veterans 
 
 to the wars, 
 And proudly every man salutes the nation's stripes 
 
 and stars: 
 Nor grander army e'er went forth to fight in 
 
 Freedom's name, 
 Than they who on this festal day their loyalty 
 
 proclaim 
 To home and country, church and State, to 
 
 every grace that gives 
 Each man the ample blessings of the sphere in 
 
 which he lives. 
 
 Though military armament and code be missing 
 
 here, 
 Much more there is of hope and faith, much less 
 
 of doubt and fear; 
 
 137
 
 Where every man a soldier is, to follow and 
 
 command, 
 Himself a host; his battlefield, the labors of his 
 
 hand. 
 
 Honor the hero and the time, and let forensic art 
 Rehearse the lessons and the truths which are its 
 
 highest part. 
 Proud is the nation in her strength, but proudest 
 
 most of those 
 Who make her fields and factories, and to whose 
 
 might she owes 
 The garnered wealth that makes her great by 
 
 whose support she stands 
 Above all others of the earth, the queen of happy 
 
 lands. 
 Be this the motto of the hour: " 'Tis noblest to 
 
 be true, 
 With hand and heart to every task that duty 
 
 brings us to." 
 
 138
 
 DEFERRED. 
 
 T OOK you at yon two radiant orbs 
 
 Approaching in the Western sky, 
 So closely that their light absorbs 
 
 The space between, to mortal eye. 
 We gaze across the distance and 
 
 In fancy see the stars embrace; 
 Pleased, though we may not understand 
 
 This love scene in the realms of space. 
 But mark how brief the tryst has been; 
 
 Where lately they appeared as one, 
 Now shines a streak of gold between, 
 
 Reflected from the setting sun, 
 Yes, Nature's laws, must be obeyed, 
 
 E'en here as in the lives of me'n, 
 And years shall lengthen to decades, 
 
 Ere yon two planets meet again. 
 
 So have 1 known pray who has not? 
 Two souls that for each other seemed 
 
 Designed: whose every act and thought 
 Each in the other's self redeemed.
 
 And here, methought, is one ideal 
 
 Of poets dreamed, in fact fulfilled; 
 While, gazing on their bliss so real, 
 
 My soul with kindred rapture thrilled. 
 Alas, when next I looked, a spell 
 
 Of sadness on each face was set, 
 Betraying, as they said, "Farewell," 
 
 The shadow of a life's regret. 
 Yet purpose rules the orb of earth, 
 
 And 'spite of all its purchased pain, 
 The hopes that fade in sorrow's dearth, 
 
 Though long deferred, are not in vain. 
 
 140
 
 SING WE OF LOVE. 
 
 T 
 *-* 
 
 ONG, long ago, love," 
 Thus runs the song; 
 Sweetly the music 
 
 Ripples along. 
 Hark! how the rhythm, 
 
 Tender and slow, 
 Echoes our young love, 
 Long, long ago. 
 
 What does it teach us, 
 
 Love, can you hear? 
 Borne in the measure 
 
 Year after year; 
 Seasons of gladness 
 
 Moments of woe 
 Whereof we dreamed not 
 
 Long, long ago. 
 
 Have we regrets, love? 
 
 E'en did we stray 
 Near to the edge of 
 
 Life's pleasant way? 
 
 141
 
 Be this forgotten; 
 
 How could we know 
 Where there was danger 
 
 Long, long ago? 
 
 Such is love's guerdon 
 
 Counting as gain 
 Every achievement 
 
 Compassed through pain, 
 Therefore we sing, since 
 
 God willed it so, 
 Happier now than 
 
 E'en, long ago. 
 
 142
 
 THE SILENT SENTINEL. 
 
 A S the picket lone who, stationed, 
 When the army rests at large, 
 Guards the sleeping camp from danger 
 
 By the foemen's stealthy charge, 
 Stands the conscience in the vanguard 
 
 Of the mind's defensive host, 
 Challenging each doubtful motive 
 That would pass the outer post. 
 
 Safe the heart while conscience, faithful, 
 
 Watches on the outer wall, 
 And each better pulse responsive, 
 
 Rallies at the warning call, 
 But the soul is deep in danger 
 
 If this guardian flinch or fall.
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE WHEEL. 
 
 while waiting slumber's coming 
 1 have listened to the drumming, 
 As of some great bee-hive humming, 
 
 Of the steamer's ponderous wheel; 
 And the troubled waters gushing, 
 In their pent-up quarters flushing, 
 As if anxious, in their rushing, 
 To escape the rudder's heel. 
 
 How the paddles' rhythmic measure 
 Hurls the foam from their embrasure, 
 Seemingly in savage pleasure, 
 
 With each turning of the wheel ; 
 While the river, gliding under 
 With a swell like distant thunder, 
 Brings sugge'stive thoughts to ponder 
 
 Till the senses fairly reel! 
 
 Thus the mighty palpitation 
 And the dull reverberation 
 Time the steady oscillation 
 
 Of the massive shafts of steel, 
 Until Fancy goes off dancing, 
 Into Dreamland's shadows prancing, 
 Like the spray -beat waves aglancing 
 
 From the vessel's flying keel. 
 144
 
 HYPOCRISY. 
 
 IVJOT from the round of mortal cares 
 The worry of the world's affairs, 
 Its open pits and hidden snares; 
 From obstacles that block life's way 
 As down the path from day to day 
 Toward the final goal we stray, 
 Would I most fain be free: 
 
 But from the cant of party schools, 
 The babble of pedantic fools, 
 The senseless sway of Fashion's rules; 
 From friends who do not sympathize, 
 Who poison grief with hollow sighs 
 And flatter truth with conscious lies, 
 From these deliver me. 
 
 M5
 
 THE BATTLE OF BRAINS. 
 
 ]\lAPOLEON stood grieving on Helena's isle; 
 
 He thought of his forfeited crown, 
 And of the mistake in the battle which turned 
 
 The tide of his life and renown. 
 "Had Grouchy not failed me," he bitterly said, 
 
 "We could not have lost, that is plain; 
 The French would have won and the vultures of war 
 
 Had feasted on Wellington's brain." 
 
 Life is but a bivouac, the world is its field, 
 
 And men are all soldiers of fame, 
 Who struggle for points of position and place, 
 
 Where honors are fraught with acclaim. 
 Engagements are many, and skirmishes oft 
 
 Take place on disputed domain, 
 But all the great victories counting for time 
 
 Are wrought through the battle of brain.
 
 This greatest of conflicts the world ever knew 
 
 Is waging forever and aye; 
 Wherever men meet, e'en in labors of love, 
 
 They join in the ceaseless affray. 
 Each grapples his neighbor and struggles with might 
 
 Some stealthy advantage to gain, 
 And one must go down inexorable tide 
 
 Of fate in this conquest of brain. 
 
 Each man is a private, enlisted for life, 
 
 Or drafted for service in youth, 
 And none may avoid it, e'en bodily ills 
 
 Commend nor exemption or ruth. 
 Though thousands disabled are sent to the rear, 
 
 Their trouble ends not in the pain: 
 Aye! still unavoidable unto the last, 
 
 It rages the battle of brain. 
 
 Here are no deserters, nor bushwhacking clans, 
 
 For none may avoid or invade 
 The code of fair conquest, and yet, in the end 
 
 All soldiers are pensioned and paid. 
 Each one is rewarded as he may achieve, 
 
 And none ever conquered in vain, 
 And leisure and pleasure are guerdon for all 
 
 Who win the great battle of brain.
 
 IN AFTER YEARS. 
 
 T ET us walk again, dear Allie, 
 
 Down the peaceful twilight valley; 
 O'er the lealand to the pebble -garnished shore, 
 
 Where the evening lights are gleaming, 
 
 And thy poet's fancy, dreaming, 
 Like the love of other years, has gone before. 
 
 Thinking of the sweet old story, 
 
 When, by yonder promontory, 
 Thou didst own the dear regard that made thee mine, 
 
 Thrills my soul with subtle sadness, 
 
 Born of all those years of gladness, 
 Like the sparkling after-taste of seasoned wine. 
 
 While the harbor wind's low droning 
 
 All the tenderness is owning 
 That companionship hath brought to thee and me; 
 
 And the voice of memory calling, 
 
 On the ear so softly falling, 
 As the ceaseless, mellow sounding of the sea. 
 
 148
 
 Time hath fled, dear, since the season 
 When, by love's exquisite reason, 
 
 First we walked the beach together, hand in hand; 
 Yet our course hath had no turning 
 Since I stooped and, thrilled with yearning, 
 
 Marked our monogram upon the shifting sand. 
 
 Youth is fickle, time is fleeting, 
 
 Every pleasure is retreating, 
 And the heart may sleep to-night that warms to-day ; 
 
 But for us the pristine glory 
 
 Ne'er shall fade from life's fond story, 
 Who abide, each in the other, while we may. 
 
 149
 
 WHEN THE HOUSEWIFE IS AWAY. 
 
 A LL the house is strangely dreary, 
 
 That was always erst so cheery, 
 And a something sad and eerie 
 
 Dwells within, that seems to say: 
 "There is none here to reprove us, 
 Much less challenge and remove us 
 From the shadowy nooks that love us, 
 Since the housewife is away." 
 
 Seems the bric-a-brac all tarnished, 
 And the furniture unvarnished, 
 Every article dust-garnished, 
 
 Never so until to-day; 
 There is chaos from the table 
 To the rusted kitchen ladle, 
 And, alack! the empty cradle 
 
 Tells that mamma is away. 
 
 Not the blissful daily meeting, 
 Nor one word of kindly greeting, 
 No familiar sound repeating 
 
 Save the saucy mice at play; 
 And the husband lingers only 
 To select a hearth more homely, 
 For the house is all too lonely 
 
 When the little wife's away. 
 150
 
 A WINTER'S STORM. 
 
 T~\ARK is the sky, of inky hue, 
 
 Lost every faintest gleam of light; 
 No friendly star appears in view 
 
 To cheer us with its presence bright, 
 For once the prophecies were true, 
 
 The storm -king is abroad to-night. 
 The wind, like some lost, living thing, 
 
 Moans 'round the house with doleful screech ; 
 Sets every timber shuddering, 
 
 Chastising all within its reach; 
 Threshes the river with its wing, 
 
 And hurls the breakers on the beach. 
 
 Trembles the earth beneath the strain 
 
 And seems to plead for clemency, 
 Spurned by the storm in cold disdain, 
 
 Which laughs aloud in savage glee; 
 While from the lowering clouds, the rain 
 
 Is swept in torrents o'er the lea. 
 God help the vessel, gone amiss, 
 
 That rides the deep with sails unfurled 
 Amid the roaring tempest's hiss: 
 
 And 'fend each soul by fate imperiled 
 To wander, on a night like this, 
 
 Homeless and friendless through the world !
 
 IF WE WERE YOUNG AGAIN. 
 
 "'""THINK you," my dear wife said to me, 
 
 One evening as we sat at tea, 
 "Would we as fond and foolish be 
 
 If we were young again?" 
 "Methinks it surely could not be, 
 And we would live as merrily, 
 With less of youth's frivolity, 
 If we were young again. 
 
 "How many an endless debt we owe 
 For inconsiderate 'y es ' or <n ' 
 That surely we would now forego 
 
 If we were young again; 
 And looking backward o'er life's plain, 
 What gloomy days, what bitter pain 
 Are there, that might be lasting gain 
 
 If we were young again. 
 
 152
 
 'Twere sweet to walk those thymy ways 
 With lowlier hearts, more prone to praise, 
 And leave no rue for later days 
 
 If we were young again." 
 "Nay, love," I answered, "age is prone 
 To censure from its sombre throne 
 As faults, acts we would proudly own 
 
 If we were young again. 
 
 "Forgetting how it grew to be, 
 It views, through glasses, scornfully, 
 Motes of misconduct none might see 
 
 If we were young again; 
 Those foibles of the early years, 
 Chastened by riper joys and tears, 
 Temper the whole, which God reveres 
 
 Though we were young again. 
 
 "Those acts we now would fain recall 
 Would hold us in their pleasant thrall, 
 Nor would we deem them strange, withal, 
 
 If we were young again. 
 Nay, we would scorn youth's Paradise, 
 Discover with the self-same eyes, 
 But just as foolish and as wise, 
 
 If we were young again." 
 
 153
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 T PLUCKED a rose with careless hand, 
 
 Gazed on its perfect charms unmoved, 
 And, marking scarce that it was fair, 
 
 I gave it to the girl 1 loved. 
 She took it with a gracious smile 
 
 That might dispel the deepest gloom, 
 And, holding up the trembling thing, 
 
 Bade me inhale its sweet perfume. 
 
 As I obeyed her dear behest 
 
 I caught a scent so sweet and rare 
 
 It seemed sublime, and which before 
 I had not dreamed lay hidden there. 
 
 She pinned it fast, when I beheld 
 
 A thousand beauties it possessed, 
 
 Yet which I ne'er had marked until 
 
 I saw it blushing on her breast. 
 
 154
 
 Ah! woman, such thy mission here, 
 
 Sent as a blessing to the earth 
 To find for us each fragrant flower 
 
 That blooms amid life's dross and dearth, 
 Our natures are too coarsely strung, 
 
 Our days too full of busy hours 
 To note, unprompted, and enjoy, 
 
 The fragrance of the wayside flowers. 
 
 Man has not any joys on earth 
 
 No hour of pure and perfect glee, 
 O woman, pearl of priceless worth, 
 
 That does not, somehow, come from thee. 
 Thyself the fairest flower of all 
 
 That man may worship in his day, 
 Thy mission is to help and bless 
 
 And cheer him on his weary way. 
 
 155
 
 SEPTEMBER SYMPHONIES. 
 
 JVJOW comes the mellow time of year, 
 
 When o'er the smiling land 
 The genius of the harvest rides 
 
 And casts, with bounteous hand, 
 The golden fruits of labor to 
 
 The gleaners of the field, 
 Whose honest hearts o'erflow with thanks 
 
 For each abundant yield. 
 
 Now calls again the whippoorwill, 
 
 And in the ripened grass 
 The crickets and the katydids 
 
 Repeat their nightly mass. 
 The quail is piping in the woods, 
 
 And by the river's edge 
 The bull -frog croaks his plaintive lay 
 
 Among the broken sedge. 
 
 The ripening nuts begin to fall, 
 
 The leaves to lose their sheen, 
 Each towering monarch of the woods 
 
 Puts on a duller green. 
 Anon the stiffening breezes bring 
 
 Their warning o'er the wold, 
 Jack Frost is riding down the wind 
 
 With Winter's chariot cold. 
 156
 
 THE FAIREST SCENE. 
 
 E night I sat and mused alone, 
 Enraptured, in a trance serene; 
 1 thought of all the sorrows tlown, 
 
 And all the pleasures 1 had seen. 
 Fair visions passed before my view, 
 The ghosts of revels 1 had kept 
 Till, wearied of the long review, 
 My eyes grew heavy and 1 slept. 
 
 And then methought an angel came 
 
 And stood beside me in the gloom ; 
 About her forehead played a flame 
 
 That sent a halo through the room. 
 She cast a kindly glance at me, 
 
 Then touched my hand and whispered low: 
 'Come, go with me and you shall see 
 
 The fairest scene that earth can show." 
 
 1 followed her across the green, 
 
 And onward through a lonely wood, 
 To where, amid the peaceful scene, 
 
 A shade -embowered cottage stood, 
 Nestled among the swaying trees. 
 
 She drew the blinds and sweetly smiled: 
 Within, a mother on her knees 
 
 Was praying for her sleeping child. 
 
 157
 
 PILGRIM'S PRAYER. 
 
 lend us light 
 
 And teach us right, 
 And lead us safely through the night 
 
 Of life's dark way, 
 
 Lest we should stray 
 From home and hope of Heaven away. 
 
 Teach us to see 
 
 Our liberty 
 As blessings coming all from Thee, 
 
 And grant us skill 
 
 With strength and will, 
 To climb to nobler conquests still. 
 
 Thy grief forbear 
 
 If tempting snare 
 Has e'er misled us anywhere; 
 
 Nor grant Thy wrath 
 
 This aftermath 
 If we have tarried by the path. 
 
 158
 
 Inspire us yet 
 
 Lest we forget 
 The landmarks where our journey's set; 
 
 And on and on, 
 
 By duty drawn, 
 Conduct us towards a fairer dawn. 
 
 So hold us fast, 
 
 Until at last 
 The final milestone has been passed: 
 
 Then, safe and blest, 
 
 Our faults confessed, 
 Within Thy Kingdom give us rest. 
 
 159
 
 IN LATE OCTOBER. 
 
 LJOW grand, beyond comparison, these late 
 
 October days, 
 Wrapped in the mellow drapery of the Indian 
 
 Summer's haze? 
 'Tis pleasure's purest essence now upon some 
 
 crowning hill 
 To stand and drink the beauties of the landscape, 
 
 broad and still ; 
 Or, drifting in the valley with the softly purling 
 
 stream, 
 To flood the wells of fancy with the sweet, 
 
 transcendent dream 
 That permeates the atmosphere and, in the 
 
 forest, weaves 
 Its themes amid the tangle of the variegated leaves. 
 
 1 60
 
 The charms of budding spring-time and of sum 
 mer's growing field 
 
 Are shallow when compared with those these 
 halcyon hours yield; 
 
 The undertone of insect life that murmurs, half 
 subdued, 
 
 Beguiles the wordly soul into an introspective 
 mood, 
 
 And teaches, by comparison, the better part of life 
 
 The peace of resignation coming after toil and strife, 
 
 Whence man's ambitious spirit learns its longings 
 to appease, 
 
 That earth's divinest music oft is pitched in 
 minor keys. 
 
 161
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 'HTIS dusk on the river; the dews, softly falling, 
 Are decking the tree -tops with sparkles of 
 
 light. 
 
 From out the low willows the throstle is calling 
 And plaintively singing her song to the night. 
 Among the tall maples the whippoorwill's chiding 
 
 Vociferous frogs that are croaking below, 
 While slyly the night-hawk comes forth from her 
 
 hiding 
 And startles the bats as they flit to and fro. 
 
 Far over the river the moonlight is gleaming, 
 Reflecting the forms of the shadowy grove, 
 
 With all the bright stars, so benignantly beaming 
 From out their blue depths in the heavens above ; 
 
 While down by the water a poet sits dreaming, 
 And weaves a fair song for the maid of his love. 
 
 162
 
 A PLAINT OF THE ANCIENT GREEK. 
 
 , for some Hyperborean strand! 
 
 Some favored ^Ethiopian shore; 
 Where, by soft Halcyon breezes fanned, 
 
 The soul might rest forevermore! 
 Where Pan, the shepherd, herds his flock 
 
 And sweetly play the >Eolian lutes, 
 And Venus, sitting on the rocks, 
 
 Lends Love's sweet charm to all pursuits. 
 
 Where soft Apollo blows his horn, 
 
 The Muses charm each soul to rest, 
 
 From when Aurora wakes the morn, 
 Till Vesper settles' in the West; 
 
 Where Jupiter his lightnings saves, 
 And Hera reigns in full control; 
 
 While gay, on Neptune's charmed waves, 
 The sea- nymphs gambol as they roll. 
 
 163
 
 Where, all unknown the field of Mars 
 
 Save when Diana roams the gorge, 
 And all the household gods of Lars 
 
 Do light their fires at Vulcan's forge. 
 Where Bacchus brews his foaming bowl- 
 
 The Graces, with their finer arts, 
 Subdue the Vampires of the soul, 
 
 And Momus rules each joyous heart. 
 
 There would I sit in Herme's halls, 
 
 And learn Minerva's golden lore; 
 Unheeding Fate's incessant squalls 
 
 That vex us on this troubled shore. 
 O, Emerald Isle beyond the seas! 
 
 1, weary on life's dismal strand, 
 Am waiting for the gods' decrees 
 
 To call me to that happy land! 
 
 164
 
 . . 
 
 THE POET AND HIS SONG. 
 
 \A7HEN will the poet's song be done?" 
 
 As well ask of the setting sun 
 When it behind the Western hills 
 
 Will sink to rise no more. 
 'But will not time exhaust his dream, 
 And leave him but a threadbare theme 
 Of which some earlier Homer's quill 
 
 Has written long before?" 
 
 Didst ever hear the robin sing, 
 Or watch the throstle on the wing, 
 Or mark the summer storm-cloud roll 
 
 Athwart the welkin blue? 
 Didst ever walk the beach along 
 And listen to the ocean's song 
 But that its echoes thrilled thy soul 
 
 With something strange and new? 
 
 165
 
 Didst ever walk the city street 
 
 And mark each face you chanced to meet, 
 
 Look on each cot and temple door 
 
 Along the thoroughfare? 
 Hast ever trod a rural way 
 Where you have wandered many a day, 
 Nor marked new objects which, before, 
 
 You never noted there? 
 
 So is it with the poet's lay: 
 
 He sees beyond the dark array 
 
 Of toil and troubles, doubts and fears, 
 
 That vex the common mind ; 
 With knowledge gained through higher art, 
 He finds the key to every heart, 
 And strives for all life's bitter tears 
 
 Some soothing balm to find. 
 
 Through every nook of Nature's soul 
 
 The Muse is given leave to stroll, 
 
 And pluck each fragrant flower of thought 
 
 That blossoms 'mid the thorn; 
 And every flow'ret, fair or frail, 
 She weaves into a tender tale 
 Whereby some new-born truth is taught 
 
 Life's temple to adorn. 
 
 1 66
 
 For those who in the eager quest 
 Of wealth, find never time to rest, 
 Save now and then a casual glance 
 
 Upon the printed page; 
 The poet's many-tinted leaves 
 Are gathered, though he oft receives 
 But little praise, till he, perchance, 
 
 Hath found a higher stage. 
 
 But, long as Nature's tireless hand 
 Brings forth her lessons new and grand, 
 And any of the wordly throng . 
 
 Find pleasure in the dream 
 While earth is fair and women pure, 
 While sun and moon and stars endure, 
 The poet still will sing his song 
 
 And never lack a theme. 
 
 167
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 NOTE I. The region along the shores on both sides of the Mis 
 sissippi between the points of the confluence of the Illinois and Missouri 
 rivers with the Father of Waters, is particularly rich in legendary stories 
 concerning the life and habits of the powerful tribes of Indians who 
 were the original owners of these fertile valley lands. Along the blutts 
 on the Illinois side are numberless burial places where the bones of 
 thousands of "the first Americans" repose, while the valleys and prairie- 
 stretches for some distance back from the river afford constant reminders 
 of their presence and handiwork in the dim ages of the past. From the 
 time of the earliest frontier expeditions, this locality has been con 
 spicuous among the chronicles for the number and peculiar charm of the 
 folk-lore stories handed down from one generation to another, and held 
 in almost sacred reverence by the Indians. And among these, dating 
 from the famous expedition of Marquette, none is more striking and 
 interesting than that of the Piasa Bird. That this was more than a mere 
 myth is attested by the evidence of many early settlers who got the story 
 in minute detail from the Indians themselves, and by the painting that 
 remained upon the face of the perpendicular blutts within the present 
 limits of the city of Alton, until quarried away just about the close of the 
 first half of the present century. The picture that forms the frontispiece 
 of this book is from a painting from the original made by Mr. John B. 
 Blair, an artist of genius and renown, who died in Chicago, in December, 
 1895. It is now owned by Prof. E. Marsh, of this city. The story is fully 
 told in the poem. 
 
 NOTE II. Next to that of the Piasa Bird, the legend of Lover's 
 Leap is perhaps the most noted and interesting of any that cluster around 
 the vicinity of Alton, III., but this is the first time that it has ever 
 appeared in written form. The point described is located at the southern- 
 
 168
 
 most extremity of Prospect street, in the city of Alton, where it ends in a 
 sheer bluff rising two hundred feet from the bank of the river. It is one 
 of the few landmarks of special interest in this vicinity that have escaped 
 the defacing hand of civilization, and commands one of the most mag 
 nificent views to be found anywhere in the Mississippi valley. 
 
 NOTE III. The history of heroism in all ages and among all 
 nations of the globe furnishes few instances of such magnanimous self- 
 sacrifice as that of this savage of the American forests, and the story of 
 his deed does not coincide very well with the oft-repeated and much- 
 credited statement that the Indian possesses no sense of honor, and is 
 incapable of any of the finer traits of character commonly attributed to 
 the people of every other race and nation. There has been some dispute 
 as to his age, and at least one commentator claims that he was very 
 young, instead of a man well advanced in years, when he made himself 
 immortal; but the writer, having examined all evidence obtainable, is 
 satisfied that he has given a true and exact rendition of the legend. 
 
 NOTE IV. The topographical peculiarity that forms the foundation 
 for this poem is indeed most remarkable, and the legend connected there 
 with is about the most positive of any of the relative themes treated in 
 this book. There can be no question that the story is true, and the old 
 French village of Portage des Sioux, located on the west bank of the 
 Mississippi, in St. Charles county, Mo., bears to-day many unmistakable 
 evidences of early inhabitance by the Indians. A series of mounds 
 within its confines have yielded to the delver's spade some of the richest 
 specimens of aboriginal pottery and implements of war ever unearthed 
 in this country. 
 
 NOTE V. One of the most beautiful effects which the diversity 
 of nature along the limestone bluffs, facing the river in Jersey county, 
 Illinois, affords, is presented in the valley four miles below the mouth 
 of the Illinois river where the Piasa Bluffs Assembly holds its annual 
 summer meetings. This corporation was formed about twelve years ago 
 for the purpose of religious worship and general culture away from city- 
 life during -the pleasant summer months, by a company of fervent workers 
 in the Methodist Episcopal Church. The natural adaptability of the 
 locality to the purpose lias made it an unqualified success from the first, 
 and the improvements made have robbed it of none of its original charm. 
 
 169
 
 The spring, which is its greatest glory, possesses some fine medicinal 
 properties, and this fact, together with the surroundings, naturally sug 
 gests the legend. 
 
 NOTE VI. A legend of the Miami tribes of the Indiana plains, 
 and true according to the best evidence bearing upon the subject that 
 the author has been able to obtain. 
 
 NOTE VII. This story is oft told and passes current for historical 
 fact among the old scouts, trappers and hunters of the Wisconsin and 
 Michigan woods, who got it direct from the Chippewa Indians, to which 
 tribe it is credited. 
 
 NOTE VIII. This poem was occasioned by one of the saddest 
 episodes ever recorded in the biographical history of Illinois. On 
 Thursday, April nth, 1895, Prof. Win. McAdams, accompanied only by his 
 pointer dog, Cleopatra, set sail from Alton up the Mississippi for the 
 inlet to Prairie Lake, on the Missouri shore, fifteen miles above, where 
 a number of friends constituting the Pottawatomie Club, was encamped, 
 enjoying a week's snipe shoot. His failure to arrive on Thursday night 
 occasioned no alarm, as it was supposed that he had stopped at Portage 
 des Sioux to delve in the Indian mounds there. But when, on Friday, his 
 empty boat was found at Clifton, four miles above Alton, adrift, his 
 friends apprehended the worst, and at once started a determined search 
 which was headed by the Professor's sons, Clark and John, and was 
 continued until Sunday afternoon, when the dog was found on a barren 
 sandbar at the foot of Eagle's Nest Island, guarding a little bundle of 
 personal effects. There was the mark of a boat's prow on the sand, and 
 the Professor's tracks where he had stepped ashore, deposited his 
 bundle, and returned to the water. That was all, but it was at once 
 inferred that he had intended to spend the night on the island; that 
 in stepping fiom the boat he had so lightened it as to cause it to float 
 out from shore, that he had followed incautiously, and gone over a reef. 
 This supposition was continued on the following day, when his body, 
 full clothed, was found with grappling lines in twelve feet of water a few 
 yards out. His watch had stopped at 9:13 p. in., and so it was deducted 
 that he went down to his fate at just 9 o'clock, on the night of April n. 
 The fact that he had spent his life largely in archaeological and geologi 
 cal research along the Mississippi, and that he lost his life while upon a 
 
 170
 
 pleasure trip to join the Pottawatomie Club, of which he was President, 
 led to the writing of this poem and its dedication to him by the club. 
 Prof. McAdams was one of the most eminent scientists who have 
 honored his profession in this country. He had charge of the Missouri 
 geological display at the New Orleans World's Fair, and of the Illinois 
 display at the Columbian Exposition, was Fellow of the Missouri and 
 and National Academies of Science, and President of the Illinois 
 Society of Natural History, and contributed more than any other man 
 to the literature, of the sciences of geology, archaeology and anthro 
 pology, as pertaining to the Mississippi Valley. His remains repose in 
 the family cemetery, at the old homestead, near Otterville, in Jersey 
 County, 111. 
 
 NOTE IX. The landmark herein described is located on a promi 
 nent point of the Illinois bluffs, not many miles below Hamburg Bay, 
 and is an object of wonderment of curious inquiry to all travelers up and 
 down the Upper Mississippi. 
 
 NOTE X. The biographers of President Lincoln and General 
 Shields have generally omitted to mention the fact of this sanguinary 
 encounter between these two eminent Illinoisans, in the days of their 
 youthful ardor, but the episode is nevertheless historically correct as 
 here narrated, and there are some men yet living in the State who have 
 a personal recollection of the incident. The Island in the Mississippi 
 river, near Alton, 111., where the duelists met, is still pointed out to 
 inquiring strangers. 
 
 NOTE XI. Written on the occasion of the first opening of the 
 World's Columbian Exposition, at Chicago, in celebration of the 400111 
 anniversary of the sailing of Columbus, upon the voyage which resulted 
 in the discovery of America. 
 
 NOTE XII. This poem is a translation from the German of Mrs. 
 Marie Raible, of this city. It is given as an example of many poems that 
 the author has had the privilege of translating for Mrs. Raible, whose 
 friendship he is proud to possess, and who is recognized as the second 
 greatest writer of German poetry now living in America. The two suc 
 ceeding poems are taken from among many translations from various 
 German authors.
 
 NOTE XIII. There is an old legend among the Germans of a 
 fair island city situated somewhere near the mouth of the Rhine, which, 
 one night, during a severe storm, disappeared beneath the waves. Now 
 a magic light illumes the waters where the island went down, and 
 often as the sun sinks beneath the western hills the mermaids in those 
 submarine halls toll the bells in the old church towers of the submerged 
 city; and he who once sees this light and hears the solemn dirge of the 
 bells is irresistibly drawn towards the spot, until the waves sweep over 
 him and he sinks to the bottom. 
 
 GENERAL NOTE. The writer deems it his duty, as well as a 
 pleasant privilege, to state, in conclusion of these comments, that while 
 some of the poems herein published are printed for the first time, and 
 many have been re-written and improved, he owes his introducton to 
 the general public to the occasional appearance of much of his work 
 in the Alton "Telegraph," "Sentinel-Democrat" and "Daily Republican," 
 and to such magazines as "Home and Country," "Blue and Gray," 
 "Outing," "The American Angler," "The Waterways Journal," "The 
 National Journalist" and "The American Journal of Education." 
 
 172
 
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