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 I 
 

POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 WITH MEMOIR. 
 
 ANSONIA, CONN.: 
 
 PRESS OF "THE EVENING SENTINEL. 
 
 1887. 
 
 j, 
 
TO 
 THK MKMORV 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN WHITING STORKS, 
 
 WHOSE LIFE WAS PURE, WHOSE AIMS WERE HIGH, 
 WHOSE PURPOSES WERE NOBLE; 
 
 WHO SAM; so s \YKET LY 
 
 OF FAITH IN <;ol>, OF HOPE IX IMMORTALITY, 
 OF LOVE TO ALL MANKIND, 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 BY 
 HIS LOVING WIFE. 
 
 M191900 
 
MY EPITAPH: 
 
 What shall you say of me ? This if you can, 
 That he loved like a child, and lived like a man; 
 That, with head that was bended, he reverent stood 
 In the presence of all that he knew to be good; 
 That he strove as he might with pen and with tongue, 
 To cherish the right, and to banish the wrong; 
 That the world was to him as he went on his way, 
 As the bud to the flower; as the dawn to the day 
 That he knew was to come. E'en, say if you can, 
 That he labored and prayed for the crowning of man 
 As king of himself; that the God that he knew 
 Was the God of the many as well as the few 
 The Father of all. Write, then, if you must, 
 Of the errors that came with the clay and the dust; 
 l>ut add as you may, perhaps to the verse, 
 For his having lived in it, the world is no worse. 
 
 *The above beautiful lines were the result of an inquiry by the late Dr. Beards- 
 ley while preparing his History of Derby. Turning to Mr. Storrs, one day, while 
 writing, he said: "Well, John, what shall I say of you?" Without making reply, Mr. 
 Storrs turned to a desk and wrote out his "epitaph, 1 ' as above. It was an impromptu 
 effort and so pleased the doctor that he incorporated it in his history. 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 This book is not for the critic, or for those who have attained perfection 
 in the methods of thought and expression. It is an attempt to preserve to the 
 world thoughts and utterances that were honest-hearted efforts to lead men 
 to higher and better living; to teach faith in God and charity to fellow-men. 
 Mr. Storrs was always diffident of his poetical abilities, and modest in his 
 estimate of the value of his writings, and until a recent period was averse to 
 any attempt to put them in book form. Strongly urged by his friends, espec- 
 ially among the Veteran Free Masons, to do so, he finally yielded to their 
 solicitations and at the annual meeting in Bridgeport, in 1886, he promised 
 to undertake the work, which was begun soon aiterwards. Ill health and 
 pressing newspaper duties prevented rapid progress with the preparation of 
 the manuscripts, and but little was accomplished by him, though at the annu- 
 al meeting, at New Britain, in June last, he announced that he expected to 
 get the poems into print by the end of this year. In a few weeks thereafter 
 he sickened and died. 
 
 From the condition in which the manuscripts were found it is evident 
 that Mr. Storrs had intended to revise them somewhat, but in just what line 
 or direction cannot be known. Feeling personally anxious that the work 
 should be completed, and being urged thereto by his Masonic and personal 
 friends, I have attempted the work of compiling and arranging the poems for 
 publication, not because I was the one best fitted for it, but because, know- 
 ing him intimately, and having been bound to him by family and fraternal 
 ties for more than a third of a century, I better know the man and the spirit 
 that prompted and permeated all his writings. Doubtful of my abilities in 
 such a line, I have attempted a task which I would not have done but for the 
 kindly assistance of Mr. J. M. Emerson, of "The Ansonia Sentinel," with 
 whom Mr. Storrs had been associated on the editorial staff. 
 
 Had Mr. Storrs lived to complete the work he would doubtless have 
 modified many of his poems, for some of them, as I well know, were hurried- 
 ly written for special occasions, without time for revision. I have preferred to 
 print them just as I found them, correcting only manifest typographical errors, 
 and preserving the strong individuality with which they are stamped. 
 
 What Mr. Storrs wrote was from the promptings of a warmly generous 
 heart. Only a few months since he said to me: " In all that I have written 
 it has been my aim never to lead man to think more meanly of his fellow- 
 inan, or to lessen to any degree his faith in God. My aim has been to edu- 
 
6 PREFACE. 
 
 cate, to elevate and to ennoble humanity." I am certain that he spoke the 
 truth; and because I was in full sympathy with him in all his aims and pur- 
 poses, I am anxious that thoughts which he expressed so sweetly and tenderly 
 should be preserved. 
 
 May those who love the things that are good and true; who toil in faith, 
 and hope, and love, to lead their fellow-men to a higher and better plane of 
 existence, gain fresh strength and courage from the inspiring words of one 
 who "looked through Nature up to Nature's God," and of whom I can truly 
 say: 
 
 "For his having lived in it the world is no worse.'' 
 
 WM. WALLACE LEE. 
 
 MKKIDKN, CONN., Oct., 1887. 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 JOHN WHITING STORKS was born in the Connecticut rural town of 
 Woodbridge, February gth, 1824. His father was John Roger Storrs, and 
 his mother Sarah G. Clark, a granddaughter of Rev. Mr. Woodbridge, the 
 original pastor of the town. He was of the sixth generation from Samuel 
 Storrs, one of the earliest proprietors of Mansfield, Conn. From Wood- 
 bridge his parents removed to Oxford, where most of his boyhood days were 
 spent. Thence they came to Seymour (then Humphreysville) and there he 
 grew to manhood. The educational facilities of the time were of themselves 
 quite limited, but Mr. Storrs was unable to avail himself of even such as they 
 were. When he reached his majority he possessed only the simplest rudi- 
 ments of an education, his father being more desirous that the son should 
 make a good shoemaker than that he should drink of the draughts of knowl- 
 edge. The trade was distasteful to him, was prosecuted very reluctantly, and 
 abandoned at the earliest opportunity. Mental pursuits were far more con- 
 genial. It is related of him that as a boy he was very fond of drawing, and 
 many were the pictures of houses, barns, trees and other objects that he 
 traced in graceful outline with charcoal upon rude pieces of board. The 
 poetic capabilities of his mind also began to manifest themselves early. In 
 1849 he wrote a short poem that attracted considerable attention in his neigh- 
 borhood, which poem was credited to his mother, then an invalid. Some 
 creditable specimens of painting also appeared from his hand about this time, 
 but he did not undertake to develop his powers in this direction to any great 
 extent. 
 
 In 1849 he was appointed postmaster of Humphreysville, under Presi- 
 dent Taylor, surrendering the office in 1853 when President Pierce came in. 
 Soon afterwards he started the "Seymour Independent," a paper which, as its 
 name indicates, was professedly independent, but with Whig tendencies. 
 This was the first effort to establish a newspaper in Seymour. It was an 
 earnest and sincere effort, but was abandoned after two or three years, for 
 want of patronage. It sufficed, however, to quicken the desire and confirm 
 the taste for newspaper work, and from that time to his death Mr. Storrs was 
 connected with the press in the capacity of correspondent, reporter or editor. 
 His latest connection was with "The Ansonia Sentinel," having full charge 
 of its Birmingham department, over which he presided for almost six years 
 with much credit to himself and great acceptability to the public. Prior to 
 this, about 1858, he had taken editorial charge of " The Derby Journal," a 
 
8 MEMOIR. 
 
 Birmingham paper that was in a moribund condition when he came to it, and 
 which neither business tact nor literary ability could rescue from the natural 
 decease that awaited it. After this effort, he engaged in the photograph busi- 
 ness, proving himself a very good artist, but was unable to prosecute the 
 trade for any long period of time owing to ill health. 
 
 Mr. Storrs was quite prominent among the Masonic fraternity of his 
 state, and by some has been characterized as the poet of the order. At many 
 of the annual reunions of the Veteran Masons during the past ten or twelve 
 years he has been present and has read poems on each occasion. These are 
 all included in the present volume, with some others. He became a Mason 
 in 1852, being initiated into Morning Star lodge, of Seymour. He after- 
 wards affiliated with King Hiram lodge, of Birmingham. He was also a 
 member of Solomon chapter, R. A. M. He never held any offices in the 
 order, having no taste for ritualistic lore and the technicalities of law. But 
 the principles of brotherhood always commanded his willing service at any 
 time. Hence he was very often called on for poems at reunions and society 
 gatherings, and his productions were always received with hearty demonstra- 
 tions of approval. Mr Storrs was also warmly attached to the veterans of 
 our late civil war, and by his patriotic verses and personal efforts in behalf of 
 the survivors of the struggle, so enshrined himself in their affections that he 
 was regarded as one of their number. Several of the poems read by him at 
 celebrations of the veterans are also included in the collection. 
 
 The death of Mr. Storrs occurred on Sunday, August 28th, 1887. He 
 was in his sixty-fourth year. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 MASONIC: PAGE. 
 
 A 1'oem, 49 
 
 Brotherhood, - 33 
 
 Burns to His Friends, 63 
 
 From Darkness to Light, 16 
 
 In Memoriam, - 67 
 
 June Snow, 21 
 
 Masonry Its Meaning and Mission, - 25 
 
 The Blessedness of Masonry, 71 
 
 The Closing of the Lodge, 73 
 
 The Double Funeral, - - 72 
 
 The old and the New, 57 
 
 The Religion of Masonry, 37 
 
 To the Veteran Craft, 14 
 
 To the Craft. - 28 
 
 Two Vacant Chairs, 41 
 
 You and I, .45 
 
 PATRIOTIC: 
 
 Company Z, 103 
 
 Don't Forget Them, - 97 
 
 For Memorial Day, 87 
 
 In the Orange Churchyard, - 78 
 
 My Father's Flag and Yours, 98 
 
 North and South of Dixie, 81 
 
 Thanksgiving for Victory, 96 
 
 The Day and Its Lessons, - 89 
 
 The New Dixie, 91 
 
 The Spirit of the Men, 76 
 
 OCCASIONAL: 
 
 Just Twenty Years Ago, 112 
 
 Old and New, - 107 
 
 The Bright To-morrow, 113 
 
 The Story of the Years, - 116 
 
10 CONTENTS. 
 
 TKMPKKANCE: PAGE 
 
 After the Debauch, 137 
 
 He stood at the Bar, 
 
 ( )n 'y, - 
 
 Shall We License It ? 
 The Heathen at our 
 The Red Light Decoy, 
 
 ( )n 'y, - 140 
 
 . i 39 
 he Heathen at our Door, - 135 
 
 MUSINCS: 
 
 A Fragment _ . 2 oo 
 
 A Reverie, _ . j i j 
 
 A Reverie _ _ jcg 
 
 At High Rock, . I9I 
 
 Castle Building, j^ 
 
 Consolation, _ ^3 
 
 Death, the Revealer, . . jg^ 
 
 Farther Light, . . - 186 
 
 God in His Providence, - _ _ jgj 
 
 In the Cottage Beside the Sea, - . Ioo 
 
 Jake and Joe, Ig8 
 
 Let Us Tray, . - 179 
 
 Lowering the Standard, ^3 
 
 My ( 'reed, - - 143 
 
 Ne\v Year's Thoughts, _ J73 
 
 Night on the Boulevard, . _ l j I 
 
 Sad Moments, _ - 176 
 
 The Church our Fathers Built, . IO g 
 
 The Great To-day, . . _ 2 oi 
 
 This Hero of Ours, . _ I( ^ 
 
 The Old Folks Talk it Over, I53 
 
 The Old Town Clock, - . I9O 
 
 The Sealskin Sacque, - r gy 
 
 The Silk-worm and Glow-worm, _ I( >7 
 
 The Test for True Living, - _ U j6 
 
 The Unknown Dead, _ l c )O 
 
 The Yet to Be, I77 
 
 Truth, . I8o 
 
 Under the Shadow, . r wj 
 
 What W T ins, _ - 164 
 
 Well Done, 2OI 
 
 N'e are the Reapers, - - _ . _ I4I - 
 
CONTENTS. II 
 
 FANCIES:- PAGE 
 
 A Birthday Rhyme, - . 233 
 
 A Christmas Carol, .. . 243 
 
 Among the Memories, - _ 245 
 
 Autumn, - 205 
 
 Baby Belle, . . 204 
 
 Barbara Bray, - . _ 206 
 
 Barney McKay, 216 
 
 Beaver Brook, - _ - 261 
 
 Beautiful Leaves, - ... 256 
 
 Kmpty is the Coal Bin, _ _ 242 
 
 Five Words Only, - 203 
 
 Indian Well, _ _ 253 
 
 Little Things, - 225 
 
 My Dream, - _ " . 234 
 
 My Village Home, . _ 240 
 
 My Wife, . - - 224 
 
 Old and New Year, - _ 257 
 
 They are Seven, - 226 
 
 The Beggar's Christmas, - _ 236 
 
 The Dying Girl, - _ 208 
 
 The Maid of Lindermere, - - 212 
 
 The Picture Upon the Wall, - - - 263 
 
 The River of Time, _ 210 
 
 The Town on the Hill, _ . 259 
 
 The Two Fishers. - 228 
 
 The Tying of the Greens, - - _ 222 
 
 The Voyage of Life, _ _ 252 
 
 MISCKLL. \NF.ors: 
 
 A Man is a Man, - - _ 273 
 
 An Eastern Apologue. . 286 
 
 An Farly Frost, - 281 
 
 December, 314 
 
 Discouragements, _ T>i6 
 
 Hon. Josephus Brown, _ 265 
 
 In Memoriam (Dr. A. Beardsley) - - 274 
 
 Let Him Alone, - - 270 
 
 Lines (Lee Silver Wedding), _ 317 
 
 Love Cannot Die, - - 324 
 
 Lo! the Poor Indian, - . 3 I2 
 
 Marry a Gentleman, - - 267 
 
12 CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS: PAGE 
 
 My Story of the Years, - 300 
 
 New England, 264 
 
 Our Modern Girls, - 287 
 
 On Sambro Ledge, 322 
 
 Thanksgiving in Ye Olden Tyme, - 310 
 
 To an Invalid Mother, 271 
 
 The Boycott, - 268 
 
 The Dying Soldier, 295 
 
 The Greenhorn Invasion, - 289 
 
 The Little Grumblers, 304 
 
 The Lockout Bell, - 283 
 
 The Making of the Will, 297 
 
 The Trouble at Podank, - 275 
 
 The Volunteer Bell, 320 
 
 To My Mother in Heaven, - 321 
 
 True Greatness, - 324 
 
 Two Ways of Living, - - 306 
 
 What I Would Have Said, 291 
 
 What the First Robin Said, - 280 
 
INVOCATION. 
 
 0H Masonry Sublime ! beloved of all that know 
 The matchless beauty of thy sov'reign charms: 
 Through all their years of journeyings below, 
 
 Thy sons have sheltered in thy loving arms ; 
 Still hold and keep them firmly by the hand, 
 Till ends their journey to the better land. 
 
 As by the chisel and the mallet's blow, 
 
 The fairest forms in beauteous marble live : 
 
 So, from our hearts may evermore outflow 
 
 Those comely graces it is thine to" give : 
 
 That finds a flower on every thorny rod, 
 
 And leadeth on to manhood and to God. 
 
 Broad o'er the earth let thy proud arches span ; 
 
 High as to heaven, thy shining turrets rise ! 
 Stretch forth thy hand and lift poor fallen man 
 
 From error's ways, and teach him to be wise ; 
 So shall the world in thee, above the night, 
 Hail the glad dawn of Universal Light. 
 
14 MASONIC. 
 
 TO THE VETERAN CRAFT. 
 
 READ AT THE SECOND ANNTAL MEKTINi; OF THE VETERAN ASSOCIATION 
 IN BIRMINGHAM, JUNE, 1872. 
 
 "VT'E reverend sires ! once more our feet 
 A Upon one common LEVEL meet, 
 Where, knee to knee and breast to breast, 
 We whisper welcome to each guest 
 Whose honored locks have, by the way 
 Of past decades, grown ripe and gray ; 
 And who, by dint of honest toil, 
 Have quite deserved life's WINE AND OIL. 
 
 Thrice honored sires ! save only where 
 Some silvery head lifts here and there 
 Above the wreck like lands of light 
 Uprising through some shadowy night 
 The busy world that was your own, 
 Has passed away, and ye, alone, 
 Of all your craft, are left to tell 
 How much ye builded, and how well ; 
 
 How, when attacked by Church and State, 
 
 When RUFFIANS stood at every gate, 
 
 With trait'rous heart and venomed tongue, 
 
 Dissent to show your craft among ; 
 
 When truth seemed crushed and error grew, 
 
 O'ershadowing all the good and true ; 
 
 When craven lips, like Peter's, cried, 
 
 " I know ye not," still on the side 
 
 Where foes were rife and friends were few, 
 
 Ye fought the fight, and gained it, too. 
 
 Unquestioned now through all the land 
 Extends the ARCH that HIRAM planned ; 
 Embracing 'neath its glorious span 
 The whole broad brotherhood of man. 
 And we, your sons, are here, to-day, 
 
MASONIC. 15 
 
 Beneath its sheltering dome to lay 
 Upon his brow the grateful wreath, 
 Who fought our fight, and kept our faith. 
 
 Amid the darkness of that night, 
 
 Your cry went up to God for LIGHT. 
 
 He heard your prayer, and gave you strength, 
 
 And years to see the dawn, at length, 
 
 Whose glowing light illumines our way 
 
 With promise of still brighter day, 
 
 When wars shall cease, and Love shall bind 
 
 With strengthened bonds all human kind ; 
 
 Which opening wide the gates of bliss, 
 
 Makes future life the goal of this. 
 
 I know not what in store may be 
 
 For you, my brother, or for me ; 
 
 But this I know since God is just 
 
 If in His strength we put our trust, 
 
 Through journeys long, or good, or ill, 
 
 His strong arm will lead us still. 
 
 And when we part as part we must 
 
 Somewhere to meet again, I trust, 
 
 May that calm strength, that earnest arm, 
 
 That rugged faith which kept aflame 
 
 Our altar fires through ill and good, 
 
 Descend to bless our brotherhood. 
 
 There comes a time it comes to ail- 
 When we shall hear the Warden's call, 
 And each, with ASHLER ROUGH or true, 
 Must pass Death's solemn portal through. 
 Be it yours, my brother, then to hear 
 From th' Master's lips these words of cheer, 
 " Your work is found both true and square, 
 Pass on !" 
 
l6 MASONIC. 
 
 FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT. 
 
 READ AT THE ANNUAL MEETINC OF THE VETERANS IN NEW HAVEN, 1874. 
 
 Venerable Brothers : 
 
 r WELVE months have passed since last we met 
 
 Upon this ancient LEVEL, 
 When, " looking east, we gave the sign, 
 
 And heard the parting ' gavel.' " 
 The kindly benizon was said, 
 
 Each brother, loving hearted, 
 With each exchanged the friendly "grip," 
 And "on the square " we parted. 
 
 Who, then, the future could forecast ? 
 
 What prophet tell us whether 
 Or not, at our next " gavel " call, 
 
 We all should meet together? 
 Yet, though behind each " Temple gate " 
 
 Some " ruffian " foe was hidden, 
 By dint of strength we " pass " at length, 
 
 And come, to-day, as bidden, 
 To drink with you the "oil and wine " 
 
 From mystic fount supernal, 
 Beneath the broad, protecting " Arch " 
 
 Of Masonry fraternal. 
 
 " Sojourners " here but for a time, 
 
 Life's morning pack we gird on, 
 Yet, ere, perhaps, the evening sun, 
 
 We drop the precious burden. 
 The longest life is short at best, 
 
 And even though we should win 
 What men call "length of years," at last, 
 
 (Like Brothers Wells and Goodwin), 
 We fill (I trust with honest "work,") 
 
 Our bark and o'er the river, 
 With hope and "trustful heart," pass on 
 
 From mortal sight forever. 
 
MASONIC. 17 
 
 Lo ! as I look along this line 
 
 Of craftsmen gray and hoary, 
 I seek for one familiar form 
 
 One manly "crown of glory." 
 You point me to one vacant chair 
 
 The name of WIRE is spoken ; 
 You tell his virtues, but alas ! 
 
 I find his "column " broken. 
 'Twas builded well. Full eighty years 
 
 His honest blows resounded 
 From "base " to "cap," till "ashler rough " 
 
 Was sweetly smoothed and rounded. 
 'Twas built upon such solid base 
 
 Of brotherhood and duty, 
 That even Time's despoiling hand 
 
 Could scarcely mar its beauty. 
 And though to dust its dust returns, 
 
 The builder's inward spirit 
 Of love for God and fellow-man 
 
 As Masons we inherit. 
 
 () craftsmen, what a world were this, 
 
 If men would work together, 
 Like brothers true, life's journey through, 
 
 In dark or sunny weather; 
 There's scarce an ill to us bequeathed 
 
 By Eve, our erring mother, 
 But might be cured, or well endured, 
 
 If men would love each other. 
 Our Father, God; our mother, earth; 
 
 Are we not brethren fairly ? 
 Why then should we not all " agree, 
 
 In peace and love and unity," 
 
 To treat each other squarely ? 
 Ought men to act like wolves in pack, 
 
 That eat each lame relation, 
 Nor spare a friend if selfish end 
 
 Demands his immolation ? 
 
l8 MASONIC. 
 
 Can we afford to draw the sword 
 
 At every slight offending, 
 While o'er our head- perhaps by a thread 
 
 Are sharper ones suspending ? 
 I tell you nay ! the gentler way 
 
 Is best with those that grieve us : 
 For when we pray, do we not say, 
 
 " As we forgive, forgive us ?" 
 O craftsmen, then, let us as men 
 
 And brethren dwell together ; 
 For aye to stand, with heart in hand, 
 
 In friendship by each other. 
 
 The day for bigotry and hate 
 
 Is past and out of season : 
 No partial God holds out the rod 
 
 In this the day of reason ! 
 No petty tyrant as of old, 
 
 With creed and dogma crammed, sir, 
 Shouts, swim MY brook and bite MY hook, 
 
 Or I will see you damned, sir. 
 Or, IF he "shout, " some worldly lout, 
 
 More sharp than reverential, 
 With grinning mask, is apt to ask, 
 
 To see the chap's credential. 
 The ruling theme to-day is love, 
 
 In sermon and in story ; 
 And few will tell of infant's hell, 
 
 Where God once wrought his " glory." 
 In fact, this thought is gaining ground, 
 
 (For which we're much the debtor,) 
 By Gods or men, by tongue or pen, 
 
 The less we're damned the better. 
 " Man Friday's " question, " why don't God 
 
 Wipe out this fiend of evil?" 
 Is answered, since good common sense 
 
 At last HAS "killed the devil." 
 
MASONIC. 19 
 
 Yet, brother m-ine, though law divine 
 
 Is love not retribution, 
 Still this is true, who fails to sow 
 
 Will reap but destitution. 
 Who sows the wind and reaps the storm 
 
 Gets all that's due him fairly ; 
 Who sows the sun at heart is warm, 
 
 And walks in darkness rarely. 
 Some one may say, now if I pray 
 
 And go to church on Sunday, 
 I've filled the plot, no matter what 
 
 I choose to do on Monday ! 
 Be not deceived ! With Masons true 
 
 Each week has Sundays seven ; 
 And every one, from sun to sun, 
 
 To righteous " work " is given. 
 
 Be not deceived ! 'tis th' conscience men 
 
 Who "work " for seven-day wages ; , 
 That build our ARCH and lead the march 
 
 Of progress through the ages. 
 'Tis not enough that men should meet 
 
 In seventh day convention, 
 And mumble creeds, content that deeds 
 
 Should have the merest- mention. 
 'Tis not enough that men should mouth 
 
 Their prayers of showy sounding, 
 While at their door God's needy poor, 
 
 Unaided, are abounding. 
 The tree whose mission 'tis to bear 
 
 But flowers, has done its duty, 
 When its perfume is on the air, 
 
 And men have seen its beauty. 
 But where we have a right to look 
 
 For FRUIT of fair dimensions, 
 Why be content with the simple scent 
 
 Of flowery-made pretensions ? 
 
20 MASONIC. 
 
 God asks for "figs !" and if the tree 
 
 In barrenness still slumbers/ 
 He cuts it down and plants his own 
 
 Upon the ground it cumbers. 
 God asks for WORK ! Then, as he gives 
 
 Us strength, so let us use it, 
 That EVERY day its part shall bear 
 In yielding "work," so " true and square,' 
 
 That he will not refuse it. 
 
 Here I might pause ; and yet, perhaps, 'twere fitting, 
 That should be spoken words of kindly cheer 
 
 To these our fathers, as a special greeting, 
 On this reunion of another year. 
 
 To these, our fathers, that in day of trial, 
 
 Stood by our craft when weaker spirits quailed, 
 
 Chiseling in darkness, faith and self-denial 
 Stones for the altar the future was to build. 
 
 Meeting on the hill-top toiling in the valley 
 Watching for the cowan ever on their trail ; 
 
 Only this to guide them only this to rally, 
 
 Brotherhood and duty to " God within the veil." 
 
 Well, " how goes the hour " with you, O aged warder ? 
 
 With you whose head so whitens in the sun ? 
 With you whose feet tread close upon the border, 
 
 Where "labor" has an end, and refreshment is begun ? 
 
 How goes the hour, through valleys dark and lowly ? 
 
 More thorns than flowers, more bitter fruit than sweet ? 
 " Look to the east !" the morning breaketh slowly, 
 
 With rest and refreshment for your weary feet. 
 
 Only a little way, and then the road winds sweetly 
 Down sloping woodlands to the setting sun, 
 
 Only a little while, and struggling hope completely 
 Shall find fruition for life's " labor" done. 
 
MASONIC. 21 
 
 Only a little way, and the realms supernal, 
 
 Through opening vistas break upon the sight ; 
 
 Only a little while, and in the " Lodge " eternal, 
 
 Shall all be "raised" from darkness into LIGHT. 
 
 JUNE SNOW. 
 
 READ AT THE ANNUAL REUNION OF THE VETERANS AT WATKRBURY, 
 JUNE 26, 1878. 
 
 " A hoary head is a crown of glory." 
 
 " I have fought the tight I have kept the faith." 
 
 I. 
 
 IN this leafy month of June, 
 With the forests all attune, 
 And the buttercup and daisy 
 
 Everywhere upon the ground; 
 Tell me, craftsmen, if you know, 
 Why hath come this line of snow, 
 Here within this mystic Temple, 
 To encircle us around ? 
 
 Surely, there is place and time, 
 For the snow, and for the rime, 
 Where the buttercup is sleeping, 
 
 While the daisies are away; 
 But the thing is not so clear, 
 In this summer of the year, 
 Why it sifteth in upon us 
 
 At our gathering of to-day. 
 
 Yet some lesson, we may know, 
 Lieth underneath the snow 
 As, sometimes, a smile is hidden 
 
 Underneath a seeming frown; 
 
22 .MASONIC. 
 
 So these snowy flakes so white, 
 Come to symbolize the light, 
 And to teach that nearest Heaven 
 
 Shines the fairest, whitest crown. 
 
 Just as in some mountain land, 
 While the traveler may stand, 
 Gazing upward toward the summit 
 
 Of some snow-capped mountain high, 
 In its majesty erect, 
 He may truthfully reflect, 
 That it gains its chiefest glory 
 
 From its nearness to the sky. 
 
 Aged brother, well I know, 
 That the frost upon thy brow, 
 But reflects the ray supernal 
 
 That is streaming from on high. 
 And as farther on you climb, 
 Toward the pinnacles of time, 
 Every step, some brighter glory 
 
 Shall be gathered from the sky. 
 
 Limbs may totter as you go, 
 Furrows deeper line the brow, 
 Slower beat life's waning pulses, 
 
 Through each blue and shriveled vein 
 But the soul, forever young, 
 With a firmer step and strong, 
 Shall impatient onward hasten, 
 
 Till it reach the shining plain. 
 
 II. 
 
 Through the twilight, dim and gray, 
 Upward to this brighter day, 
 Ye have brought the " perfect ashlers " 
 Which were hewn upon the way; 
 True and Square, without a trace 
 
MASONIC. 23 
 
 Of 'prentice hand upon their face 
 " Just the work are they that's wanted 
 For the Temple " of to-day. 
 
 On each polished block we trace 
 Lines which time cannot efface 
 Pictured lines of ancient battle, 
 
 With the Cowans of the wrong; 
 And we read with quickened sight, 
 How ye struggled for the right. 
 Till the foe at last was vanquished, 
 
 And the weak became the strong. 
 
 Ah, the lesson that is taught 
 In the story thus inwrought, 
 As we build our earthly Temple, 
 
 To our profit we may scan; 
 Learning, so our block to place, 
 As to give it strength and grace, 
 And to lay our strong foundations 
 
 Deep within the inner man. 
 
 III. 
 
 Craftsmen, with your Spade and Bar, 
 Ye have traveled long and far; 
 Tell me, if amid your travels 
 
 Ye have found the Sacred Word ? 
 Out of darkness into day, 
 As ye fought your stur.dy way, 
 Deep within life's inner Temple, 
 
 Was the voice of Wisdom heard ? 
 
 E'er had come these winter days, 
 With their cool and slanting rays, 
 Didst thou heed the great commandment, 
 
 " Love thy God and neighbor, too " ? 
 Aye, methinks I hear you say, 
 This we learned along the way, 
 And by the Word of Wisdom guided 
 
 We have strove to live it true. 
 
24 MASONIC. 
 
 Then, my brother, it is well; 
 Joys for you no tongue can tell, 
 As ye stand erect and trustful, 
 
 Waiting for the homeward gale, 
 Where the wavelets kiss the shore 
 Of the sea called " Evermore," 
 Just around Death's jutting headland 
 
 Waits for you a silver sail. 
 
 Tolls the bell! and helm in hand, 
 Turns the boatman from the land; 
 Craftsmen, in that homeward passage, 
 
 W r ho shall be the first to share ? 
 Swift the nimble moments fly! 
 Craftsman, is it you, or I, 
 That within this mystic circle, 
 
 First shall leave a vacant chair ? 
 
 Tolls the bell! and muffled feet 
 
 Tread the city's busy street, 
 
 With our Three Great Lights in keeping, 
 
 Borne by one of silver hair. 
 Tolls the bell ! and swings the gate 
 Open to our last estate, 
 And again a Column Broken 
 
 Stands beside a vacant chair. 
 
 Other years shall come and go, 
 Leaving only tracks of snow; 
 Yet shall ply that surly boatman 
 
 Daily to the silent shore. 
 Plumb and (ravel, Robe and Crown, 
 One by one, we lay them down, 
 Pass beyond earth's line of vision, 
 
 And are seen of men no more. 
 
 Well, what matter, so we land, 
 Safe upon some better strand ? 
 
MASONIC. 25 
 
 More or less of time is nothing, 
 
 If Hope's breezes fill our sail. 
 Poor and naked, weak and blind, 
 Gladly leaving earth behind, 
 Like a homeward child returning 
 Let us pass within the vail. 
 
 MASONRY-ITS MEANING AND 
 MISSION. 
 
 READ AT THE ANM AL RF.IMOX OF THK VKTKRANS AT NKW HAVEN, 1879. 
 
 IF you tell me speech is silver, and that silence it is golden, 
 I shall grant you, yet shall give you but the silver in my 
 
 rhymes; 
 For though counted but as nothing in the Temple days and 
 
 olden, 
 Yet we make it " legal tender," in these democratic times. 
 
 Brothers, look you to the eastward ! far above the azure 
 
 mountains, 
 
 Lo! the Genius of our Order sets her bow upon the sky. 
 From beneath its shining archway spring those everliving 
 
 fountains 
 
 That have brightened all our valleys with the progress of 
 to-day. 
 
 Outward from the glowing center, Justice sends the sweet 
 
 libation 
 
 Of her even-tempered waters on their purifying way; 
 While the blended streams of Commerce, Science, Art and 
 
 Education, 
 
 Bring the offerings of the Nations for our Temple of 
 to-day. 
 
26 MASONIC. 
 
 See! along the darkened ages, see the footsteps of our 
 
 Martyrs; 
 How they cut their shining pathways through the jungle 
 
 of the wrong; 
 Though for sordid thirty pieces, here and there a Judas 
 
 barters, 
 
 And the Nazarene is slaughtered, yet the builders move 
 along. 
 
 For 'tis not by Sign or Signet that the temple wall uprises; 
 
 These are but the crude expression of a thought that lies 
 
 within; 
 E'en without them, Men are Masons, if that thought but 
 
 crystalizes 
 Into lives of loving labor for the brotherhood of men. 
 
 Names are nothing, forms are nothing; 'tis the Spirit that 
 
 . controlleth; 
 
 And the Spirit of our Order is that Love that evermore 
 Hath been living shall be working, till within its ranks 
 
 enrol leth 
 All the world to own its beauty and its majesty adore. 
 
 Oh, this Masonry of loving! what a world were this, my 
 
 brother, 
 
 If the walls of separation could but once be broken down! 
 So the tender arms of kindness might be cast around each 
 
 other, 
 And the demons of our nature be forever overthrown. 
 
 Oh, the Masonry of labor! laying broad and deep foundations 
 For that mighty 'superstructure of some far millennial 
 
 time; 
 Underneath whose Royal Arches shall be gathered all the 
 
 Nations, 
 
 In one Grand Lodge demonstration of the work of the 
 Sublime. 
 
MASONIC. 
 
 Oh, the Masonry of Nations! glorious end of all our labor! 
 Every thought and deed unselfish brings it farther on the 
 
 way! 
 
 For, no word can e'er be uttered for our God, or for our 
 
 neighbor, 
 That shall hang not all its fruitage on our Universal Tree. 
 
 But, a saddened thought comes o'er me as these well remembered 
 
 faces 
 Range themselves about our Altar, to revive the sacred 
 
 flame. 
 Here and there I see before me empty chairs and vacant 
 
 places, 
 
 Yet not vacant quite, my brothers, for each bears a 
 cherished name. 
 
 Whisper us, oh risen ATWELL, if but lawful for revealing, 
 Tell us what may be our chances, when the shining portals 
 
 swing, 
 As the glories of the morning through the shadows are 
 
 unveiling, 
 
 And we stand beneath the Arches of the Temple of the 
 , King. 
 
 Yet we walk amid the darkness of our nature, blindly groping, 
 With our either hand outstretching for some doorway to 
 
 the Light, 
 And we turn the roughened Ashlers in the Rubbish, fondly 
 
 hoping, 
 To fmd amid their number the Key Stone of the right. 
 
 Yet we have the bright example of one life that was among us, 
 That will guide us, if we follow, to the open gates 
 
 above 
 If we heed his steady ' counsel ' to forgive the wrongs that 
 
 wrong us, 
 And to win men into friendship by our Charity and Love. 
 
28 MASONIC. 
 
 Then, Companions, with our Trowels, let us Labor on 
 
 together, 
 
 Spreading evermore the mortar of our kindness as we go; 
 So that when the Gavel falleth, we shall hear the loving- 
 Father 
 Calling upward to refreshment from our Labor here below. 
 
 TO THE CRAFT. 
 
 READ AT ANNUAL REUNION OF THK VKTF.RA.NS AT \\II.LIMANTIC, l88<X 
 
 I. 
 
 nNKNOWING whither did my footsteps tend, 
 I came a stranger to an unknown shore: 
 Behind me all was darkness, and before 
 Grim shadows deepened on every hand; 
 
 Alone and helpless, yet not friendless, quite, 
 Else had my vessel foundered in the night. 
 
 A thousand wrecks were strewn upon the tide: 
 
 The billows rolled and raging tempests howled: 
 Weary my hand, th' unruly helm to hold, 
 
 Yet safe to harbor did my vessel glide. 
 
 With timorous feet, I stepped upon the shore 
 And, hopeful, entered at life's open door. 
 
 I looked, and lo! far up the mountain side, 
 
 Hope's golden temple with its turrets gleamed 
 All fair and bright, as e'er a poet dreamed; 
 
 With lofty pillars and with portals wide, 
 
 Tow'ring aloft, above the craggy height, 
 
 Mine eyes were dazzled with the crowning light.. 
 
 With hast'ning speed I sped the path along, 
 Eager, at once, so fair a goal to reach: 
 Myriad flowers made glad mine eyes, as each 
 
MASONIC. 29 
 
 Awoke within the melody of song. 
 
 Yet, as I climbed still farther up the steep, 
 My castle vanished in the shadows deep. 
 
 The Sun went out. The moon and stars were dead, 
 Above me hung a lowering cloud of grey, 
 Foul, hissing demons crouching in my way, 
 
 Their venomed shafts into my bosom sped, 
 Still, pressing on by faith into the night, 
 With upward eye, I sought the morning light. 
 
 II. 
 
 One day, I entered at an ancient door, 
 
 Just as the shadows of the evening came: 
 
 I stopped and wrote upon the dusty floor, 
 
 With year and day, the record of my name, 
 
 As one that long had traveled in the night, 
 
 From land to land, and hung'ring for the light. 
 
 Beside me stood a venerable form, 
 
 Whose head was hoary with the frost of years: 
 His hand was gentle, as his heart was warm, 
 
 And sweet the words he gave unto mine ears. 
 " Courage, my child! above the clouds of night, 
 The stars are shining, and the skies are bright." 
 
 But I am naked, penniless and blind, 
 
 Weary with labor, tremblingly said I: 
 Tell me, my father, howso shall I find, 
 
 The long sought path up-leading to the sky ? 
 Lo! where I turn fierce brambles pierce my feet, 
 On every step, some evil doth await! 
 
 "Child, take this staff," he said, " and follow me: " 
 (The staff he gave me was the Word of Light.) 
 
 " Put on the sandals of its truth," said he, 
 "And fearless set thy feet into the night! 
 
 Hope for thy watch-word, manhood for thy goal, 
 
 Keep well in view the temple of the soul." 
 
MASONIC. 
 
 I took the book, and on its pages sweet, 
 
 I read the words, "to them that overcome, 
 
 Of hidden manna will I give to eat, 
 
 And a new name." Then from the shrouding gloom 
 
 Mine earth-bound eyes I lifted to the height, 
 
 And lo! the Temple of Masonic Light 
 
 Shone as the Sun! Upon its columns rare 
 
 Was written Wisdom, Beauty, Strength and Grace; 
 
 Lined by the Plumb, and buikled by the Square, 
 The Master's hand was plain upon its face; 
 
 I looked, and lo! to Wisdom's fair estate 
 
 Was opened wide its free, inviting gate. 
 
 III. 
 
 Within the porch, at length my pilgrim feet, 
 
 Travelled and sore, were privileged to stand: 
 
 Yet farther on, and I may hope to meet, 
 
 Through faithful toil, the bounty of His hand, 
 
 Who said of old, " My grace I freely give. 
 
 Yet, as thy work, so, child, must thou receive." 
 
 With this in view, my feet still travel on 
 
 The line of duty, wheresoe'er it tend: 
 
 From op'ning morn, to evening's setting sun, 
 
 Each shining hour, the brightest at the end. 
 
 Whute'er tny sheaves the many or the few, 
 
 Thankful I take the wages that are clue. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O brother mine! what matter though the gray, 
 Like snowy flakelets creep into the hair? 
 
 What though our feet may falter on the way ? 
 
 'There's neither snow, or halting "over there," 
 
 \\ hither we go the proudest, as the least, 
 
 To take our stations in the shining East. 
 
 So let us live, that when at last shall break 
 Upon our ears, the Master's final call; 
 
MASONIC. 31 
 
 And in the orient morning we awake, 
 
 No record there shall meet us to appal 
 No lengthened shadow to oppress our way, 
 Or mar the op'ning of that brighter day. 
 
 And thou, my brother, that with eager feet, 
 
 Hast entered hopeful on life's 'prentice track, 
 Strive so to run, that with the ending "heat," 
 
 No mark of honor shall the record lack. 
 Keep well within the circumscribed design 
 
 Of Love and Friendship, turning never back; 
 The outer circle hath the longest line; 
 
 Truth at the center take the inner track! 
 So as ye pass the threshold of the gate, 
 The judge's plaudit shall thy coming greet. 
 
 Who knoweth the time of the coming 
 
 Of the day that shall close the account ? 
 When the wheel sjiall be stilled at the cistern 
 
 And the pitcher broke at the fount ? 
 Come forth with your rods of divining, 
 
 Oh men that in Magic are great, 
 And read me the mystical signet, 
 
 That gleams on the finger of fate! 
 
 A twelvemonth of planting and sowing, 
 
 (What matter if less, or if more ?) 
 Of fretting, and toiling and scheming, 
 
 To keep the gaunt wolf from the door. 
 And here we have gathered together, 
 
 To round out the cycle again, 
 With tears for the loved and departed, 
 
 And cheers for the friends that remain. 
 
 The tide floweth outward and onward, 
 A moment, and we shall be gone: 
 
 High up on the shore, there to crumble, 
 Like a skull and a whitening bone! 
 
32 MASONIC. 
 
 " Who was he ? " Oh, say you " a dreamer 
 That dreamed until weary of breath; " 
 
 Yet, remember, oh child of the Ages, 
 
 That he saw in the glass.of his fath. 
 
 Near, or far 'neath the centuries' arches, 
 
 The feet of the workmen that bring, 
 With the Rod, and the Word, and the Signet, 
 
 The Ark to the Priest, and the King; 
 Where the Light upon Masonry's altars 
 
 The "Word" hath forever unsealed, 
 And the Christ, at the base of our manhood, 
 
 To the world is in fullness revealed. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Nay, friend, but the flame of our altar, 
 
 I would not unduly exalt; 
 The hearts that surround it are human, 
 
 And the human hath many a fault. 
 We claim not the grace of perfection: 
 
 Who claimeth this under the skies, 
 On his head hath the caul of a bigot, 
 
 And the Light hath not entered his eyes. 
 
 We ask not the credit of Wisdom, 
 
 Save for that which the reason approves; 
 Our faith is that faith of the ages, 
 
 Which runs in humanity's grooves. 
 Our God is the God of the humble, 
 
 That evermore under the sun, 
 Regardeth no man as the better, 
 
 Save for work he better hath done! 
 
 No rival to Church or religion; 
 
 Though bound not by bigotry's chain, 
 
 We yield to the " Lion of Judah," 
 A right in our temple to reign. 
 
 And so, as we gather together, 
 
 We bow to the good and the true, 
 
MASONIC. 33 
 
 And we lay upon Masonry's altar, 
 
 That homage to righteousness due. 
 
 Then, brothers, while waiting the coming 
 
 Of the day that shall close the account; 
 When the wheel shall be still at the cistern, 
 
 And the pitcher is broke at the fount, 
 Let us climb, hand in hand, up the mountain, 
 
 Undismayed by the shadows or shade, 
 Giving each, what from each is expected, 
 
 The staff of our mutual aid. 
 
 BROTHERHOOD. 
 
 READ AT ANNUAL RKIMON OF VETERANS IN BIRMINGHAM, l88l. 
 
 I. 
 
 IF the world were what it might be; if unto our latter day, 
 Came the Christ of human kindness, with no Judas to betray; 
 If upon our human shoulders grew perfection's snowy wings, 
 Love and truth, and peace and mercy, were inevitable things. 
 
 As it is, the wage of battle leadeth every sure advance; 
 Peace must follow in the pathway of the sabre and the lance; 
 As it is, who overcometh, and the falchion doth swing, 
 Single handed, against numbers, is the honored of the king. 
 
 Wrong may have a healthy mission, with no ill to overcome' 
 Heaven itself, with all its brightness, were but weariness of 
 
 doom; 
 
 Never ending song and chorus, even though before the throne, 
 Might make even Hades welcome, some respiting afternoon. 
 
 .But, where'er the struggle cometh, for the right, forevermore 
 Virtue, love and truth are stronger from the contest than 
 
 before. 
 
 Yet, who fights the hardest battle, may not be for us to know; 
 Oft a reed withstands a tempest that hath laid a forest low. 
 
34 
 
 MASONIC. 
 
 So it is, my worthy brothers you that came to us in gray- 
 That we recognize as trophies from your field of yesterday. 
 Rising grandly through the shadows to the realms of the 
 
 unseen, 
 The forever spanning arches of this brotherhood of men. 
 
 Simple though the outward grouping of its legends and its 
 
 lore, 
 
 Yet their underlying beauty men acknowledge evermore; 
 Spoken on the highest hill top, or repeated in the glen, 
 Evermore their kindly teaching is the brotherhood of men. 
 
 Once beneath our friendly arches, men have never gone astray 
 For the lack of chart and compass, or the knowledge of the 
 
 way; 
 
 Penury cannot dismember; kings are but as peasants, when 
 They but step within the circle of this brotherhood of men. 
 
 Not as builders of this temple, oh, ye veterans of gray, 
 Since it had more ancient corners, are ye welcomed here 
 
 to-day; 
 
 But as saviours and preservers in the darkened moments, when 
 But the bravest dared to champion this brotherhood of men. 
 
 Gladly, then, as such we hail you, and as these, our guarded 
 
 doors, 
 
 Open for your hearty welcome to our emblematic floors, 
 Let us cast aside the burden of our travels as we can, 
 While we pledge anew to friendship and this brotherhood of 
 
 man. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Things that have been," said Solomon, " are things that shall 
 
 be done," 
 
 Forevermore there's "nothing that is new beneath the sun;" 
 But if our ancient craftsman revisits human kind, 
 It may be that the prophet, ere this, has changed his mind 
 
MASONIC. 35 
 
 For this day of days the brightest that the world hath ever 
 
 seen, 
 
 Taketh not a thing for gospel, because a thing hath been; 
 The watchword now is "Onward! " and with each victory won, 
 It turns again to something that is " new beneath the sun." 
 
 Our craft should be progressive, since its mission is to 
 
 build, 
 
 It's mortar better tempered, its workmen better skilled, 
 So that every day's advancement, with the finished block in 
 
 place, 
 Shall, the structure lifting higher, have some new and added 
 
 grace. 
 
 I am not so old as many, but I've lived to see and know, 
 The hand that works so plainly in all things here below; 
 Jehovah, God, or Allah, whate'er the spoken name, 
 In " Wisdom" it is written forevermore the same. 
 
 There hath been some strange mutations in this world of 
 
 living men; 
 Cherished idols have been shattered that forevermore had 
 
 been 
 
 From the soul emancipated; e'en the ancient shackles drop, 
 As the "jealous God" of Moses cometh down from Sinai's 
 
 top, 
 With the outstretched hand of kindness, and a smile upon his 
 
 brow, 
 To uplead his erring children from their wandering's below. 
 
 I have heard the voice of angels, felt the wafting of their 
 
 wings, 
 And have known the consolation that their gentle presence 
 
 brings; 
 E'en death's shrouding veil is parted, and the " traveller 
 
 returns " 
 To dry the tear of sorrow and to comfort who that mourns. 
 
36 MASONIC. 
 
 I have seen the arms of genius e'en the earth itself enfold; 
 Lightning's messenger our pleasure from the New World to the 
 
 Old; 
 Woman's hand emancipated by the " Howe " or " Singer; " 
 
 e'en 
 Our daily bread upgathered by the "sweat" of some machine! 
 
 Still the marching word is " Onward! " victories yet are to be 
 
 won; 
 Every day for aye discloses something " new beneath the 
 
 sun," 
 
 And it well behoves us, brothers, with the glory all in sight, 
 Not to bend above our shadows, with our back unto the light 
 
 III. 
 
 Years ago there came among us, dusty from the traveled way, 
 Men of gentle, loving presence, who are with us yet to-day; 
 Here and there an added furrow, here and there a flake of 
 
 snow, 
 Yet the same true-hearted brothers that they were ten years 
 
 ago. 
 
 Some there were, no longer with us, in the search for " further 
 
 light," 
 With their honors thick upon them, that have vanished from 
 
 the sight; 
 As, ere long, we too shall vanish, and e'en to be as that have 
 
 been, 
 Yet shall not a chair be vacant in this brotherhood of men. 
 
 For, while human strength is weakness, while is darkness on 
 
 our track, 
 
 While a single burden resteth on a brother's pleading back, 
 There shall be of worthy craftsmen, as forevermore hath been, 
 Hearts to cherish, hands to labor for this brotherhood of men. 
 
 Peace be with you, aged craftsmen! joy to every honored 
 guest! 
 
MASONIC. 37 
 
 When the shadows round are falling, and the sun is in the 
 
 west, 
 
 May the ever guiding angel through the journeyings of yore, 
 That hath led still lead and comfort in the journeyings 
 
 before. 
 
 May the fruitage of your labors bring contentment to the 
 
 breast, 
 And of all life's precious moments, may each last one be the 
 
 best, 
 
 So that as ye homeward travel, full of hopefulness elate, 
 Ye may never doubt of welcome at the Temple's inner gate. 
 
 Peace to all! and as the evening, with its solemn shadows 
 
 crowned, 
 
 Is the fresh and dewy morning to a region just beyond, 
 So, as fall death's veiling shadows, and the waiting portals 
 
 swing, 
 May our evening prove the morning in the kingdom of the 
 
 King. 
 
 THE RELIGION OF MASONRY. 
 
 READ AT THE REUNION OF THE VETERANS IN NEW HAVEN, l882. 
 
 I. 
 
 IF " Old Hiram were so minded, what a story could be told 
 Of the many strange mutations of the happenings of old 
 Liberty in deadly struggle, with the tyrant of the seas 
 Victory upon her standard, and her flag upon the breeze. 
 
 Days that came of plotting treason, when old Hickory Jackson 
 
 swore, 
 He would hang by the Eternal? high as Haman hanged of 
 
 yore, 
 
38 MASONIC. 
 
 Every traitor that wherever found upon Columbia's shores, 
 With impious feet should trample down his country's flag, and 
 ours. 
 
 Later on, that mighty battle for the manhood of a race, 
 
 That hath purged that periled banner from the blot of its 
 
 disgrace; 
 
 That hath lifted it so grandly that the story of its birth, 
 Is the story of a nation that is proudest of the earth. 
 
 It is fitting that these "old men" who yet linger on the stage, 
 Should come up unto this temple with the staff of " very 
 
 age;" 
 
 So to get faint indication of the temples that may rise, 
 When the pilgrimage is ended, in the morning of the skies. 
 
 Tell me, venerable Brothers, ye that signed in thirty-two, 
 That appeal and declaration, tell me truly, then did you, 
 Ever with forecasting vision, see yourselves with favored feet, 
 Standing 'neath the noble "arches " of a temple so complete ? 
 
 In this day of light and freedom we can little comprehend 
 The courage that was needed these your altars to defend! 
 Belied and persecuted by the pow'rs of Church and State: 
 Upon every side the venom, and the mutterings of hate? 
 
 Looking outward from the places of their secrecy profound, 
 From the hill-tops, from the valleys, from their chambers 
 
 underground; 
 Of the struggles of its craftsmen, its bright standard to 
 
 uphold, 
 If old Hiram were so minded, what a story could be told! 
 
 E'en there is a loving story unto glory evermore 
 
 Of the hearts that have been lightened by these workingmen 
 
 of yore: 
 Of the doings of the right hand by the left hand never 
 
 known, 
 That have gone up as an incense to the One upon the Throne! 
 
MASONIC. 39 
 
 Were it not so, could our Order e'er have prospered in the 
 
 land? 
 
 Men are slow not in perceiving as to what is in the hand 
 That extendeth for their friendship or for wordliness, or 
 
 greed, 
 Or the great unselfish mercy that contributes to their need. 
 
 But we must not be exclusive. Lo! a tempest in the sky! 
 Life'is periled in the breakers! " Help, oh, help us!" is the cry, 
 Through the storm cloud do we answer, "are you of our clan, 
 
 or creed ? " 
 Nay; 'tis ours to man the life boat, and go dashing to the 
 
 need. 
 
 It is ours to keep the life boat ready manned upon the shore, 
 With an eye upon the breakers, and a hand upon the oar; 
 For that Charity is heartless that, in this poor world of sin, 
 Never thinks, but in regalia, of the brotherhood of men. 
 
 * II. 
 
 Men hold up their hands in horror, at some venerable form 
 That they feel quite sure was moulded in a region that is 
 
 warm; 
 
 And they shudder and they shiver, as they talk of spirits dire, 
 That we summon 'round our victims as they broil upon the 
 
 fire! 
 
 'But we'll bear each other witness "Hiram" and "King 
 
 Hiram " too 
 
 That the " spirits " from our councils were abolished long ago; 
 We will bear each other witness that the " horrid things " we 
 
 swear, 
 Only lead up to the level of a life upon the square: 
 
 E'en that noble square of Friendship, that we know is from 
 
 above, 
 On whose great four sides are written Faith, Hope, Charity 
 
 and Love! 
 
 Aye, and this I venture for you, that, however you profess, 
 Or deny some ancient doctrine for a brother in distress. 
 
40 MASONIC. 
 
 Down the hand goes to the pocket; up a tear swells to the 
 
 eye; 
 
 And, until the one is emptied, is the other never dry; 
 For we make it our religion yours, my brother, yours and 
 
 mine, 
 So to follow out the precepts of that Masonry divine, 
 
 Which doth hold all men as. brothers, tho' they stand without 
 
 the door; 
 
 That hath pity for the erring, and a shilling for the poor; 
 And we never need be doubtful of the fruitage to his share, 
 Who exemplifies our teachings of the level and the square. 
 
 Though the pathway may be rugged that Apprentices must 
 
 tread, 
 'Tis the same and ever must be where the Master hath been 
 
 led; 
 
 For, within our friendly borders, is there never caste or clan; 
 All that Masonry considers is the Stature of the MAX. 
 
 III. 
 
 How like coarse untempered mortar is this story of our years! 
 Sands of hope and disappointment joy and sorrow; bitter 
 
 tears; 
 
 E'en these fleshly walls uplifted how they crumble to decay; 
 Like the cities of an army that are builded for a day. 
 
 Yet, is life less worth the living ? Every fleeting moment dies 
 But to live in something better something nearer to the skies; 
 Even where the heavens are bending to some distant horizon, 
 Endeth but our present vision; Life has something farther on. 
 
 True, oft cometh pain and sorrow, with the tolling of the 
 
 bell; 
 
 But it seems to me, most truly, that it hath been ordered well; 
 It is but the flesh that quivers when the arrow hath been 
 
 thrown 
 King of pain and king of sorrow, sits the spirit on the throne. 
 
MASONIC. 41 
 
 In the line upon the forehead, in the silver of the hair; 
 In the halting of the footsteps, though is warning everywhere, 
 It is but the call from labor to refreshment; from the East 
 It is but the three times calling of the Master to the feast. 
 
 Why should then our hearts be troubled ? With our feet upon 
 
 the line; 
 
 With the compasses uncovered on the page of the divine! 
 Casting out all mere pretences he shall rank as of the good, 
 Who doth hold this creed, unbroken, God, and truth, and 
 
 brotherhood. 
 
 For, of all the world's religions, that in time was e'er begun, 
 This, the elder, must forever be the true, unchanging one! 
 Mythologic forms may vanish! altars crumble to decay! 
 But shall this great love religion, never, never pass away. 
 
 TWO VACANT CHAIRS. 
 
 w 
 
 READ AT ANNUAL REUNION OF VETERANS AT BRIDGEPORT, JUNE 23, l886. 
 
 'HEN first I sang, in bygone years, 
 
 Of silver hairs, to veteran ears, 
 Not one frost-line among mine own 
 Had Time's relentless fingers sown. 
 And yet, to-day, my mirror tells 
 A tale at which the heart rebels 
 A tale of years of vanished youth; 
 And yet, despite the larger growth, 
 I find myself as but a boy 
 And tickled with the merest toy. 
 True, months wear out; the seasons pass; 
 And once a year, Time turns the glass; 
 Yet, comes with Hope, as to beguile, 
 The bright new year. And with a smile 
 Its friendly, handsome face upon, 
 The greeting gives " How are you, John ? " 
 
42 MASONIC. 
 
 I think there's something in the faith 
 That saith to men, " there is no death." 
 Twixt the Without, and the Within, 
 The veil, to me, grows daily thin. 
 And yet I know that with each morn 
 Men go from sight as men are born; 
 On crutch or staff at halting pace 
 Old Age departs, while, in its place 
 An infant comes with toddling gait 
 To tread the same great round of fate: 
 To slumber in some lonely spot, 
 As it forgets to be forgot. 
 
 What, then, is life ? The child replies, 
 "A hundred years beneath the skies! 
 A time to dance; a time to sing; 
 A time for joy perpetual Spring! " 
 
 "A hundred years ? " retorts the old: 
 
 "Tis but a tale too quickly told! 
 
 We gather wealth to lay it down, 
 
 With not a crust to call our own. 
 
 The very roof, above our head, 
 
 Is simply borrowed from the dead. 
 
 Each corner lot of village ground 
 
 A dozen vanished men have owned; 
 
 As other men, when we are cold, 
 
 Will by the same frail tenure hold. 
 
 The Spring-time hath a treacherous glow,. 
 
 That endeth with perpetual snow; 
 
 For every flower some nipping frost; 
 
 For every hope, some treasure lost." 
 
 So thought, perhaps, one that, to-day, 
 Is missing from our line of gray; 
 One, for himself, that could not see 
 Behind the clouds of mystery, 
 And back of things of time, and sense 
 (rod's waiting crown of recompense. 
 
MASONIC. 43 
 
 E'en that could not, he thought, receive 
 As truth, what others might believe, 
 On claimed revealments from the sky 
 While living they, as 'twere a lie. 
 
 Perhaps' he ought; yet, after all, 
 What Whipple thought was matter small, 
 Compared with that he hewed the rock 
 Giv'n to his hand, so that the block, 
 Carved from its depths, at least, did bear, 
 The Master's verdict, "True and square." 
 Though holding not to others' creeds, 
 He wrote his own in generous deeds. 
 With sturdy grip upon the right, 
 No power of men could him affright, 
 Or move him from as understood 
 The strictest path of rectitude. 
 
 These were his virtues. Ills to find 
 I leave to him that hath not sinned. 
 
 Another saith, " On looking back 
 
 I only see a flowery track. 
 
 True, thorns have been, yet from my way, 
 
 By patient hand were swept away, 
 
 Or, at the least, wherever grown, 
 
 By vigorous feet were trodden down. 
 
 At night I close my lattice bars 
 
 And live, in dreams, beyond the stars. 
 
 With morning light, I lift mine eyes 
 
 And worship 'neath the arching skies. 
 
 Where'er I go, some hopeful word 
 About the " farther on " is heard 
 From myriad lips, bespeaking love. 
 And life in some Grand Lodge above. 
 " Life! loving life, a rosy ray! " 
 So sang the bard and passed away 
 From home, and lodge, and sight of men, 
 Our craftsman true dear "Brother Glen." 
 
44 MASONIC. 
 
 From manhood's prime, to nigh four-score, 
 He trod, upright, our chequered floor; 
 E'er gave his hand to cheerful toil, 
 Content with what of corn and oil 
 Fell to his share. Loving and loved, 
 In every sphere his presence proved 
 
 A gladsome ray, 
 That brightened till it passed away. 
 
 "Glendining's dead! " one bard hath sung; 
 Another holds the saying wrong, 
 
 If to our friend 
 It so was meant that came the end. 
 
 'Twere better said 
 That such as he are never dead. 
 They live in word, and work, and deed 
 
 Exemplars, bright, for other's heed. 
 Nay, more than this; beyond the veil, 
 Responding to their worthy hail, 
 The gates swing wide. And 'neath the arch 
 Of Heav'ns expansive skies, the march 
 Of such go on from height to height, 
 In search of light Goal's wond'rous Light. 
 ****** 
 
 We look the chapel window through 
 To find the landscape cold and blue. 
 We raise the sash, and quick is seen 
 The landscape bright with gold and green. 
 Like croakers in some dismal oak, 
 No time have we to sit and croak, 
 Of things that die, while on the air, 
 Life, throbbing life, is everywhere. 
 
 With us the sash is up, good friends; 
 No weird blue glass its falsehood lends 
 To mar our pleasure, or destroy 
 The sunshine of our social joy. 
 
.MASONIC. 45 
 
 The sash is up! And friendship's ray 
 Comes stealing softly in, to-day, 
 To fill the soul, while forth extends 
 The greeting hand 'twixt loving friends, 
 Who, as. they part, say not "farewell," 
 That saddest word that tongue can tell; 
 But who, and simply, at the door, 
 Repeat the sweeter AU RKVOIR, 
 Which saith, to soothe the parting pain, 
 "Good-bye, until we meet again." 
 
 vor AND i. 
 
 D 
 
 RKAI) AT THK KETXFOX OF THE VETERANS AT NEW BRITAIN, 1887. 
 
 ( OWX the rapid river drifting, 
 
 Day by day, 
 Scenes are changing, sands are shifting, 
 
 Every day. 
 
 Xo\v and then some treasure missing: 
 Lips refuse the proffered kissing, 
 Yet, withal, there comes a blessing, 
 
 Every day. 
 
 He of our great pity needeth, 
 
 Underneath, 
 Every line of life that readeth 
 
 But of death; 
 
 On discouraged oar reclining: 
 Coming ill, for aye divining 
 Giving up to tearful whining 
 
 Every breath. 
 
 Could our vision, outward- reaching 
 
 From the shore, 
 See the realms of beauty stretching 
 
 On before; 
 
46 MASONIC. 
 
 Could we note how scenes around us, 
 That so long hath cramped and bound us, 
 Pale before the bright beyond us, 
 
 You and I. 
 t 
 
 Scarce would reck how swift the speeding 
 
 Of the years 
 Scarce would count, as now, with dreading, 
 
 Graying hairs; 
 
 From the surely coming morrow, 
 Hope and comfort would we borrow, 
 So to banish many a sorrow, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 With our faces up and onward 
 
 Tow'rd the light 
 Through dispelling shadows sunward, 
 
 Through the night. 
 With a cheerful step, my brother, 
 Sun, or storm, no matter whether 
 Every year we'd come together, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 Breast to breast to feel the beating 
 
 Of the heart; 
 Mouth to ear, fraternal greeting 
 
 To impart; 
 
 Hand to back, for love's embracing; 
 Feet upon one level placing, 
 All unkindly thought effacing 
 
 You and I. 
 
 There is something grand in living 
 
 To the line, 
 Just beyond which opens to us 
 
 The divine; 
 
 In our dealings with each other 
 Conscience nevermore to smother 
 Loving God, and one another, 
 
 You and 1. 
 
MASONIC. 47 
 
 What if fortune frown upon us, 
 
 Night and morn? 
 What if daily toil hath won us 
 
 No return? 
 
 There's a wealth of treasures many, 
 Backed with but a crust, or penny, 
 That can make us rich as any, 
 
 Bye and bye. 
 
 Naked though be our condition 
 
 Blind and poor: 
 We have but to make petition 
 
 At the door, 
 
 And, if worthy found and trusty 
 Though perhaps a trifle rusty 
 We shall find a welcome waiting 
 
 At the door. 
 
 Do we find an added furrow 
 
 Neath the crown? 
 Let us hope that for the morrow 
 
 Hath been sown 
 In it something for fruition, 
 In some not far off elysian, 
 So to better gain position, 
 
 Near the throne. 
 
 Doubtless many a head is whiter 
 
 With the snow 
 Than, when heart and step was lighter, 
 
 Years ago: 
 
 But if with the steady changing 
 Cometh but from ill estranging, 
 Trust the rest to God's arranging, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 True, we find of broken columns, 
 
 On its way 
 Goes the fun'ral march, and solemn, 
 
 Every day. 
 
MASONIC. 
 
 " Dust to dust " the words repeating, 
 With a grim half-hungry greeting 
 Stands the sexton, calmly waiting 
 For his prey. 
 
 " Next," he cries, and tears fraternal 
 
 Dim the eye, 
 Hands are clasped, and lips that tremble 
 
 Say good bye, 
 
 Just as if the soul, departing, 
 Went no further than the starting- 
 Stopped the journey with its starting 
 
 For the sky! 
 
 Yet, as Masons, if our living 
 
 Hath been right, 
 W T hy for us should be misgiving 
 
 For the night? 
 Charity our working leaven, 
 .Facing toward the arching heaven, 
 Up we go, " Three, Five, and Seven, 
 
 Tow'rd the light. 
 
 What if many be thought deficient 
 
 Form or creed? 
 Substance should be held sufficient 
 
 For our need, 
 
 So that outcasts from each other, 
 Nevermore be friend and brother, 
 Loving, living for each other, 
 
 You and I. 
 
MASONIC. 49 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 RKAI> AT THK INSTALLATION OK OKKICKRS OF KINO HIUAM LOIM1K, IN 
 HIRMINdllAM, T87O. 
 
 TITHE poet's pen sometimes will deal in fiction 
 L Sometimes to themes more serious, tunes the lay; 
 To-night, good friends, while giving benediction, 
 It weaves for you the epic of to-day. 
 
 Although the past is rich in admonition, 
 
 No backward glance should mar a scene like this; 
 
 And though the future promises fruition, 
 
 Enough for us shall be the present bliss. 
 
 Why vaunt the past? Its mystical traditions, 
 Like bones exhumed, fast crumble to decay; 
 
 While the dark shadows of its superstitions 
 
 Start back affrighted from the bright to-day. 
 
 Its mumbled creeds no more should mock or blind us, 
 With shallow 'semblance of the righteous way; 
 
 We face the light; the darkness lies behind us, 
 On this the morning of the great to-day. 
 
 In all God's plans no step is falsely taken; 
 
 'Tis evil only that goeth to decay; 
 The good, though slumbering, surely will awaken, 
 
 With gathered brightness for the coming day. 
 
 The olden time, its laws and constitutions, 
 We may revere, though we do not obey; 
 
 The present age asks for its institutions, 
 
 Not what they were, but what they are to-day. 
 
 Age is not wisdom, though wise men may be aged; 
 
 The tree is judged by th' sweetness of its fruit; 
 What e'er with wrong, a battle hath not waged, 
 
 The coming day shall wither to the root. 
 
50 MASONIC. 
 
 We travel "east; " "more light " is our petition, 
 
 More strength to tread life's rough and rugged way; 
 
 More love, and less of grovelling ambition, 
 To mark and mar the progress of to-day. 
 
 Let us be patient! Time turns no backward pages; 
 
 The good time cometh, though long upon the way; 
 Let us be hopeful! In the Temple of the ages, 
 
 The best work, and grandest, are the arches of to-day. 
 
 Yet methinks that we shall find 
 
 If to search we are inclined 
 
 That our social Temple founded though on truth's eternal 
 rock; 
 
 And by master workmen planned, 
 
 Still was built by 'prentice hand, 
 And the polish still is wanting, upon each and every block. 
 
 While, within its living doors, 
 
 On the tessellated floors, 
 
 Lies the rubbish, which the centuries have gathered on their 
 way; 
 
 And we'll find enough to do 
 
 Working faithfully and true 
 To polish up our 'prentice work and clear the dust away. 
 
 For however much we may 
 
 Boast the fruitage of to-day, 
 Still, the worm of human frailty gnaweth steady at the core; 
 
 And, with all our pomp and pride, 
 
 It can never be denied 
 That want and degradation, like a dog, lies at the door. 
 
 Though the city spires on high, 
 
 Lift their fingers to the sky, 
 
 Yet beneath their solemn shadows, dark purlieus of sin 
 abound; 
 
 Where amid the cellar's grime, 
 
 Crouching misery and crime, 
 Gaunt and ghastly, ripens into bad fruition, underground. 
 
MASONIC. 51 
 
 And where e'er we turn our feet, 
 All along the crowded street, 
 Gilded dens breath hot pollution, from their teeming depths 
 
 below; 
 
 Where for freely proffered gold, 
 Human hearts are bought and sold 
 
 Bought from paths of peace and virtue sold to wretchedness 
 and woe. 
 
 Where the ghouls of lust do fatten, 
 
 'Mong the robes of silk and satin 
 Whirling 'neath the gaslit splendor of some Capitolean hall; 
 
 Men who make the laws for millions, 
 
 Take the corners of cotillions, 
 Side by side with undressed beauty, ripened ready for the fall. 
 
 E'en among our'happier homes, 
 
 Painted vice too often comes, 
 Clasping innocence and beauty in its leprous embrace; 
 
 Where amid life's giddy whirl, 
 
 Lost is many a precious pearl, . 
 
 Soiled in many a robe of whiteness in the heat of passion's 
 race. 
 
 What with soirees and levees, 
 Masquerades and matinees, 
 From the chimes of Christmas morning, to the tolling bells of 
 
 Lent; 
 
 In the halls of shoddied wealth, 
 Ignoring all the laws of health, 
 
 Night is made one lengthened revel day, one round of 
 discontent. 
 
 While across the ocean bed, 
 
 Flashing through a tiny thread, 
 Comes the sound of battled legions on the field of yesterday; 
 
 Now the topple of a throne, 
 
 Now a soldier's dying moan 
 Rachael weeping for her children such the message of to-day. 
 
^2 MASONIC. 
 
 Vet we never need despair, 
 
 Better things are in the air- 
 Wrongs are but the incidentals which occur upon the way; 
 
 We are heading to the light, 
 
 We are living tow'rcl the right, 
 
 And the coming man shall harvest from the seed we sou 
 to-day. 
 
 Here I, perhaps, should stop; and yet 
 'Twere quite ungallant to forget 
 
 Our guests, whose pretty faces, 
 Around our festive board to-night, 
 Like fair exotics, cheer our sight 
 
 And lend the sweetest graces. 
 
 What shall I say, and how begin ? 
 Ye muses, take my laggard pen, 
 
 And dipping it in glory, 
 Write lovely woman's spotless name 
 Most blessed on the scroll of fame, 
 While I relate a story. 
 
 When in his lonely, first estate, 
 Man sat within the garden gate, 
 
 And counted o'er each blessing, 
 With which his happiness was crowned, 
 By Heaven's providing hand, he found 
 
 One precious thing was missing. 
 
 Though lord was he of fowl and brute, 
 Though free to pluck of flow'r and fruit, 
 
 Whose names indeed were legion, 
 No loving hand was there, you see, 
 To make his toast and pour his tea, 
 
 In all that blessed region. 
 
 So, one day, sleeping in his tent, 
 Old father Adam underwent 
 A certain operation, 
 
MASONIC. 
 
 By which a spare rib from his side, 
 Presto! became a blushing bride, 
 
 Or some such new relation. 
 
 When Adam woke, with glad surprise 
 He rubbed his half bewildered eyes, 
 
 And at the quick suggestion 
 Of some one near, no matter who, 
 (I'll guess his name and so may you,) 
 
 He straightway popped the question. 
 
 Eve looked around, and at a glance, 
 She saw there was no better chance 
 
 For love or speculation; 
 And, (sad to say it, though I am) 
 She said, " I do not care A dam, 
 
 I'll take the situation." 
 
 O, foolish man; not to have known, 
 That, letting well enough alone 
 
 Is best for every mortal; 
 Had he foreseen the end, I'm sure 
 That he had stopped at wedlock's door, 
 
 Nor crossed its ruby portal. 
 
 But human vision then as now 
 Stopped short of wisdom's gate, and so 
 
 The deed was consummated; 
 Though after all as this world goes 
 In all such matters, I suppose, 
 
 They wer'nt so badly mated. 
 
 She stood " first lady " in the land, 
 
 He made the laws and gave command 
 
 (A power he made the most of;) 
 And as for clothes and such like gear, 
 It does not in the Word appear 
 
 That either much could boast of. 
 
MASONIC. 
 
 Her dry goods bills were very small, 
 She wore no "jute " or waterfall, 
 
 Like many modern noodles; 
 And though her " pets " were no great shakes, 
 I think, indeed, her talking snakes, 
 
 Were quite as good as poodles. 
 
 But lest I tire you with my verse, 
 I will not here the tale rehearse, 
 
 About their worst besetter; 
 Eve made a good wife in the main. 
 Though once, 'tis said, she did " raise Cain," 
 
 But that was ^family matter. 
 
 She never shied a flirting glance, 
 She never went to play or dance, 
 
 With any man but Adam; 
 Nor kept her lord awake o'nights. 
 With stale demands for "Woman's Rights," 
 
 Because she alwavs had 'em. 
 
 Fair daughters of the lovely Eve, 
 Despite my nonsense, I believe 
 
 In " God's last, best creation; " 
 Not as a brawling partisan, 
 Not an appendage made for man, 
 But as a worker in (iod's plan, 
 
 For this poor world's salvation. 
 
 And wheresoe'er plain duty calls, 
 In shop, or field, or lecture halls, 
 
 Or in the home elysian; 
 Her chosen pathway to pursue, 
 To do the thing she best can do, 
 Tear down the old, or build the new, 
 
 She need not ask permission. 
 
 Then let us all join friendly hands 
 
 Across this board of social cheer; 
 
MASONIC. 55 
 
 And while old Time, with plummet, stands 
 To crown the arches of the year, 
 
 We'll ask that he will also lay 
 
 To-night for each and every one 
 To stand for many a coming day 
 
 A " Happy New Year" corner stone. 
 
 And though, to-day, is still our theme, 
 'Twere wisdom ne'er to quite forget, 
 
 That while our life is like a dream 
 
 Which pales before the vision, yet 
 
 Should we as Masons, true and good, 
 
 This lesson of the past time learn, 
 That who invests in brotherhood 
 
 Receives at last the best return. 
 
 Upon the sacred page we find 
 
 This truth inscribed above all others: 
 
 That we as children of one kind 
 
 And loving Father, should be brothers. 
 
 For, from the earth, alike we come, 
 
 To mother earth alike we tend ; 
 One path we tread, one common home, 
 
 Invites us at the journey's end. 
 
 There's not that difference in the scale 
 
 Of human life that some pretend; 
 The cock may flaunt a rainbow tail, 
 
 And be a cockerel to the end. 
 
 High born, or low, 'tis all the same; 
 
 Who follows best God's righteous plan 
 For honest living, best may claim 
 
 The title of a nobleman. 
 
 Though humbly born, the " widow's son " 
 Upon a " level " walked with kings; 
 
 By acting well his part was won 
 
 That prize which honest labor brings. 
 
MASONIC. 
 
 Ere while from yonder crawling worm, 
 An airy form of beauty springs, 
 
 So many an humble human form 
 
 But half conceals the angel wings. 
 
 Let's have a care, then, how we tread, 
 Lest we bespoil some humble friend, 
 
 Who by a diff'rent path is led 
 
 Whose life we may not comprehend. 
 
 And if, perchance, some brother stray 
 
 From wisdom's straight and narrow track, 
 
 Though Priest and Levite turn away, 
 
 Be it ours to lead the wand'rer back. 
 
 One may be weak, another strong - 
 
 E'en honest men may err most blindly; 
 
 And though the deed itself be wrong, 
 
 'Twere well to judge the motive kindly. 
 
 Oh Masonry! thrice honored art! 
 
 That buildest upward tow'rd the sun, 
 We'll follow still thine ancient chart, 
 
 And raise the temple stone by stone; 
 
 That inner temple of the soul, 
 
 Which brightens with the ages' march; 
 Where love and truth shall find control, 
 
 And manhood crown life's Royal Arch. 
 
MASONIC. 57 
 
 THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 RKAI) AT THK CKNTKNNIAL CELEBRATION OK KINC HIRAM LOIM1K, 
 IMKMINdllAM, 1883. 
 
 WHO stands, to-day, on yonder hills, that lift against the 
 South, 
 
 And hears the song of industry that fills the hungry mouth, 
 The click and clack of countless mills; may read a wond'rous 
 
 tale 
 Of what one hundred years have wrought to beautify the vale. 
 
 Lo ! to the north, fair Paugassuck, from mountain hills, and 
 
 gray, 
 
 With willing hand to labor's wheel, comes tripping on its way; 
 While up the eastern valley, where suburban hamlets lie, 
 With scream of gong, on rapid wheel, the great steam chariots 
 
 fly. 
 
 The busy street; the churchly spire; the palaces of pride; 
 The great highways, where winged thoughts on lightning 
 
 coursers ride; 
 
 All these make up a wonderland, such as they could not know^ 
 Who dwelt among these crowning hills, one hundred years ago. 
 
 Yet, little have we wholly new. Events are slowly born. 
 
 To prescient eye, the shades of night are pregnant with the 
 
 morn; 
 
 The rivers waited but command the coming of the wheel, 
 To set the echoes ringing to the clangor of the steel. 
 
 The furnace of the future in the quarry of the sires, 
 In the clay yet to be moulded stood in waiting for the fires; 
 The ships were in the forest, with the cottage, and the spire, 
 While the lightnings, ready harnessed, stood impatient for the 
 wire. 
 
s;8 MASONIC. 
 
 Call it God, or evolution; call it fate, or call it chance; 
 Deep within the soul of all things lies an impulse to advance; 
 As if, standing upon tiptoe, Nature, with upreachmg hand, 
 From the great store house above her, some new glory would 
 command. 
 
 Stepping backward through the decades, look again upon the 
 
 vale ! 
 
 There and here a lowly cottage, here and there a snowy sail. 
 Few and humble were the toilers that did, then, the valleys 
 
 know, 
 In the dawning of the morning of an hundred years ago. 
 
 War had sheathed its gory sabre; whipped, the lion sought his 
 
 den; 
 
 Tyranny had lost a battle; joy was in the hearts of many. 
 Yet, the taunting words, and bitter, "rebel," "tory," left a 
 
 sting, 
 Still were kinships half divided, for the Congress for the 
 
 King. . 
 
 Back to back, men stood in anger by their burthens heavy 
 bound; 
 
 On the field, conscripted children slept the battle sleep, pro- 
 found. 
 
 "Well enough" had been disrupted, by scarce comprehended 
 war; 
 
 Wounds, like these, are slow in healing, healing yet they leave 
 a scar. 
 
 Churches, e'en, of old " established " 'neath the shadow of a 
 
 throne, 
 
 Stood aloof from other churches, centered in themselves alone. 
 Then it was that Hiram, lifting, in the vale its bannered sign, 
 Underneath some mystic symbol, taught of brotherhood divine; 
 
MASONIC. 
 
 59 
 
 [Interior of the old Lodge Room of King- Hiram Lodge.] 
 
 Taught that strength lay but in union union with some right- 
 eous plan; 
 
 Charity for all behind it taught the brotherhood of man. 
 
 Hatred, malice, persecution, all at once upon the wing, 
 
 Back of each good word and action, charged some secret, evil 
 thing: 
 
 ''Fiendish orgies!" "Vile blasphemies!" Tales of revelry by 
 
 night ! 
 " Horrid oaths in secret conclave !" " Shunning darkness, 
 
 fearing light !" 
 Though the noblest of earth's children bowed at this Masonic 
 
 shrine 
 Leaders of the great world's progress; priests and princes of 
 
 the line; 
 
 AYlrit availed it? Human judgment warpeth to its day and 
 time; 
 
60 MASONIC. 
 
 What to-day is spurned as worthless, on the morrow is sub- 
 lime. 
 
 Look you ! all the great world over, evermore, it is the same ! 
 
 Much ot zeal, with lack of knowledge, makes the bigot, lights 
 the flame. 
 
 Yet, because securely founded on the rock of living truth, 
 
 Masonry, unscathed, unblemished, lives to everlasting youth; 
 
 State craft, though it storm and threaten; bigots, though they 
 yet assail, 
 
 Both of Church and State the ally, what against it shall pre- 
 vail ? 
 
 Awakening from a century tomb, if but this world of men 
 That live to-day to-morrow sleep, may walk the earth again, 
 How strange will -read the graven page, that, to their wonder- 
 ing gaze, 
 Shall tell the century's progress from these half primeval days ! 
 
 Unscathed by time, or tempest shock, uprising from the shore, 
 Old Corum hills as firmly stand as in the days before; 
 And yet, how changed is all below ! A line of silver sheen 
 Yet dwindled to a brooklet's span Old Paugassuck is seen. 
 
 For, as the forests clear away, and swampy wilds are tamed, 
 The springs go dry the falling rain, by envious skies reclaimed ! 
 And yet, as fails th' accustomed flood from daily broadening 
 
 shore, 
 The handful left proves stronger, e'en, than all that went 
 
 before; 
 
 For, in a single drop, 'twas left for science to reveal 
 
 A mightier than the clumsy hand, that turned the ancient 
 
 wheel. 
 E'en have the lightnings been subdued; and greater than of 
 
 yore, 
 Their subtle forces have been made the servants of the poor. 
 
 The cot is lighted by their flame; its fuel e'en supplied; 
 While swift upon electro steeds the hurrying people ride; 
 
MASONIC. 6l 
 
 Or, in some airy flying ship, from land to land they go, 
 Shaking the dust from off their feet on th' whirling world 
 below. 
 
 E'en "dust to dust " no longer means a feasting for the worm, 
 For, in cremation's funeral urn in concentrated form 
 Wives, husbands, take the parlor shelf, the household gods 
 
 among, 
 Till, by successors, stored away unhonored and unsung. 
 
 Woman, at last, the ballot holds. Obedient to her will, 
 Folds up his tent and steals away, the demon of the Still; 
 While, as of things but scarce believed, is pointed out some 
 
 den, 
 Where men, by law, once sold permit to drown the souls of 
 
 men ! 
 
 E'en hath been proved the maxim false, that prateth of a 
 
 bourne, 
 
 In some beyond, and far away, from which none may return. 
 Life, life beyond, the ages' hope, breaks full upon the sight, 
 While death, itself, but- lifts the veil, and leads us to the light ! 
 
 So, brothers, as King Hiram starts, on new centennial way, 
 We sketch the past e'en as we can, forecast the future day; 
 Yet should we not forget, indeed, that, greatest our concern 
 Is with the present moment that, by living, we should learn 
 
 To make our craft the keystone, that shall bind the mighty 
 
 arch 
 Through which, toward the kingdom, shall the coming ages 
 
 march; 
 To climb, ourselves, the mystic stair, so helping hand to 
 
 reach 
 To brother's hand, stretched from below we practice what 
 
 we preach. 
 
 For, are we not on trial ? E'en King Hiram yet is young, 
 An hundred years as nothing count eternities among; 
 
62 
 
 MASONIC 
 
 [Interior of the Present Lodge Room of King; Hiram Lodge.] 
 
 The Great All Seeing Eye, above, looks down with jealous 
 
 care, 
 While justice takes our daily block and tries it by the square. 
 
 As workmen, on the muster roll, each one must take his place 
 In just proportion, as he builds to honor, or disgrace; 
 As he shall hew to selfishness, uncharity and wrong, 
 Or, to the kindlier graces that to brotherhoods belong. 
 
 To keep our manhood full in view, our passions in control; 
 To hold the flesh subservient to the welfare of the soul; 
 First, to be pure; then peaceable; then sober, upright, true, 
 Is what our Masonry should mean, to me, my friend, and you 
 
MASONIC. 63 
 
 Within its holy Temple, then, before its sacred shrine, 
 
 Dare not to bring rough sandaled feet, that cannot walk the 
 
 line 
 
 Of perfect soberness of life; much less, if on thy hands 
 Through that which makes his feet to trip thy brother's fail- 
 ure stands. 
 
 All hail to thee, King Hiram ! Be thy years with honor 
 
 crowned, 
 
 In the widow's tearful blessing, as the centuries shall round; 
 Teach thy craftsmen to stand upright; on the level by the 
 
 plumb, 
 
 To the voice of God and duty, that they nevermore be dumb, 
 So, as with each dawn, the shadows of the night shall clear 
 
 away, 
 From the East shall come the morning of a brighter, better 
 
 dav. 
 
 BURNS TO HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 RESPONSE TO THE TOAST "ROBERT BURNS," OIVKN AT A MASONIC CELE- 
 BRATION OF THAT POET'S BIRTHDAY, IN BIRMINGHAM. 
 
 FROM warlds aboon the earth and moon, 
 To this gude brithers' meeting, 
 Wi' kindly ward, auld Scotia's bard 
 
 Wad bring fraternal greeting. 
 E'en, bending o'er this mystic floor, 
 
 Wi' craftsmen a' sae civil, 
 Wad tak a han' for brither man, 
 
 Wi' plumb, and square, and level. 
 
 But, harkee, frien'! Do ye na' ken 
 
 That whom ye wad be toasting, 
 Not lang aback the lads in black 
 
 Were ready for the roasting? 
 
64 MASONIC. 
 
 Such sinfu' lout as they made out 
 The rhyming Highland laddie, 
 
 Should scarce expect the warld's elect 
 To gie the han' sae ready. 
 
 Hae ye forgat of proverbs, that 
 
 Aboot the birds o' feather? 
 What matter, though, or yes, or no, 
 
 If but who meet together 
 Shall drink the wine of peace divine 
 
 In love's unstinted measure? 
 If naught of ill shall e'er infill 
 
 Our cup of social pleasure? 
 
 Forevermore! Forevermore! 
 
 How lang they dwelt upon it! 
 A thousand years of woe and tears, 
 
 And Rab had just begun it ! 
 For so, alack, the lads in black 
 
 Made woeful declaration; 
 But, dinna ken ? there must hae been 
 
 Some slight miscalculation; 
 
 For through the dark, nor care nor cark 
 
 To make his han' unsteady, 
 Wi' self-respect, head full erect, 
 
 Went out your Highland laddie, 
 Firm in belief that every sheaf 
 
 Wi' human limitation, 
 That he might bring before the King, 
 
 Wad meet wi' approbation. 
 
 For conscious sin, it might hae been 
 
 That he had some misgiving, 
 When in the dust the sexton thrust 
 
 His carcase from the living; 
 But soon on high his raptured eye 
 
 Beheld the gate immortal, 
 And all along, a surging throng 
 
 Up crowding to the portal. 
 
MASONIC. 65 
 
 Wi' mony an old slave king of gold, 
 
 Wi' tithes long time defaulted, 
 And human owls conceited fowls! 
 
 Wi' pious face exalted, 
 Each, nature bent, wi' full intent 
 
 To smuggle through the portal, 
 From customs clear, such warldly gear 
 
 As had survived the mortal. 
 
 While each proclaimed himself, and named 
 
 The deeds on which were resting 
 His claim to grace, or special place 
 
 Of honor at the feasting, 
 Poor Robbie sat, without the gate, 
 
 Sae humbly at the portal, 
 Nor dared recall one thing of all 
 
 His doings in the mortal. 
 
 St. Peter took his ancient book, 
 
 And read this general order: 
 "Who enters here, no burthens bear 
 
 Across the shining border; 
 No filthy lust for golden dust; 
 
 No pride of wealth, or station; 
 Or unco' zeal for heavenly weal 
 
 Through some puir soul's cremation. 
 
 " Who enters here are such as wear 
 
 The garments of that meekness 
 In some good way, that comes for aye 
 
 From conscious human weakness." 
 Then in the book he bade him look, 
 
 And where had been recorded 
 Ben Adhem's name, lo! by the same 
 
 Was place for him accorded. 
 
 Though often wrang, my song I sang 
 I make nae idle boasting 
 
66 MASONIC. 
 
 As heart inclined, for human kind, 
 
 Nor feared a final roasting. 
 For great or sma' the King of a', 
 
 The unco' righteous scorning, 
 Full well I knew wad give the true 
 
 His welcome in the morning. 
 
 The lads in black got mony a whack 
 
 For mony a provocation; 
 Not that I thought the things they taught 
 
 Bore not some good relation 
 To honest truth. Yet why, forsooth, 
 
 I asked, should bardie clever, 
 By Satan's rod be sairly prod 
 
 Forever and forever ? 
 
 Sic wrang, indeed, by man decreed 
 
 To ony erring mortal 
 Wad bring the houn' of justice down, 
 
 An' kick him from the portal. 
 For why the name of justice shame 
 
 Wi' mercy less than human ? 
 In fierce alarm, need heav'n to arm 
 
 Against the seed of woman ? 
 
 Though at the gate men choose to wait, 
 
 What harm to the Creator ? 
 Tow'rd heav'n, alack, each devious track 
 
 Winds heavenward soon or later. 
 A sorry knave, though, who would save 
 
 Himself through others' sorrow; 
 Who rests his hope, through heav'n to grope, 
 
 On what he hopes to borrow! 
 
 No, no, sair heart, bear thou the smart, 
 Fire burns the han' that takes it, 
 
 Sin's debt, as made, if fully paid, 
 Must be by him that makes it. 
 
MASONIC. 67 
 
 Yet all the years, amid the spheres, 
 
 Reveals nae vale of sorrow; 
 Nae grewsome lot, that love hath not 
 
 Made brighter on the morrow. 
 # * # * * * 
 
 Then, brither man, as best ye can, 
 
 Upon the earth your mither 
 Do as ye would that ithers should 
 
 For aye, and with each ither; 
 Nor fear and quake, lest heav'n shall make 
 
 (As per the Orthodoxies) 
 Of thee a roast, to please the host, 
 
 In heav'n's proscenium boxes. 
 
 The lightnings flash, the thunders crash, 
 
 The dauntless sailor warning; 
 Black tempest rails, yet never fails 
 
 The sunlight in the morning. 
 So comes a night, when earth's rush-light, 
 
 Must cease its feeble burning; 
 Yet, courage, friend! That night shall end 
 
 With sunlight and the morning! 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE MEMORIAL VOLUME DEDICATED TO M. \V. GRAND MASTER 
 ISRAEL M. KTLLOCK, WHO DIED OCT. 2O, 1879. 
 
 "I AM GOING' WITH THE LEAVES." 
 
 NOT fun'ral wreath, nor lettered stone, 
 Nor chiding word, nor honied speech, 
 For battles lost or battles won 
 
 The sleeping hero e'er can reach. 
 E'en not the brazen trumpet's breath, 
 Disturbs the calm repose of death. 
 
68 MASONIC. 
 
 Come hither, boy! yon lonely mound 
 
 Hides what was once like thee a child. 
 
 In loving arms encompassed round, 
 Joy filled his cup as love beguiled. 
 
 Fond hope entranced his prescient eye, 
 
 Nor deemed he then how time could fly. 
 
 Years sped along, dream followed dream, 
 
 Life's outlined charts, rough drawn, until 
 
 Adown life's bright and shining stream, 
 Love took the helm and guided well. 
 
 Though sensual gardens lined the shores, 
 
 Yet stopped he not to pluck the flow'rs. 
 
 Fame's golden star his eye entranced, 
 Fame, born of high and noble deeds! 
 
 Against the common foe's advance, 
 He saw among our human needs, 
 
 One barrier strong least understood, 
 
 E'en this our tie of brotherhood. 
 
 So learned he well that mystic trade, 
 
 Which buildeth high life's outer wall, 
 
 O'er-lapping blocks for "mutual aid," 
 In love's cement imbedding all: 
 
 Beneath the shifting sands of youth, 
 
 He laid the corner-stone of truth. 
 
 Then like our ancient Master grand, 
 Life's temple walls in beauteous line, 
 
 He sketched with ever faithful hand, 
 Embodying still the King's design. 
 
 Yet all too soon, the " widow's son " 
 
 Was in the Temple stricken down. 
 
 Ere yet his keystone bound the arch 
 That fain within its loving span, 
 
 Had gathered, for the ages march 
 
 Toward the good, this world of men; 
 
MASONIC. 69 
 
 While yet, for him, Fame's garland weaves, 
 He falls, alas! like "autumn leaves." 
 
 But hold! my child, I talked of death; 
 There is no death; I told thee wrong. 
 
 Dust claimeth dust; our mortal breath 
 Goes out as goes an evening song: 
 
 Yet that which moves the heart and brain, 
 
 Tombs cannot hide: earth cannot chain: 
 
 That lives, and moves, and thinks, and speaks! 
 
 The life, the soul! all else is dust; 
 Twixt man and brute, that only makes, 
 
 Talk as we will, distinction just. 
 Life, soul immortal, thinking man! 
 Thine cannot be oblivious ban. 
 
 vSo live, my child, that when, at last 
 
 Shall strike the hour that bids thee come, 
 
 With garnered sheaflets from the past, 
 To make the river journey home, 
 
 Thou goest not like as one afraid 
 
 To meet some terror of the shade; 
 
 But like our friend, with spirit glad, 
 
 While hope her smiling chaplet weaves, 
 
 In robes of honor, glory clad, 
 
 Go gently like the " autumn leaves,"- 
 
 'Upon the breezes, sweet and bland, 
 
 Of peace, into the promised land. 
 
yo MASONIC. 
 
 THE BLESSEDNESS OF MASONRY. 
 
 \VRITTKN AS PART OF AN INTRODUCTION TO A MASONIC VOLUME. 
 
 T IFTING from the sands of ages, on the bleak Rhode 
 
 1A Island shore, 
 
 Where the early Norsemen landed, stands a castle built of 
 
 yore: 
 
 Every block out of proportion; laid by rude unskilful hand; 
 Yet with such well tempered mortar, as the ages to withstand! 
 
 Years to centuries have rounded; Nations have been swept 
 
 away, 
 Mightier castles, e'en, have tottered into darkness and decay. 
 
 Firmly, yet, these walls uplifteth on that wild New England 
 
 shore; 
 Beating back the angry tempests, laughing at the breakers' 
 
 roar! 
 
 Though for what was their uplifting, never may diviner guess, 
 Yet, to-day, they stand exemplars of that grace of faithfulness 
 
 Which doth keep its foothold firmly, clinging to the rocks 
 
 below, 
 Rocks of truth, for aye, heroic facing to the common foe. 
 
 So with this our mystic temple, builded on life's rugged shore; 
 Though with yet imperfect ashler, standing, yet, forevermore, 
 
 Firm, undaunted, with its turrets reaching to the skies above, 
 By the strength of that good mortar, two parts friendship 
 three of love. 
 
 Though among the vanished ages somewhere lies its corner 
 
 stone, 
 Still it builds, and builds forever, never to be overthrown! 
 
 Call the roll of ancient workmen; bid them to the witness 
 
 stand; 
 Men of lowly rank and station, men the proudest in the land! 
 
MASONIC. 
 
 7' 
 
 See! They come with ashlers chiseled well and truly to the 
 
 square; 
 Wanting though in some proportions, yet of strength and 
 
 beauty rare. 
 
 Listen to their faithful story, how they trod the valleys 
 
 through, 
 By the light that shone about them, from the old toward the 
 
 new. 
 
 Turn these pages of King Hiram, for his roll of workingmen; 
 Read between their lines the record of the vanished what hath 
 been: 
 
 " Vanished ? " Nay, but that was wrongly spoken, since in each 
 
 " to-day " 
 All the good of all the past time lives forever and for aye! 
 
 ******* 
 Masonry is benefaction; ever at its door the sign 
 Biddeth, for the poor and needy Welcome to its corn and wine. 
 
 For, behold, are we not brothers, children of the Holy One ? 
 Shall of wheat be ours two measures, while our brother he 
 hath none ? 
 
 Masonry is manly living! Who hath trod its tesseled floor, 
 Bowed before its solemn altar, standeth prouder than before; 
 
 Walketh broader paths of duty; mounteth to a higher plane; 
 Lives toward a better future, if he pledged him not in vain. 
 
 Masonry is human progress. On the walls of yesterday 
 To-morrow finds still upward courses, chiseled from the great 
 to-day. 
 
 Who shall say this loving order, young in heart, if not in years, 
 Caring for the poor and needy, scattering smiles but never 
 tears; 
 
 Making glad the heart's waste places; striving all the world to 
 
 bless! 
 Who shall say its loving labor hath not proved a blessedness ? 
 
72 MASONIC. 
 
 THE DOUBLE FUNERAL 
 
 SUGGESTED ON WITNESSING THE LOWERING OF A MOTHER AND SON 
 INTO ONE GRAVE, IN BIRMINGHAM. 
 
 Side by side, on that vernal clay, 
 
 Together we laid them mother and son: 
 
 She, with the frost of the winter gray; 
 He, with the autumn but just begun; 
 
 She, with her sheaflets of ninety years, 
 
 Patient that waited her Lord's command; 
 He, from the harvest of ripened ears, 
 
 Fresh, with the sickle yet firm in hand. 
 
 As a strong defence and up-holder, he, 
 
 To the poor, like the Knights of old, 
 Gave as he could of his gold, and free; 
 
 Or of love that was better than gold. 
 
 Slowly we marched, in solemn train, 
 
 To the tap of the muffled drum, 
 While the silent forms of the faithful twain, 
 
 Were borne to their final home. 
 
 The sword in the Knightly hand, and stout, 
 
 Was crossed o'er that lowly grave; 
 While the great Red Cross, through the crape spoke out 
 
 Of hope, and of One to save. 
 
 Brother of mine, on that solemn day 
 
 In last embrace to a long repose 
 Did we " lay them together ?" I tell you nay 
 
 Simply we buried their cast-off clothes. 
 
 Ee'n as I turned from that scene of gloom, 
 
 The buds that burst to the vernal breath, 
 Proclaimed in spite of that closing tomb 
 
 " There is no death, that there is no death." 
 
MASONIC. 73 
 
 THE CLOSING OF THE EODGE. 
 
 I. 
 
 OST Worshipful, a loud alarm is resounding at the gate, 
 As if some one seeking entrance at our portals did .await 
 
 Attend the alarm, Junior Deacon! I would know who cometh 
 
 there! 
 See that none shall enter hither, coming not upon the square. 
 
 Worshipful, I find a stranger with a message from the King, 
 Which he bids me. say, in person, to the Master he would 
 bring. 
 
 Junior Deacon, if he's worthy, and hath got the Master's 
 
 word, 
 You'll admit him to our presence, that his message may be 
 
 heard. 
 
 Stranger, what may be thy pleasure ? a messenger we hear, 
 Thou hast come from one above us, whom, as Masons, we 
 revere. 
 
 Most Worshipful, a greeting from his Majesty, the King, 
 Unto thee, His worthy servant. He commissions me to bring: 
 
 And, from labor to refreshment, He would call thee to the 
 
 East, 
 As the one that He would honor at the coming harvest feast. 
 
 Stranger, we have heard your message; go report unto the 
 
 King, 
 That His servant standeth ready for the temple gate to swing. 
 
 II. 
 
 Brothers, we will close our labors. Warden, how doth go the 
 
 hour ? 
 (High twelve, Most Worshipful.) Brother Junior, to the door! 
 
74 MASONIC. 
 
 Bid the Tyler to be wary, that no cowan shall intrude, 
 To disturb the closing service of this ancient brotherhood. 
 
 Brother Wardens, can you tell us how, as Masons, we should 
 meet ? 
 
 Aye, "upon a level" truly. How should stand our parting- 
 feet? 
 
 "Upon the square." Then oh, my brothers, by the plummet 
 
 of the right, 
 Standing upright, facing eastward, to the fountain of the 
 
 light, 
 
 Let us bear each other's burdens taking each a noble share, 
 So to meet upon a level, and to part upon the square. 
 
 III. 
 
 Here we part upon our journey: /to heed the gavel call 
 Of the Master that hath purpose even in a sparrow's fall; 
 
 You to hew and lay the ashler till the purple morning grand 
 Shall behold our living Temple as the proudest in the land. 
 
 Like the wind, our breath is fleeting, here a moment, and 'tis 
 
 gone; 
 There's a tear that dries in falling on the mound upon the 
 
 stone. 
 
 Yet our deeds must live forever; then, my -brothers, may you 
 
 bear 
 So the test of plumb and level, as to die upon the square. 
 
 There is something deep within me that is calling unto you, 
 My beloved, that would bid you, as the journey you pursue, 
 
 To forget not that the glory, which the forest now receives, 
 Very soon will have departed, with the falling of the leaves. 
 
 So, within, is ever calling, calling faithfully to you, 
 
 As good Masons, and as brothers, to endeavor to pursue. 
 
MASONIC. 75 
 
 So the pathway of your labor, that the glory of your sheaves, 
 Shall not fade, as fades the forest, with the falling of the 
 leaves. 
 
 Thus I close this lodge of Masons; with my labors 1 am 
 
 through; 
 I must leave you all, my brothers, with a Mason's fond adieu! 
 
 Yet I would not leave you grieving, as the unbeliever grieves, 
 Since from labor to refreshment, " I am going with the leaves." 
 
THE SPIRIT OF THE MEN. 
 
 P from the far Atlantic shore, 
 Old Sumpter's voice was heard, 
 And swift the winged lightnings bore 
 
 That ever-thrilling word- 
 Through village homes and rural farms 
 Your country calls, to arms! to arms! 
 
 Ah, well I mind me how they came, 
 From shop and furrowed field, 
 
 With kindled eye and hearts aflame, 
 The patriot sword to wield; 
 
 The pride of all our northern land 
 
 What foeman could their shock withstand ? 
 
 They came with many a tearful thought 
 
 Of dear ones left behind, 
 Of grand old hills, whence mem'ry brought 
 
 Her cherished scenes to mind; 
 Yet never backward turned their face, 
 Save but to take love's last embrace. 
 
 As, on that tearful Sabbath morn, 
 With firm and steady tread, 
 
 That band of heroes, newly born, 
 Their southward marches led, 
 
 I questioned if, indeed, they knew, 
 
 What it might cost to wear the blue. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 77 
 
 And so I asked, " To deadly strife, 
 
 Why goest thou, good sir?" 
 And, quickly, Kirkham, with his fife, 
 
 And Chaffee with his snare, 
 Struck up old Yankee Doodle, grand 
 That battle guage of Fatherland. 
 
 " Death lulls upon thy southern track," 
 
 I whispered manhood's prime, 
 And, buckling on the martyr pack, 
 
 The answer came sublime, 
 " Since slav'ry gave to treason birth, 
 Our blood shall wash it from the earth." 
 
 "And thou brave Russell, soul so rare! 
 
 Why go ye forth to die ? " 
 His flashing sabre cuts the air, 
 
 And, pointing to the sky, 
 With holy faith and courage bright, 
 " Forward! " he cries, for God and Right. 
 
 And these returning brave, that come 
 
 To-day from ship and farm, 
 Thrice welcome to each loyal home, 
 
 Protected by thy arm; 
 Friends of her country in her need, 
 She treasures up each valiant deed. 
 
 Henceforth your camp fires flame afar 
 
 With hope's benignant beams! 
 Henceforth, for aye, grim visaged war 
 
 Is banished from thy dreams; 
 And hence may all life's journeys be 
 Triumphant marches to the sea! 
 
 Time speeds us on; each annual day 
 
 Fresh furrows line the brow; 
 The head puts on the rebel gray, 
 
 But th' heart still wears the blue; 
 
7 8 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 And woe the cailiff that shall try 
 To pluck your banner from the sky! 
 
 That banner which, to every mast, 
 Your strong arms helped to nail; 
 
 Which, passing through war's furnace blast, 
 Rides prouder now the gale, 
 
 In every land, on every sea, 
 
 The glorious guerdon of the free! 
 
 Happy the land which thus can claim 
 
 Such loyal sons her own! 
 Within whose breast, that altar flame 
 
 Of Spartan love hath grown; 
 Which, e'en with life,' defends the state, 
 Nor deems such sacrifice too great. 
 
 Cursed the hand, to which again 
 
 Shall leap the treacherous sword! 
 
 Palsied the tongue, from which amain 
 Shall spring sedition's word! 
 
 Land of the brave! from every ill, 
 
 God help and keep and guide thee still! 
 
 IN THE ORANGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 A SOI. 1)1 KR S BURIAL. 
 
 <TT CHEERFUL winter's sun that day shone all the hills 
 
 jL around, 
 
 And did its best to brighten e'en the dim old burying ground, 
 
 Where brooding silence reigned supreme, save slowly as out- 
 rang 
 
 The belfry bell, or 'mong the pines the hollow March winds 
 sang. 
 
 Around me ranged the village dead, with many a line that told 
 Of worthy life, of peaceful end the hopes of young and old. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 79 
 
 Beside a freshly opened grave for some new-comer made, 
 A sexton stood, with bended head, and leaning on his spade, 
 
 Of whom I questioned of the dead, and who this answer gave, 
 " A soldier hath been mustered out the bravest of the brave." 
 
 Back ran my thoughts to those great days when, sounding 
 
 near and far, 
 Went forth the stirring cry for men to rally for the war ! 
 
 When kinsman against kinsman stood embattled on the plain, 
 And armies wheeled, where lately trod, but harvesters of grain! 
 
 But little had we known of war. Life ? 'Twas a sacred thing; 
 Death ? Of a right, what human hand such destiny could 
 swing ? 
 
 The clouds went gath'ring deep and dark. An hundred dead 
 
 or so 
 Were noted and forgotten in the next great crowning woe. 
 
 Men left their homes, shut up their shops, raked down their 
 
 furnace grates, 
 And fought until secession bowed, submissive, at their gates. 
 
 II. 
 
 Methinks, too oft, in careless way, we speak or think of him, 
 That in defence of commonweal, thus periled life and limb ! 
 
 Yet, how should one that never drew the sabre from its sheath, 
 Or heard the whirling minnie's " ping," or took the cannon's 
 breath, 
 
 Know what it was to sleep or wake by noxious breezes fanned ? 
 To march with torn and bleeding feet with death on every 
 hand ? 
 
 To rot in prisons, or, perhaps, by battle fortunes spared, 
 To end the march upon a crutch infirm and silver haired ? 
 
 All this came freshly to the mind, as with slow martial tread, 
 Up through the aisles the veterans came, and with their latest 
 dead 
 
8o PATRIOTIC. 
 
 A gallant lad when days were dark, that heard the rallying 
 
 cry 
 On Oxford hills, and heart aflame, went forth to do or die. 
 
 Where might a veteran cheek grow pale, firm at the front he 
 
 stood, 
 With mother's kiss yet fresh and warm, baptized with fire and 
 
 blood. 
 
 Day after day where duty led, with brave though 'prentice 
 
 hand, 
 He fought the fight and kept the faith for God and fatherland. 
 
 III. 
 
 Years roll away. 'Neath brighter skies hope spreads alluring 
 
 wing; 
 Fresh joys, each brighter than the last, the changeful seasons 
 
 bring. 
 
 One fateful day, a poisoned shaft sped from the archer's bow, 
 And he that braved the battle death was laid in silence low. 
 
 To fold his tent no moment his, or for a last farewell; 
 Face to the front, in marching line, upon the track he fell. 
 
 Nor wife, nor child, could him recall, or stay his upward flight; 
 So in the dust, all that was dust was buried from their sight. 
 
 The veterans gathered round his grave, the last sad rites were 
 
 said, 
 And from their ranks one more had joined the " bivouac of 
 
 the dead." 
 
 The sexton heaped the loving earth with many a sorrowing 
 
 tear, 
 And wrote what prouder could he write " A soldier lieth 
 
 here." 
 
PATRIOTIC. 8 1 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH OF DIXIE. 
 
 READ ON A MEMORIAL DAY OCCASION. 
 I. 
 
 COME to our re-union, said your committee's letter; 
 Had it only added " Comrade," 'twould have sounded 
 
 much the better, 
 For I always "chum" the soldier; though to martial deeds a 
 
 stranger, 
 I like to share his glory, where there isn't any danger. 
 
 I know it is the custom, when old comrades come together, 
 To talk of haps and mishaps, as well as of the weather; 
 By the help, sometimes, it may be, of a rich imagination, 
 To recount of deeds of valor in some daring situation. 
 
 But the truth is, that our stories are just a little u mix " y, 
 Of. the stirring scenes of camp-life on this northern side of 
 
 Dixie. 
 
 For, if e'er a foolish chicken paid the rental of its roosting, 
 It was never thought a subject for very much of boasting. 
 
 For, you see, among our people there was prevalent a feeling, 
 That to " forage " on a hencoop was equivalent to stealing. 
 On the other side of Dixie, 'a porker or a chicken 
 Was "contraband of war" just the moment it was taken. 
 
 The same was true of fences; for the chicken, if you took it, 
 By necessity demanded that you have a fire to cook it; 
 Besides, by your commission, in very many senses, 
 Each soldier was a chairman of commission on de-fences. 
 
 Yet despite such easy ruling, it was found in many cases, 
 That the question was prolific of some rapid change of 
 bases 
 
 And some very tight-ish places! 
 
 Unless, offended justice, in whose presence you were taken, 
 Was blinded for the moment by a slice or two of bacon. 
 
82 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 'Course, we rather liked the notion of a big N to the Nation;: 
 But we couldn't all go southward, for there wasn't trans- 
 portation; 
 
 Besides,. to bite the cartridge, we were lacking the incisors, 
 Or were otherwise disabled yet were excellent advisers. 
 
 So we fell back on the mountains, while your battles were 
 
 progressing, 
 Backing up both sides of Dixie with our prayers and with our 
 
 blessing; 
 That you should not e'er be lacking certain comforts of the 
 
 body, 
 We kept our mills a-running to furnish you with shoddy. 
 
 Even, lest from over-eating, should your usefulness be 
 
 dwindled, 
 
 In the matter of your rations, it is even said we swindled (!) 
 In that we wormed the crackers and aromatized the bull! 
 But we knew you couldn't battle with your bellies over full. 
 
 When Uncle Abe grew angry and talked of our conscription, 
 A substitute we purchased of some nondescript description, 
 Or with northward turning faces, to Victoria's dominions, 
 We went off upon our "muscle " in defence of our opinions. 
 
 Yet we never meant desertion; whatsoever did betide you, 
 With an eye upon your movements, we might soon have stood 
 
 beside you, 
 As some other fellows promised, through their crockadilian 
 
 tears, 
 In that famous "Testimonials to our Derby Volunteers." 
 
 But, in fact, when all was ready for our movement, as 
 
 intended, 
 Flashing northward came the echo that the bloody war was 
 
 ended ! 
 
 So we hastened back to offer you our best congratulations, 
 And restore the ancient status of our family relations. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 83 
 
 II. 
 
 You have done the state some service; that I think will be 
 
 conceded, 
 Though you struck a little harder than, perhaps, occasion 
 
 needed: 
 
 For to us, in the safe distance, you did seem to be forgetting 
 To be careful, down in Dixie, of the head that you were 
 
 hitting. 
 
 For you never fired your bullets by the "doctrine of 
 selection! " 
 
 Whosoever stood before them, was a subject for dissection. 
 
 But the by-gones should be by-gones; things like these are too 
 unpleasant, 
 
 To be springing from the darkness of the past into the 
 present. 
 
 There is much to be forgiven; we are willing to forgive it 
 
 There is something for out-living, and we hope thatjw/7/ out- 
 live it! 
 
 There is nothing small about us; what we ask is but a trifle; 
 Only this, that we may govern by the shot gun or the rifle; 
 To stand behind the poll box with a hand upon the trigger, 
 To preserve the proper status of the blank infernal nigger. 
 
 Pur-inciples! pur-inciples! can never go astray! 
 
 " That which Lee and Jackson fought for, we are fighting for 
 
 to-day," 
 
 As we storm old Castle William, and a gallant Union name 
 " Surrenders at discretion " or without it all the same. 
 
 We didn't like to take him as our " Moses," it is true, 
 
 But in our forlorn condition what the d 1 could we do ? 
 
 There was Tilden; but with Kelly and those terrible "dis- 
 patches," 
 
 He would "cypher" up at 'lection mor'n an hundred thousand 
 scratches. 
 
84 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 There was Hendricks there was English; but the "English 
 
 of it " was, 
 
 That we'd got to have a leader that was loyal to the cause- 
 That the loyal people went for, or our little game was 
 
 " played; " 
 So we marched on Castle William, and our candidate we 
 
 made: 
 
 A chap that we'd been swearing was a robber and a thief! 
 A " satrap," and a " minion " of murderers the chief! 
 It seems a little curious to be training under him, 
 But necessity's a tyrant, with a visage very grim. 
 
 Yet, suppose, my fellow mourners, suppos'n he's elected, 
 
 (A thing in knowing circles that isn't much expected), 
 
 Don't: you think that 'round the White House loyal colors will 
 
 be few ? 
 And that Hancock, to be easy, will be putting off the blue ? 
 
 (You bet!) and he will lead us into fat and easy places, 
 (Or we'll be leading him when we get him in the traces;) 
 And we'll take our seats at table, where without a moment's 
 
 pause 
 The fattest bovine infant we will make a thing that was. 
 
 " Can he run our southern party this blue bellied Union 
 
 Yankee ?" 
 From the Toombs comes back the answer (jubilante) " No, I 
 
 thankee! " 
 With our ports and custom houses, fifty thousand safe in 
 
 hand, 
 We ourselves will do the "running" to the tune of Dixie 
 
 land! 
 
 But hold ! I'm leaking secrets party secrets, too, at that; 
 E'en like Toombs and brother Hampton, I've been kicking 
 o'er the fat: 
 
PATRIOTIC. 85 
 
 " Didn't say it! didn't say it! " it is all a Tribune lie! 
 Breathe it not though, down in Dixie, that our prophets we 
 deny. 
 
 "Aint we goin' to do the fair thing? " Mister Toombs, that's 
 
 understood! 
 Stop hurrahing, ask no questions, we ain't half way through 
 
 the wood! 
 If you can't use more discretion better shut your hungry 
 
 mouth, 
 Or a solid North we'll bet on as "agin " a solid South. 
 
 III. 
 
 Soldiers, friends, if I have drifted into something out of 
 
 tense, 
 
 If I've been a bit sarcastic on the fellows "in the fence," 
 It is not that I would question the integrity of men 
 That may chance with me to differ, north of Dixie, now and 
 
 then. 
 
 It is not that e'en the rebel hath done more or. worse than I 
 Might have done in his position, down beneath a rebel sky; 
 Right or Wrong are names that color, by the accident of 
 
 birth- 
 By the light that shines upon us by the rounding of the 
 
 earth. 
 
 But the law of self-protection gives the right to every man 
 Aye, the duty, as he sees it to strike the best he can. 
 Since upon the South plantations opened wide the negro pen, 
 With the "whirling of the mill stone," things have changed, but 
 not the men. 
 
 Afric still upon the willows hangs her harp, without a string; 
 Still the hands of haughty masters, would the bloody lashes 
 
 swing; 
 Is it safe ? Can we afford it ? These are questions of the 
 
 hour; 
 Northern men, can you afford it for the sake of party power ? 
 
86 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 " Hold the fort" the slogan soundeth! lo, the battle is at 
 
 hand; 
 Northern men, and you the victors! shall the ballot rule the 
 
 land ? 
 
 Honest voting, honest counting! for the honor of the free, 
 These must triumph or go under; which, I pray you, shall it 
 
 be? 
 
 You that wore the Union armor in the day of noble souls, 
 With your honors thick upon you, can \ve trust you at the 
 
 polls' 
 
 Aye, indeed, there's little danger that the blue above the gray, 
 With the bait "Superb" can trap you, into treason's narrow 
 
 way. 
 
 Only get the matter clearly, trace its workings to the end, 
 And for which you paid so dearly that you surely will defend. 
 
 God preserve us through this danger, give us men that will be 
 
 heard, 
 For the Right in Hall or Manger through the flesh or by the 
 
 Word; 
 
 Men too proud to lie for party; men too just to e'er iJefainc ; 
 Men to face the Wrong, whatever its connection or its name. 
 And although we may not see it, yet may as the years descend, 
 Th' stones keep on their grinding truth and justice to the end. 
 
 God protect us through all danger, make our Nation yet as 
 
 one; 
 
 One in purpose one in action, till the peace the bullet won, 
 Over all our broad dominions, shall its snowy wings expand 
 East and \Vest and North and Southward, even to the Dixie 
 
 land. 
 
 God preserve us and protect us! with the ballot give us still 
 Grace to take, and power to hold it, as against all threatened 
 
 ill. 
 
 Who is wrong let him be righted, who is right let him he true, 
 And firm, to back the glory of the dear old boys in blue. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 87 
 
 Whom, may God sustain and keep them in the land they 
 
 fought to save, 
 Till far hence the grateful \vreathlet falls upon an honored 
 
 grave; 
 
 Till the evening tattoo endeth with the morning reveille, 
 And the (kites of (loci resoundeth to the anthems of the free! 
 
 FOR MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 \\ \i,i.K<,oky. 
 
 1 STOOD one day by a sounding shore, 
 Where the dashing waves came in from sea. 
 When a dark-winged bird came sailing o'er, 
 And this was the song that he sang to me: 
 " Ever, forever, there is nothing more ! 
 Death is a sea with no father shore." 
 
 " But tell me, thou bird of the raven wing, 
 Tell me," I said, " is there not a goal 
 
 In the realms beyond, from whence to bring 
 Some word of hope for the yearning soul ?" 
 
 But he answered me back, " There is nothing more; 
 
 Death is a sea with no farther shore." 
 
 " It is false, thou bird " it was thus, I said 
 " Else who are these that have traveled back, 
 
 Though in shadowy form that were left for dead 
 On the trampled field, in their gory track ? 
 
 The dead, yet living, who cannot die, 
 
 Or my faith hath told me a pitiful lie." 
 
 " It may be true, but I cannot tell," 
 For so did the bird make answering; 
 
 ," There may be realms where the risen dwell, 
 Unreached, as yet, by my sweeping wing; 
 
 I will search again in the realms around, 
 
 And will come and tell thee if aught be found." 
 
88 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 The bird came back, but his raven wings 
 
 Had changed to snow, while his face outshone 
 
 As he told a tale of the beautiful things 
 
 That were over beyond where the sun goes down 
 
 Of the hosts of the loving and living there, 
 
 That shone as the sun in the morning air. 
 
 And thus to the bird did I give command: 
 
 "Tell me of all those shining ones 
 Who dwell in the midst of that beautiful land, 
 
 Who, of the King, are the favorite sons 
 W T orthy the prize that have counted been ?" 
 And he answered, " The men that have died for men; 
 
 That have bared the breast to the foeman's steel, 
 That have borne the march and the hunger pang, 
 
 Till was trodden oppression beneath the heel, 
 And the bells of freedom their paeans rang; 
 
 Till the chain was broken and all were free, 
 
 'Neath the banner of stars, from sea to sea." 
 
 " But tell me," I said, " do they e'er return 
 
 From their homes of peace on those distant shores, 
 
 With message of hope for those that mourn ? 
 
 Do they gather about us these friends of ours ?" 
 
 And my heart beat quick lest he tell me nay, 
 
 And the joy of my years should be swept away. 
 
 Hut the bird looked up with so glad a mien 
 
 That my soul was thrilled ere he spoke a word; 
 
 And he said that " Forever around the seen 
 Was the great unseen, and the great unheard; 
 
 Yet seen and heard, by whose eye and ear 
 
 Should strive, in the darkness, to see and hear." 
 
 I looked, and a host of the battle slain 
 
 Came through the smoke that had hid from view, 
 
 And a song that I heard was a glad refrain 
 That told of the men that had worn the blue; 
 
PATRIOTIC. 89 
 
 That, for the right, had the battle braved; 
 The dead, yet living ! The saviors saved ! 
 
 And thus it was said, " Though the bronze decays 
 As a flower succumbs to the autumn rime, 
 
 Yet heroes live through the whirling days 
 That come and go, to the end of time; 
 
 In deeds accomplished to human good, 
 
 For God, for truth, and for brotherhood." 
 
 THE DAY AND ITS LESSONS. 
 
 'WRITTEN BY RKcjTEST OK KKI.I.OGG ]'( >ST, No. 26, <;. A. R., AND READ 
 
 IN CONNK.CTION WITH TIIK CEREMONIES OK DECORATION. DAY, AT 
 
 BIRMINGHAM, CONN., MAY 30, l8yi. 
 
 0NCE more our feet the winding pathways tread, 
 Through this pale city of the silent dead: 
 Whose marble doors are closed alike on all, 
 Who come from cottage, or from palace hall; 
 Whose roofs, grown green beneath the vernal showers, 
 We thatch, to-day, with living, loving, flowers; 
 Whose shafts memorial, lifting up on high 
 Their chiseled fingers to the bending sky, 
 With tongueless eloquence each deed proclaims, 
 Of these, our heroes, and embalm their names. 
 
 Once more we come, the oft-told tale to tell, 
 
 How these men died, how bravely and how well; 
 
 How Russell heard, when Sumpter's thunder woke 
 
 The northern echoes, and at Roanoke, 
 
 How he hauled down what treason's hand up-ran, 
 
 And sealed with blood his legacy to man. 
 
 How Kellogg, brave, and Hotchkiss, good and true, 
 
 And Lee and Barker, donned the nation's blue, 
 
 And with a host of other names as fair, 
 
 Sent howling back Secession to its lair. 
 
90 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 Aye, tell the tale again, and yet again, 
 
 'Twill ne'er grow old while memories remain, 
 
 Of those dark years, when hideous Slavery's thong 
 
 Bound boasted freemen to the car of wrong; 
 
 While we, poor souls, that joined the hounding pack, 
 
 And, quoting Paul, did send the bondsman back 
 
 To unpaid labor, neath the oppressor's rod, 
 
 In Israel learned that there was yet a God, 
 
 Whose 'venging hand the stripes could full repay, 
 
 From freedom's door who turned his child away. 
 
 O Watchman, standing in the dawnlight gray, 
 If night be passed, tell us what of the day ? 
 Have men learned wisdom from the fulfilled word, 
 " Who takes the sword, shall perish by the sword ?" 
 Out from the lurid flame and crash of war, 
 Pluck we the flow'r of peace ? and, shall our star 
 Of Empire shine undimmed forevermore, 
 By fratricidal strife ? From shore to shore, 
 Shall narrow caste and prejudice of race 
 To human love and brotherhood give place ? 
 
 Behold, a vision ! On this, fair freedom's soil, 
 Goes the scarred bondmen to his unpaid toil; 
 Friendless and homeless, hopeless and forlorn, 
 His anguished cry a nation laughs to scorn; 
 While burlesqued justice, in her ermine decked, 
 His right denies to brother man's respect; 
 His wife, his child, himself but merchandise, 
 Nothing his own beneath the azure skies. 
 
 The years roll on. An old man hears the cry 
 Of struggling weakness, and his pikemen fly- 
 To break the oppressor's rod. E'en their small tread, 
 Pales guilty southland with foreboding dread. 
 A wounded pris'ner in a dungeon lies, 
 A gibbet rises and a martyr dies. 
 God's wheels roll on. Where John Brown's pikemen trod. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 91 
 
 A million foemen drench the gory sod, 
 And torch and flame amid the clash and din, 
 Burn out the blackness of a nation' sin. 
 
 Again the scene is changed. The war cloud lifts, 
 And trem'bling down between the opening rifts, 
 Come gladsome rays of industry and peace; 
 The scarred earth yields, once more, her fair increase 
 To sturdy arms, that for the peaceful spade, 
 Throw down the musket and the gleaming blade. 
 The dusky toiler, at the free man's door, 
 Casts off the shackles which the vassal wore; 
 And standing forth beneath the skies erect, 
 Asserts his manhood, and compels respect. 
 
 And e'en though scourged to destitution's door, 
 
 The master's self is richer than before; 
 
 For though he dine upon a scantier bone, 
 
 1 1 is labor earned it, and it is his own. 
 
 From aimless ease his tardy footsteps go, 
 
 To learn at length man's business is to grow, 
 
 As grows the germ which from the acorn springs, 
 
 And reaches on tow'rd higher, better things. 
 
 THE NEW DIXIE. 
 
 i. 
 
 TITHE sword of our fathers had gone to rust, 
 L Or had turned to the reaper's bkide; 
 The plume of the soldier was out of date, 
 
 As the mark of an ancient trade; 
 The sound of the loom and the hammers' blow 
 
 In the workshop, and in the mill, 
 With the song of the ploughman, was heard afar 
 
 In the valley, and on the hill; 
 
92 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 The skies above us were calm and clear; 
 
 The prosp'ring sun ran high; 
 When out of the south in a moment's time 
 
 A tempest o'erspread the sky; 
 The click of the hasty lock was heard 
 
 On the door of the shop and mill, 
 And the ploughman took lessons in battle craft 
 
 By th' light of the midnight drill. 
 
 The polishe'd blade of the plough was left 
 
 To rust in the earth beneath, 
 And the sickle again was a reaping hook 
 
 In the hand of the reaper death. 
 The tempest came with its whirling breath, 
 
 And its armies of mighty tread, 
 To leave, at last, in its wasted track, 
 
 An hundred thousand dead. 
 ****** :> 
 
 A sword, a sash, and a soldier's coat, 
 
 Is hung on the cottage wall, 
 With a manly face in a golden frame, 
 
 And a banner enwreathing all; 
 The banner is tattered and battle worn, 
 
 But its union hath all the stars; 
 And the captain's coat hath a bullet mark 
 
 ]ust under the shoulder bars. 
 
 I read in the record, " He bore the flag 
 
 In the teeth of a fiery hell; 
 And his sword was grasped in his cold right hand, 
 
 In the morning, where he fell." 
 Swift, over the wires, a reinless steed 
 
 A message of sorrow bore, 
 That tied with a never dissolving knot, 
 
 The crape on the cottage door. 
 ****** ] 
 
 Forgiveness ? Yes, tis a kindly grace; 
 
 If God can forgive the crew, 
 
PATRIOTIC. 93 
 
 That drove the hearse to the Nation's door, 
 
 We ought to forgive them, too; 
 But what if, while making the welcome feast, 
 
 At our gate the prodigal pause, 
 To flaunt in our faces the tattered rag 
 
 Of his " lost " disunion " cause ? " 
 
 And where shall concession draw the line, 
 
 And justice assert her right ? 
 And shall we preserve at any cost, 
 
 The victories of the fight ? 
 I said that my brother had wiser grown 
 
 Since the morning that Sumpter burned; 
 And I hastened to level each grassy mound 
 
 Where memories lay inurned. 
 
 I said it shall be as it had not been! 
 
 I will wipe every tear away, 
 And I'll sit me down in the joyful hope 
 
 Of a brighter and better day. 
 
 But I spake in haste 'twas too early yet; 
 
 With the heat of the Southern clime, 
 What wonder, indeed, that it only yield, 
 
 To the cooling hand of time ? 
 So many were they that could not see, 
 
 For anger is ever blind 
 Th' ambitious hand, that the peace of years 
 
 To the furnace blast consigned; 
 
 To scorch and burn until homes were not, 
 
 And estates were swept away! 
 And the realm of hope was a bygone thing, 
 
 If men could have had their way ! 
 But destiny held us together well; 
 
 Somewhere in the upper sky, 
 Was a hand that guided our broken helm, 
 
 Till the whirling storm went by: 
 
94 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 And the dove returned with the olive branch, 
 
 That told of a solid shore, 
 Where might rest the ark upon higher ground 
 
 Than ever it knew before. 
 For destiny knoweth no backward step; 
 
 E'en through a sea of blood, 
 The child up climbs to a higher plane, 
 
 Than that where the father stood. 
 # # * * * * * 
 
 Though fierce the fires of the chemist, death, 
 
 Shall we count all struggle lost? 
 The gold that remains in the crucible, 
 
 \Vould we barter for what it cost ? 
 
 Swift on the wings of the morning speed 
 To 'the heights of our summer land, 
 
 And on some " Lookout " of battle note, 
 For a moment take your stand: 
 
 See! down in the smiling vale below, 
 
 The gifts of the fruitful soil 
 Respond to the not unwilling blow 
 
 Of the self-paid son of toil, 
 
 Imperilled, for aye, by lash or block, 
 
 Or fangs of the cruel hound, 
 While nestling under some shadowy rock, 
 
 Is the home of contentment found. 
 With the ripple of waters, that turn the wheel, 
 
 And the whirr of the spindles play, 
 Comes the clank of the hammer that moulds the steel 
 
 To the needs of a newer day: 
 
 The loom comes down from its northern slope, 
 To the plains of the waiting South, 
 
 To sing the song of a child of hope, 
 
 That was born at the cannon's mouth. 
 
 For men may sow to the tempest's breath, 
 But the seed in its wayward fall, 
 
PATRIOTIC. 95 
 
 Is quickened to fruitage, th' soil beneath, 
 By the hand that is over all. 
 
 And if, with the harvest, shall come, O South, 
 
 Whatever the seed time cost, 
 The fruits of a larger and better growth, 
 
 Thy "cause" hath been never "lost; " 
 Though knowing not to what end he fought, 
 
 No hero hath died in vain, 
 That helped to figure man's. problem out, 
 
 On the slate of thy battle plain. 
 
 Fling open the blinds! let the sunlight in! 
 
 Let the incense of freedom rise; 
 Let the patriot song of " Our Union " ring 
 
 To the dome of our azure skies ! 
 
 And our eagle shall rise upon splendid wing 
 
 To the realm of unclouded sun, 
 While an hundred millions the anthem sing 
 
 Of an hundred states in one. 
 ( 
 
 But you tell me "nay, 'tis a dreamer's dream," 
 
 And you echo the doubter's cry, 
 Of "smouldering embers," and "latent flame" 
 
 Of a treasure that will not die; 
 That lurks on the flank of outgoing years, 
 
 To chew o'er the cud of its sin; 
 That bows to its idols, or sits in tears 
 
 For the battles it could not win ! 
 
 But what if the beaten gods do swarm, 
 
 In the depths of some hidden cave ? 
 
 Or it secession in spectral form, 
 . Break out of its sodden grave ? 
 
 It is but as the smoke of the battle fray; 
 The wreck of some bubble burst; 
 
 Or the harmless thunder that howls away, 
 
 When the lightnings have done their worst. 
 
06 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 As our nation stood around Garfield's bed, 
 
 On that pitiless summer's day, 
 By the tears that fell, or the words that were said, 
 
 Could you tell me the blue or gray ? 
 Some heads had erred in the angry strife, 
 
 But a moment had buried all 
 In a common grief; while a newer life, 
 
 Was born with the ruffian's ball. 
 
 THANKSGIVING FOR VICTORY. 
 
 GOD of our fathers, low 
 Before Thy throne we bow, 
 
 With thanks to Thee: 
 For this, our country dear, 
 That Thou our prayer did'st hear, 
 And did'st her standard bear 
 
 To victory. 
 
 On southern plains afar, 
 Above the din of war 
 
 The sound goes forth; 
 The swarthy millions hear 
 These words of lofty cheer, 
 And welcome their new year 
 
 Of Freedom's birth. 
 
 From eastern mountain side, 
 From western prairie wide, 
 
 From sea to sea; 
 Let this glad song arise 
 Up to the bending skies, 
 Truth lives and error dies, 
 
 WE'RE FREE, WE'RE FREE! 
 
PATRIOTIC. 97 
 
 Columbia, thy domain, 
 From slavery's hated chain 
 
 Shall now be free; 
 And MAN shall stand upright, 
 Beneath the broad sunlight, 
 A freeman, in his might, 
 
 Though black or white. 
 
 God of our fathers, low 
 Before Thy throne we bow 
 
 With praise to Thee; 
 That Thou our prayer did'st hear 
 For this our country dear; 
 Vouchsafe her flag to bear 
 
 "A thousand years." 
 
 DON'T FORGET THEM. 
 
 Do not forget them. The summer is due; 
 The roses are tardy; the lilies are few; 
 And yet in the woodlands, and yet in the bowers, 
 Somewhere, I know, there are beautiful flowers. 
 
 Do not forget them wherever they sleep, 
 With earth for a pillow in silence so deep ! 
 What though the flowrets be many or few ? 
 Twine, as ye can, for the men of the blue. 
 
 Do not forget them, though, over their bier, 
 We give to them only the meed of a tear; 
 Give them remembrance as men that were true; 
 This, at the least, to the soldier is due. 
 
 If we forget them ah ! what if we do ? 
 Losers are they, then, these soldiers of blue ? 
 Nay: for I say to you, friend in a word 
 Losers are they that have duty deferred. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 
 
 MY FATHER'S FLAG AND YOURS. 
 
 READ AT THE DEDICATION OK THE SOLDIERS* MONUMENT IN BIRMINGHAM. 
 
 I STOOD beneath a southern sky, and on a mountain's brow; 
 A troubled cloud lay like a pall, enshrouding all below, 
 From which a sound of thunder told of evils dire concealed 
 Beneath its folds; some destiny of darkness unrevealed. 
 
 1 looked again; the cloud was gone, while, speeding from the 
 
 vale, 
 
 Upon a shadowy steed, and white, I saw a rider pale; 
 And, as he rode, ten thousand graves uplifted from the sod 
 Of trampled field, and bloody plain, where late the foemen 
 
 trod. 
 
 I heard the clank of falling chains forever silent now; 
 I saw the crown of manhood placed upon the ebon brow, 
 And then, from every tower and staff, along our southern 
 
 shores, 
 Unquestioned swung our starry flag my father's flag and 
 
 yours. 
 
 Through northern streets again was heard the loud trium- 
 phant drum, 
 
 As, with his tattered battle flag, came "Johnny" marching 
 home 
 
 With trophies earned through toilsome years or stripe or 
 shoulder bars; 
 
 To tell, beside the crowning hearth, his story of the wars: 
 
 E'en to rehearse how haughty sons of fair Car'lina's shore, 
 Had learned of " chivalries " that spurn oppression from their 
 
 door; 
 How had been taught the head to bow, wherever on our 
 
 shores 
 Swings from the mast yon starry flag my father's flag and 
 
 yours. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 
 
 99 
 
 Upon this block, to-day unveiled to loving fame enshrined, 
 The names of half forgotten men on glory's list we find. 
 "Forgotten ?" Aye; yet, only as the tree forgets the blow: 
 The surface heals, yet evermore is found the scar below. 
 
 
 
 E'en by faith's sharper, closer sight, between each line is read 
 
 Of these still marching ranks to join the ' k bivouac " of the 
 dead; 
 
 Where tenting out on heavenly plains, through life's long end- 
 less day, 
 
 With crossing palm to friendship true, shall meet the blue and 
 gray. 
 
 Heroic men ! Before this shrine with bowed, uncovered head, 
 The patriarchs of all coming time, with reverent feet shall 
 
 tread 
 To point thy deathless names, and oft with Spartan fondness 
 
 tell, 
 How for the right, as 'twas revealed, we battled, and how well. 
 
 Heroic men ! Till yonder bronze shall melt and pass away; 
 Until the soft'ning granite e'en shall crumble to decay; 
 Until, indeed, Old Time forgets the winding of his clock, 
 Like him who stands transfigured on yon proud uplifting 
 rock 
 
 So may our blood-bought union stand upon the rock sublime 
 Of truth, and righteousness and peace, throughout all coining 
 
 time: 
 
 That, looking down from glory heights, forever ye may know 
 That was not lost your sacrifice for native land below. 
 
 What sought the north in Dixie land ? Why tempted men the 
 
 grave ? 
 
 Was it, alone, that they might break the shackles of the slave ? 
 This came at last, in God's good time, yet at disunion's door, 
 The great boon sought was that their arms the Union might 
 
 restore. 
 
100 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 They heard the sounding story of old Sumpter's gallant crew, 
 And throwing down th' accustomed spade, the plucky sword 
 
 they drew, 
 
 And hurling back defiance to secession in its lair, 
 They fought and prayed, and with their guns did answer back 
 
 the prayer. 
 
 What if, sometimes, the John Brown "soul" within their 
 
 breasts repined ? 
 With steady front yet " marching on " was left their homes 
 
 behind, 
 
 Unquestioning the future or the path that it must tread: 
 Enough to hear God's bugle call and follow where it led. 
 
 And were they then fanatics ? What if we call them so ? 
 "Fanatics " are the men that lead this human world below: 
 Forevermore, for conscience sake, they tread some Plymouth 
 
 Rock, 
 Or feed the flame, or swing the beam, or cross the crimson 
 
 block. 
 
 " Fanatic " and " heretic " were the words the viper hissed, 
 When the foot of human progress trod upon its slimy nest. 
 " Heretic " to the dogmas by the fathers handed down: 
 " Fanatic " in the holding that a man should be his own ! 
 
 Where Garrison and Phillips stood, to-day the nation stands 
 Thanks to the cannon and the sword with freedom in its 
 
 hands, 
 
 Forgetful and forgiving e'en to all upon our shores 
 Who dared to trail in slav'ry's mire, my father's flag and 
 
 yours. 
 
 Yes; 'twas a costly victory. But who shall count the cost, 
 When measured by the glories that so nearly we had lost ? 
 Shall we not, then, whose eyes have seen what was to them 
 
 denied, 
 Who for the sake of freedom's cause, went down beneath the 
 
 tide 
 
PATRIOTIC. TOI 
 
 That surged and broke from cliff to cliff on southern shores 
 
 away, 
 Shall not we lift our grateful thanks for this our glad to-day? 
 
 i 
 
 Thanks that free thought untrammeled speech if willing 
 
 men, or no, 
 Goes on with strong resistless wave, like some great river's 
 
 flow- 
 That sweeps away the sunken wreck and spreading o'er the 
 
 plain, 
 Leaves as its boon still richer soil to feed the summer grain. 
 
 Thanks for these gallant cavaliers, that trod the earth and bold r 
 With sword in hand arid shouldered arm, till tyrannies of old 
 Were counted as the things that were; and, marching to the 
 
 sea, 
 The clank of falling chains kept time to the song-burst of the 
 
 free. 
 
 And yet how great was found the task of tearing down the 
 
 old 
 
 To build the new, a million graves their tearful tales unfold. 
 Since, in their blood our heroes laid for us the corner-stone, 
 Let it be ours to hew the walls to models of our own; 
 
 To build to true forgetfulness of color, race, and clan: 
 Of all that, in the past, hath set the man against the man, 
 So, north and south, from sea to sea, assurance shall be ours 
 That hence, forevermore shall float my father's flag and yours. 
 
 Misleader of the bravest brave that ever trod the stage, 
 
 Go stand aside from human view, that, e'en from memory's 
 
 page, 
 Be struck the name that but recalls those bitterest, darkest 
 
 years, 
 Which bound the crape upon our doors, and bathed our land 
 
 in tears. 
 
IO2 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 Or. better: stretch thy guilty hand across the bloody line, 
 And swear to nevermore desert your father's flag, and mine: 
 E'en bending down beneath that full repentance that restores, 
 Forgiveness ask before the shrine of your great dead, and ours. 
 
 What though with ghoulish hand ye stirred the embers of the 
 
 past, 
 
 Invoking e'en the withering flame, of war's red furnace blast ? 
 As well to turn yon dial hand upon a backward way, 
 And hope to keep the pulse of time from marking off the day. 
 
 The train moves on, from age to age ! their corses, cold and 
 
 black, 
 The men that block progression's way, lie thick along the 
 
 track. 
 Howe'er is pressed our puny " break," the great swift wheels 
 
 go on, 
 And up the steep ascent of time toward the eternal noon. 
 
 Who shapes the end by men rough hewn, securely sits the 
 
 throne, 
 
 Though discontent may swagger till its fields are oversown 
 With weeds of shiftless husbandry, and o'er its cities tall, 
 Grim desolation's hand may fling oblivion's dusty pall. 
 
 There comes a time, O fallen chief, when, where the chattel 
 
 trod 
 
 Before thy lash, shall yet be found the victories of God: 
 In altars raised to thankfulness on all thy sunny shores, 
 That treason failed to tarnish e'en your father's flag and ours. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 103 
 
 COMPANY "Z." 
 
 OF THE HOME (JTARl), 1883. 
 
 PROUD to be hailed as comrade by this gallant fighting 
 corps, 
 I got your welcome summons, boys, and straightway to the 
 
 door 
 
 Brought up old war Pegassus, all accoutered, "cap-a-pie," 
 To charge upon these Cheshire hills with staunch old Company 
 "Z." 
 
 Sometimes you fellows that went in so fierce to the melee, 
 Because we held our head so dear, have sneered at Company 
 
 "Z." 
 
 But, boys, I'd rather here, to-day, partake of Cheshire bread, 
 Than to have lain these twenty years among the bravest dead, 
 That ever bivouacked with the worm in southern march or 
 
 fen, 
 Or stifled in the fetid air of Libby's prison pen. 
 
 " Glory ?" Oh, yes! See, on the height the red-mouthed rebel 
 
 gun! 
 At every flash, in writhing death, goes down some mother's 
 
 son; 
 
 Some husband, father, that hath left his memories behind, 
 Wife, children, friends for what but this ? to die for human 
 
 kind. 
 
 But what cares " humankind" for him? or for his deeds so 
 
 brave ? 
 By whom are cast the memory wreaths that freshen on his 
 
 grave ? 
 Not often by for whom he gave his heart's best blood and 
 
 warm, 
 But by who foughtfthe battle through, survivors of the storm. 
 
 Aye, take your laugh at Company " Z," but in your moments 
 cool, 
 
10_j. PATRIOTIC. 
 
 Say, if a thousand times, you did not vote yourself a fool 
 For turning back on happiness, to fight his battles through, 
 That would not lift a finger to befriend a " boy in blue." 
 
 Ah! could they but half comprehend the struggle that hath 
 
 been, 
 "Men were not found ungrateful, quite, to whom hath died for 
 
 men: 
 To read in cold black lettered line, how, struggling with the 
 
 tide, 
 Of fiendish strife, somewhere afar, an hundred men have 
 
 died: 
 
 Mangled, and torn, and trampled 'neath the charging squad- 
 ron's hoof, 
 
 Was but " an incident of war," save to some cottage roof, 
 
 When came, with crushing weight', the news that Private 
 Brown, or Jones, 
 
 Upon some far off battle sod had left his whitened bones. 
 
 God ruleth justly, well, we say; yet do the sparrows fall, 
 While strengthens He the vulture's wing above the forests 
 
 tall? 
 
 Was not the Chaplain used to say of Him that rules on high, 
 41 The soldier that shall ask the boon He'll send the bullet 
 
 by?" 
 
 But, did'nt you see, an hundred times, the praying soldier 
 
 fall, 
 While some vile, bounty-jumping wretch went safely through it 
 
 all? 
 
 Death, somehow, always seemed to choose the best of any two! 
 I could not understand it then; I cannot now can you? 
 
 A single life, save to itself, is little after all: 
 
 The merest trifle in the scale of this terrestrial ball; 
 
 And whether hurrying to the front, or scurrying to the rear, 
 
 The diff 'rence we may scarcely note in that millennial" year, 
 
PATRIOTIC. IO5 
 
 When time hath" worked the problem out, perfecting from the 
 
 clod, 
 By fit survivals of the best, the ideal of a God. 
 
 So here among the Cheshire hills, 'neath this reunion tree, 
 I give, to all, the friendly grip of Mythic Company " Z," 
 Which, though it shirked the battle test, with rebel stripe and 
 
 bar, 
 Nor dipped its sword in human gore amid the clash of war, 
 
 Yet represents the mighty host, that followed, year by year, 
 The Union cause, with loyal soul, and backed it with a tear 
 That welled up from the pockets, till, triumphant in the wars, 
 Uprose, above secession's might, one flag with all the stars. 
 
OLD AND NEW. 
 
 READ AT MEETING OF PRESS REPORTERS, MERIDEN. 
 
 IN days of old, when Great Jehovah sat in state on " Awful 
 Throne," 
 Smiling on who sang his praises frowning at who gave him 
 
 none, 
 Fearing that their humblest serving might have, somehow, in 
 
 the past, 
 Proved without avail, our fathers organized a solemn fast. 
 
 Hoping thus by abstination for a time from meat and drink, 
 Better of his erring children so to make Jehovah think, 
 Though with sinful needs as many, yet (unlike our fathers)' 
 
 we 
 Keeping to the old observance, spell our fasting with an E. 
 
 Trusting, doubtless, all, and fully for the coming bye and 
 
 bye, 
 
 That howe'er our forms be battered, and our matter go to //',. 
 Yet, of time, will there be ample under some eternal roof, 
 Full to justify our pages and correct our every proof. 
 
 ******* 
 I have neverlought a battle with a bullet-loaded gun 
 Always thought that, had I done so, I had been the first to- 
 run; 
 
 Never have I played at football with the dynamite, nor e'en 
 Have I tried the rapid transit of the servants' kerosene. 
 
OCCASIONAL. 107 
 
 Yet that one is lacking courage, in this honored presence, 
 
 who 
 
 Dares the role of a spring poet, cannot be entirely true, 
 For than dynamite or bullet to the weaver of spring verse, 
 Reports from your exploding pencils might a thousand times 
 
 be worse. 
 
 Therefore is it all my asking, that you kindly hear me 
 
 through, 
 While I sing of God and Progress, of the old and of the 
 
 new. 
 
 Once a tree was stripped of branches down among its root- 
 lets dark, 
 
 Something rallying wondrous forces, pushing outward through 
 the bark: 
 
 Bursting buds as if for breathing moulding, by some mystic 
 power, 
 
 From the upward flowing juices, branch, and twig, and leaf, and 
 flower. 
 
 Though denounced as pantheistic, I shall say that God was 
 
 there, 
 God, as Life, as growth, or progress God whose throne is 
 
 everywhere; 
 Even He that leadeth nations through the waters, through the 
 
 mire, 
 Out of darkness, out of bondage, by the cloud and by the fire. 
 
 Outward from our cabin window looking tow'rd the setting 
 
 sun, 
 One might think the world without him bounded by the 
 
 horizon, 
 While, in fact, beyond the hilltops, and beneath some farther 
 
 sky, 
 Sunsets turned to morning splendor on the eastern summits lie. 
 
I08 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 Thus, among his temple builders, sat the princely Solomon, 
 In despairing words declaring, " Nothing new beneath the 
 
 sun ; " 
 While beyond his petty vision worlds of mighty truths, and 
 
 grand, 
 Unrevealed, and all about him, waited time's unveiling hand: 
 
 Waited for men's evolution for the talking of the wire, 
 
 For our types and printing presses, for the forge and for the 
 
 fire. 
 
 Never, in his wisest moment, could this kingly mortal tell, 
 Why to earth, and never skyward, was it that the apple fell. 
 
 Day and night came, and forever by the sun's diurnal round; 
 Earth was flat, and firmly anchored, right side up in the 
 
 profound, 
 
 While, unto his inner vision, only this, to him was true, 
 God was God, and all creation was created for the Jew. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Under time's eternal arches moves the great procession on; 
 Judah, captive 'mong the willows, sitteth down by Babylon. 
 Seasons pass, and months and ages; underneath the crescent's' 
 
 blaze, 
 Judah struggles with the Moslem and for Calvary she prays. 
 
 Then the flashing of the helmets of the long crusading 
 line, 
 
 Fired by hatred of the crescent, 'mong of the hills of Pales- 
 tine, 
 
 Bringeth down the age of sorrow to the Christian, as the 
 Jew 
 
 Drops the vail upon the old time lifts the curtain on the 
 new. 
 
 # # * * 
 
 Now behold the doughty pilgrim, and the wilderness pro- 
 found ! 
 
 Through the forest aisles and arches how his Sabbath bells- 
 resound ! 
 
OCCASIONAL. 109 
 
 Deep among the mighty shadows, groping blindly for the 
 
 true, 
 Fearing God, and hating tyrants, yet, himself, a tyrant too. 
 
 Steam, to him, gives no revealment of the wonders of its 
 
 power: 
 Kettles struggling with their forces are but kettles boiling 
 
 o'er: 
 Lightnings flash a proffered service, stretching forth a willing 
 
 hand, 
 But they speak, as in a language that are none to understand. 
 
 King of earth is brawny muscle. Science, brains, of little 
 
 worth, 
 
 By the side of spade and shovel for the tilling of the earth. 
 Only love hath lightened labor, woman is the needle's slave; 
 Never yet hath wheel of " Singer " sang a single labor stave. 
 
 Yet is here and there a whisper of some future glory found, 
 Here and there a head uplifting, waiting to be crowned. 
 Ever as they travel onward by their rugged way appears, 
 Something great in bud or blossom left to ripen with the 
 
 years. 
 * * * * 
 
 Pulpits do not all the preaching, have not all the gospels 
 
 quite, 
 Left to such, alone, forever hath remained earth's mental 
 
 night. 
 
 Back of all, upon the picture, plain is the line outdrawn, 
 Marking where our ancient craftsmen from the shadows woke 
 
 the dawn. 
 
 Guttenberg, or Faust ? What matter which the favorite of 
 
 fame ? 
 Over both, in some proportion, doubtless heav'ns afflatus 
 
 came. 
 
 Working out their mighty problem, with an energy sublime, 
 Lo! the carvers at their benches carving out the coming 
 
 time ! 
 
HO OCCASIONAL. 
 
 Crude the lettered blocks, and simple, yet is heard from age 
 
 to age 
 Hammer's blow that locked and bound them for the world's 
 
 first printed page. 
 Heard the blow that rudely shattered priestly shackle, kingly 
 
 chain, 
 Levelled up the grade of manhood, wrought the empire of the 
 
 brain. 
 
 Back returning to the present, what might these old craftsmen 
 
 think 
 
 Of a press, upon a morning, 'eating up a ton of ink ? 
 Some three hundred thousand papers, Sabbath morning to 
 
 beguile ! 
 For a single day's edition measuring paper by the mile ! 
 
 Proud although of past achievments, peering out into the 
 
 day, 
 Still the Present head uncovered standeth in the dawnlight 
 
 gray; 
 With its face turned never backward, but toward the over 
 
 blue, 
 " Neath the sun," or far beyond it, seeking yet for something 
 
 new. 
 
 Lo the cloud and fiery pillar! Canaan only just ahead! 
 
 Who shall prove a better leader than they that have already 
 
 led? 
 Than the men that are out-marshalled and in line upon the 
 
 plain, 
 Pen in hand and ready harnessed men of heart, and men of 
 
 brain ? 
 
 From the sunshine, from the shadows, from the highways and 
 
 the slums; 
 
 From where'er is raging battle, to the press reporter comes; 
 He has raked the social gutter for a bit or two of spice 
 That may suit the morning palate, if it be not over nice ! 
 
OCCASIONAL. Til 
 
 He has interviewed the parson with a deferential awe, 
 E'en, perhaps, has played detective in the interest of law; 
 He has studied human nature, but to find it very mean, 
 Where was meanness from appearance, least expected to be 
 
 seen: 
 While, perhaps, among the lowly handicapped from very 
 
 birth, 
 Has been found, indeed, the proudest and the bravest of the 
 
 earth. 
 
 In his hands the peace and welfare of the family is placed, 
 Though the men that by their follies have the innocent dis- 
 graced; 
 
 And he gets a malediction, or a blessing on his head, 
 By the words that must be spoken, or the words that are not 
 said. 
 
 So he gathers and he garners of the day and of the hour: 
 Sometimes welcomed, as he should be often frozen from the 
 
 door. 
 
 Out is thrown uncounted papers, pages of life's open book; 
 But who made it hides within it, as the river hides the brook. 
 
 So, companions, would I counsel that our future path be led, 
 Not as 'mong the glinting statues of some crypta of the dead, 
 But along the living present, with our banners all unfurled, 
 And our hand upon a lever that is moving on a world. 
 
 We are one yet are we many: one in mission, purpose, aim; 
 Many for the temples building; one to keep the altar flame. 
 Ours it is to pierce the cloister, letting in the light sublime; 
 As each broken sash reveals it, sweeping down the web and 
 grime; 
 
 Ours to keep the faith of ages, only as that shall be true, 
 Building broader, building higher, than our fathers ever knew; 
 Ours to lead emancipation from all tyranny of ills 
 From the bigotry that bindeth, and the ignorance that kills. 
 
H2 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 JUST TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 [THIS POEM WAS READ BY MR. STORRS AT THE CELEBRATION OF THE 
 TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS WEDDING.] 
 
 JUST twenty years ago, wife, 
 (How swiftly flows the tide,) 
 I promised true, for weal or woe, 
 
 To take you for my bride; 
 With radiant beams of hope, wife, 
 
 Our sky seemed all aglow, 
 For love's young dream was then our theme, 
 Just twenty years ago. 
 
 Ah ! well do I remember, wife, 
 
 (But yesterday it seems,) 
 The airy castles which we built 
 
 In those bright morning dreams; 
 And how, when up the stream of life, 
 
 We paddled our canoe, 
 We placed love's angel at the helm, 
 
 Just twenty years ago. 
 
 Sometimes the dashing waves, wife, 
 
 O'erwhelmed us with their spray, 
 But the flowers along the banks, wife, 
 
 Grew brighter all the way. 
 Aye, more: fruition follows bloom, 
 
 And filled our cup with joy, 
 When in our arms the angel placed 
 
 Our blessed, darling boy. 
 
 Then once again the angel came; 
 
 A bud of hope was given; 
 But blasts untimely passing by, 
 
 It faded into heaven. 
 But God is good, his arm sustained, 
 
 And as the years swept by, 
 
OCCASIONAL. IT3 
 
 The clouds were transient which obscured 
 The brightness of our sky. 
 
 Oh, wife and mother ! names most dear 
 
 In every land and nation, 
 Oh woman, noblest gift to man, 
 
 God's last and best creation: 
 Her mind embalmed in living truth, 
 
 Her heart of love the shrine; 
 Her ways the ways of pleasantness, 
 
 Her mission most divine ! 
 
 And thou, good wife, of all the throng, 
 
 The dearest and the best ! 
 My vow to you I here renew, 
 
 And press you to my breast; 
 And, hand in hand, as up we came, 
 
 So down the stream we'll row, 
 And love shall guide us just the same 
 
 As twenty years ago. 
 
 THE BRIGHT TO-MORROW. 
 
 READ AT A KNIGHT OF HONOR BANQUET. 
 
 IN days of old, when warriors bold, 
 In glory clad went knighting 
 Through many a land, with prowess grand, 
 
 " Fair ladye-loves " delighting, 
 To be a knight in armor bright, 
 
 On gallant charger mounted, 
 By kings of earth of nob'lest birth 
 The proudest thing was counted. 
 
 Though cloistered wall, or castle tall, 
 May not perchance be needed, 
 
OCCASIONAL. 
 
 As once, of yore, to keep the door 
 
 Of purity unraided; 
 Yet, in these days, chivalric ways 
 
 Take still the same direction; 
 In honor laid still love is made 
 
 Our mutual protection. 
 
 While this we know, the direst foe 
 
 That can beset the mortal; 
 With cunning craft and poisoned shaft 
 
 Stands waiting at the portal, 
 Each courteous Knight with sword of right,. 
 
 To prove the most deserving, 
 This maxim yet must not forget, 
 
 That knighthood means but serving. 
 
 Right well he claims the knightly name, 
 
 Who 'gainst the day of trial, 
 For child, or wife, doth lead a life 
 
 Of sturdy self-denial. 
 Far up the height such gallant knight 
 
 On love's great ladder climbing, 
 Shall as his meed find heav'n indeed, 
 
 Each noble act subliming. 
 
 With bated breath, men talk of death, 
 
 Nor dare to face its danger; 
 Yet, friends, with you, I think 'tis true,. 
 
 The spectre is no stranger; 
 Since day by day along your way 
 
 Assessments, oft accruing 
 For dollars due, or one, or two, 
 
 Bespeak his direst doing. 
 
 His figures are your studious care; 
 
 You figure men's endurance, 
 And, if the bell rings out a knell, 
 
 You figure their insurance. 
 
OCCASIONAL. 115 
 
 This is the human side, indeed, 
 
 Your interests must be cared for; 
 Assessments made cannot be paid, 
 
 Unless they are prepared for. 
 
 Men cannot be unselfish, quite; 
 
 " One " is our first great number; 
 Yet, in the breast, that which is best 
 
 Should not be left to slumber. 
 Still may each knight as he hath might 
 
 Uphold each child of sorrow; 
 While it shall wait some better fate, 
 
 That dawneth with the morrow. 
 
 The lightnings flash, the thunders crash, 
 
 The reckless sailor warning; 
 Black tempests rail, yet never fails 
 
 The sunlight in the morning. 
 Soon comes the night when earth's rush light 
 
 Shall quench its feeble burning; 
 Yet courage, friend; the night shall end 
 
 With sunlight in the morning. 
 
 For woman, then, dear brother men 
 
 By all that love hath won her; 
 For children dear, in this good cheer, 
 
 I pledge the " Knights of Honor." 
 With knightly skill, so may they still 
 
 Uphold each child of sorrow; 
 And be it theirs, through all the years, 
 
 To brighten every morrow. 
 
1T 6 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE YEARS. 
 
 WRITTEN BY REQUEST FOR BEARDSLEY's HISTORY OF DERBY. 
 
 'JTS one that athirst in a desert, in the ma/e of some feverish 
 
 JL dream, 
 
 May hear, as it were in the distance, the babble of brooklet 
 
 and- stream, 
 So, dimly, the voice of the ages, comes rippling along to mine 
 
 ears, 
 As I gaze on the mystical curtain that hideth the vale of the 
 
 years; 
 And I see or in fact or in fancy grim shadows but half way 
 
 defined, 
 That crowd on the face of the canvass from a world that is 
 
 fading behind. 
 
 Lo! I stand 'mid the tombs of my fathers! before me a 
 
 vision of green, 
 With a glory of hill and of mountain, of meadow and river 
 
 between; 
 And the rocks, that are storied, I question for the joys and the 
 
 hopes and the fears, 
 With the scheming and crowning ambitions, that lie in the vale 
 
 of the years: 
 
 For the swaddling clothes of the infant, the staff and the 
 
 finishing shroud, 
 And again is the question repeated, " For what shall a mortal 
 
 be proud ? " 
 True, we talk of our valleys and hillsides, our fields with their 
 
 cities besown; 
 But where are the deeds for defending the realms that we claim 
 
 as our own ? 
 
 But yester their owners were ploughing the soil where their 
 ashes now sleep, 
 
OCCASIONAL. 117 
 
 And to-morrow shall others be sowing for others to come and 
 to reap. 
 
 From the past we but borrow the present; for the future we 
 hold it in trust, 
 
 While for us, at the last, there remaineth, at best, but a hand- 
 ful of dust. 
 
 And so, as I muse in the darkness, a hand on the dial 
 
 appears, 
 And slowly uprises the curtain that hideth the vale of the 
 
 years; 
 And from out of the world of the present, with eyes that are 
 
 dewy and blind, 
 I turn to the shadows in waiting from a world that is fading 
 
 behind. 
 
 II. 
 
 And quick, with a yell of defiance a flourish of hatchet and 
 
 knife, 
 A horde of wild demons are writhing in the wage of a terrible 
 
 strife; 
 From the hedges of willow and alder, like panthers they spring 
 
 on the foe; 
 From the shelter of rock and of thicket their flint-headed 
 
 arrows they throw, 
 
 Till the sun goeth down on the battle, and the war-field is 
 
 reddened with gore, 
 And the squaw andj pappoose are bewailing the hunter that 
 
 cometh no more. 
 The vanquished steal off in the shadows, to the depths of the 
 
 forest away, 
 With a scowl of defiance and warning for the deeds of a luckier 
 
 day; 
 
 While the victors, with scalp-lock and trophy of hatchet and 
 
 arrow and bow, 
 Prepare for a savage thanksgiving for the valor that conquered 
 
 the foe. 
 
Il8 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 The faggots are brought and are lighted, the sacrifice bound to 
 
 the stake, 
 And the shrieks of the victim and victor, the depths of the 
 
 forest awake. 
 
 On the banks of the Paugassuck buried, in the sand of the 
 
 Pootatuck shore, 
 Is the skull and the arm and the arrow, but they startle with 
 
 terror no more; 
 For the arrow is broken and wasted; the bow-string is severed 
 
 in twain; 
 And the smoke of the war dance upcurleth no more from the 
 
 forest or plain. 
 
 III. 
 
 Along through the highlands and lowlands, 'neath the shadows 
 
 of forest and rock, 
 With its blue eye uplifed to heaven, flow the waters of fair 
 
 Pootatuck 
 Now sending its tide to the northward, now whirling it back to 
 
 the sea, 
 Now curling to' sleep in the eddies 'neath the arms of some 
 
 sheltering tree. 
 The eagle looks down on its beauty from its perch on the 
 
 loftiest bough, 
 And the seagull pray, which is the shadow, the bird that's 
 
 above or below ? 
 
 Lo! turning the rocks at the narrows, the sail of a pilgrim 
 
 appears, 
 A step in the wonderful progress to follow in line of the 
 
 years! 
 The pioneers, whetting their axes, spring ashore and at once 
 
 on the plains 
 The wigwam gives place to the cabin, as the brute to the 
 
 empire of brains. 
 
 One by one are the chimneys uplifted; the smoke of the fire- 
 side upcurls 
 
OCCASIONAL. 119 
 
 Through the forests of green, like an incense, as the banner 
 
 of progress unfurls, 
 Till the voice of the genius of labor, like an anthem is heard 
 
 in the land, 
 And the young feet of commerce are planted on the marge of 
 
 the Pootatuck strand. 
 
 The years sweep along in their cycles; the soldiers fall out by 
 
 the way; 
 But a thousand step into their places for the fight of the ever 
 
 to-day. 
 The back of the toiler is bended to the cross of his wearying 
 
 toil 
 Till he goes, like a tale that is ended, to rest in the covering 
 
 soil. 
 
 Thus ever it is with thee, as it is with the birth of men, 
 
 With the throe and the pang of labor must the struggle of life 
 
 begin; 
 Yet the laborer toward the surface like the coral beneath the 
 
 sea 
 Buildeth ever the deep foundations for the temple that is to 
 
 be. 
 
 In the depths of his inner nature, in the face of his outward 
 
 form, 
 Men partake of their near surroundings of the sunshine or of 
 
 the storm; 
 Of the mountain or of the valley, of the rocks or the savage 
 
 wild, 
 As the rod of an angry father makes forever an angry child. 
 
 So it was with these early pilgrims; they had cowered beneath 
 
 the rod 
 Of a church that was made by statute which only revered a 
 
 God 
 Of vengeance and retribution; of the eye that must have the 
 
 eye; 
 That spake from the top Sinai, but not upon Calvary. 
 
120 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 And so, as from persecution they fled to the western wild, 
 They prayed, 'mid the howling tempests, to a God that had 
 
 never smiled, 
 
 For the sword of the sons of Levi, to smite the heretic crew, 
 And th' oppressed became the oppressor as the tree of their 
 
 fortune grew. 
 
 Though a host of the Christian virtues they brought with the 
 
 western wind, 
 Yet the greatest of these are Charity, and that had they left 
 
 behind, 
 
 As, useless to fight the forest. Faith never had overthrown 
 A mountain; and as for Mercy, that belonged to the elect 
 
 alone. 
 
 On each side was a daily battle with rock and the thorny fen; 
 With the wolf and the savage panther, or with still more savage 
 
 men; 
 Where, then, were the wonder, pray you, that their worship 
 
 was force and fear ? 
 That so little was found to soften, where so little was found to 
 
 cheer. 
 
 And yet were they brave and noble; in their manhood, even 
 
 grand, 
 With errors but scarce remembered, since they came with an 
 
 honest hand 
 That was daily upon the pages of the well thumbed law and 
 
 word, 
 And which as did read the letter was the law that the 
 
 conscience heard. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The woods have come down from the hillside at the sound of 
 
 the woodman's stroke, 
 And the shipwright hath deftly fashioned the bough of the 
 
 sturdy oak 
 Yea, and where was the heathen council the stake with its 
 
 savage rite, 
 
OCCASIONAL. 121 
 
 Stands th' church with its heav'nward finger, and th' cot with 
 its cheerful light. 
 
 Where the voice of the sainted Mansfield, through his three 
 
 score years and te'n, 
 Tells the tale of the great redemption for the "lost" of the 
 
 sons of men; 
 And the sons of the plough and anvil lift their morning and 
 
 evening prayer 
 To God for His daily bounty and the arm of His daily care. 
 
 The rocks, and the service as before time, look down on the 
 
 waters sweet 
 Of the winding and beautiful river; but where are the tripping 
 
 feet 
 Of the swain and his chosen maiden that, of old, from the 
 
 village kirk 
 Hand in hand went into the forest, as the doves went into the 
 
 ark? 
 
 Gone like the beautiful river, and down to the waiting sea, 
 Never, they tell us, returning from their journeyings he or 
 
 she; 
 Yet they live in their deeds accomplished; in the acres of tardy 
 
 soil 
 Outwrung from the surly forest, by the hand of their sturdy 
 
 toil; 
 
 Yea, they live in their children's glory; in the fruits of the 
 
 rounded hills; 
 In the beauty of spire and turret; in the clack of the busy 
 
 mills; 
 For the steps in the upward journey that would enter within 
 
 the gates 
 Must forever remain untaken, while the first on the threshold 
 
 waits. 
 
122 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 V. 
 
 Men may talk of deeds of conquest on the land or on the 
 main, 
 
 Yet behind the scene is woman with her hand on the guiding 
 rein; 
 
 So my muse, with pen historic, nevermore forget to bless 
 
 Ruth, Naomi, and their daughters blossoms of the wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 Not a left-hand cypher, surely; whoso either made a bride, 
 Ever on life's outward journey, found an unit by his side. 
 Pure of heart, and sweet of purpose, best beloved of sire and 
 
 son, 
 Yet was theirs an endless struggle with the labor " never 
 
 done." 
 
 Few their wants indeed and simple; once the year a gingham 
 
 gown; 
 
 Costly silk and mantua makers, luxuries to them unknown; 
 What if on a Sabbath morning, o'er the meadow's dewy sod 
 Went the maiden, dainty tripping, even to the house of God, 
 
 Ere she donned the precious slipper ? Of the two that she 
 
 possessed, 
 Sole of art and sole of nature, nature's work would wear the 
 
 best; 
 What although the bare suggestion should some modern 
 
 maiden shock; 
 What if at the church or party, she did wear the linsey frock ? 
 
 It was hers, her hands had won it! carded, aye, had spun the 
 
 wool! 
 Wove the cloth and made the garment! was not -then her 
 
 triumph full ? 
 
 Held she not as high a station self-reliant, brave and firm 
 As some helpless slave of fashion trembling at a mouse or 
 
 worm ? 
 
OCCASIONAL. 123 
 
 There she stands! go bow before her, proud New England's 
 
 Mother Queen! 
 " Naked feet! " Oh well, what matter, feet and hands and 
 
 heart are clean! 
 Linsey dress, and home-made bonnet ? pockets, herb and 
 
 fennel filled ? 
 Aye, but in the time of trouble she was "herb" and wonder 
 
 skilled. 
 
 First to give new eyes a greeting, last to catch the fleeting 
 
 breath; 
 First to bring hope's consolation, last to leave the house of 
 
 death; 
 41 Naught for self but all for others " this her motto; doing 
 
 good 
 This her daily round of practice! hers a life's beatitude. 
 
 Children's pride, and manhood's treasure ! best beloved of 
 
 all, I ween; 
 There she stands! go bow before her! proud New England's 
 
 Mother Queen! 
 
 VI. 
 
 It is night and, behold ! in the valley afar toward the blue of 
 the sea, 
 
 A white mist is rising in flashes over headland of crag and of 
 tree; 
 
 And a sound, as if heavily breathing with lungs that were tire- 
 less and strong, 
 
 Over rocks, through the bushland and wildwood, some monster 
 were charging along ! 
 
 Clickety click, clickety click, round the headlands ! Is that 
 
 thunder which startles our ears ? 
 Or an earthquake which shakes the foundations, as the gleam 
 
 of the head-light appears? 
 -Stand aside ! for his breath is a whirlwind, and his eye is an 
 
 ogre of flame ! 
 
12 4 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 And his feet they are shod with the lightnings, which only a 
 master can tame. 
 
 Rings the bell ! like a flash we are speeding, as it were, on the 
 
 wings of a dream ! 
 Rings the bell ! and the earth hath been circled by the genius 
 
 of progress and steam ! 
 Rings the bell ! and the coach hath departed on the tide of 
 
 returnless years, 
 And the echoing horn of its driver cometh never again to our 
 
 ears. 
 
 The brooks that for ages have wasted their strength as they 
 
 glided along, 
 In and out through the deeps and the shallows, to the notes of 
 
 their rhythmical song, 
 At the last have awoke to their mission, as their hands they 
 
 have placed to the wheel, 
 And the echoes have mingled their music with the clash of the 
 
 hammer and steel. 
 
 The castle hath sprung to the hillside, at the touch of the 
 
 genii of gold, 
 And the coi.tage hath grown in its shadows, like the vine of 
 
 the prophet of old: 
 And the churches that rise on the summit with the story of 
 
 mercy on high, 
 And their back on the ancient traditions point an easier road 
 
 to the sky. 
 
 The old goeth into new bottles, but never the new in the old 
 
 For the world groweth wiser and better, for aye, as the ages 
 unfold 
 
 E'en the day is at hand when the "doxies" shall hamper no- 
 more or deceive 
 
 When shall men all believe as they worship, and worship 
 because they believe. 
 
OCCASIONAL. 125 
 
 The school-house of old, with its benches of slabs where the 
 
 fathers were taught, 
 Hath grown in the soil of the present to a temple of science 
 
 and thought; 
 And the knight of the rod and the ferrule, for his stipend that 
 
 "boarded around," 
 Giveth place to the high-toned professor, with a head full of 
 
 matters profound. 
 
 We miss the old hat in the window, and the writing bench 
 
 whereon our name 
 Was cut with some hieroglyphics, that had put an Egyptian to 
 
 shame; 
 And the " box stove " so guileless of blacking, and the desk in 
 
 the midst of the floor, 
 Where the contraband top and the whistles, were shelved by 
 
 the dozen or more. 
 
 Through the door comes a fair little maiden, that once in my 
 
 boyhood I knew, 
 And I stop in my story to wonder, if ever that story came 
 
 true, 
 That the Gypsy Queen told her one morning, of a tall man to 
 
 come from the sea, 
 With a ship and a cargo of treasures, for the bride that she 
 
 sometime would be. 
 
 I think that she half did believe it, for the thought it is child 
 
 of the wish: 
 And how did she know but the ocean for her had that kind 
 
 of a fish ? 
 Dear little, brown little maiden, wherever thy lot hath been 
 
 cast 
 If thy "ship" hath come in yet, I know not; if nay it will 
 
 come at the last, 
 
 For the " tall man," no doubt, was the angel that leads from 
 
 mortality forth: 
 And the sea, was it not forever? and the " treasure "-'twas 
 
 not of the earth. 
 
I2 6 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 In the old time, 'twas "three months of schooling" and nine 
 to " gymnast " with the hoe, 
 
 Or the axe, or the flail, or the harrow to plant or to reap, or 
 to mow. 
 
 But in these days our boys go to college as soon as home train- 
 ing will do, 
 
 To study for " batter " or "pitcher," or to paddle some col- 
 lege canoe. 
 
 In the old time the girls with their mothers learned to spin, 
 and to weave and to sew, 
 
 Or to send from the throne of the kitchen the roast and the 
 savory stew; 
 
 But in these days they, too, go to college to Vassar, or Har- 
 vard, may be 
 
 To study whatever comes handy, and to take, more or less, of 
 "degree;" 
 
 To talk of the world of dynamics, or the latest Darwinian 
 
 doubt, 
 Or their word for 't to be "dying" or "crazy" to know 
 
 how that story "came out." 
 If our boys know too little of labor, it is theirs in the future to 
 
 learn 
 That the seeds that are sown without struggle bring seldom 
 
 the noblest return. 
 
 And our girls who may dream of a "mission" outside in the 
 world of to-day, 
 
 May find that their mothers, for ages, have not traveled far 
 out of the way, 
 
 In finding their " sphere " at the fireside, in the sweets and 
 delights of the home, 
 
 Leaving man with his ruggeder nature, in the world of ambi- 
 tion to roam. 
 
 Some mistakes there may be to be righted. The pendulum 
 swings to extremes; 
 
OCCASIONAL,. 127 
 
 The dew-drop that forms in the darkness, a gem in the orient 
 
 gleams; 
 So, by and by, when we are older, and our "notions" have 
 
 softened away, 
 Our daughters shall shine as the dew-drop in the light of the 
 
 orient day, 
 
 That cannot be long in the coming; indeed, there be some 
 
 that I know 
 Already like blossoms of beauty, that sweeten wherever they 
 
 go, 
 That have come, as it were, on a " mission " to man from some 
 
 happier realm; 
 His equal ! yea, more than his equal, the angel that holdeth 
 
 the helm; 
 
 Pure souls, with whom life is no bubble, to sparkle and break 
 into tears; 
 
 Brave hearts that with face to the sunlight move on through 
 the vale of the years. 
 
 For such, O my brother, be thankful, the gem is more precious 
 if rare; 
 
 But the poorest of all in creation is the soul that has "noth- 
 ing to wear." 
 
 Let our children be taught that an idler is debtor to air and 
 to soil; 
 
 That the glory of man or of woman is the hand that is hard- 
 ened by toil; 
 
 And that who, to his face in the waters, throws the crust of 
 his worshipping bread, 
 
 Findeth never a current returning; and the shadow, it never is 
 fed. 
 
 Though the river a moment flow backward, with forces up- 
 gathered and strong, 
 
 O'er the rocks in its way that impeded, it goes with a shout 
 and a song ! 
 
128 OCCASIONAL. 
 
 And so in the stream in the future, I see for our beautiful hills 
 A history bright with a glory, that the soul of the patriot fills. 
 
 For the virtues of old are not buried; the puritan liveth to-day, 
 
 But the rock that impeded his nature by the stream hath been 
 fretted away, 
 
 Till the current flows broader and deeper, and the growth of 
 the reed and the fern 
 
 Giveth place on our banks to the blossom, prophetic of fruit 
 in its turn 
 
 That shall grow to millennial graces, in the dawn of some hap- 
 pier morn. 
 
fat 
 
 HE STOOD AT THE BAR. 
 
 i. 
 
 P 
 
 E stood at the bar, with a lofty head; 
 " Rum in mine," were words he said. 
 
 Few his years, and his face was fair, 
 But he tossed the glass with a jaunty air, 
 
 Which plainly said, to the thirsty crew, 
 " Used to this sort of thing, you know." 
 
 " Rum in mine, is the word,' said he, 
 " Comrades what shall the tipple be ? " 
 
 Up from the corners where they sat, 
 Snoozing under the battered hat, 
 
 Shuffled the loafers at the call- 
 Shuffled the bummers, one and all, 
 
 With bleary eye and a drunken " hie! " 
 And a " damme, my boy, but you're a brick! " 
 
 A bowl of punch, or a " whiskey skin," 
 A brandy smash or a glass of gin, 
 
 Was freely passed, and they clinked the glass 
 In a wild carouse, till the morn, alas! 
 
 Revealed a corpse a fiendish band, 
 A trembling youth, and a bloody hand. 
 
130 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 And the click was heard of the jailor's lock, 
 As they led him in from the prisoner's dock. 
 
 II. 
 
 He stood at the bar with a bended head; 
 " Guilty, my lord," were the words he said. 
 
 Few his years, and his face was fair, 
 
 But he swung like a man, in the morning air,. 
 
 And he plainly said, as he stretched the line, 
 " Rum was the tipple, rum in mine." 
 
 He stood at the bar of the last appeal, 
 But the judgment there I may not reveal: 
 
 I only know that the Judge of all 
 
 Is never at loss where the blow should fall, 
 
 And it may be true that the tempter there 
 Hath far the heaviest load to bear. 
 
 THE RED LIGHT DECOY. 
 
 HE night was wild. On a stormy lee 
 A light flashed out, o'er a breaking sea. 
 
 Hour after hour, the ship had sped 
 
 On aimless wings, through the darkness dread, 
 
 With naught behind but an angry wave, 
 And naught before but a threatened grave. 
 
 An hundred hearts sank low with fear, 
 
 As they thought of home, and its happy cheer; 
 
 And the prayer went up through the shrouded night 
 To the Throne above, for a guiding light. 
 
TEMPERANCE. 13! 
 
 Land ! ho the watchman cried land ho ! 
 "The harbor light by its flash I know !" 
 
 And the captain's voice rang high and loud 
 From yard to yard, and from shroud to shroud. 
 
 " Port helm ! port helm ! taut haul your sails ! 
 And we'll ride into port on the stoutest gales." 
 
 And now the hearts that had sank with fear, 
 Beat high with hope, at the words of cheer, 
 
 And again was pressed the friendly hand, 
 And the loving lip, on the waiting strand. 
 
 The light went out: 'twas a foul decoy 
 And the ship was caught like a childish toy 
 
 In the mad lee tide, and was dashed ashore 
 
 1 Mid the tempest's crash, and the breakers' roar. 
 
 But hark ! from the shore a gun speaks out, 
 A line is sent, and is heard the shout, 
 
 " The life boat, men ! to the wreck, ye brave ! 
 There are lives to save from the hungry wave." 
 
 And the periled crew, by the shoreman's arm 
 Are saved at last, from the raging storm; 
 
 For none there were, from that open grave, 
 To spurn the hand that was reached to save. 
 
 II. 
 
 There's a beacon set on a village hill 
 With a lurid flame, like the flame of hell ! 
 
 And it brings a blush to the cheek of night, 
 As it flames abroad, from the village height ! 
 
 Up and down on its post genteel 
 
 Run spiral lines like a serpent's trail 
 
I 3 2 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Or the mazy track of a devotee 
 
 At the shrine of drink, on a midnight spree. 
 
 Fathers, this light is a foul decoy ! 
 Mothers, 'twould ruin your darling boy ! 
 
 Paint his cheeks with its fiery flame, 
 Spiral his soul with its stripe of shame ! 
 
 Palsy his limbs and taint his breath; 
 Crush out his manhood, and give him death ! 
 
 A thousand wrecks are upon its shore, 
 
 And it asks that you give it a thousand more. 
 
 W T ho volunteers ? Is it you, friend ? or you ? 
 That will lead the march of this pit-bound crew r 
 
 Into the depths of the death-dark streams, 
 Back of the place where the red light gleams ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Lo ! a gibbet built in a Christian land ! 
 And a hangman there with a rope in hand ! 
 
 A victim is wanted ! The doors of a tomb 
 
 Are wide for a wretch from the scaffold's doom ! 
 
 Who volunteers ? is it you, my boy 
 You, now the center of hope and joy ? 
 
 You, oh youth, with a step like a king, 
 Yours shall it be from that beam to swing? 
 
 Who knows? art sure that a toil-worn wife 
 
 W T aits not somewhere for your rum-thrust knife ? 
 
 Art sure that a child of your love, for bread, 
 May not starve that th' red light flame be fed ? 
 
 There are souls like yours to be steeped in crime, 
 And scaffold steps that their feet must climb, 
 
TKMPERANCE 133 
 
 With waiting crowds, whose wild, brute cheers 
 Ring loud and high ! Boys, who volunteers? 
 
 Hand up your names ! Sixty thousand brave 
 Is th' quota each year for the drunkard's grave ! 
 
 Every name counts one; give us yours, my lad ! 
 Though the angels weep, and the pit is glad. 
 
 What shall forbid while yet shall stand 
 These red false lights in a Christian land ? 
 
 Stronger art thou, my friend, to hold 
 Thy soul unstained than the hosts of old, 
 
 That died as the fool, in the pit of woe ? 
 Be not deceived ! Life's paths are few 
 
 Where danger lurks not; where th' rum blood hound 
 On the track of his prey, is not close to th' ground. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The " need of the hour" is a grip that's bold 
 On the throat of th' wrong ! To-day, as of old, 
 Our nettle is grasped by too tender a hold. 
 
 'Neath opinion's heel is the serpent's head ! 
 Shall we hold it down with unyielding tread, 
 Oh, men of to-day, till the thing is dead ? 
 
 A battle gained is no victory won 
 
 If we hold not th' field: Wrong, under the sun, 
 
 Hath a thousand lives where the Right hath one. 
 
 It is pluck that we want ! that conscious might 
 That can speak the word that we know is right; 
 
 Not counting cost, that with fearless tongue, 
 Shall right names call what we know is wrong. 
 
 Manhood we want unflinching grand, 
 
 That can crush the fiend that despoils our land, 
 
'34 
 
 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Nor stop to inquire if a rumseller's pew 
 Be vacant to-day or we tap not his shoe. 
 
 Let us stand for the right ! though we die in neglect, 
 We're richer than kings, in our self respect ! 
 
 There is something of wealth, that the "street" does not 
 
 quote: 
 There are stocks, there are bonds, that may help not our 
 
 note, 
 
 Yet, I tell you, my friends, that of value untold, 
 In the bank of the heart, they are better than gold. 
 
 Life is not a bubble, to break on the shore, 
 Leaving only the space where it sparkled before; 
 
 Eternal, and real ! Enough for our hands 
 It fmdeth of labor, while mercy demands 
 
 Wise heads and true hearts and strong arms to destroy, 
 The fiend of all fiends, with its red light decoy. 
 
 Hark ! a signal at sea ! There's a ship on the shore ! 
 To the wreck, boys, the wreck ! let us man every oar, 
 And we'll bring in the sin-foundered perishing crew, 
 And bind them to Hope with our ribbons of blue. 
 
 To the wreck, boys, the wreck ! though tempests may howl, 
 And over the rocks may the mad billows roll; 
 Where the red beacon flameth, we'll pick up a crew, 
 And we'll bind them to Faith, with our ribbons of blue. 
 
 To the wreck, boys, the wreck ! though pirates abound, 
 On the shores, in the caves, and the darkness around; 
 By His arm that is strong, we will rescue the crew, 
 And we'll bind them to Love with our ribbons of blue. 
 
 Then happy, indeed, when the moment shall come, 
 That the Master shall call the harvesters home, 
 If each be adjudged as his own to be claimed 
 One wreck from the shore where the red light gleamed. 
 
TKMPK RANCH. 135 
 
 THE HEATHEN AT OUR DOOR. 
 
 PARK ! ye toilers in the vineyard, gallant soldiers of the 
 Lord, 
 For the "coral strands" of India that have buckled on the 
 
 sword, 
 
 For the saving of the nations; know ye not that here at home 
 Are the worse than " heathen, " bending to the idols that -are 
 dumb ? 
 
 With our Moses on the mountain, cometh Aaron with his staff, 
 And the fires of human folly turneth out the golden calf; 
 And the plague is on the people, even as it was of old, 
 When Jehovah spoke his vengeance on the worshippers of 
 gold. 
 
 There's a voice as 'twere of battle, of the fiends that over- 
 come ; 
 
 And with fiery indignation at the mastery of rum 
 
 Comes the prophet from the mountain, crying, " Who is for the 
 Lord ! " 
 
 With the gallant sons of Levi, let him buckle on his sword. 
 
 And beneath the scowling arches of the heathen temple low, 
 Let him wrest the naked victim from the clutches of the foe; 
 And with pure and holy banners, as the outward portals 
 
 swing, 
 Let him lead the march of triumph to the kingdom of the 
 
 King. 
 
 In the valley of Gehenna, even at the city gates, 
 Lo! a worm that never dieth, for the evil doer waits; 
 And a fire that never quenches shineth steady from within, 
 Where the red light beacon pilots to the furnaces of sin! 
 
 Nay, we need not go to India for a sacrificial fire, 
 While the Christian wife or widow is forever on the pyre; 
 
136 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Nor for mission works of mercy to the plains of Hiridostan, 
 While the Juggernaut of Whiskey crushes worse than heathen 
 men. 
 
 If the heathen buildeth temples in the semblances of men, 
 So the Christian buildeth temples with their semblances 
 
 within; 
 
 And the priest before the idol, and priest within the shrine, 
 Each, maybe, hath equal favor in the sight of th*e Divine, 
 For, who sinneth against knowledge, wheresoever be the 
 
 clime, 
 Must be judged the real sinner, since the motive is the crime. 
 
 Shorten, then, the line of vision ! level down the object 
 
 glass! 
 
 Ye are firing over armies that are lurking in the grass; 
 By their serpentine approaches, that are at your very feet, 
 Underneath the city's shadow, and are pounding at the gate! 
 
 Shorten up the line of battle! If a dollar ye would score 
 For the " heathen," better write it on a neighbor's cellar 
 
 door, 
 Than to send a hat and feathers, or some beads upon a 
 
 string, 
 For the full completed toilette of some Fejee Island king. 
 
 Closer draw the line of action! 'mong the whiskey-ridden 
 
 poor, 
 Where the hunger fiend is gnawing within hailing of our 
 
 door; 
 
 Though we labor from the rising to the setting of the sun, 
 Life is not so long, my brother, that the work will all be done. 
 
 Though it figure not so grandly in the ''Herald" or 
 
 " Gazette," 
 
 As so many dollars, maybe, for this mission, or for that, 
 Yet our gifts will all be numbered and will to His notice 
 
 come, 
 Who has taught us a beginning of our charity at home. 
 
TEMPERANCE. 
 
 137 
 
 By the light, then, of the Gospel, let it evermore be seen, 
 That the inside of our "platter" of Christianity be clean; 
 Then to whiskey-hating Brahma, or Mahomet, we may say, 
 Come you hither, oh, my brother, for behold! a better way. 
 
 AFTER THE DEBAUCH 
 
 '^JJSLEEP by the wayside ! The night hath been long, 
 /A Vile was the revel yet viler the song; 
 Do not disturb her, poor waif of the dust: 
 Christ! that her sleep were the sleep of the just! 
 
 Oh, it is sorrowful! she is not old, 
 Yet, is the silver usurping the gold! 
 Where, in their purity, lillies have shone, 
 Sin, with its shadow, hath marked her its own. 
 
 Haste not the waking: too soon it will come; 
 
 Hist! she is dreaming of childhood and home; 
 
 The woods and the meadows, of brooklets and flowers, 
 
 Ghosts of the vanished, but innocent hours. 
 
 "Mother," she whispers. Oh, God! that the name 
 Might burn on the lips of the daughter of shame 
 Till the soul, that is shrined in its temple within, 
 Should purge to its depths from the burthen of sin. 
 
 Asleep by the wayside! Thou soul of the world, 
 Take up the stone, if thou wilt, to be hurled; 
 Yet, under the law of the pure Nazarene, 
 First let the hand that would hurl it be clean. 
 
 Asleep by the wayside! Oh daughter of shame, 
 Who but thy Maker shall measure the blame ? 
 Soiled and bestained by the shadows of night, 
 Once were thy garments as pure as the light! 
 
58 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Proud of thine honor, and proud of thy birth; 
 Pride of the hearts that encircled the hearth; 
 Wealth was thy portion, and beauty was thine, 
 Fashion bent to thee, and thought thee divine. 
 
 Prone, by the wayside, in squalor and dirt; 
 Fashion sweeps by, with a gathering skirt, 
 And a shudder of fright lest it see, by the way, 
 Itself, but too plain, in this mirror of clay. 
 
 The roses are fading; the lilies have come; 
 The eyelids are sealing; the thin lips are dumb; 
 Only one word 'tis of him that betrayed, 
 And dead by the wayside the harlot is laid. 
 
 Dead by the wayside! the night will be long, 
 Wake her ye cannot with revel or song; 
 Bear a hand tenderly take her away; 
 None but her Maker shall judge her to-day. 
 
 Set the white headstone; yet, spare her the name; 
 Chisel no word that shall tell of the shame! 
 Finger of charity, write on the stone 
 " She was but too human," and leave her alone. 
 ****** 
 
 Despised by the wayside the harlot is found, 
 While the maker of harlots is feted and crowned; 
 Thus ever it is that our lashes are swung 
 At the back of the victim, and not at the wrong. 
 
I K.MFERANCE. 139 
 
 SHALL WE LICENSE IT? 
 
 LICENSE it? Yes! when the torch and the flame, 
 On the wings of the statute are sent through the lancl!- 
 When the den of the thief, and the brothel of shame, 
 Are down in the deed that is under our hand. 
 
 License ? Oh yes, with permission to kill 
 
 With pistol or bludgeon, as well as by gin! 
 
 Aye more, if you please, e'en the demon of hell 
 Go charter, by statute, to peddle his sin. 
 
 License it? "Yes! " say the men of our time: 
 
 " It will help out our tax our account at the bank." 
 
 Fools! know you not that condoning a crime,- 
 
 Putteth him that condones in the criminal rank ? 
 
 Will it lesson your taxes to nurture the knaves 
 
 That live but to rob, and to burn, and destroy ? 
 
 Can your "license" offset for the filling of graves 
 For the rape of the heart of some darlingest joy ? 
 
 License it ? No! cries the wretch in the grip 
 
 Of the terrible noose of the tightening rope! 
 
 License it? No! cries the murderer "Chip" 
 
 From the depths of a cell that hath never a hope. 
 
 License it? No! shout the children of want: 
 
 No! say the wisest, the noblest and best; 
 Prohibit! Prohibit! nor say that you "can't: " 
 
 Crush out the viper and break up his nest. 
 
 Oh, for the love that we bear to our own 
 
 The God that hath made us: our country and kin; 
 
 Let us stand for -the right though we stand up alone 
 That our skirts may be free from the taint of the sin. 
 
 Men! it is ours but to stir up the sod; 
 
 Ours that the seed shall be carefully sown; 
 
 If the harvest delay, lo! the Master is God! 
 
 Shall He not then reap as He will of his own ? 
 
140 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 ONLY. 
 
 IT was "only" a match, a splinter of pine; 
 Harmless enough in itself if you please; 
 A handful of shavings cut thinly and fine, 
 
 But where could be harm in such trifles as these ? 
 
 It was "only " a drunkard that lighted the match 
 And the shavings, that kindled a city to flame! 
 
 It was " only " a bolt, but it shackled the wretch, 
 And held him for life to a prison of shame. 
 
 Ijt was " only " a leaf in the stream, as it flowed, 
 
 That turned it from peace to the turbulent way; 
 
 It was " only " a step at the fork of the road, 
 
 And youth was a wreck in the darkness astray. 
 
 It was " only " a drop from the lethean spring. 
 
 That sparkled and gleamed in the depths of the bowl: 
 
 A sweet little drop, but it covered a sting, 
 
 That pierced to the depths of an innocent soul. 
 
 A drop, boys, a drop! and a seed hath been sown 
 
 Like the upas, ere long that shall spring upon high! 
 
 A drop, boys, a drop! and the curse is thine own; 
 Drink, drink, if you will, till the goblet be dry. 
 
 But charge not the folly to God or to " fate! " 
 
 . No child ever took as a gift from His hand, 
 The loving All Father this besom of hate, 
 
 That burns and consumes and destroys in the land! 
 
 Shake up the glass, till the demon within, 
 
 Is white with the venom that comes to the top; 
 
 A drop, boy, a drop! it will do to begin; 
 
 But remember, the gallows hath also a "drop." 
 
A REVERIE. 
 
 I AM walking 'mid the darkness, overshadowed 
 By the gloom; 
 Close beside me is the cradle just before me 
 
 Is the tomb; 
 Here and there some favorite phantom, leading 
 
 With alluring ray; 
 Here and there some idol, broken, lying 
 
 Prone upon the way. 
 Evermore the human standeth at the 
 
 Temple's inner shrine, 
 Searching, 'mid the dust and darkness, 
 
 For some trace of the divine. 
 
 What am I, and whence my coming ? Who shall 
 
 Tell me ? Like a God 
 I command the winged lightnings yet am 
 
 Counted but a clod! 
 I can hold the whirling planets, as it were, 
 
 Within my hand; 
 Give them weight and law and measure, 
 
 E'en their substance understand! 
 I can trace the mighty orbits of the comets 
 
 As they pass; 
 But I cannot tell the secrets of a tiny 
 
 Blade of grass! 
 
142 MUSINC1S. 
 
 I can bind the earth in irons! and upon 
 
 The wings of steam 
 I can send the mighty forests whirling past 
 
 Me like a dream! 
 On the cable tongue of ocean I can 
 
 Breathe the message forth, 
 And a fleeting hour hath told it to the 
 
 Nations of the earth! 
 E'en at my command the thunder writes 
 
 Its name upon a scroll, 
 Yet, appalled I stand, and speechless fore 
 
 This myst'ry of the soul! 
 
 Thus, I walk amid the darkness, hung'ring, 
 
 Thirsting for the light, 
 Though the sages tell me plainly, "never 
 
 More shall end the night!" 
 That, " the soul goes sweeping downward on 
 
 The train of mortal breath, 
 Till at last it plunges madly in the 
 
 Deep abyss of death! " 
 " Man is but " so say the sages " atoms 
 
 Grouping" so and so; 
 Only this no more forever. Fellow 
 
 Traveller, is it true ? 
 
 Far above the clouds and darkness, lo! 
 
 The azure depths expand, 
 Till I stand in conscious selfhood close 
 
 Upon some border land; 
 Where the pulse of the Eternal throbs 
 
 Upon the pregnant air! 
 And I hear the sounding anthems that 
 
 Forever echo there. 
 
 What am I ? again I question clod of 
 
 Earth ? or spark divine ? 
 
 Death, art thou indeed my master ?- or at 
 Last shall I be thine ? 
 
MUSINGS. 143 
 
 Hark! from o'er the mystic border, " I am 
 
 God! " thus answers He, 
 "And I'the Life! " ye are my children; I in 
 
 You and you in Me! " 
 
 Still, I walk amid the darkness, yet by 
 
 Faith I boldly tread, 
 Fearing nothing, asking nothing, so that 
 
 I am safely led. 
 Thou, "the Life?" Oh, loving Father, then I 
 
 Cling to Thee alone! ' 
 And I'll trust death's lifting shadows 
 
 To reveal the great unknown. 
 
 MY CREED. 
 
 IF you call me unbeliever and proclaim me in the wrong, 
 I may grant you, yet shall tell you, that my unbelieving 
 song, 
 
 Only asks the right to reason of the soundness of the bark, 
 And the knowledge of its pilot, ere we sail into the dark. 
 
 I shall answer, I shall tell you, unbeliever if I am, 
 That I only seek to battle with the shoddy and the sham; 
 If I tear the gaudy roses from the harlot's cheek away, 
 It is that the unsuspecting nevermore be led astray. 
 
 I shall answer, and shall tell you that there yet may be a 
 
 doubt, 
 
 If I'm quite the unbeliever that you fain would make me out: 
 For I hold to all that's noble, all that's gentle, all that's good; 
 God and angels Love's evangels, and one common brother- 
 hood. 
 
 I believe in gentle living, tender dealing with our kind, 
 Holding all men in communion though to idols they be joined; 
 
144 MUSINGS. 
 
 That, until shall lift the shadows that enshroud our mortal 
 
 eyes, 
 We should never judge the motive that behind the action lies. 
 
 I believe in earnest labor for salvation: faith alone 
 Only sends us empty handed up before the harvest throne- 
 Like a horde of beggars crying " sheaves we have not, Lord, 
 
 but see ! 
 In our hands are our credentials, showing how we trusted 
 
 thee !'" 
 
 Better, far, with manly spirit, take one single grain of wheat 
 Gained by earnest, honest labor and go lay it at His feet, 
 Saying, Lord, it is as nothing and we would that it were more 
 Yet the field but, Lord, thou knowest of the harvest that it 
 bore. 
 
 I believe and who gainsays it ? that one Father guideth all, 
 So that whomsoe'er he holdeth, in the end can never fall: 
 For His hand were but as human could it save not if it would; 
 And below, indeed, the human if it would not if it could. 
 
 Adam's sin the blood atonement: endless fire for sinful 
 
 man ! 
 On the throne a God of vengeance take them, brother, if you 
 
 can: 
 
 But for me and for me only I must raise the candid doubt, 
 Whether here and there a dogma must not soon be stepping 
 
 out? 
 
 For the ages level upward, step by step, and stage by stage: 
 Each capstone a new departure for some higher building age ! 
 Vet however high uprising, still the temple cannot stand, 
 If it be not firmly anchored to the rock beneath the sand. 
 
 Lo ! the midnight tempest cometh and the builders, with 
 
 alarm, 
 
 Hear the voice of many waters see the arrows of the storm. 
 Yet, unharmed, the fabric standeth in the purple morning 
 
 grand, 
 If unto the rock of ages it be anchored 'neath the sand. 
 
MUS1NC1S. 145 
 
 So I answer, and I tell you, that there yet may be a doubt 
 
 If I'm quite the "unbeliever" that you fain would make me 
 out: 
 
 Since I hold to all that's gentle, all that's noble, all that's 
 good ; 
 
 -God and angels, Love's Evangels, and one common brother- 
 hood. 
 
 YE ARE THE REAPERS. 
 
 NOW hark ye in hall and in palace, 
 And hark ye the cottage within, 
 To the voice of wild mirth o'er the chalice 
 Of revelry, riot and sin. 
 
 The altars of friendship are broken, 
 
 The hearthstone deserted and cold, 
 
 And the last sad adieu has been spoken 
 
 To friends that too soon have grown old. 
 
 The eye of proud genius is blighted 
 
 At the touch of the wine spirit's breath, 
 
 And the heart which affection once lighted 
 Lies cold in the chamber of death. 
 
 From hearts which lie wounded and bleeding, 
 From lips that are pallid with grief, 
 
 The sad voice of anguish is pleading 
 With heaven for speedy relief. 
 
 Now hark ye who dwell in the valley, 
 And hark ye who dwell on the hill! 
 
 From this darkness and bondage to rally, 
 Ye have power, if ye have but the will. 
 
 By all, then, that's holy in heaven 
 By all that ye cherish on earth 
 
146 MUSINGS. 
 
 Rest not till the spoiler is driven 
 Forever from altar and hearth. 
 
 Say not that ye " are not the keepers " 
 Of those who would riot in sin; 
 
 They're the harvest and ye are the reapers, 
 Go toil till ye've gathered it in. 
 
 UNDER THE SHADOW. 
 
 i. 
 
 WHO knoweth the time of His coming to close up the 
 final account ? 
 When the pitcher shall break at the cistern, and the waters 
 
 shall fail at the fount ? 
 Come forth with your rods of divining, oh men that in 
 
 magic are great, 
 
 And read me the mystical signet that gleams on the finger of 
 fate. 
 
 I stand at the graves of my kinsmen, with bowed and with 
 
 reverent' head, 
 And I ask of the what and the whither, and of destiny, where 
 
 doth it lead ? 
 I pray to the skies for a whisper of things that are yet to 
 
 come, 
 And pleading I kneel at the altar, but the altar and skies are 
 
 dumb. 
 
 I turn to the ages for wisdom, and question their wonderful 
 
 faith, 
 For aught that shall prove to my reason, that death can be 
 
 other than death. 
 I look, and from out of the mountain of glory, with tablet in 
 
 hand, 
 Cometh Moses, with only the promise of " life " to be "long in 
 
 the land!" 
 
MUSINGS. 147 
 
 II. 
 
 A million of paths lie open that lead to the covering sod; 
 But who, from beyond, are returners, to tell of the valleys 
 
 trod ? 
 With the spade and the shroud like the billow that breaks on 
 
 the sounding shore, 
 Hath the pulse and the throb of our living been silenced for- 
 
 evermore ? 
 
 In moments of pious devotion, we sit ourselves down at the 
 
 feast 
 And partake of the bread of the altar, at the hands of the 
 
 chanting priest; 
 
 And how shall a flock be fattened, we ask, upon hills unseen ? 
 Or drink of but fabled waters ? And what do the shepherds 
 
 mean ? 
 
 I hear of a " loving kindness " that sendeth the frost and 
 
 snow, 
 For chilling and killing the roses, while leaving the weeds to 
 
 grow ! 
 And they say that from out of the heavens is ordered the 
 
 sparrows fall, 
 Though I read that the falling is noted simply noted, and 
 
 that is all. 
 
 It may be that our hairs are numbered, as are numbered our 
 
 earthly years; 
 But the one may be whitened with sorrow, as the other may 
 
 flow with tears, 
 Because, through the " sin of the fathers," some statute was 
 
 broken of yore, 
 As the fruit may be dropped from the branches, by a worm 
 
 that was bred at the core. 
 
 III. 
 
 Two maidens beloved and loving; of kindred the hope and 
 the pride, 
 
148 MUSINGS. 
 
 In a ship that was called the " Forever " went -out on the ebb- 
 ing tide. 
 
 Their work it was left unfinished, as if they might soon be 
 back; 
 
 But, alas! for the ship and the maidens there was never return- 
 ing track! 
 
 It is easy to talk about mercy, and say, " it were better so; " 
 That "God hath but rescued His darlings from ills of the earth 
 
 below." 
 But when hath the burial ended, and the neighbors return to 
 
 their own, 
 And we sit ourselves down in the shadows, to desolate thoughts 
 
 alone, 
 
 We ask if it standeth to reason that God hath so puny an 
 
 arm 
 That He cannot protect, as He willeth, from ills that may 
 
 threaten to harm ? 
 If we send out a child on a journey, we say, and comes 
 
 danger about, 
 We crush not the child, but the evil, if our arm be sufficiently 
 
 stout. 
 
 In the mystical land of the Indies, with their idols of wood 
 
 and stone, 
 That hover and swarm by the roadside, and never the truth is 
 
 known; 
 What wonder, if blindly groping, the child of neglect should 
 
 fall ? 
 And what, with the light upon as, if our falling be worst of 
 
 all? 
 
 The " light ! " But to one it is darkness perhaps from the 
 
 blinding dust; 
 To another, a glimmer of faintness through the glass or of 
 
 hope or trust. 
 
MUSINGS. 149 
 
 The "light! " But who orders the shadows that shutteth the 
 
 glory out ? 
 That bindeth us down to the bondage of darkness, and fear, 
 
 and doubt ? 
 
 I would not blaspheme; yet I wonder if all that the Infinite 
 
 knew 
 For the good of His child, and to bless it, He spake to that 
 
 barbarous Jew ? 
 Was there never a truth to be spoken, too profound for that 
 
 primitive day ? 
 To the heart and the brain of the present, hath the Infinite 
 
 nothing to say ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 I said, for the ship and the maidens, there was never returning 
 
 track; 
 But I spake as from out of the shadow of sorrow, and deep 
 
 and black! 
 In the fact of a world beyond us, my faith has been sorely 
 
 tried, 
 While of that which was round about me, I saw but the darker 
 
 side. 
 
 It may be that I doubted wisely! That the gates from the 
 
 mortal swing, 
 At the last, into shadows eternal, where death is forever the 
 
 king ! 
 But what if a world of the living, unseen, as in days of 
 
 yore, 
 May surround, but to enter and bless us, if only the open 
 
 door ! 
 
 I have heard, from a child, the story of angels that once were 
 
 sent 
 On a mission of love, and of mercy, to the door of an ancient 
 
 tent; 
 
150 MUSINGS. 
 
 If a fact I know not, or if fancy. But this I must hold to be 
 
 true, 
 That an angel may come to the Christian, if ever one came to 
 
 the Jew. 
 
 For, when was that highway abandoned, on which did the 
 
 charriot roll, 
 Which bore off the prophet, and brought him, again, from the 
 
 land of soul, 
 To stand on the mountain of glory, with Moses and Him that 
 
 was slain ? 
 And where is the law to prohibit or hinder his coming again ? 
 
 Though we may not, as yet, behold it, the sea, with the crest 
 
 of its wave, 
 Shall batter the cliff into fragments, that bars out the light 
 
 from the grave; 
 And then shall we know that our "lost " ones have triumphed 
 
 o'er death and its sting! 
 And again shall we know, as we knew them, in the kingdom 
 
 where dwelleth the king:. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN DEAD. 
 
 i. 
 
 1SIT within my chamber wall; 
 The evening shadows slowly fall, 
 And, stretching eastward, to my door, 
 Invade at last my chamber floor. 
 
 While outward gazing to the sky, 
 A phantom troop goes sweeping by 
 With screaming fife and rolling drum, 
 And flashing steel and waving plume, 
 While from the shadows, overhead, 
 A voice proclaims, " The unknown dead. 
 
MUSINGS. 151 
 
 'Tis not for me that stood aloof 
 Beneath my well protected roof, 
 To judge of him that, leaving all, 
 Could hasten at his country's call, 
 To peril, with heroic zeal, 
 His own best good for common weal ! 
 
 'Tis not, indeed, for me to weigh 
 In scales of this our later day, 
 An impulse that could dare the grave, 
 To break the shackle of a slave ! 
 
 How men for kith or kin may die; 
 For conscience e'en the stake defy; 
 Or can the blazing cannon face, 
 For triumph of his clan or race; 
 In measure, this I understand; 
 And yet, to lift a mailed hand 
 For him that hath no other friend ! 
 To stoop and kiss misfortune's child, 
 Though for the act by men reviled ! 
 As water flows, bequeathing blood 
 To seal the bonds of brotherhood !- 
 All this, in wen, is more, my friend, 
 Of God, than I can comprehend. 
 
 II. 
 
 The water closes, and the stone 
 
 That broke the surface, quickly gone, 
 
 Leaves naught behind to track or trace 
 
 Its journey or its resting place. 
 
 Like rolling stones men live, or stay, 
 
 By constant chafing worn away, 
 
 Till rounded to some useless form 
 
 They join at last their fellow worm; 
 
 The future asks, "What have they done?" 
 
 And writes above their dust, " Unknown." 
 
152 MUSINCiS. 
 
 But these, for whom I plead to-day, 
 That sleep beside the traveled way, 
 That slumber on the battle plain, 
 Or toss beneath the troubled main; 
 That rest upon some mountain grand, 
 Or the swamps of Dixie land, 
 Unmarked, although, by memoried stone, 
 Undecked by flowers, are they " unknown ?" 
 Not so, indeed ! Each sunken grave 
 Holds in embrace, who died to save 
 A Nation from its crowning shame ! 
 We have the deed God hath the name. 
 
 Unknown ? Not while yon starry fold 
 That shines to-day in blue and gold, 
 Shall lift, as now, from strand to strand, 
 The proudest flag on sea or land ! 
 
 Unknown ? Not while poor Afric stands, 
 
 Full owner of his swarthy hands; 
 
 Or dusky parents dare to own 
 
 The offspring that is all their own. 
 
 Till fredom's light shall dim and fade. 
 
 And men again are "chattels" made; 
 
 Till human wrongs become the right, 
 
 And mental darkness glooms the light; 
 
 Till thorns shall spring where truth may tread, 
 
 We'll count them not the " unknown dead," 
 
 But, by their glorious pathway trod, 
 
 We'll know them as we know our God 
 
 Whose faithful march, where duty led, 
 
 Gave to our land its nameless dead. 
 
 III. 
 
 Across the dark and bloody track 
 Of war, there were who traveled back 
 From battle strife and fierce alarms, 
 To loving hearts and tender arms, 
 
MUSINGS. 153 
 
 That took their dust and laid it down, 
 To rest beneath some grateful stone, 
 That evermore shall proudly tell 
 The story how they fought and fell. 
 
 And as, to-day, with tearful pride, 
 We honor these our glorified 
 And so, ourselves e'en may we prove 
 Most worthy of that crowning love 
 Of God and man and home and hearth, 
 That gave them to the covering earth. 
 Let every flower be fresh with dew, 
 And every heart beat strong and true; 
 And every hand be quick to save 
 From harm this kingdom of the brave ! 
 
 THE OLD FOLKS TALK IT OVER. 
 
 1WENT around this morning, John, to see your " model " 
 church, 
 The bell had just stopped tolling as I stepped within the 
 
 porch; 
 
 Up through the massive outer doors, irreverent and gay, 
 Came surging in a giddy throng, as 'twere some gala day. 
 
 The church, itself, was very grand, with broad and showy 
 
 aisle, 
 
 And gilded dome, and turrets high, cathedral like in style; 
 As if had been an effort to astonish heavenly eyes, 
 And bring, for human greatness, down a plaudit from the 
 
 skies ! 
 
 I stood 'awhile in silence, upon humble, waiting feet, 
 Expecting to be welcomed, and invited to a seat; 
 Not up among the highest, John I am not proud, you kno.w, 
 But somewhere near the middle, where the common people go. 
 
!ij4 MUSINGS. 
 
 I thought, by what you told me, John, that these were Chris- 
 tian folk; 
 
 So, quite, in a respectful way, I to the sexton spoke, 
 Informing of my wishes; but, a-glancing at my gown, 
 He said, " perhaps I'd better sit a little farther down." 
 
 I took the fellow's meaning, but, with never thought of guile; 
 With reverent step I made my way up through the middle 
 
 aisle 
 Until I came well toward the front, to one bright cushioned 
 
 pew 
 In which, alone, was Nancy Parr she that was Pettigrew. 
 
 Nancy and me were bosom friends in early days, you know, 
 So, stepping in, I took a seat. What did the creature do 
 But with a sort of frightened look at my old bonnet brown 
 Creep close out to the farther end and leave me there alone. 
 
 At first I felt a little hurt. But then I thought that she 
 That's Nancy and her husband, John, more fortunate than 
 
 we, 
 
 Had much of gold, and many lands to stimulate their pride; 
 And so, to think forgivingly, with humbleness, I tried. 
 
 Yet, since she felt so crowded like, despite the vacant space, 
 I thought that I would rise and seek for some more welcome 
 
 place; 
 
 But, at the moment solemnly, the parson rose to pray, 
 And then to hold the fort, for me was there no other way. 
 
 I sat all through the service, John, a mark for curious eyes 
 As if such interloping were a subject for surprise; 
 As if, because my garments were a little out of style, 
 My presence should be scouted as a something to defile. 
 
 Indeed, did I begin to think that had the Holy One 
 In loosely Mowing garments by Judean maidens spun 
 Have entered, with his fishermen, that modern temple door, 
 They, too, had been invited to the seatings for the poor. 
 
MUSINGS. 155 
 
 II. 
 
 If angels ever laugh, good wife, it surely must be when 
 On silent wings they bend above this world of dying men 
 To find them in a scramble for such baubles as may be 
 Out-thrown along the borders of the everlasting sea; 
 
 With pluming self-importance and amid a pigmy crowd, 
 To fancy earth a-quaking at their mighty step and proud; 
 To write their names " immortal " that upclimb the granite 
 
 scroll, 
 While sharpens well the tooth of time for banquet on the 
 
 whole. 
 
 But what about the doctrine? Was i't founded on the law? 
 Did the teacher, from the testaments, the proper lessons draw ? 
 Was God a God of terror? Did He sit an "awful throne?" 
 Or, full of love and kindness, were the erring yet his own ? 
 
 III. 
 
 To say the truth, his doctrine, John (he spake of it as new), 
 Was much too loose, and easy like, to meet my humble view; 
 I missed that good old-fashioned grip upon the throat of sin, 
 By which our sturdy fathers sought eternal life to win. 
 
 In short, he made too flowery quite the pathway to be trod; 
 Too much about forgiveness, and too little of the rod; 
 The while, I could not help it, John, the question came to me: 
 If, scarcely, be the righteous saved, where shall the sinner be ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 This is a day of progress, wife. The cars go whirling by 
 Where, on the double-saddled nag, went jogging you and I. 
 In all that's worth the living for, these troubled scenes among 
 Than any that our fathers knew, the years are twice as long. 
 
 \Ye used to think that heaven, you know, was far off in the 
 
 sky 
 
 With few to enter at its gate; of hell as very nigh; 
 For so it was our fathers taught. But in this latter day, 
 Reversal comes, with hell afar, and heave.n not far away. 
 
156 MUSINGS. 
 
 Creation finished on a throne outside the blue profound, 
 Our Father sat, from age to age, and watched the wheels go- 
 round, 
 
 With naught to do but listen to the high applauding song 
 Of glory, and hosanna, from the great white-winged throng ! 
 
 To-day we know Him better that He is the tireless one; 
 
 That forever and forever He is marching, moving on; 
 
 With no power that can withhold Him from the conquest over 
 
 ill, 
 Or prevent His love from saving whomsoever that it will. 
 
 Behold ! were not all moulded by our Maker's hand the same?" 
 And was not his own great breath that to each nostril came ? 
 What if, on upward path, a few an earlier goal have won ? 
 The others, though at slower gait, may still be climbing on. 
 
 V. 
 
 All this is very pretty, John, and pleasant to receive; 
 
 But God and truth are still the same, whatever men believe. 
 
 It may be that in doctrine went the ages all astray; 
 That ever was construed the word in quite too serious way; 
 But who is there that knoweth this ? Suppose we go amiss ? 
 Can we afford to take much risk in matters such as this? 
 
 As I came home from church I thought too many years had 
 
 crowned 
 
 The heads of such as you and me, to go prospecting round 
 For pastures full of roses which, however they adorn, 
 For unprotected feet, like ours, may hide some sharpest thorn. 
 
 Besides, when called upon to pass the shining portals through, 
 What matter if, at last, they prove much wider than we knew ? 
 By far the greater recompense shall come to our behoof, 
 If shall be found of room to spare, than if be not enough. 
 
'57 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 ends the scene! Earth's short, sharp strife is o'er: 
 
 To this dark waiting- shore, 
 
 One fateful day, 
 The boatman came, and with his dipping oar 
 
 Bore her away 
 Peace, darling, peace! But thou, O boatman pale-, 
 
 If thou mays't e'er reveal 
 
 Thy journey's end 
 Tell us thy secret: whither dids't thou sail 
 
 With this our friend ? 
 
 For if she lives, and something says 'tis true 
 
 Somewhere beyond the blue, 
 
 Or far, or near, 
 She hath not quite forgotten, this I know, 
 
 Her darlings here; 
 
 And she would send them greeting, it may be, 
 . From o'er the silent sea, 
 
 Their hearts to bless 
 Some cheering word; perchance, would send by thee 
 
 A mother's kiss. 
 
 And we, some loving message back would send, 
 
 Pale boatman by thy hand; 
 
 That she may know 
 How lonely is the little household band 
 
 Left here below. 
 But whither shall we seek her in what land or clime ? 
 
 Alas! by that grim pantomime 
 
 That fits thee well, 
 I read thy answer, boatman: " Land or clime 
 
 I may not tell." 
 
 And yet, sometimes, a fleeting smile I trace 
 Upon thy marble face, 
 As if it were, 
 
158 MUSINGS. 
 
 Despite exterior cold, some pitying grace 
 
 Had nestled there; 
 And, bending low, I strive with hungering ear, 
 
 Some echoing voice to hear, 
 
 From some far shore, 
 That shall dispel this shuddering, craven fear, 
 
 Forevermore. 
 
 In vain 'tis all in vain! I only 
 
 That one by one we ^ 
 
 Boatman, with thee; 
 We know what is but all beyond the no-w 
 
 Is mystery. 
 Well, keep thy secret! I can wait! 
 
 Not far off is the sea; 
 
 And, soon or late, 
 Thy signal sail shall flash the hour that fate 
 
 Shall toll for me. 
 
 And as a child, awearied of its play, 
 
 On some fair summer day, 
 
 Lies down to sleep 
 So, leaving all earth's troubles by the way, 
 
 I,- too, may sleep; 
 Yet shall I wake! and as I reach the strand 
 
 Of that fair promised land 
 
 Across the sea, 
 I have a faith, that one with outstretched hand, 
 
 Will welcome me. 
 
 And with such harvest, as I well can glean 
 From barren field and plain, 
 I'll step ashore; 
 
 And, taking up life's broken thread again, 
 Go on forevermore. 
 
 Forevermore ? Ah, who can comprehend 
 Beginnings without end 
 A stream without a sea ? 
 
MUSINGS. 159 
 
 No matter, it must be, since all things upward tend 
 To immortality. 
 
 The outer ill decays, the inner good survives 
 
 In newer form, maybe, 
 
 Yet still survives. 
 In all things else, God levels. to upbuild shall He 
 
 Except these human lives ? 
 
 Then fare thee well, beloved; where the tall dead grasses 
 
 wave, 
 
 We have given up thy ashes to the silence of the grave; 
 But we know 'twas but thy ashes, that thy spirit, taking 
 
 wing, 
 Found a home of peace and beauty in the kingdom of the 
 
 King. 
 
 Soon the snow-blast of the winter, shall a , fleecy blanket 
 
 spread, 
 
 Setting up its ghostly statues all about thy narrow bed; 
 And again, the timid snowdrop shall precede the coming 
 
 spring, 
 But there's neither snow, or snowdrop, in the kingdom of the 
 
 King. 
 
 Then peace to thee, beloved; and when the years shall ring 
 The knell that brings me knocking at the portals of the 
 
 King, 
 Wilt thou promise, oh, my darling, that with ////;/ who u*ciil 
 
 before, 
 Thou wilt stand for me as voucher at the golden palace door: 
 
 Tell the warder that "A pilgrim, travel-worn and very late, 
 Poor and needy, blind and helpless, knocketh at the outer 
 
 gate; 
 
 Not for merit, or for labor, is there aught for him to claim, 
 Save for love unto his neighbor, (and he says it to his shame); 
 
l6o MUSINGS. 
 
 But the clogs that did outweigh him, doth no longer to him 
 
 cling; 
 All he asketh now is labor in the service of the King." 
 
 And if the gates are opened so that. I may enter in, 
 
 All the past will be as nothing to the life that shall begin; 
 
 Not a life of selfish pleasure; not a life of lazy bliss; 
 
 But a life, except in measure, much the counterpart of this; 
 
 Where each thought for God and duty shall a rich fruition 
 
 bring, 
 As we live, and love forever, in the kingdom of the King. 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE BESIDE THE SEA. 
 
 i. 
 
 0N the banks of the blue Potomac, in the marsh of its 
 sunken shore, 
 The foe was intrenched, while his legions invested the White 
 
 House door. 
 Creeping through crack and crevice on the midnight's 
 
 poisoned breath, 
 The chill and the burning fever went in to the work of death. 
 
 Lo! the hero upon his pallet! a world by his wounded side, 
 Waiting how tearfully waiting a turn in the outward tide; 
 Oh! but the terrible pity that manhood so sweet and grand 
 Should lie in such deadly peril, by the act of so mean a hand! 
 
 Christ! that Thy tender kindness had not warded the ruffian 
 
 ball! 
 God! that Thy "providences" should have suffered this 
 
 " sparrow's fall." 
 
 Nay, but we must not question. Who ruleth so well as He 
 That led in the days of darkness, through another and deeper 
 
 sea ? 
 
MUSINGS. l6l 
 
 II. 
 
 "All quiet along the Potomac," the bulletins daily cry, 
 And daily the quickened pulses to the bulletins give the lie! 
 Daily the courage mounteth the wings of a hopefulness, 
 But to sink with the evening shadows to a deeper yet abyss. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac! save only the careful tread, 
 Of sorrowing ones that followed the path that the hero led; 
 Or the voice of the steed in waiting the suffering one to bear 
 To a region of hope and promise, from the gates of a grim 
 despair. 
 
 III. 
 
 Up from the blue Potomac! Up from its sunken shore, 
 Death, on his phantom' charger rallies his pallid corps; 
 Ho! but the victim fleeth! follow him, Fever and Chill! 
 Follow him, oh malaria, mother of many an ill! 
 
 Down goes the throttle lever! Ready now, clear the track! 
 Wheels of the great world's traffic, stand for the moment 
 
 back! 
 
 Hand on the rein that guideth, steady now, hold with care! 
 When did an iron charger so precious a burthen bear ? 
 
 Wide goes the iron throttle! and with giants quickened 
 
 breath, 
 
 Proclaimeth a stern defiance to the grim pursuer death! 
 '"Let her go!" and the wakened forests have joined in a 
 
 mighty strife, 
 And a mile to the whirling minute is the race for a human 
 
 life! 
 
 On, on, without stop or turning, o'er the farms of " My Mary- 
 land! " 
 
 On, and on to the Susquehanna neck and neck to the waiting 
 strand 
 
 Went the steed and its grim pursuer where, alas! must the 
 struggle be 
 
 Yet renewed for the final triumph, in the Cottage that's by the 
 Sea. 
 
1 62 MUSINGS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 All is quiet along the Potomac; for the bulletin at the gate, 
 With the words of its studied blindness, no more do the people 
 
 wait ; 
 With their shadow upon their portals, and their fear of the yet 
 
 to be, 
 They turn with a yearning vision to the Cottage beside the 
 
 Sea. 
 
 And so, all our great land over, we turn from the wond'rous 
 
 tale 
 Of the race of the iron giant, with the steed of the rider 
 
 pale; 
 And we sigh for our plucky hero; and we pray that there yet 
 
 may be, 
 Victory waiting victory, for him, by the sounding sea. 
 
 Come to him, O ye breezes! with the balm of a thousand 
 
 isles; 
 Temper, O skies, to his weakness, the heat of thy ardent 
 
 smiles; 
 
 Soothe him to rest, Great Ocean! God of the brave and free, 
 Come, with Thy grace of healing, to the Cot that is by the 
 
 Sea. 
 
 V. 
 
 And yet, though we bend in sadness, how, greater than kingly 
 
 crown, 
 Must the love of a loyal people be to him that is stricken 
 
 down! 
 
 To know that for him the forces of science are all in play! 
 That gold is poured out unstinted! that faction is swept away! 
 
 That a nation of fifty millions aye, more, that a world doth 
 
 bend, 
 At the throne of the great Eternal, for a stay of the spoiler's 
 
 hand! 
 And this, for a simple "boatman!" And where doth the 
 
 secret lie ? " 
 And whom shall we count more happy, however, or when he 
 
 die? 
 
MUSINGS. 163 
 
 LOWERING THE STANDARD. 
 
 MUST the church be kept, then, above the world 
 Too high for a common sinner's reach ? 
 Is this the banner that Christ unfurled ? 
 
 Is this the doctrine He bid you preach ? 
 
 Did He bid you stand on some rocky height, 
 
 And hurl your thunders on all below 
 Who see not truth in your partial light, 
 
 Yet who are hungering truth to know ? 
 
 Didst never hear? Oh, saint and priest 
 So free thyselves from the taint of sin 
 
 Didst never hear of that famous feast, 
 
 Where the halt and the blind were taken in ? 
 
 It may be, neighbor, that wondrous light 
 
 Hath blinded thine eye sometimes it will 
 
 To the truth, forever, that martyred Right 
 In humble garb hath upclimbed the hill, 
 
 To be mocked and buffeted by the crowd 
 
 Whose ears are sealed, but whose tongue is free 
 
 To spit contempt from their spirits proud 
 At the son of God that is on the tree! 
 
 Down! Get thee down from thy lofty perch- 
 Down to the level of common men! 
 
 Down to our human hearts, thou church, 
 Nor ban the ninety to save the ten! 
 
 How dost know that thy words are true: 
 
 How dost know but in future time, 
 But to open thy doors to a harnessed few 
 
 Will be held, as it is, but a monstrous crime ? 
 
 Where is that doctrine the fathers held 
 
 The infant roast in the region dire ? 
 Dead! by the progress that hath dispelled 
 
 The literal pit, with its literal fire! 
 
164 MUSINGS. 
 
 Ah, do we not know how some men live 
 
 Whose prayers are lengthy that make pretence ? 
 
 That carefully figure, before they give, 
 
 With profit and loss, the whole expense ? 
 
 And leaving their honesty in their pews 
 
 Go sallying forth upon the street 
 To balance accounts; from honest dues 
 
 Their neighbor to " higgle " and strive to " beat." 
 
 Nay, rny indictment is not for all; 
 
 Grand souls thou hast in thy fold, O church! 
 Who make no boast, yet whose footsteps fall 
 
 With grace and fitness within thy porch: 
 
 Who hold thee not as above the world 
 Too high for a common sinner's reach; 
 
 Yet under the banner that Christ unfurled 
 Hold not to the creed that the bigots teach. 
 
 'WHAT WINS?" 
 
 1. 
 
 But what is the "victory " worth, my friend ? 
 
 Will it profit you thus to chain 
 Your feet to the wheel of ambition, or stand 
 
 At the counter with shackled brain, 
 
 Till the soul cries out with pain ? 
 
 For what is the goal of -this feverish race ? 
 
 Is it wealth that hath wings ? Is it fame ? 
 Lo ! the years go by at a merciless pace, 
 And the toiler hath found but an humble place, 
 
 'Neath a stone, with a chiseled name, 
 That even the sands of the granite gray 
 
 Ere they crumble away 
 
Ml'SINGS. 165 
 
 To-morrow shall tell to forgetfulness ! 
 
 For the curious stranger shall pass that way, 
 
 And question, " What manner of man was he, 
 
 That lieth so low in the tangled grass?" 
 But the neighbors shall answer with sad refrain, 
 " We only know, that with scheming brain, 
 
 And a shriveled soul, 
 
 He stood at the gateway and gathered toll." 
 
 II. 
 Is it not pitiful ? Clinging to earth, 
 
 As if with eternity's hold ! 
 One day in the seven to prate of "new birth," 
 
 And six on our knees to the old 
 
 At the shrine of the Moloch of gold ! 
 One single stray thought for the measureless years, 
 
 And six for this second of time ! 
 As if our dark valley so watered by tears, 
 
 Verged not on a region sublime 
 
 'Neath a fairer and happier clime; 
 Where the nerve must " relax " from its perilous strain, 
 
 And the smile shall unravel the frown; 
 Where the tyrant of thought must unlimber the brain, 
 And the slave of ambition shall sunder the chain, 
 
 That to selfishness held him down. 
 Already the eye that but lately was blurred 
 
 By the folds of Mortality's veil, 
 
 Hath pierced through the gloom, and the bosom is stirred 
 By the whispers of angels that long to be heard 
 
 From their home in the land of the leal. 
 
 Then away with this nightmare of ceaseless toil ! 
 
 This burthen of heart and brain ! 
 This drowning of life in the midnight oil, 
 
 In the headlong race for gain ! 
 For what shall it profit who gaineth the earth, 
 
 And loseth one joy from his soul ? 
 Cast the globe at his feet and what is it worth, 
 
 But to burthen his way to the goal ? 
 
 Twould not pay the old ferryman's toll ! 
 
I 66 MUSINC1S. 
 
 THE CHURCH OUR FATHERS BUILT. 
 
 0NCE within a marble city, where the people, low and still, 
 Slept in sweet and quiet places, all around a village 
 
 hill, 
 Stood a church of plain proportions, weather-beaten, old and 
 
 gray, 
 
 With a quaint and rustic steeple, pointing heavenward, .by the 
 way. 
 
 Little though was there, in seeming, through the six days of 
 
 the week, 
 
 Of its work, or of its mission, in its loneliness, to speak, 
 Yet, upon the holy seventh, to its hospitable door, 
 As unto a hill of refuge came the weary and the poor. 
 
 Unto whom it spake with promise of some region of the 
 
 blest, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at 
 
 rest; 
 With the ever sweet "Our Father" teaching mortals how to 
 
 pray; 
 Or, with grand old Coronation, making glad the Sabbath day. 
 
 Yet, to fail not bounden duty, as it thought, with warning 
 
 breath, 
 
 It reminded of the terrors of impending "second death," 
 To the mercy seat yet pointing, and to One upon the throne, 
 That forever and forever keepeth watch upon His own. 
 
 Thou shalt keep my Sabbath holy thou and all within thy 
 
 gates; 
 There it stood in His handwriting, plain upon the granite 
 
 plates; 
 
 Heeding they the holy mandate, o'er the early morning sod, 
 Went the faithful, asking nothing but the favor of their God: 
 
 Stopping not to carp at Moses or a questioning to raise 
 As to methods of creation, or the number of its days; 
 
MUSINGS. 167 
 
 Knowing" this, and this sufficing from the oak the acorn 
 
 bore, 
 Came, in turn, the oak forever; who is he that knoweth more ? 
 
 Ah! How well do I remember, as the past comes into view, 
 How we sat, imprisoned urchins, in the greeit old fashioned 
 
 pew 
 
 Duty's eye upon the preacher, winged thought upon the hills, 
 With the buttercups and daisies, and the music of the rills. 
 
 "Ninthly," " tenthly," stretched the sermon. Would it never- 
 more be done ? 
 
 Harder grew the polished benches, slower ran the moments 
 on ; 
 
 Still the preacher wove his logic though whatever 'twas about, 
 
 I am sure I cannot tell you, for I could not make it out: 
 
 Only this, perhaps, that, somewhere, something dreadful was 
 in wait, 
 
 For whoever failed to enter at some " straight and narrow 
 gate!" 
 
 Fire and brimstone! death eternal! gnashing teeth and crush- 
 ing woe, 
 
 How the hideous words went seething all my boyish nature 
 through! 
 
 How I wrestled with their meaning, as I thought them o'er and 
 o'er, 
 
 Wond'ring if good, loving fathers cursed their children ever- 
 more. 
 
 Time hath healed the mental anguish, love hath charmed the 
 curse away, 
 
 Yet the tree, so warped and wounded, plainly hath the scar, 
 
 to-day. 
 * # * * 
 
 On, the train of human progress through the valley thunders 
 
 on; 
 Of the church our fathers builded, there remaineth not a 
 
 stone; 
 
1 68 MUSINGS. 
 
 Where the headstone, quaintly graven, hailed the stranger, 
 
 passing by, 
 With the warning note of judgment, lifts a temple to the sky. 
 
 On its floors are costly carpets, in their splendor rich and 
 
 rare 
 Overhead, a thousand torches flash their brightness to the 
 
 air; 
 
 Jewelled cups upon the altar, costly paintings on the wall, 
 Pride of wealth and pride of station, fashion ruling over all. 
 
 Dives sits his velvet cushions, as an oyster, cold and dumb, 
 On the plate his " margins " placing 'gainst the evil days to 
 
 come, . 
 
 Leaving to the well paid pulpit with Jehovah terms to make, 
 Doubtful, after all, hereafter, if he sleep or if he wake. 
 
 Fancy Him, that in the mortal "bore the burden of our sin," 
 Walking 'neath the gorgeous arches would the warder let 
 
 Him in ? 
 Garments old and coarsely woven, to the Rabbi's bending 
 
 low, 
 Preaching, as he goes, His sermon on the mount of long ago! 
 
 " Give to every one that asketh," "Turn the borrower not 
 
 away," 
 ^ Feed the hungry," " Clothe the naked," "Debts unto the 
 
 farthing pay;" 
 "Take no thought about thy raiments; " "Preach my gospel, 
 
 make it free." 
 
 " Give to every one that asketh," " Turn the borrower not 
 
 away," 
 "Pay thy debts, e'en to the farthing," none of these were for 
 
 to-day. 
 " Something about early rising ? " That will do and that is 
 
 tried, 
 With the Marys, for example, at the tomb of the crucified. 
 
MUSINGS. 169 
 
 Bigots are they ? Aye, most likely, bigots in that higher 
 
 sense, 
 
 Which, for holy truth in peril, holdeth life a cheap defence; 
 Yet, in all their worldly dealings, paying justly what is owed, 
 AVheresoe'er their footsteps take them you shall pick them 
 
 from the crowd. 
 
 Take the sneer, oh blatant scoffer] doubt or spurn hope's 
 
 proffered boon, 
 Smite the mountains till they tremble, mock the sun, or bay the 
 
 moon ! 
 
 Yet until the skies shall darken at the shadow of thy frown, 
 Stands the church our fathers builded and ye cannot sneer it 
 
 down. 
 
 " Errors?" Yes, from human standpoint of the mortal, of 
 the earth, 
 
 Yet to whom it bringeth comfort shall we count it little worth? 
 
 Founded on the truth of ages reaching to some bright un- 
 known, 
 
 Stands the church our fathers builded, and ye cannot tear it 
 down. 
 
 CASTLE BUILDING. 
 
 HERE would be a children*' party, so 'twas whispered 
 round one day, 
 And the poet must be present with a something sweet to say. 
 
 But, the hollow tree and leafless, could it fellowship with 
 
 flowers ? 
 Should the evening's closing shadows mingle with the morning 
 
 hours ? 
 
 Snow and frost around me drifting: hand upon the slowing 
 
 rein, 
 Thus I asked the warning pulses, can I be a child again ? 
 
1 70 MUSINGS. 
 
 Then upspake the heart within me, "even till the shadows 
 
 fall, 
 Keep the boyish heart in beating, men are children, after all." 
 
 So I burnish up my pictures, and I dream anew the dream, 
 Of my childhood's pretty castles, somewhere down upon the 
 stream. 
 
 How they lifted in the glory of their turrets to the sky 
 How the gates of pearly splendor flashed their brightness to 
 the eye ! 
 
 With the hopefulness of boyhood, oh how sanguine was the 
 
 dream 
 Of the castles to be builded, somewhere, down upon the 
 
 stream ! 
 
 I would have a mighty vessel, and a mariner would be 
 
 I would bring the spicy treasures from the islands of the sea. 
 
 I would have a pretty palace, and a coachman, and a span- 
 E'en would fill the world with wonder, when I grew to be a 
 man ! 
 
 So I builded and upbuilded, in some evermore to be, 
 Far adown the rapid river that is running to the sea. 
 
 But, my children, I confess it, still, as in my morning dream, 
 I am planning, I am building farther down upon the stream. 
 
 Scarce a stone has yet been planted, more substantial than the 
 
 air: 
 I have sailed no mighty vessels I have found no treasure 
 
 rare; 
 
 E'en the palace, and the servants, and the fame that I would 
 
 get, 
 May be somewhere down the river, but I have not seen them 
 
 yet. 
 
MUSINGS. i 
 
 So I think it fair to tell you, that I've learned upon the way, 
 As a rule, that castle building, in the end will never pay. 
 
 Modest estimates and figures, for some probable to be, 
 
 Is by far the best and safest, for us, children you and me. 
 
 NIGHT ON THE BOULEVARD. 
 
 YTFHE sun is down in the crimson west; 
 A The shadows up from the eastward creep; 
 
 As if with a trouble upon his breast, 
 
 Old ocean sobbeth himself to sleep. 
 
 Phantomlike surges the airy throng 
 
 Through the great pavilions with ebb and flow, 
 Over the lake comes the boatman's song, 
 
 Hither and thither the lanterns glow. 
 
 The children's castles along the strand 
 
 By the evening billows are swept away; 
 
 For the children built but of shifting sand, 
 
 As their fathers built as they build to-day. 
 
 Faces of friends that a passing hour 
 
 Taught me to cherish as souls akin, 
 
 Peep, as it were, through the closing door 
 The closing door of the what hath been. 
 
 " The what hath been ? " Are the by-gones dead ? 
 
 A joy in the soul can the soul forget? 
 Not so. For the good that th' past hath had, 
 
 To-day and to-morrow are living yet, 
 
 In the firmer step; in the better thought; 
 
 In the braver heart of this world of men, 
 The sum of to-morrow were illy wrought, 
 
 With no carrying balance from what hath- been. 
 
172 MUSINGS. 
 
 To-morrow, and out from this summer stream, 
 The pulse and throb of the great hotels, 
 
 We shall turn away and our waving hand 
 Shall answer them back a mute farewell. 
 
 A week, or was it a fortnight since 
 
 Among these pleasures our lot was cast ? 
 
 It mattereth not, for though short or long, 
 The short vacation must end at last 
 
 In the packing trunk, the parting kiss, 
 
 The "write to me darling, forget me not;" 
 
 And the promise, alas! for our carelessness, 
 So easily given, so soon forgot. 
 
 For such is life, as by magic glass 
 
 The pigmy throng on the screen is thrown; 
 We flash into view and as quickly pass 
 
 From sight and into the dim unknown. 
 
 Yet, friends, to-morrow with parting song 
 Though we turn our faces and feet away, 
 
 May the cords of friendship prove so strong 
 As to bring us back on some future day: 
 
 To breathe the balm of this healing air 
 To bathe in the waters of ocean blue; 
 
 From out of the wearying world of care, 
 
 Our hearts to strengthen, our souls renew, 
 
 In the. contemplation of Him that' holds 
 
 The surging waves in his hollow hand 
 
 To dig with our shovels in sands of gold, 
 
 For all that is noble and good and grand. 
 
MUSINGS. . 
 
 NEW YEAR'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 TITHE skies are of a leaden hue. The shiv'ring earth below 
 A Seems waiting, from the burthened air, the sifting of the 
 
 snow. 
 
 The dancers trip the old year out at parlor, rink and hall, 
 While at the kirk a chosen few are praying for them all. 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of twelve. The old steps down and 
 
 out. 
 
 Forth from the portals of the new as to a thing of doubt: 
 I stretch my hand to eighty-five, which enters at the door, 
 And give remembering all it was good bye to eighty-four. 
 
 Change rides upon the rapid hour. The seasons come and 
 
 go, 
 
 There's blooming of the roses, there is drifting of the snow. 
 We plant and sow and bide our time; yet from the springtide 
 
 forth. 
 What man is he that can foretell the harvest of the earth ? 
 
 Yet, furrowed brow, and graying lock, though many years 
 
 unfold, 
 
 What if our life be just as long, despite this "growing old ?" 
 \Vhat if, indeed, somewhere beyond, be taken up the thread 
 Of life, that Time, the weaver, drops in cities of the dead ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Where are the stars, one year ago, that sparkled overhead ? 
 I seek, in vain, for them to-night; have they gone dark and 
 
 dead ? 
 
 Nay; but there is a misty cloud betwixt me and the sky, 
 Which swept away shall reveal their glory to the eye. 
 
 Out from our busy village life this eighteen eighty-five, 
 Full many a cherished friend I miss, no longer yet alive. 
 E'en as I write, the list grows long, until with heart bereft, 
 I mark to nature's rightful claim, how few, how few are left ! 
 
174 MUSINGS. 
 
 Among our honored dead is one, late guardian of our wealth;* 
 Another stood with kindly hand, preserver of our health. \ 
 A third! our calm philosopher to three score years and ten, 
 Each, in his way, fit model for a world of younger men. 
 
 But these had lived allotted time were bending to the snow; 
 To reach, at best, the final goal, they had not far to go. 
 But what of her, the bride betrothed, to consort with the worm 
 Who went from sight that August day, amid the blinding 
 storm ? 
 
 And what upon whose closing grave shone bright September's 
 
 sun, 
 
 Of her|| who vanished out of life that only had begun ? 
 The light of home ! a parent's joy ! the best beloved of all ? 
 Can He who notes not also save the fledgling sparrow's fall ? 
 
 These left their work unfinished. From the dim mysterious 
 
 bourne 
 
 That lies beyond the shadows, will the maidens not return ? 
 Gone, like the stars, behind a cloud, who knoweth but, some 
 
 day, 
 They'll come to us, as come the stars when clears the mists 
 
 away. 
 
 III. 
 
 What of the morrow? From on high the sun's benignant 
 
 forces, 
 
 As from its birth, fall on the earth yet swinging on its courses. 
 Last year, as ever had before, the meadows bloomed as 
 
 queenly; 
 The crops grew well; and for the flocks the hills loomed up 
 
 as greenly; 
 
 *Joseph Arnold died April 2ist, 1884. 
 f Dr. Ambrose Beardsley died Oct 3Oth, 1884. 
 ^Stephen N. Somers died Dec. 24th, 1884. 
 Carrie Smith Sprague died Aug. 28th, 1884. 
 ||Ina Gertrude Peck died Sept. 5th, 1884. 
 
MUSINGS. 175 
 
 Yet, on the streets, strong, hardy men, the toiler's wage 
 demanding 
 
 To purchase bread, with empty hand, in hungry ranks are 
 standing. 
 
 What if we pray "God help the poor!" though proper quite 
 to pray it, 
 
 For hungry mouths, a peck of meal would many times out- 
 weigh it; 
 
 In yonder city on the hill, a mound but late uprounding, 
 Contains her dust whose helpful hand was evermore abound- 
 ing* 
 
 In deeds of mercy to the poor; so that, when all was ended, 
 Upon her grave great loving tears in copious showers descended. 
 
 Go ask the poor that she called hers, if any be that doubt it, 
 With grateful lip and sorrowing heart they'll tell you all 
 
 about it: 
 
 Of all the clouds she silver lined, of burdens made the lighter, 
 Of children from her bounty fed, of hearthstones made the 
 
 brighter ! 
 
 Not far away, upon the hill, the pauper dust is sleeping 
 Of whom in life, with greedy hand, but gathered for the keep- 
 ing; 
 
 A sturdy worshiper of gold, sharp, shrewd and stony-hearted 
 Who made rejoicing that he lived, or wept when he departed ? 
 
 The cold, white slab, with quoted line, his best to make the 
 
 most of; 
 The rounding sod, the shroud, the worm what else has he to 
 
 boast of? 
 "Go to!" He said, " death endeth all!" so took his stingy 
 
 rations, 
 And lived for self and worldly gain, and died for his relations. 
 
 *Mary Jane Shelton died Dec. 28th, 1884. 
 
176 MUSINGS. 
 
 Death ends not all; but, if it did, which had the truest living? 
 The miser? or, with loving hand who gathered but for giving ? 
 Who answered well the- cynic sneer about that gentle charity, 
 Whose left hand knoweth not its right, the sweeter for its 
 rarity. 
 
 The clock strikes twelve, the year goes out with all its check- 
 ered story, 
 
 Wind-fallen fruit, and broken toys, yet here and there a glory 
 Among the noblest, best of which was this true-hearted woman, 
 Who showed the world how much of God may dwell within 
 , the human ! 
 
 SAD MOMENTS. 
 
 YES, there are moments when this life 
 Looks dark to us and dreary; 
 When with its toil, turmoil and strife, 
 Its darkened paths with sorrow rife, 
 The stoutest heart grows weary. 
 
 Seen through despondency's magic lens, 
 
 Each hillock grows a mountain; 
 But throw aside the glass, and then, 
 We boldly onward march, like men, 
 Each obstacle surmounting. 
 
 For after all, 'tis not so ill 
 
 This world as some would make it 
 Though whatsoe'er its cup may fill, 
 Its average joy must, largely, still 
 
 Depend on how we take it. 
 
 Who looketh o'er the frowning brink 
 And trembles at the danger 
 
 Which lies below, his wayward feet 
 
 Are apt to turn the ill to meet 
 
 That else had been a stranger. 
 
MUSINGS. 177 
 
 Who skyward turns his steady face, 
 
 To right or left unswerving, 
 May safely run his daily race, 
 Unmindful of each dang'rous place, 
 That else had been unnerving. 
 
 Full half the burdens that we bear 
 
 Are children of foreboding; 
 Dark forms of grim, unreal care, 
 Crowd in upon the mental air, 
 
 Our very hearts corroding. 
 
 E'en when around us wrapped we find 
 
 The clouds of real sorrow, 
 'Twill help us little to repine; 
 Far wiser we, to leave behind 
 
 The past, and trust the morrow. 
 
 THE YET TO BE. 
 
 WHAT, for me, hath proud ambition ? I have not the 
 soaring wings 
 That can mount the high empyrean and consort with mighty 
 
 things: 
 
 Of the earth, I am but earthly; yet, forevermore to me, 
 There is something calling, calling as of something yet to be. 
 
 Deep within my inmost spirit there are voices, sweet and 
 
 clear, 
 That at times come singing, singing of some glory that is 
 
 near; 
 
 And my soul, as in a rapture, catches up the hopeful glee, 
 And goes onward calling, calling for that something yet to be. 
 
 What it is or whither leading up or down the steep incline, 
 Till it comes I cannot tell you, for the secret is not mine: 
 
178 MUSINGS. 
 
 Yet the voices, still the voices, for that glory to begin, 
 Evermore are calling, calling from without and from within. 
 
 I have sat beneath the splendor of the starlit evening sky, 
 With my soul absorbed in wonder at the majesty on high! 
 Though I could not find expression for the thoughts that in. 
 
 me lay, 
 Yet the stars seem calling, calling as if something they would 
 
 say. 
 
 I have stood beside old ocean, where his landward billows 
 
 rolled, 
 At the sunset, from the westward, through a gateway as of 
 
 gold, 
 
 And have heard the mighty voices of his never silent waves, 
 To my spirit calling, calling from his caverns and his caves. 
 
 I have seen the tiny snowdrop pushing upward from below, 
 Pale and breathless, yet courageous, through its prison house 
 
 of snow; 
 Though I failed of comprehending, what its message then 
 
 might be, 
 Yet the snowdrop calling, calling, seemed a messenger to me. 
 
 So within my inmost spirit there are voices sweet and clear, 
 That at times come singing, singing of a glory that is near, 
 While a thousand whispered echoes from without and from 
 
 within, 
 Evermore are calling, calling for that glory to begin. 
 
 Thus I read these pleasant voices, " with an aim at lofty 
 
 things," 
 Though them reachest not empyrean, try, at least, thy humble 
 
 wings! " 
 For the snowdrop through the snow-drift, and the starbeam 
 
 and the sea, 
 Evermore are singing, singing of a glory yet to be! 
 
MUSINGS. 179 
 
 LET US PRAY. 
 
 WHAT is prayer but the voicing of weakness, 
 Weakness that comes from consorting with clay? 
 What is faith but a trust that in meekness 
 
 Holdeth to Him that is leading the way? 
 
 The prayer of faith may be strong to the healing 
 
 Of whom that hath faith in the power of the prayer. 
 
 While there is life, then, why stop our appealing ? 
 Who knows the turn of the tide to despair? 
 
 Man is the pleader and God the bestower; 
 
 How shall we know when 'tis sinful to pray ? 
 How can we tell when He closes the door, 
 
 Turning His face from the pleader away? 
 
 Hear that sad voice in Gethsemane's garden; 
 
 The son of the Fat.her is sentenced to die! 
 Doth He not know He must take up His burden! 
 
 Doth He not pray that the "cup " may pass by! 
 
 Who that hath traversed this valley of bleakness, 
 Asking no blessing acknowledging none: 
 
 Boasting a strength that is only a weakness, 
 Shun him as one that 'tis safest to shun. 
 
 Then let us pray with the morning's caresses 
 Pray when the evening o'ershadows the sky 
 
 Pray without ceasing. The answer that blesses, 
 Least when expected may come from on high. 
 
 I have a faith that in regions about us 
 
 Somewhere about us or near or afar, 
 Is a realm that were not quite a heav'n without us, 
 
 To some one belov'd that is waiting us there. 
 
 May it not be that when sorrows "beset us, 
 
 Half-way sometimes we may meet in the air ? 
 
l8o MUSINGS. 
 
 They coming down with a message to greet us, 
 We climbing up on the ladder of prayer ? 
 
 Aye, let us pray with an earnest emotion 
 
 Not by much speaking, for that may betray; 
 
 Pray for the grace of an honest devotion 
 
 To God, and our neighbor, and work as we pray, 
 
 " Pray for Jerusalem." Pray for its glory 
 
 E'en for the land of our love and our pride 
 
 That injustice may cease from the page of its story, 
 For whom hath -the martyr and patriot died. 
 
 Pray for the nations; but, while at devotion. 
 
 Ask of the needs that may lie at our door . 
 
 If the "bread " that is cast to the waves of the ocean, 
 Best were not kept for the heathen ashore. 
 
 Down on thy knees, to the earth, oh, my brother, 
 Plead that who ruleth, forever, will stay 
 
 The hand that for gain warreth men with each other; 
 Then take up the ballot and work as you pray. 
 
 So have I faith though you may not believe it 
 So have I faith, and must cling to it still, 
 
 To the prayer of the heart, unto whom will receive it, 
 A blessing may follow, forever, at will. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 Y 
 
 >OU may take up your pencil and write 
 Until black seemeth white, if you will; 
 But the wrong will be never the right, 
 Though you whiten with all your skill. 
 
 You may hide yourself out from the daylight, 
 And fancy the sun does not shine; 
 
MUSINGS. l8l 
 
 Though he reach not your cobwebs and gray light, 
 Above you his rays are divine. 
 
 Men may gather in solemn convention, 
 
 Vote " nothing new under the sun;" 
 But while they are trying prevention, 
 
 The world has moved grandly on. 
 
 O man ! with a spirit immortal, 
 
 Whose feet through the valleys have trod; 
 
 On the mountain of Truth stands the portal 
 Which opens the city of God. 
 
 GOD IN HIS PROVIDENCE. 
 
 TITHE Y tell me that there is one who numbers each 
 A And every hour that answers prayer 
 That bendeth kindly to His children's call, 
 Nor letteth one poor weakling sparrow fall 
 Without His care. 
 
 I know not, friend, with you if it may be 
 
 Worthy or not a serious thought ! 
 Yet is it true upon an earnest knee 
 That prayer may come, to such as thee and me, 
 With blessings fraught. 
 
 For I have seen, as all indeed may see, 
 
 That everywhere, in earth and air, 
 Sweet, loving influences that there be, 
 Which, as we ask, in some good fair degree, 
 May answer prayer. 
 
 But, should you ask me if, in this to-day, 
 
 That far away yet ever present One 
 Whom men call "God," will as they chance to pray 
 Turn back the midday sun, I only say, 
 " I have not seen it done." 
 
182 MUSINGS. 
 
 Despite our teachings it may yet be true, 
 
 That, after all, earth may be quite too small, 
 To quite absorb Deific thought, or hold 
 The universe-enrapt, while it is rolled 
 Its journey through. 
 
 A comet, from some mighty hand, hath sped 
 
 A thousand years; then reappears 
 To tell us of the vast remoteness where, 
 Amid majestic worlds of beauty rare, 
 Its travels led. 
 
 Shall He that rules such destinies on high, 
 
 With anxious eye, bend lowly down, 
 To learn, perchance, if it be wet or dry- 
 On this to us however great and grand, 
 Small bit of sand ? ' 
 
 What sad calumniating this, that holds 
 
 " For purposes His own " that, from the plain, 
 God doth withhold the cooling, quenching rain, 
 That he may give an hundred sons of toil, 
 To Moloch for a spoil ! 
 
 What logic this that maketh Him descend 
 
 With power almighty to our small events ! 
 Yet, for success, must evermore depend, 
 Upon some "chast'ning " to the proposed end, 
 Of some harsh " providence !" 
 
 " Yes," but you say, that " once, on Sinai's top, 
 
 He did relent ! of evil there repent ! 
 Throw down the sword, and at one pleading prayer 
 The threatened scourge, His guilty children spare !" 
 But, did He stop, 
 
 Or stay His hand, although, unnumbered prayers, 
 
 Thus, heavenward went " God save our President ?' 
 If naught of these prevailed, to future years 
 To save this precious life; if all earth's tears 
 Unheeded fell. 
 
MUSINGS. 183 
 
 What hope have I, though I m$ sorrows tell 
 
 On prayerful knees, to every breeze, 
 For help divine, my troubles to dispel ? . 
 He was a nation's hope ! a people's pride ! 
 And yet he died ! 
 
 Who was it said " Ask, and ye shall receive ?" 
 
 Did we not "ask," e'en to the last ? 
 And in this hour of horror, as we grieve, 
 Have we the " answer " that as some believe 
 Was " for the best ?" 
 
 Who knoweth ? Peace, be still ! Whatever is, 
 In some good sense, may, after all, be right; 
 Yet, for that right, why plead before His throne > 
 If God be Lord, and good, will wrong be done ? 
 Still, let us pray ! 
 
 E'en as the grass prays to the morning skies, 
 
 With tearful eyes, for kissing beams of light; 
 So, let our souls above themselves to rise, 
 Cut loose their moorings, and with upward eyes 
 Face from this night. 
 
 God and the nation lives though heroes die ! 
 
 That Garfield was, all manhood may be glad: 
 Glad, that this soldier who such marches led, 
 Taught me to live to manly purpose high ! 
 Still better, how to die. 
 
 Round his yet open grave, with clasping hand, 
 
 Let us record, O countrymen of mine, 
 This self resolve, henceforth, that truth divine 
 Shall, in the councils of this cherished land, 
 Forever shine ! 
 
 For so, our prayers must evermore be crowned 
 
 From the within. What " sparrow " then may fall, 
 Or here, or there, falls but to that profound, 
 Unswerving law alike that hedges round, 
 And governs all. 
 
184 MUSINGS. 
 
 DEATH THE REVEALER. 
 
 *JTLL the world over are doubters who crowd to a desolate 
 [L shore, 
 
 With the beak in the heart of the raven, and a croak of the 
 " nevermore; " 
 
 Who drink but of dead sea waters of bitter unsavory taste, 
 While the streams from the mountains of azure unheeded are 
 running to waste. 
 
 We talk and we chatter of doctrine; but how, to the child of 
 
 breath, 
 Shall be proved beyond peradventure of a death that is other 
 
 than death ? 
 
 Can we hope that will come to the mountain our God with His 
 
 tablets again, 
 To reveal of the what and the whither, and the why of our 
 
 being explain ? 
 
 It were idle to ask it. Forever, since He spake to His prophets 
 
 of old, 
 His back hath been turned on His people, and His lips have 
 
 been sealed, we are told. 
 
 But what if the scribes are mistaken ? and what, afte,r all, if we 
 
 find 
 That we cavil and grovel and blunder because we are wilfully 
 
 blind ? 
 
 Our world is a world of beginnings, from the weak is the birth 
 
 of the strong; 
 In the seed is a thought of a morrow, as the egg hath the 
 
 germ of a song. 
 
MUSINGS. 185 
 
 And where shall be set up the limit? For progression must ever 
 
 be room: 
 Will the love of our Father desert us the moment we enter the 
 
 tomb ? 
 
 Our fathers have told us a story of chariot wheels that roll 
 On the highways of God, forever, and on to the land of soul; 
 
 And, taking it all as a gospel, we say that our forefathers 
 
 knew, 
 Yet we scourge out of court every witness to prove them as 
 
 true or untrue ! 
 
 Else here might I speak as of knowledge to you that so 
 
 tenderly mourn, 
 For a touch of the hand of the vanished; I might speak of the 
 
 spirit's return 
 
 From the land of eternal living from the land of eternal 
 
 noon; 
 From a realm that is brighter and better than this that we 
 
 call our own; 
 
 With a story of glory and splendor of mountain and valley 
 
 and stream 
 Of castles whose turrets uplifting in the light of eternity 
 
 gleam. 
 
 Though they thrill not the air yet the voices of millions on 
 
 millions untold, 
 Proclaim of a grave that is conquered, of a stone from the 
 
 tomb that is rolled. 
 
 What, then, with such promise before us, for our three score 
 
 of years and ten, 
 If we wrestle for gold and we struggle and strive with our 
 
 fellow men ? 
 
 What then shall it profit, I pray you, when 'tis whispered about 
 
 "he is dead," 
 If our worldly possessions have dwindled to a mound and a 
 
 stone at the head ? 
 
l86 MUSINGS. 
 
 It may be that my faith is ill founded, that the gates of 
 
 mortality swing 
 At the last into shadows eternal, where death is forever the 
 
 king; 
 
 But, if so, then I pray you to tell me, from whence are the 
 
 voices I hear, 
 As if breaking their way through the silence from a land of 
 
 the living anear ? 
 
 " Sorrtehow," do you say, " undiscovered, some mystery out of 
 
 the sky?" 
 But why should my senses deceive me, and when was a "law" 
 
 but a lie ? 
 
 Oh death! with thy splendid revealments, oh grave! with thy 
 
 shadowed abyss, 
 Why start we in fear at thy presence, or shrink from thy proffer 
 
 of bliss? 
 
 So that shall thy coming be gentle, so that shall be shortened 
 
 the way; 
 Though thy call be to-day or to-morrow, I will ask not reprieve 
 
 or delay. 
 
 FARTHER LIGHT. 
 
 PULPITS do not all the preaching have not all the gospel 
 quite; 
 
 Seek them, and ten thousand fingers point unto some farther 
 light. 
 
 Shut within some lowly cabin, looking toward the setting sun, 
 One might think the world, surrounding, bounded by the 
 horizon: 
 
MUSINGS. 187 
 
 Yet, of truth, beyond the vision underneath some farther 
 
 sky 
 Sunsets turned to morning splendor on the eastern summits 
 
 lie. 
 
 Truth is but a slow revealer. Destiny hath much to do 
 With the heart and its perceptions of the right and of the 
 true. 
 
 For, what will be, must be, surely, whether God be far or near, 
 What we know of Him amounteth little to acquirements here. 
 
 Though we guess at other guesses, of the things we think we 
 
 know; 
 Let the bounds for love and mercy measure up the pit of woe. 
 
 After all the fact remaineth that who sits upon the throne, 
 Will interpret as He willeth of His own unto His own. 
 
 THE SEALSKIN SACQUE. 
 
 0NCE, upon a morning street, 
 Very pretty, very sweet, 
 Now and then, with arching eyebrow, o'er her shoulder looking 
 
 back, 
 
 With a critic eye alert, 
 For the trailing of her skirt, 
 I saw a little lady in a sealskin sacque. 
 
 Up the Sunday morning street, 
 
 Tripped her little busy feet, 
 All the swifter little maidens, in their passing, looking back, 
 
 With a tossing of the head, 
 
 As if plainly they had said, 
 Don't she think that she is "stunning" in that sealskin sacque? 
 
1 88 MUSINGS. 
 
 At the ready, open porch 
 
 Of a fashionable church, 
 Soon she entered and, by favor of the sexton at her back, 
 
 From a favored point of view, 
 
 Just to see what she would do, 
 I watched this little lady in the sealskin sacque. 
 
 To the litany and creed, 
 
 To the decalogue, indeed 
 Unto all did she responsive and so reverent answer back, 
 
 That, to give the credit due, 
 
 I confess it here to you, 
 Nothing- wrong could I discover in that sealskin sacque. 
 
 E'en so far, without a doubt, 
 
 Was she fervent and devout, 
 
 That I questioned what essential of the Christian could she 
 lack? 
 
 For there were, as well I knew, 
 
 Cynics not indeed a few 
 That would scout all such pretensions in a sealskin sacque; 
 
 Closely figuring the cost 
 
 That would count you but as lost, 
 All beyond the plain essentials that are worn upon the back; 
 
 To simplicity inclined, 
 
 That are pretty sure to find, 
 Some lurking little demon in a sealskin sacque. 
 
 And it cannot be denied 
 
 That the tendency of pride, 
 That which puffeth up unduly the clod above the clod, 
 
 Is to handicap the soul 
 
 In its journey to the goal, 
 And to hedge with many dangers the pathway that is trod. 
 
 Wherewithal that ye be clad, 
 Take no thought, was it not said, 
 By who spake as never mortal spake, some centuries aback ?' 
 
MUSINGS. 189 
 
 Lost upon a dreary wold, 
 Would the shepherd of the fold, 
 Know a lambkin from a goatling in a sealskin sacque ? 
 
 So I questioned. But I thought 
 
 Of that other doctrine taught 
 
 " By their fruitage ye shall know them," set me moralizing 
 there; 
 
 And I said where is the harm ? 
 
 If the heart be true and warm, 
 Is an angel less an angel for the garments it may wear ! 
 
 Up a long and narrow stair, 
 
 In the dim and dismal air 
 Of an attic, from the chapel but a block or two away; 
 
 Shiv'ring in the bitter cold 
 
 Young in years yet very old 
 Sick and starving, on a pallet a little maiden lay. 
 
 " God have mercy! ' so she cried, 
 
 '* Christ have mercy! " Open wide 
 From the threshold, on its hinges swing the attic door aback, 
 
 While from out the outer air, 
 
 Came in answer to the prayer 
 Closely veiled, our little maiden of the sealskin sacque. 
 
 And I saw it proven there, 
 
 That the garments we may wear, 
 Of themselves cannot impede us in our journey to the goal, 
 
 If be kept our worldly pride 
 
 All upon the outer side, 
 
 And the " sealskin " of our vaunting be not worn upon the 
 soul. 
 
IQO MUSINGS. 
 
 THE OLD TOWN CLOCK. 
 
 nNMOVED and calm 'mid the tempests shock, 
 On the village hill is the old town clock, 
 Its great round face looking kindly down, 
 Through the silent hours on the sleeping town 
 
 Tick, tick, tick, tick, 
 Watching and guarding the sleeping town. 
 
 Many and many an hour have I lain, 
 
 Over and over and over again, 
 
 Counting the strokes that have told the hour 
 
 That hath been, is not, and shall be no more 
 
 One, two, three, four 
 That was, is not, and shall be no more. 
 
 Right, left, as the pendulum swings, 
 The christening bell from the steeple rings; 
 Left, right, and the funeral chime 
 Hath rounded a cycle of Father Time- 
 Tick, tick, tick, tick, 
 Hath rounded a cycle of Father Time. 
 
 Who is there that doth comprehend 
 
 The moment that cometh to bring the end ? 
 
 We buy and sell, and we sow and reap, 
 
 And the pendulum swingeth to sleep to sleep! 
 
 One, two, three, four 
 The pendulum swings to the nevermore. 
 
 And yet, and yet though indeed we stand 
 On the shining verge of some border land, 
 Where gold is worthless to purchase peace, 
 This one refrain findeth no surcease 
 
 Silver and gold gold, gold, 
 Till the clock runs down, till the clay is cold 
 
MUSINGS. 191 
 
 It is all a mistake, poor child of breath, 
 To walk the aisles of this court of death, 
 As if could never an ending chime 
 Re-echo for thee from the clock of time 
 
 One, two, three, four 
 With steady beat from the clock of time. 
 
 Pray, who is this with a kingly crown, 
 A courtly train and a haughty frown ? 
 And who is this with her gems aglow 
 Like drops of sweat from another's brow ? 
 
 Tick, tick, one, two, 
 And where is the king and the beauty now ? 
 
 Mock, spurn as you may the " plebeian crowd "- 
 The lowly of earth, oh, mortal proud! 
 Gather thy skirts lest they be defiled 
 By the pleading touch of some beggar child; 
 
 Tick, tick, three, four 
 And the beggar child is thy peer, and more. 
 
 Up, up with your babel! yet, building high, 
 The waters will cover it, bye and bye, 
 When you, and I, with no gathered store, 
 Shall be like the beggar, and quite as poor: 
 
 One, two, three, four 
 When the clock runs down, shall be quit.e as poor. 
 
 AT HIGH ROCK. 
 
 0H yes, they have told you, my beautiful one, 
 Of the " mountains of life " and the " morning sun: 
 But, child, did they speak of the beautiful earth- 
 As something that came of a nobler birth, 
 Than the chance of atoms of princely worth 
 As the cradle of life for the farther on ? 
 
192 MUSINGS. 
 
 It is well to talk of the " golden gate "- 
 Of its world within and its high estate; 
 But it never will do to uplift the eye 
 With unbending gaze to the over-sky 
 Unmindful of what may be nearer by 
 Lest we trample some glory beneath our feet. 
 
 In the tenderest blade of the greening sod 
 Is an upward growth, that, if not of God, 
 Is a something, indeed, that would seem akin 
 From the wond'rous power that is hid within, 
 The bloom of the lily and rose to win, 
 From the quickened earth of the lowly sod. 
 
 The lamb may sport in the fields, aglee, 
 From morning to night, but what knows he 
 Of the gem he crops in the grass and flower ? 
 When the fold is gained, and the day is o'er, 
 What joy hath he in the twilight hour ? 
 So his slumber deepens what careth he ? 
 
 But in thee, my child, is a spark divine 
 A something of life that is thee, not thine : 
 Clay hath no soul, but the soul hath clay 
 That the current of years shall dissolve away 
 Like the fading of night that reveals the day. 
 So, back of Nature, is that which tells 
 Of the spirit of growth in the world that dwells: 
 That through the years hath in grandeur trod 
 From the lower plane to the upward good 
 From the crude to the perfect the spirit of God. 
 
 And so I said to the little men, 
 
 And the little women that thronged the glen; 
 
 " Ye have sailed the lake and among the trees 
 
 Have swung, and swarmed, like the swarming bees,- 
 
 But to miss, perhaps, what is better than these 
 
MUSINGS. 193 
 
 E'en th' precious gems that adorn the sod, 
 As the signet hand of the living. God, 
 Who, writing his name upon all below 
 The rocks, and hills, and the vallies too, 
 Would have us to read, and to surely know, 
 That He is God. 
 
 For so, my child, hath been writ in stones, 
 Great themes of life who may read that runs: 
 Put off thine shoes, e'en thine shoes of clay, 
 And bowed to dust, at the altar pray 
 For the God of grace to illume the way, 
 So that, as climbing against the sky, 
 Uplifts the veil from the bye and bye, 
 Upon the mountains of wond'rous light, 
 Shall echo thy gladness from height to height, 
 With ever a morning, but never a night. 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 WIFT from the bow the poisoned arrow sped 
 That laid the young lad low, 
 W r here summer grasses grow 
 And careful feet the silent acres tread, 
 Among the dead. 
 
 " The dead ?" Not so however it may seem 
 
 To hearts that break; 
 
 Our lost ones, full awake, 
 Are living on; or, life is but a dream 
 
 A cruel dream. 
 
 " Yes, 'tis our faith. I grant it all, my friend 
 
 I hear the mourner say 
 
 "And yet with him away 
 And where ? My feet must travel to the end 
 
 The bitter end." 
 
194 MUSINGS. 
 
 Peace, troubled soul ! No empty words I speak 
 
 Of wise, cold mystery, 
 
 Of courteous sympathy 
 At fashion's dictate, or for custom's sake 
 
 To such as thee. 
 
 Such words were mockeries. Yet, do I say to thee 
 
 That, when death came to mine, 
 
 From some sweet lip divine 
 This promise carne ofttimes fulfilled to me 
 
 That sometime, from the sea, 
 
 The lost would come to me. 
 
 THIS HERO OF OURS. 
 
 TfLONG through the vallies and out from the dells, 
 f-L Is throbbing the pulse of the requiem bells. 
 
 A nation, bereaved, bends a sorrowful head 
 O'er the tenantless dust of its mightiest dead. 
 
 A chariot moves with burthen and slow, 
 
 To the notes of the drumbeat and muffled and low. 
 
 The cannon's " good bye " sounds from height unto height, 
 And the bugle rings out with the soldier's good night. 
 
 The pageant is ended. The tomb hath been sealed, 
 And death as the victor is holding the field. 
 
 It is well that we pause in the whirl of our lives, 
 To measure the force of the current that drives 
 Our ship on its course, to the left or the right, 
 Like as one without compass yet cleaving the night: 
 
MUSINGS. 195 
 
 To weigh in the balance and judge of their worth, 
 
 By the standard of truth, of the treasures of earth: 
 
 The gold of ambition, that, tried in the flame, 
 
 Leaves only, perchance, but the dross of a shame; 
 
 The diamonds of grandeur, the silver of pride, 
 
 What value, I pray, to the men that have died ? 
 
 Their robes were of purple, it may be, and proud, 
 
 But they laid them all down when they took up the shroud. 
 
 The once mighty dust that, to-day, at the head 
 Of an army moves on to the realms of the dead, 
 Is defeated at last. Its battles are through: 
 All of earth that it claims measures six feet by two. 
 
 Yet cities contend for the place of its grave 
 This valueless dust of our leader so brave; 
 And they promise of granite upreaching the sky, 
 To mark the proud earth where the ashes may lie. 
 
 But the granite shall crumble, forgetfulness claim 
 The tomb and its ashes it may be their name; 
 Yet the deeds shall live on, ever blessing our shores, 
 Of the soul that indwelt them, this hero of ours. 
 
 To-day, but a toiler for scantiest bread 
 Strange was the path that his destiny led; 
 To-morrow, the sword of his country he swings, 
 And straightway we find him the equal of Kings. 
 
 Where was the secret ? Pray tell, if you can, 
 Other than this that God made him a man: 
 That never was found in his soldierly breast, 
 A place for a meanness to rankle or rest. 
 
 Proud as a victor though often he rode, 
 Still for the vanquished his sympathy flowed; 
 Never an arrow, that well could be spared, 
 Stung with its sharpness a breast that was bared. 
 
[96 MUSINGS. 
 
 Never unkindness was laid at the doors 
 Of this man of our Manhood this hero of ours. 
 Gather about him, the blue and the gray 
 Gather about him this sorrowful day. 
 
 Land of the cotton, the orange and pine, 
 Never at heart but a lover of thine; 
 Into his tomb, as the ashes descend, 
 Reach out the hand as of brother and friend. 
 
 I would not o'erpraise him, yet tell me, I pray, 
 Of one that is found on the page of to-day, 
 For grip on the right that knew not of defeat, 
 With place more secure with the good and the great. 
 
 With Lincoln, who saved what the fathers had won; 
 With Stanton, who slept not till duty was done; 
 With Washington e'en, on mortality's shores 
 As a Saviour of men stands this hero of ours. 
 
 THE TEST FORTRUE LIVING. 
 
 BY the taste of the grape we must judge of the vine. 
 Or lowly it groweth, or tall; 
 And so with our ethics, friend, yours or mine, 
 By their sweetness, they stand or fall. 
 
 A Sabbath day service may serve you an end, 
 
 As a step in the ladder to heaven; 
 But you never will mount very high, my friend, 
 
 With but one good round in seven. 
 
 It is "steady and true" that ennobles the man 
 
 That upbuildeth the temple to-day; 
 And all may do something to further the plan, 
 
 Though each works in a different way. 
 
 So, let us not quarrel about the road, 
 
 None see quite around the bend! 
 Each in his own way, let us live to the good, 
 
 For "gude living will make a gude end." 
 
MUSINGS. 197 
 
 THE SILK-WORM AND GLOW-WORM. 
 
 0NCE an unpretending silk-worm on a leafy hurdle lay, 
 When a gaudy little glow-worm chanced to pass along 
 that way. 
 
 "Neighbor," said the haughty beauty, " surely I could never 
 
 see, 
 Why so very plain a creature should be suffered here to be. 
 
 " While upon that leafy hurdle you are hidden from the sight, 
 I am out among the grasses adding beauty to the night. 
 
 "All you seem to have to think of is to breakfast or to dine; 
 I am thinking but of glory and am living but to shine." 
 
 With the dawn the silk-worm wakened and she gave the world 
 
 a boon, 
 In the winding sheet about her, in her wonderful cocoon. 
 
 And she sat within the palace and she fluttered on the throne. 
 In the little shining threadlet of her wonderful cocoon. 
 
 But the glow-worm's boasted glory made him all the surer 
 
 mark 
 For the night bird while his neighbor lay in safety in the 
 
 dark, 
 
 Unpretending, yet applauded by the world of living men; 
 While the glow-worm left behind him naught to tell that he 
 had been. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Feathered plumes and flashing jewels may be counted very 
 
 nice, 
 Yet for what of joy they give us we may pay too great a price. 
 
 Evermore let us be careful how we taunt the very least, 
 Lest the little one derided walk before us to the feast. 
 
198 MUSINGS. 
 
 JAKE AND JOE. 
 
 r\UAINT little fellows were my Jake and Joe, 
 
 \J Speaking sometimes much wiser than they knew 
 
 Of things that were, or things that ought to be; 
 As if, some spirit, wiser, whispered through 
 
 The thin wrought veil of childhood unto me. 
 
 One evening at my feet while sitting low, 
 
 As with one voice, up spake this Jake and Joe, 
 
 "A story, please! and, papa, let it be 
 One real true." Old stories should be true, 
 
 And so I took the oldest that I knew. 
 
 Said I, a father once so loved his child 
 That he fenced in a garden from the wild 
 
 And gave it him, together with a wife, 
 Whom soon, it seems, a talking snake beguiled, 
 
 Into a raid upon the "tree of life," 
 
 Which was forbade, though all the rest were free; 
 And yet the wicked pair this very tree 
 
 Conspired to rob, by which they fell disgraced 
 From high estate! Since when as all agree, 
 
 Sin, "in the belly," hath a bitter taste. 
 
 They say, moreover, that e'en from the first 
 .This father knew his children were accursed, 
 
 If e'er the serpent crept within the gate; 
 Yet, that he left the creature to its worst, 
 
 Content to warn the sinner of his fate! 
 
 They say, but here broke in my little Jake, 
 "What for they, papa, didn't kill the snake?" 
 
 "What for he let him in at all ?" said Joe, 
 "If he did not know what trouble he would make?" 
 
 Children, said I, be still! I do not know. 
 
MUSINGS. 199 
 
 They say that when this loving father saw 
 The sad condition of his broken law, 
 
 Hot indignation fired his holy wrath; 
 So from its scabbard, quick the sabre flew 
 
 That sent the sinner to eternal death! 
 
 They say, however, that four thousand years 
 Within ii pit of wailing and of tears, 
 
 So moved upon his loving soul, that he 
 Promised to save, henceforth, who might agree 
 
 That he himself had died upon a tree. 
 
 They say, but here upspake our little Jake, 
 " If he let in the mischief-making snake," 
 
 ("And let him bite his chilluns, too," said Joe,) 
 "Why didn't he die for all! " " For goodness sake," 
 
 Said I, " Be still! I'm sure, I do not know." 
 
 They say that, somewhere on this Father's farm 
 Was dug a pit, where by his righteous arm 
 
 To quenchless fire were cast the wicked two, 
 To burn forever! Up spoke our little Joe, 
 
 " Me don't beleib such stuff as that, do you ?" 
 
 " The soul that sinneth, it shall surely die! " 
 There was the record not to teach a lie, 
 What could I say to little Jake and Joe ? 
 Back up the story of the pit of woe, 
 And horror chill their loving hearts? Well, no. 
 
 I changed the subject. Said I, they "say," 
 That once to earth upon a Christmas day 
 A child came that in a manger lay, 
 To whom their incense did the angels bring, 
 While lowly bending as before a king. 
 
 And, furthermore, this little child, they say, 
 In after years did stand beside the way, 
 In meekness clad, all humankind to bless, 
 With only words of peace and tenderness; 
 And yet, 'tis said,' they nailed Him to the cross, 
 
30 MUSINGS. 
 
 To bear alone the burthen of the loss, 
 And, by His blood, sure reparation make 
 To offended justice. Up spake our little Jake, 
 " If me do wrong and you whip brudder Joe, 
 Is me all right ?" What could I say or do ? 
 
 I gave it up. No use, I plainly saw, 
 
 To talk about the justice of a law 
 
 That bans the many and redeems the few 
 
 To [ake and Joe, and so at once I said, 
 
 " Mamma, we'll put these little ones to bed." 
 
 Where, bending o'er them, in each chubby face 
 
 I sought in vain the "reprobate " to trace, 
 
 Whose "skulls" of old did "pave" the nether place! 
 
 And then bethought me of the words of Joe, 
 
 " I don't beleib such stuff as that, do you ?" 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 TT7HERE is no death. The twinkle of an eye 
 A And we are clothed with immortality ! 
 A moment and from waiting have we passed, 
 Into life's inner chamber as a guest, 
 Ourselves the same in all that was before, 
 Save but the garments that our spirits wore: 
 The memoried past, ambition's lofty aim, 
 Love's friendships, joys forevermore the same. 
 And men risk life for some poor sordid bliss, 
 Yet listless sit before a fact like this ! 
 Alas, indeed, that should such tidings fall 
 On stony ears ! That earth should be our all, 
 When, if we would, might to our opened eyes 
 Be seen the hosts descending from the skies, 
 And to our doors, on loving mission sent, 
 As came the strangers to old Abram's tent: 
 The loving hosts, the vanished of our own, 
 That walk the earth and hunger to be known. 
 
MUSINGS. 201 
 
 WELL DONE. 
 
 IT is not enough that you pay in gold 
 For his work what you may afford, 
 Yet, from the toiler, the grace withold 
 Of a Idndly and cheering word. 
 
 He hath labored long and with honest zeal, 
 
 To serve you, as best he could: 
 Hath guided the chisel, or forged the steel 
 
 In danger hath bravely stood! 
 
 The years run on, and he still may toil 
 
 At the forge, or at your command 
 May coax the fruits from a grudging soil, 
 
 By the sweep of his sturdy hand. 
 
 But his toil were sweeter, if could he know 
 That, when should the task be done, 
 
 Some kindly word there might be to show 
 That success had been fairly won. 
 
 There is many a spirit too proudly strung 
 
 To ask for the merit all its own, 
 That would roll as a morsel, sweet, under the tongue 
 
 This verdict of love, " Well Done." 
 
 THE GREAT TO-DAY. 
 
 TTTHROUGH tortuous ways and o'er some rocky bed 
 A The mountain stream is led; 
 
 A moment more, and straightway on it grows 
 Where meadow grass and scented clover grows, 
 Blessing and brightening as it goes. 
 
)2 MUSINGS. 
 
 Upon the hills some majesty hath trod; 
 
 We mark the footsteps, and we say that God 
 
 Another name for truth 
 With His great wand of fruitfulness and growth, 
 
 Hath touched the sod. 
 
 So life's great tide sweeps on. The world grows old.. 
 
 Yet, as the years unfold, 
 
 Is caught fresh glimpses, by the traveled way, 
 Of something better for the great to-day, 
 
 Than could be claimed for yesterday. 
 
 So, what were yester but the wild hedge rose, 
 
 To-day its fragrance throws, 
 
 From queenly lip that scarce would deign to own, 
 The humble presence that it hath outgrown, 
 
 As once its own. 
 
 I have no fellowship with those who vaunt 
 
 The buried past, or chant 
 The rotten hulks of venerable time 
 Their clinging barnacles and covering grime, 
 
 As things sublime. 
 
 Praise though we may the conquerors of old 
 
 In chants that rolled 
 
 Through great red seas of conquest and of blood, 
 Truth points to-day to better men that stood 
 
 For God and brotherhood. 
 
 Here is a piece of pottery: perchance a vase, 
 
 Some relic of a race 
 
 That lived and died. You tell me of its worth 
 In yellow gold! But, of a later birth, 
 
 Are grander things of earth. 
 
 Things that no far off future shall exhume, 
 
 From half forgotten tomb, 
 And brushing off millennial dust shall say, 
 Here is a glory from but yesterday, 
 
 That cannot pass away. 
 
FIVE WORDS ONLY. 
 
 TUST a faded bit of paper, 
 J Cut to fancy figures round; 
 Here a dove, and there a cupid, 
 Resting on a yellow ground. 
 
 In the centre there's a picture 
 Of whom angels might adore; 
 
 Underneath, a simple sonnet 
 Only this, and nothing more. 
 
 " Nothing more?" Beyond comparing, 
 More, and better this, lang syne, 
 
 Written, and by loving fingers, 
 "I will be thy valentine." 
 
 Five words only ! Yet their promise, 
 Covering all these after years 
 
 Brought the wooing brought the mating- 
 Never sorrow, never tears. 
 
 Yesterday, somebody's daughter 
 Brought to me, of rare design, 
 
 What had once been thought a marvel, 
 Saying, " "Tis my valentine !" 
 
 But to me, this faded paper, 
 Treasured from the long ago, 
 
 Is by far more full of beauty, 
 Else I would not love it so. 
 
2O4 FANCIES. 
 
 Five words only ! Ah, my darling, 
 It is but a simple line; 
 
 Yet how much was in that promTise, 
 " I will be thy valentine !" 
 
 BABY BELLE. 
 
 DOWN from the gardens of love, one day, 
 Into a cottage a cherub strayed- 
 Sweet as the dew on the morning spray 
 By the breezes swayed. 
 
 Eyes that were blue as the violets bloom, 
 
 Cheeks that were pure as the lily, and white 
 Lips like the rose to the cottager's room, 
 Like a star in the night. 
 
 What say the destinies? Baby, thine hand! 
 
 Whither do lines of thy destiny lead ? 
 Is there no charm from the mystical land 
 To help me to read ? 
 
 Hold! were it wisdom to question of fate? 
 
 Raiment the whitest may soil in the grime- 
 To know might be sorrow; better to wait 
 The revealments of time. 
 
 Yet shall the light of thine innocent face, 
 Shine down upon me, whatever befall, 
 As a fullest revealment of beauty and grace 
 From memory's wall. 
 
 For I am persuaded that nothing is lost; 
 
 Joy will repeat myself, beauty will bless. 
 If we ask, "will such blessings repay us their cost ?' 
 Love answereth, "yes." 
 
FANCIES. 205 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 IT is autumn; I know by the leaflets, 
 Yellow, and crimson, and browned, 
 Which slowly and sadly are falling 
 In mournful profusion around 
 Low whispering their stories of sadness, 
 While softly they carpet the ground. 
 
 The rose and the myrtle have perished, 
 And round me lie scentless and dead, 
 And the warblers, whose carol I cherished, 
 From forest and bower have fled, 
 Like friends of life's sunshine who leave us 
 When darkness our skies overspread. 
 
 It is autumn; I know by the breezes 
 
 Which gently, and balmy and bland, 
 
 Now sigh through the branches deserted, 
 
 Of forest trees, olden and grand; 
 
 By the fruit and the corn heaps which cluster 
 
 Around at the farmer's command. 
 
 The moor cocks are hastily winging, 
 
 Alarmed by the starting sound 
 
 Of slaughtering guns, which are bringing 
 
 Their brothers and sires to the ground, 
 
 While the nut-hoarding squirrels are springing, 
 
 And chattering gaily around. 
 
 It is autumn; I know by the sunbeams 
 
 Now falling aslant on the earth; 
 
 By the swollen and leaf-thickened streams, 
 
 And the light of the faggot-hit hearth; 
 
 By the voice of all Nature rejoicing 
 
 In plenty, in feasting and mirth. 
 
206 FANCIES. 
 
 Some say it's a season of sadness, 
 
 That " autumn is sombre and drear," 
 
 But to me it's a season of gladness, 
 
 The one of all others most dear; 
 
 The season of praise and thanksgiving 
 
 For the blessings which crowneth the year. 
 
 Then, oh, when the leaves, sere and yellow 
 Of time, shall my forehead entwine 
 When old age shall have claimed me its fellow, 
 May the " fruits of good living" be mine; 
 And my life's latest breeze be as mellow 
 And balmy, sweet autumn, as thine. 
 
 BARBARA BRAY. 
 
 IN a little low cottage, just over the way, 
 Half-hidden by woodbine, lives Barbara Bray, 
 With a brow that is furrowed, and head that is gray; 
 Full threescore summers have shed their bloom, 
 And threescore winters have brought their gloom, 
 Since first to the light of that little room 
 
 Came Barbara Bray. 
 
 Day unto day, and night unto night, 
 Walking by faith as well as by sight, 
 She seeketh the light, for the sake of the right, 
 Plucking some thorn from the pillow of care; 
 Lifting some burthen not easy to bear; 
 To the cot or the palace no matter where 
 Goeth Barbara Dray. 
 
 A child of God! yet her portion is small 
 
 In the broad estate and paternal hall, 
 
 For the "eldest brother" hath gotten it all! 
 
FANCIES. 207 
 
 And day by day as he rideth by 
 
 In his gilded carriage, she wonders why 
 
 That never he turneth a kindly eye 
 
 On old Barbara Bray. 
 
 Patiently, cheerfully, all the same 
 Turneth the wheel of the ancient dame, 
 Stopping never for 'plaint or blame; 
 What cares she for the sordid dance 
 Of men at the shrine of circumstance ? 
 Gold can never the wealth enchance 
 
 Of old Barbara Bray: 
 
 Wealth, that never can turn to dust, 
 
 Wealth of faith, and a holy trust 
 
 In Him that giveth the daily crust; 
 
 Toiling away in the peaceful light 
 
 That shimmereth down from gates so white, 
 
 Cometh there never unwelcome night 
 
 For old Barbara Bray. 
 
 Little she knoweth of doctrine; indeed, 
 "God and her neighbor " is all of her creed; 
 Short enough, truly, yet large as her need. 
 Dry stalks may be gathered, and tares, it may be, 
 But God is the Lord of the harvest, and He 
 Will pay all His workmen, if faithful they be, 
 Saith old Barbara Bray. 
 
 Strange that she should be toiling alone! 
 Strange, indeed, that there should be none 
 To share in the light of that old hearthstone! 
 Yet one there was, but he went before 
 Through the churchyard gate, and the marble-door; 
 And he waiteth above, on the golden shore, 
 P"or old Barbara Bray. 
 
 Others there were; but they faded away, 
 Some at the dawn, in the twilight gray, 
 And some in the pride of their summer day. 
 
2 o8 FANCIES. 
 
 Yet oft, when the sunset hath lost its bloom, 
 And the shadows take shape in the deepening gloom, 
 Sweet voices come back to that little room, 
 And to Barbara Bray. 
 
 And then, no longer alone, alone, 
 Old Barbara sits by her quaint hearthstone; 
 For the past with its treasures is still her own. 
 She dreams of love, and she talks with her mates; 
 She clasps her darlings and patiently waits 
 For the angel that cometh to open the gates 
 For old Barbara Bray. 
 
 Nor waiteth she long; for already afar 
 Through the gloom of the night, like the glow of a star, 
 Is shining the light of her homeward car. 
 Whirling along o'er the track of the years, 
 Down through the valley of sorrow and tears, 
 Out from the field of the harvest it bears 
 Old Barbara Bray. 
 
 A moment, a breath! and the journey is o'er! 
 Her wheel at the window is seen no more; 
 But the tear-drop shall fall while the lowly and poor 
 I, ay their garlands of love at the friendly door 
 Of old Barbara Bray. 
 
 THE DYING GIRL 
 
 MOTHER, I'm going home; 
 The chill night winds will soon moan o'er the spot 
 Where these frail limbs; but, mother, I 
 Shall hear them not. 
 
 The sweet spring-time will come, 
 With budding trees and flowers all bright and fair, 
 And loving bands shall roam the hills, but I 
 Shall not be there. 
 
FANCIES. 2O9 
 
 "Summer will come and go, 
 And leave the sere grass waving o'er my tomb, 
 And the gentle flow'rs which love may scatter there 
 No more shall bloom. 
 
 But I am going home: 
 
 The wings of waiting angels fan my brow, 
 And pleasant tales they whisper of that land 
 To which I go. 
 
 I hear of lovely vales, 
 
 Through which bright streams of purest waters shine, 
 Where radiant forms, with harps of shining gold, 
 Are keeping time, 
 
 To songs of cherubim 
 And seraphim, which upward ever rise, 
 Like grateful incense to the throne of Him 
 Who rules the skies. 
 
 Oh, it is sweet to go 
 
 From earth thus early in life's blushing morn, 
 To leave untasted and unfelt each woe 
 And bitter thorns. 
 
 Then weep thou not for me, 
 
 For though the form which thou hast held so dear 
 Hath gone and left thee, like a blasted tree, 
 Leafless and sere, 
 
 Yet in that quiet hour, 
 
 When gentle stars look down most lovingly, 
 
 And seem to call the spirit homeward, then 
 
 I'll come to thee, 
 
 And I will clothe thy dreams 
 With the soft splendor of the spirit shore, 
 And whisper thee of lands where sorrow's streams 
 Shall flow no more. 
 
 Mother, my hour hath come; 
 Death creepeth o'er me like a gentle spell; 
 The world recedes; 'tis gone I'm going home; 
 Mother, farewell! 
 
FANCIES. 
 
 THE RIVER OF TIME. 
 
 i. 
 
 I WAS sitting by a river, that was flowing onward, ever, 
 'Neath the green and golden branches of the over-arching 
 
 trees; 
 
 List'ning to the music gushes of the early morning thrushes, 
 In among the alder bushes that were bending to the breeze. 
 
 Curiously I watched the shadows, as they gathered from the 
 meadows, 
 
 And retreated up the mountain, from the undulating vale: 
 
 Half awaking half a dreaming, suddenly there came a gleam- 
 ing 
 
 Out upon the waters, seeming, like the flashing of a sail. 
 
 Ship or phantom? Much I doubted; so with eager voice I 
 
 shouted, 
 " What ho, sailor ! tell me truly, whence and whither do you 
 
 sail?" 
 
 But, as if all question spurning, as of matters unconcerning 
 Mortals merely, unreturning came the answer to my hail. 
 
 As within some grim surrounding, all the hollow air resound- 
 ing, 
 
 Trembles with the mystic voices that are seeming near at hand, 
 
 So an awe upon me stealing, brought a weird, portentous feel- 
 ing, as of 
 
 Ills about revealing that were brooding o'er the land. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sun was darkened and the shadows fell again upon the 
 
 meadows; 
 
 The mountain tops grew heavy, and the moss was on the trees; 
 Cot and palace quickly crumbled; thrones into oblivion 
 
 tumbled 
 E'en the haughtiest castle, humbled, was as dust before the 
 
 breeze; 
 
FANCIES. 211 
 
 Haughty prelates that commanded kings and emperors 
 
 descended 
 
 To the sepulcher, forgotten, with the glamour of their day: 
 Even as unto the mowers fall the grasses and the flowers, 
 So this spirit of the hours levelled all upon his way. 
 
 At his touch the fairest maiden, as the. clover honey-laden, 
 Bended to the staff of weakness, or sat crooning at the hearth; 
 Waved his hand and sculptured glory faded out from human 
 
 story, 
 Or in some tradition hoary kept the secret of its birth. 
 
 Even I that from his quiver as he passed me on the river 
 Caught an arrow that went chilling, thrilling through each 
 
 slowing vein; 
 Found the snow upon me drifting, and the frost around me 
 
 rifting, 
 Till my soul within me lifting, broke the bondage of the chain. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then a change came o'er my dreaming, and I saw the river 
 gleaming 
 
 With the morning that was passing to the brightness of the 
 day; 
 
 Where, but late, were desolations, withered hopes and despolia- 
 tions, 
 
 Time with loving ministrations was upbuilding by the way, 
 
 Higher, better, wider portals for the coming in of mortals, 
 To reunion with the Father at the table of the Son; 
 And, through errors diminution, by the grandest evolution, 
 Making more than restitution for the evil that was done. 
 
 Even more: as down the river, sailing on and on forever, 
 Time revealeth yet more plainly of a something yet before; 
 Though the finite comprehendeth scarcely that which neve 1 " 
 
 endeth, 
 Sure am I the journey tendeth to unfolding evermore. 
 
212 FANCIES. 
 
 For we listen, never vainly, for the voices now that plainly 
 Do foretell us of the grandeur of that pathway to the sea, 
 Where the soul, at length believing, as the end and aim of living 
 Marches on without misgiving to the life that is to be. 
 
 E'en the thinner grown partition that ontbars the work 
 
 elysian 
 From this realm of human shadows, giveth sign of breaking 
 
 down; 
 
 And the lost, the loving hearted, to the fireside long deserted, 
 From the land of the departed cometh back unto their own. 
 
 E'en as 'mong the evening watches oft, my friend, the spiri 
 
 catches 
 Glimpses, 'mong the forming shadows, of some noble presence 
 
 near; 
 From the realm of the supernal comes for thee with love 
 
 paternal, 
 As to me with hand fraternal whom to know was to revere. 
 
 Then, for these of earthly pleasure while I pray that fulles 
 
 measure, 
 Friend of mine, that surely crowneth who t.hat liveth to th< 
 
 truth: 
 Yielding thou in spirit never, may each morning's light for 
 
 ever 
 Find thee sailing on the river of an everlasting youth. 
 
 TH'E MAID OF LINDERMERE. 
 
 LAND-LOCKED, with hills upon every side, 
 And a narrow path to the ocean wide, 
 On a northern coast, in a bygone year, 
 Was the beautiful bay of Lindermere. 
 
 Along the shores, to the left and right, 
 
 Were shoaling rocks with their breakers white, 
 
FANCIES. 213 
 
 Where many a craft, having missed its way, 
 Went clown in the whirl of the ocean spray. 
 
 And so it came that a warning light, 
 Was steadily hung, on a stormy night, 
 From a crag that over the breakers frowned, 
 As a guiding mark for the inward bound. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Upon the shores of the peaceful bay, 
 In a humble cot by the traveled way, 
 A maiden dwelt that, far and near, 
 Was known as the Maid of Lindermere. 
 
 Over the bay, on a rocky crest, 
 Was a fisher's cot, like an eagle's nest; 
 And underneath, in the bay below, 
 Was a beautiful ship as white as snow, 
 
 That kissed the wave with a loving lip: 
 And he of the cot and he of the ship 
 Was he whom 'twas said had a title clear 
 To the hand of the maid of Lindermere. 
 
 One hapless morning, the son and heir 
 
 Of whom that was known as the village squire, 
 
 (A dashing fellow, whose showy ways 
 
 Set half of the hearts in town ablaze,) 
 
 Had caught a smile from the little dame 
 That fired his heart with a tender flame, 
 And brought him a suitor at her feet 
 With the lover's story, old and sweet. 
 
 I think the maiden was half in play 
 When she spake of a hope for another day; 
 Yet where is the heart, or young or old, 
 That flutters not at the touch of gold ? 
 
 Though scarce desired; with a bird in hand, 
 The neighboring bush was never scanned 
 
214 FANCIES. 
 
 For brighter plumes. With bended ear 
 The sailor heard, from a thicket near, 
 
 The disloyal words.; Across his path 
 Had a serpent ran. ' In righteous wrath 
 Should he crush it out ere with poisoned breath 
 It had stung his soul to a worse than death ? 
 
 Between the flames of a burning hate 
 And a tender love did his vengeance wait, 
 Till, at length, he turned from the fateful place, 
 Lest deeds of blood should his love disgrace. 
 
 And then he wrote in a tender line, 
 " I thought, my darling, to call you mine; 
 But love were selfish ambition mad, 
 To claim the hand that another had; 
 
 " Would cover with gems, where only I 
 Might place the signet of poverty. 
 Farewell, farewell! let my witness be 
 The angels above, that I love but thee. 
 
 " Farewell, farewell! With returning sail, 
 If my ship shall prosper upon the gale, 
 And gold is mine, and thou art free, 
 In the bye and bye I will come for thee." 
 
 Alas for the maid! of her promised hand 
 She had told the youth, but his gold and land 
 For the moment dazed, and, half in play, 
 She heard the tempter, nor turned away 
 
 As she would have done (and she saw it now) 
 Had her head been wise as her heart was true. 
 Yet hope was hers. He would come, he said, 
 And so by the sea as the slow years sped 
 
 She waited long, but no inbound sail 
 
 Came in, as of old, with her lover's hail. 
 
 On the seaward crag, when the nights were dark, 
 
 She lighted her lamp as a guiding mark 
 
FANCIES. 215 
 
 For her lover's eye. Sometimes she wrote, 
 In a tender way, some plaintive note, 
 Explaining how she had not meant a wrong, 
 And how she had waited, alas, how long! 
 
 Then casting it forth to the tremulous sea, 
 
 She would sing, " He will come, he will come to me;" 
 
 Or when the breezes were off the land 
 
 She would tell them her story and give command 
 
 That they fly on their swiftest pinions forth, 
 To search out her lover if on the earth, 
 And tell him how she, when the stars are dim, 
 Had lighted a lamp on the crag for him. 
 
 One night as she lay in a troubled dream, 
 A tempest's crash and the lightning's gleam 
 She heard and saw, while a ship from sight 
 Was whirled and dashed in the breakers white. 
 
 The vision changed to a dream of peace; 
 Above her bended a loving face, 
 And the whisper came, " If thy hand is free, 
 To-night, my darling, I come for thee. 
 
 She looked, and lo! on the shining bay 
 Her lover's ship at its anchor lay; 
 And, high aloft, as against the sky, 
 Was floating again as in days gone by, 
 
 His hailing flag. On its wings away 
 The soul took flight from its beautiful clay, 
 With the song as it cast from its moorings free, 
 " To-night, my laddie, hath come for me. 
 
 ;*##*** 
 
 The morning dawned on a peaceful scene; 
 The maiden lay with a face serene, 
 As if each moment of ending bliss 
 Had left on the clay its full impress. 
 
2l6 FANCIES. 
 
 With kindly offices for the dead, 
 The neighbors came with a careful tread: 
 The sexton, too, with a friendly spade, 
 To cover the dust of the little maid, 
 That so the parson himself declared, 
 Had gone to the judgment " well prepared. 
 
 Upreared by whom that had loved her well- 
 Howe'er unwise, in the trysting dell, 
 'Neath sheltering trees is a marble shaft, 
 Whereon these words have been epitaphed: 
 
 "At her command, 
 
 By a single word, was there gold and land: 
 Yet choosing a humbler path to tread 
 E'en that where love and her duty led, 
 
 From year to year 
 
 She lighted the lamps of Lindermere; 
 Singing, sometime, oh murmuring sea, 
 Sometime my laddie will come for me." 
 
 BARN BY McKAV. 
 
 IT was " once on a time," as the story men say, 
 That there dwelt in a cottage that stood by the way, 
 Where a brook crossed the road, as it crosses to-day 
 
 Brow-furrowed and gray 
 
 A man that was known as old Barney McKay, 
 Whom the neighbors called, lovingly, Barney McKay. 
 
 Just back from the road, on the banks of a stream 
 That over the rocks, with a flash and a gleam, 
 
 Drove headlong its team, 
 Stood a little old mill that, though rusty and browned, 
 
 All the country around 
 Was famous, because of the grists that were ground 
 
 By its miller, Old Barney McKay, 
 
FANCIES. 2iy 
 
 Now this miller McKay was a quaint little man, 
 
 With words that were few and with thoughts that outran 
 
 All the dogmas and teachings of party and clan, 
 
 Though never, indeed, 
 Did he think of his duty, in shape of a creed; 
 
 Yet the neighbors declare, 
 That Barney was never a scoffer; indeed, 
 He quarrelled with no man- because of his creed: 
 Yet all things he questioned. E'en doubt, as he said, 
 Was " more to our credit than faith that was dead, 
 Or that swallowed, untasted, the doctrinal bread." 
 The miller's idea of religion was this, 
 Not that dogmas and creeds, in themselves amiss 
 To such as could never move onward, unless 
 In a harness of words, but this much he said, 
 That the " Master had promised the giver of bread, 
 Or the cup of cold water, for charity's sake, 
 That the deed as if done to himself he would take; 
 But nowhere he taught that the doctrinal letter, 
 Made a deed that was good, e'en the worse or the better." 
 
 Inspired, as by nature, with mystical lore, 
 In the dust that had gathered, and thick on the floor, 
 Strange symbols he drew that he strove to explain 
 Of the problems of life with the grinding of grain: 
 There were arches and pillars and circles and squares, 
 There were ladders of Jacob and mystical stairs, 
 And the lessons of all were that, circled by love, 
 And spanned by the arches of goodness above; 
 " That coin in my hand," the old miller would say, 
 " Is a loan from my father, which I must repay: 
 And the child of his love that is sick and forlorn, 
 
 Or weary and worn, 
 Is the agent he sendeth to take up the loan, 
 
 And recover his own. 
 Our life hath two sides the outer and inner: 
 
2l8 FANC1KS. 
 
 Who lives to the one lives the life of a sinner, 
 Who lives to the other God maketh the winner," 
 Said Old Barney McKay. 
 
 In matters of doctrine he was wrong, it may be, 
 Though with Longface, the deacon, he tried to agree, 
 Yet he cyphered and cyphered, and still could not see 
 How three could be one, or how one could be three, 
 Since even the deacon as wise as most men, 
 Acknowledged that five was not equal to ten. 
 And, as for atonement, "we never should pack," 
 Said Old Barney, "our sins on an innocent back. 
 For, our bargain with nature is this, in the main, 
 For so much of sin to take so much of pain: 
 As ever we go, forever we pay 
 God keepeth no ledger," said Barney McKay. 
 That in all of his dealings, by plummet and square, 
 
 Walked this Barney McKay: 
 
 By the plummet of truth, and the square of the right, 
 W T ith thoughts that were clean, and a faith that was bright, 
 
 Walked the miller, Old Barney McKay. 
 
 Strange fancies sometimes may have crept through his brain 
 Indeed, there were those who declared it as plain, 
 Though sound on most topics and right in the m:iin, 
 That a crotchet or two had slipped into the brain, 
 
 Of Old Barney McKay. 
 
 For Barney, somehow, lived ahead of his time 
 For things of the present he cared not a dime, 
 Except in so far as they helped him to climb 
 The steps that uplead to that temple sublime 
 
 Whose " Three, Five and Seven," 
 Have their base, so he said, on the level of time, 
 
 And their landing in heaven. 
 
 'Twas a saying of Barney, that "giving is having," 
 Or as sometimes he phrased it, that " losing is saving:" 
 For, said he," what I keep I must leave here below, 
 
FANCIES. 
 
 What I give I take with me wherever I go; 
 
 Who squarely that walked could not fail him to climb 
 
 To the temples of light by the ladder of time." 
 
 But a skeptical world shook a skeptical head 
 At the miller's investments and sneeringly said, 
 
 " That stock will not pay, 
 For soon on the street will be begging his bread. 
 
 This Barney McKay." 
 
 But the years came in and the years went out, 
 And its great black arms, so burly and stout, 
 From its home in the pit, the wheel reached out, 
 And up through the floors of the brown old mill, 
 Its energies sent, with a sturdy thrill, 
 Till the whirling stone, to the belt and wheel, 
 Turned the poor men's grain into golden meal; 
 And often, for weight, did there nothing lack 
 Because of the toll in the homeward sack. 
 
 The world looked on, with a curious eye, 
 But ne'er fulfilled was its prophecy; 
 For the years flowed on, as the years will flow, 
 And the miller's locks grew white with snow; 
 His footsteps slackened a bit, may be, 
 As he neared the shores of the silent sea; 
 But he talked with God, as he moved along, 
 Till his heart was brave, as his soul was strong. 
 He caught love beams in their earthward flight, 
 And he bent them round in a sphere of light, 
 Which the angels filled with their presence bright; 
 And down the slope to the setting sun, 
 He scattered his grain, as they led him on, 
 Till, bye and bye, when his work was o'er, 
 He gathered his wealth on the hither shore, 
 And the "angels helped him to ferry it o'er; 
 But ne'er, to the last, did his right hand know, 
 What his left had done in this world below. 
 
 219 
 
220 FANCIES. 
 
 The old mill stands as it stood of yore, 
 
 By the sweet brookside; but its ancient door, 
 
 That ne'er was shut to the cry for bread. 
 
 The spider bars with a single thread. 
 
 The wheel, in the pit, no more goes round, 
 
 For the years of age have the giant bound; 
 
 But the brave old walls, defying time, 
 
 Stand up, amid the wreck, sublime, 
 
 In the calm repose of age, serene, 
 
 And the sheltering arms of the ivy green. 
 
 By the church yard gate, neath a marble slab, 
 Lies the waiting dust of old Deacon Grabb; 
 The sculptured lines have a pious sound, 
 As if 'twere a saint that was under ground; 
 And the story is told in the epitaph 
 Of the tithes he gave, in the Lord's behalf; 
 But, between the lines, if our eyes are good, 
 We read that he kept whatever he could, 
 
 And gave when he must; 
 And there's many a frown and many a jeer 
 
 O'er the splendid bier, 
 But there's never a smile, or a sorrowing tear 
 
 For the neighbors laugh 
 At the story told in the epitaph. 
 
 Afar in the corner and down in the grass, 
 
 Where few but the poor of the villagers pass, 
 
 Is a low little mound, and a low little stone, 
 
 That I think you will know, if you go there in June, 
 
 By the wealth of the roses that round it are thrown; 
 
 And, parting the vines, if you stoop very near, 
 
 And will scrape off the mosses, these lines will appear: 
 
 " Here lieth the body of Barney McKay, 
 
 Awaiting no change but the change of decay; 
 
 As in life he was honest, in death he was just, 
 
 Giving back to earth-mother, her measure of dust. 
 
 His religion was deed, and his doctrine was use; 
 
FANCIES. 
 
 And he prayed for the widow by filling her cruse. 
 Though slender his purse, yet, in poverty's home, 
 His step was a sunbeam that scattered the gloom. 
 Tread lightly, then, stranger, and over the bier 
 Of this friend of the lowly, drop the meed of a tear. 
 
 THE TWO FACES. 
 
 6NE day as I stood by the river's brink, 
 I saw in the waters clear, 
 A head that was covered with golden locks, 
 And a face that was young and fair. 
 
 As I frowned or smiled, a smile or a frown 
 
 Spread over the face and brow; 
 I spake, but no answering word came back 
 
 From the mocking lips below. 
 
 The march went on. In the after years 
 
 I stopped by that stream again, 
 And bending timidly over the bank 
 
 I sought for that face in vain. 
 
 The sky and the water were still the same; 
 
 And there was an imaged face, 
 With something, perhaps, of the old time look, 
 
 But where was the youthful grace 
 
 That lighted the eye with hopefulness, 
 
 For a ship from the outer sea, 
 With a freightage of all that was great and good, 
 
 That, sometime, would come to me ? 
 
 I looked again in the waters clear, 
 
 And under the wrinkled face 
 I saw that, awaiting and biding its times 
 
 Was the germ of a better grace, 
 
222 FANCIES. 
 
 That grew into strength till, as I looked, 
 
 Again to the shining day, 
 The child came forth, as if from a clod 
 
 That the waters had washed away. 
 
 And yet but as one that had missed its way 
 On a wide and a darkened plain, 
 
 Retracing its steps to the parting roads 
 To take up its staff again. 
 
 THE TYING OF THE GREENS. 
 
 O^TANDING one day at the porch of a pretty village 
 
 k3 church, 
 
 Thus communing with myself I said, " I wonder what it 
 
 means, 
 With the Christmas time so near, that should nothing yet 
 
 appear 
 In the way of preparation for the tying of the greens !" 
 
 I remember well the time, when the girls were in their prime, 
 The pretty girls that still are 'mong our ruling village queens; 
 When the boys, so gallant then, now among our husband- 
 men, 
 Used to gather at the chapel for the tying of the greens. 
 
 All the Christmas week before had we ranged the country 
 
 o'er, 
 For such treasures of the woodlands as our busy hands could 
 
 glean; 
 
 Till with hemlock, fur and pine, and the pretty running vine, 
 We had stocked up well and fully for the tying of the greens. 
 
 What a fragrance filled the air, as if had been gathered there 
 All the genii from the mountains, breathing in upon the 
 scene! 
 
FANCIES. 223 
 
 From the pulpit to the porch, in that staid, old-fashioned 
 
 church, 
 What a ruling of disorder from the tying of the greens. 
 
 While among the people there, it had been our vision clear, 
 From behind some tiny leaflet had a little chap been seen, 
 Whirling arrows through the air at a loving little pair, 
 That were standing at the altar and were tying up the greens, 
 
 Later on, as hand in hand, at the altar did they stand 
 He as proud as any monarch, she as happy as a queen, 
 All the jealous maidens said, with a tossing of the head, 
 " It is now the jolly parson that is tying up the green/' 
 
 But for all of that, to-day, bravely plodding on their way, 
 They will say, " as for repentance we know not what il 
 
 means; " 
 
 That " for mutual happiness and forevermore " they bless 
 The day they came together for the tying of the greens. 
 
 So as standing in the porch of that little village church, 
 
 I pondered and I wondered to myself, " What could it mean, 
 
 That so near the Christmas time there should be no gatherec 
 
 pine, 
 E'en no calling from the belfry to the tying of the green. 
 
 Ah, but then came back the thought, ready made, that these 
 
 are bought 
 " Burning bush " and wreath and crosses for " illumination ' 
 
 scenes! 
 
 Still I hear the merry chime of the dear old Christmas time, 
 When we blended love with duty in the tying of the greens. 
 
224 FANCIES. 
 
 MY WIFE. 
 
 I 
 
 HAD m my heart a sweet little song, 
 
 And this, as it ran, was the theme 
 I love and I love as the day it is long, 
 So loving, of love do I dream." 
 
 One day, to myself, it was thus that I said, 
 "I will breathe out my song on the air: 
 
 Who knows but some one may be waiting to wed, 
 Somewhere in the world somewhere ? 
 
 " My song will be heard in the palace, maybe, 
 
 Or only perchance in the cot; 
 If one, or the other, what matter to me, 
 
 So blessing but follow my lot ?" 
 
 So I tuned up rny harp and I sang to the air, 
 
 As only a lover can sing; 
 And the answer that came was an answer so fair, 
 
 That I deemed it a fortunate thing. 
 
 E'en so did it prove; for I say this to you, 
 That, of all that hath blessed me in life, 
 
 That answering maiden hath proven most true 
 My counsel, my lover my wife. 
 
FANCIES. 225 
 
 LITTLE THINGS. 
 
 0H, A LITTLE THING is the pearly spring, 
 As it leaps from the mountain side, 
 But gathering strength as it flows at length, 
 
 It filleth the valley wide! 
 And the ships that ride on its morning tide, 
 
 Or sleep on its evening breast, 
 
 May never dream of the parent stream, 
 
 Far up on the mountain's crest. 
 
 And a little thing is the germ that springs 
 
 From the nut in the nursing mold! 
 But the years go by, and against the sky 
 
 Up looms the oak tree bold! 
 And the birds that sing 'mid its boughs, or swing 
 
 On its topmost branches high, 
 May never know, as they come and go, 
 
 How that little one reached the sky. 
 
 Aye! a little thing is the word that springs, 
 
 Like a shaft from the bended bow! 
 But the hearts that are wrung by the careless tongue, 
 
 On the earth we may never know; 
 Yet, up in the sky, in the by and by, 
 
 We may find tall trees have grown 
 All along the road, for evil or good, 
 
 From the little seeds we've sown. 
 
226 FANCIES. 
 
 THEY ARE SEVEN. 
 
 0VER the hills to the southward, 
 And down to the sea, 
 Out from a Christian city 
 
 I bent my way, 
 
 Through fields aflame with the golden rod, 
 And sweet, as it were, with the breath of God, 
 One Sabbath day. 
 
 Along by the country highways 
 
 Flashed the sumach red, 
 
 Like an army with fiery torches, 
 While, overhead, 
 
 On the bending boughs with chuckle and churr, 
 
 Awaiting the opening chestnut burr, 
 Was the squirrel gray. 
 
 Out on the sloping hillsides 
 
 The white buckwheat, 
 
 Gave to the honey makers 
 
 Their annual treat; 
 
 While up to their eyes in the second crop 
 
 Of timothy grass or clover cup, 
 
 The cattle were seen. 
 
 From nature's uncounted voices 
 
 Everywhere, 
 Anthems of labor and gladness 
 
 Filled the air, 
 
 With never a hint of a day of rest; 
 Or, out of the seven, that one was best 
 
 For praise or prayer. 
 
 And yet, as from rival belfries, 
 
 The clamorous tongue 
 
 Of the Sabbath bell resounded 
 The hills among; 
 
FANCIES. 227 
 
 Conscience, that something which seems to stand 
 With an ancient sort of a whip in hand, 
 To goad the wrong, 
 
 Pointing the ten commandments. 
 
 Named the fourth, 
 As if that still was binding 
 
 Upon the earth, 
 
 Until, for the moment methonght I saw 
 But the fierce avenge, for his broken law, 
 
 Of an angry God, 
 
 But then came the admonition, 
 
 Somehow, there might 
 Be things that "the fathers " taught us 
 
 Not wholly right, 
 
 Since oft, in the past, for conscience sake, 
 Had Truth been burned at the martyr's stake, 
 
 Or crucified. 
 
 And I said, of the holy Sabbaths, 
 
 They are seven; 
 And if unto righteous living 
 
 They are given, 
 
 Such paths of old as the Master trod, 
 On any or all of the days of God, 
 
 Must lead to heaven. 
 
 And so as I turned me homeward 
 
 From the sea, 
 Thanks did I give for the mercy 
 
 That for me 
 
 As I might wish was a day of rest, 
 On which to sit, as a welcome guest, 
 With flock, and herd, and bird, and bee, 
 
 At the honey feast. 
 
FANCIES. 
 
 THE TWO FISHERS. 
 
 UPON the stocks at Fargo Bay, two fishers, trim and 
 staunch, 
 
 Full-rigged, and ready for the sea, stood ready for the launch; 
 For months the wonder of the town, like sisters twain they 
 
 grew, 
 Each daily step by critic tongue declared a triumph new. 
 
 Two sons old Skipper Tarpaulin had brought up to the sea: 
 Bold, hardy fellows, straight and tall as one could wish to see; 
 And thus to them the skipper said, " Now harkee, lads," I 
 
 say, 
 
 " That I will build two gallant ships right here in Fargo Bay, 
 And ye shall hold them in command, and as ye strive to win 
 Life's honest wage, so shall it be," said Skipper Tarpaulin. 
 
 The morning opened bright and fair, it was the launching 
 
 day 
 
 And all the people from the hills came flocking to the Bay, 
 In rustic best all gaily clad a long expectant line, 
 To see the deftly fashioned craft go dashing to the brine. 
 
 All night the sound of hammer told the story of the few 
 Remaining things, when all is done, it takes so long to do; 
 Until, at length, the word goes forth, "all ready, clear the 
 
 way," 
 
 And swift the Rover and Seagull glide downward to the bay, 
 Where each as proudly sat the wave, amid resounding cheers, 
 And quite at home, as if had been her voyage that of years. 
 
 Along the quay at Fargo Bay was hast ning tramp and 
 
 tread; 
 Full brimming eyes spoke last good byes that could not else be 
 
 said. 
 
FANCIES. 229 
 
 The priceless gifts that tenderness for many a day had 
 
 planned 
 The kiss of love, the mother's prayer, the patriarch's blessing 
 
 hand, 
 
 All came within the parting hour, and then th' unwilling oar 
 Two score and ten of hardy men pulled outward from the 
 
 shore. 
 
 Jack Tarpaulin, the skipper's son, the elder of the twain, 
 Was he that took the Rover's helm to pilot o'er the main: 
 Firm, self-reliant, bold and brave, he asked no " fortune's 
 
 gale " 
 
 To bring the gage he had not earned, or fill an idle sail. 
 God helps who help themselves, he said, and to the realms of 
 
 snow, 
 For wage of oil through honest toil he turned his steady 
 
 prow. 
 
 The Seagull spread her snowy sail but on the fairest breeze; 
 With easy hand she dropped her nets along the summer seas. 
 Yet on the port or larboard side, however down she let 
 Her meshes fine, no hand divine brought fishes to her net. 
 So when, at length, her bootless prow turned homeward on its 
 
 way, 
 No higher marked her water line than when she left the Bay. 
 
 " Now, by my faith," the skipper cried, with sorrow overcast, 
 " Who treads the Seagull's quarter deck shall sail before the 
 
 mast. 
 For, whom doth wait for luck or fate, to pave his way with 
 
 flowers, 
 Is not the man to lead the van in this rough world of ours." 
 
 ******* 
 Along the quay, at Fargo Bay, was hastening to and fro 
 The village tongue, though loosely hung, found all that it 
 
 could do 
 To solve the mystery of the hour; the proud Seagull had 
 
 fled: 
 With owlish eyes each gossip wise did shake a knowing head. 
 
230 FANCIES. 
 
 The ship had lifted anchor and upon the outward tide 
 Had swept adown the sleeping bay toward the ocean wide. 
 " The north, the north! " bold Harry cried. "Before me, in 
 
 a dream, 
 In icy grip my brother's ship was 'prisoned in the stream. 
 
 Nor was it all a dream, I fear. I saw my brother's form 
 
 As 'twere a giant lifted up in battle with the storm; 
 
 While each proud mast bent to the blast as reed though it 
 
 had been, 
 This desperate prayer thrilled on the air, "God save me, and 
 
 my men! " 
 
 The north, the north! Wide seas they sailed through tempest 
 
 torn and tossed, 
 
 Mid flake and floe and winter snow, with lookout for the lost, 
 Till one day came the stirring cry, "Ahoy, there, ship ahoy! " 
 And to the ear came sharp and clear an answering shout of 
 
 joy. 
 
 Now, for your lives, bold Harry cried, let every sail be spread, 
 And o'er the wide half frozen tide the Seagull swiftly sped. 
 "Starboard the helm! Port! Steady, now," and through the 
 
 pack and floe, 
 As if 'twere charmed the ship unharmed drove on her 
 
 Venturous prow; 
 Till once again the sisters twain, though wide the path they 
 
 4 braved, 
 Upon the tide lay side by side, the saviour and the saved. 
 
 On every shore where hardy men are found to brave the 
 
 flood, 
 
 Are wives with but a single plank 'twixt them and widowhood: 
 Where tender love with matchless faith in tidings yet to be, 
 Through summer's sun and winter's storms sit waiting by the 
 
FANCIES. 231 
 
 And, as in each sea-faring town, so was it at the Bay, 
 
 With naught to cheer, each added year sped swifter on its 
 
 way. 
 Some buoyant souls, that mourned no dead, spake grand 
 
 enough and brave, 
 
 But when did mere philosophy bring comfort from the grave ? 
 "Consoleth men?" Oh yes, but then the chair is vacant 
 
 still: 
 E'en hearts of oak have throbbed and broke above the sod 
 
 and will. 
 
 "A sail, a sail!" the lookout cries, the people throng the 
 
 quay, 
 As, from the looking headlands born, two ships come up the 
 
 bay; 
 The one, the Rover, bold and brave, though but a shattered 
 
 wreck, 
 Yet with the oil of hardy toil full loaded to the deck! 
 
 The other, rich in that great wealth which is not of the dust 
 That coin which as the ages roll goes never to the rust 
 Was she that 'mid the flake and floe where midnight shadows 
 
 lay, 
 Did snatch her mate from danger's gate and lead her back 
 
 to-day. 
 * * * * 
 
 Sometimes behind a graceless form is hid some power for 
 
 good, 
 
 That fails of what is called success (because not understood,) 
 Until at length, by blow or blast, the treasure long concealed 
 Beneath the dust of circumstance is to the eye revealed. 
 
 So with the younger Tarpaulin, the marvel of the town, 
 To him what were the will-o'-wisps that men so hunted down 
 But disappointment in the hand, as on some dashing shore, 
 The bubble grasping hand is left as empty as before? 
 
232 FANCIES. 
 
 The Rover's captain sailed the seas, nor storm he shunned nor 
 
 cold, 
 
 Content if with the ending cruise he harvested of gold. 
 The life beyond! go to! he said; a dreamer's idle tale! 
 Three score and ten, alas! and then the covering of the vale! 
 
 From nature's lips he little heard that spoke of aught but 
 
 gold; 
 Sun, moon and stars gave light and heat, what more could 
 
 they unfold ? 
 
 The pearliest shell upon the beach, evoked no thrill of joy- 
 It had no meat; enough for him to spurn the idle toy. 
 
 And yet as men do judge of men, he was a salt of earth, 
 That seasoned many a winter's tale around the evening 
 
 hearth; 
 
 While, to the last, mere worldlings saw in Harry but the sin 
 Of weak unthrift, and shook the head, and croaked the "might 
 . have been." 
 
 There comes a time when from the eye this guinea scale shall 
 
 fall, 
 When through the night God's holy light shall e'en reveal to 
 
 all, 
 How, broader than the broadest guage where mammon's 
 
 chariots roll, 
 Upleading to the sunlight, are the highways of the soul. 
 
FANCIES. 233 
 
 A BIRTH-DAY RHYME. 
 
 @NCE there came a little maiden 
 Here to dwell, 
 From the earth or out of Aidenn, 
 
 Who can tell ? 
 
 Though she came in chill November, 
 Was her wardrobe thin and small; 
 One pink suit as I remember 
 Covered all. 
 
 Gems of beauty, since, and costly, 
 
 Deck her form 
 Silken windings from the ghostly 
 
 Shrouded worm 
 Wreathe and clothe with airy lightness, 
 
 Yet the little soul, I ween, 
 Radiant shines, through all the brightness, 
 
 From within. 
 
 Yielding love and fond affection 
 
 Fullest due; 
 .She to every right conviction, 
 
 Firm and true. 
 Nay, I would not praise unduly; 
 
 Mine are not the flatterer's ways, 
 Still, who liveth well and truly, 
 
 I will praise. 
 
 Yet, whatever here affection 
 
 Chance to paint, 
 Deem not that life's full perfection 
 
 E'er is meant: 
 " Human ?" thanks that she is "human," 
 
 Else, to us, she had no birth ! 
 Else had missed this little woman 
 
 From the earth. 
 
234 FANCIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 Swiftly on the years are speeding; 
 
 Womanhood is at the door: 
 Round the mountain upward leading 
 
 On before, 
 
 Lies the lover's path of beauty; 
 Gallant knights and castles fair; 
 Tender songs of plighted duty 
 Fill the air. 
 
 What his name, I cannot tell you, 
 
 But I see him by thy side; 
 And I hear him whisper " will you, 
 
 Will you, darling, be my bride ?" 
 Sweetly comes the truthful answer 
 
 From the honied lips, and low, 
 " I am thine as thou art mine, sir, 
 
 Where thou goest I will go." 
 
 " Hath he gold, and mighty holdings ?- 
 
 Jewelled treasures from the mine?" 
 Take no thought for such unfoldings 
 
 So that love and peace are thine. 
 Fortune may its baubles give us; 
 
 Fashion every vain device ! 
 Yet for what of joy they leave us, 
 
 We may pay too great a price. 
 
 MY DREAM. 
 
 I HAD, one night, a dream a curious dream. 
 Of things which, here, I cannot fully tell. 
 A child, methought from far realm I came, 
 I knew not how, upon the earth to dwell. 
 
FANCIES. 235 
 
 Hungered and helpless, I was fully fed- 
 Empty of purse, yet, somehow, was I clad; 
 
 I grew apace, and daily was I led 
 
 O'er pathways bright as e'er a mortal had. 
 * * * * 
 
 Years rolled away. Pleasure, in every guise, 
 
 Such as for gold the devotee may gain, 
 Came at command; while down, as from the skies 
 
 Came beauty smiling with her shining train. 
 
 Luxuriant fields my granaries did fill, 
 
 Each autumn time, with free and generous store; 
 
 My flocks and herds were flocking every hill 
 
 Wife, children, friends, what could I ask for more ? 
 ******* 
 
 I trod the earth, I cannot tell how long 
 
 In dreams but little reck we of the time: 
 I only know that, somehow, came among 
 
 My thinning locks the snow flake and the rime. 
 
 Around me, watched impatient by my hairs, 
 Disordered lay, in heaps, my worldly store; 
 
 While from my gaze in outward rank defiled, 
 Hopes, joys, ambitions to the nevermore. 
 
 One day, methought, my slowing footsteps led 
 
 To craggy heights outlooking to the sea, 
 And with half frantic turning to the dead, 
 
 I sought for tidings of the yet to be: 
 
 Something beyond- some fair, outlying land, 
 Where to survive the parting of the breath ! 
 
 " Give me," I cried, to touch one vanished hand, 
 And death, to me, shall nevermore be death." 
 
 I neared the brink, and looking out below, 
 With beckoning hands uprose upon the deep 
 
 Bright myriad forms, and whiter than the snow; 
 I sprang the cliff and wakened from my sleep. 
 
236 FANCIES. 
 
 THE BEGGAR'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 i. 
 
 PINCHED with hunger and numb with cold, 
 Wan and weary, and strangely old, 
 A beggar child, in rags arrayed, 
 Through the streets of a city strayed 
 One Christmas eve. , 
 
 'Round the corners the drifting snow, 
 Whirling, eddying to and fro, 
 Buried the earth in a fleecy shroud, 
 As th' tempest shrieked from cloud to cloud,. 
 That Christmas eve. 
 
 Christian people, with nimble feet, 
 Hurrying over the frozen street, 
 Spurned the little one's pleading prayer, 
 Spurned the look of mute despair 
 
 That the beggar gave! 
 
 " Only a penny," the baby said, 
 
 " Only a penny to buy me bread! 
 
 The haughty daughter of fortune passed^ 
 
 Cold and pitiless as the blast, 
 
 That Christmas eve, 
 
 Declaring " she never yet could see 
 Why beggarly brats, like this, should be, 
 With whimpering words and naked feet, 
 Permitted to walk the city street, 
 On such an eve." 
 
 Giving the beggar a parting frown, 
 And gathering up her trailing gown, 
 From shop to shop, for their dainty sheen,. 
 She scattered her gold, like a fairy queen, 
 That Christmas eve! 
 
FANCIKS. 237 
 
 Then, through the porch, and up the aisle 
 Of the brilliant church, with a gracious smile, 
 She swept along to a cushioned pew, 
 To hear the story of old anew, 
 
 That Christmas eve: 
 
 Of the Wonderful One, of lowly birth, 
 Whose head was pillowed upon the earth: 
 O'er whom the beautiful song began, 
 Of " peace on earth, good will to man," 
 One Christmas morn. 
 
 The opening chant, through the gothic pile, 
 Re-echoed and rang in each gilded aisle; 
 The creed was said, and the head was bowed, 
 And the minister prayed to the critical crowd 
 That filled the pews. 
 
 The carefully worded sermon told 
 Of the terrible sin of Adam, old: 
 And the whip was cracked o'er the blundering Jews, 
 But never it reached the paying pews, 
 That Christmas eve! 
 
 II. 
 
 Homeless, friendless, over the street, 
 Hurried the babe with frozen feet; 
 Everywhere at the window pane, 
 Beautiful gifts as ever were seen 
 Loaded the trees of box and fir; 
 Strange that there should be none for her, 
 That Christmas eve! 
 
 For, what was she but a child of God ? 
 Or, was she made of a cheaper clod ? 
 Else, why, alone, was she bearing the rod, 
 
 Of hunger and cold ? 
 (Alas! the beggar had yet to learn 
 
238 . FANCIES. 
 
 That wheresoever her eyes may turn, 
 .The greatest of sins that men discern 
 Is the lack of gold!) 
 
 Over the tempests' mad refrain, 
 Hark! she heareth the choral strain! 
 " Peace on earth, good will to men, 
 Christ is born in Bethlehem! " 
 Trembling, she enters the sacred door, 
 Where never a beggar went before, 
 But the burly sexton, fierce and stout, 
 To the blinding tempest turned her out 
 That Christmas eve. 
 
 For, what should the waif be doing there 
 In that beautiful church, so tall and fair? 
 A chapel built in another street 
 Was the place for rags and naked feet, 
 A sort of a steerage passage, meet 
 For such as she. 
 
 The service ended, the grace was said, 
 And the ponderous throated organ led 
 In thund'rous note, with clash and clang, 
 While the salaried prima donna sang, 
 That Christmas eve, 
 
 Of the beggar child of a lowly maid, 
 That once in a cattle stall was laid! 
 But whom th' attendant angels knew 
 As King of the G entile and the Jew, 
 That Christmas day; 
 
 Yet whom was spurned as was spurned the Man! 
 The Pharisee placing Him under the ban, 
 As the modern Pharisee would have done 
 That night, had He come with that beggarly one, 
 In His ancient garb. 
 
FANCIES. 239 
 
 III; 
 
 The storm went by and the sun came out, 
 And the Christmas tree sends many a shout 
 From the sons of men, and the daughters fair, 
 For the gifts of love that its branches bear, 
 That Christmas morn. 
 
 In a sheltered nook, by the proud old church, 
 Was a heap of snow, where the beadle's search 
 Revealed the babe, that had dared the wrong, 
 Outside, to listen to the Christian song, 
 That hallowed eve! 
 
 The pitying winds had found her there, 
 And had covered her o'er with a tender care, 
 Till an angel came with a loving arm, 
 And bore her away from the pelting storm 
 That Christmas eve. 
 
 And who shall say that the beggar's soul, 
 As it woke to life in the shining goal, 
 Found not a tree that was green and tall, 
 Whose gifts for her were the best of all 
 That Christmas eve ? 
 
 In a nameless grave lies the beggar's form; 
 But it sleeps as well as its sister worm, 
 Whose stately marble, above its bed 
 May lift a chiseled and costly head, 
 With a storied name. 
 
 For, after the shafts of the battle are fled, 
 And a truce is called to bury our dead, 
 Beggar or king whatever the caste, 
 The only field that we hold at last, 
 
 Measures six by two! 
 
240 FANCIES. 
 
 MY VILLAGE HOME. 
 
 O^VVEET village, nest'ling 'mong the hills, 
 
 JO Which skirt yon crystal stream, 
 
 Where'er I roam thy mem'ry fills 
 My fancy's brightest dream. 
 
 Above thee like a champion bold- 
 Proud " Castle Rock " uprears 
 
 Against the west his rugged crest, 
 Unscathed by passing years. 
 
 And yonder, too, against the blue 
 
 Of distant northern skies, 
 " Rock Rimmon " lifts his frosty prow, 
 
 And th' wintry blast defies. 
 Thy sloping hills, thy sparkling rills, 
 
 Thy woods and fields so gay, 
 How vivid to my mind they bring 
 
 The hours of life's young day ! 
 
 Once more a boy ! I feel the thrill 
 
 Of young life in my veins, 
 As Time awhile with len'ient hand 
 
 Removes his cumb'ring chains. 
 Once more a boy ! as free, as free 
 
 As th' wild gazelle I fly ! 
 Sorrow? 'tis all unknown to me, 
 
 For my heart is full of joy. 
 
 Around my form I feel once more 
 
 Fond loving arms entwine; 
 And starry eyes, which I adore, 
 
 (raze upward into mine. 
 Yet all too soon the dream is past, 
 
 And then with power untold, 
 Comes back to me the sad'ning thought 
 
 That I am growing old. 
 
FANCIES. 241 
 
 I'm growing old ! my step grows weak, 
 
 My cheek hath lost the glow, 
 Which health and strength did once bespeak, 
 
 Some thirty years ago. 
 Yes, I've grown old ! yet, smiling vale, 
 
 My thoughts still turn to thee, 
 For 'neath thy green and hallowed sod, 
 
 Lies many a memory. 
 
 And one, 'tis of a little maid, 
 
 Our household joy and pride; 
 One cheerless day, she went away, 
 
 Down by the river's side. 
 And this is why, when I am sad, 
 
 My thoughts revert to thee; 
 That little maid, once mine now thine, 
 
 My darling "Jennie Lee." 
 
 Thus while a dweller 'mong thy hills, 
 
 My cup seemed full of joy; 
 I drank it to the dregs, but found 
 
 'Twas not without alloy. 
 Still I'm content: for thus 'tis e'er 
 
 In this fair world of ours, 
 Along the roughest, darkest road, 
 
 We find the fairest flowers. 
 
 Hills of my childhood ! green old hills ! 
 
 Where'er on earth I roam, 
 Thou'rt still the dearest spot to me, 
 
 My own loved village home. 
 And when at last my wearied limbs 
 
 Must seek their final rest, 
 The wand'rer fain would lay them down 
 
 Upon thy loving breast. 
 
242 FANCIES. 
 
 EMPTY IS THE COAL BIN. 
 
 EMPTY is the coal bin; but the winter is not gone 
 The mill wheel has not started, as we hoped it would 
 
 have done: 
 Saith the coal men (who can blame them) "till shall come a 
 
 better day, 
 We shall have to stop the credit since we cannot get the pay." 
 
 Empty is the coal bin and the winter is not gone: 
 We stand up in the corners, but there's nothing to be done. 
 The garments are but slender that the baby limbs enfold: 
 (rod help thee, lit.tle children, through the bitter, bitter cold. 
 # * * * * p * 
 
 Empty is the coal bin. How many of us know, 
 With that little spoken sentence, of its misery and woe ? 
 For us what does it matter, though at zero, every day, 
 Stands the little silver column, or below it, even, pray ? 
 
 Our coal bin is not empty, so heap the glowing grate, 
 Fill up the hungry furnace and bless our better fate; 
 But, for empty bins and barrels, while praying God to care, 
 As the stewards of this bounty let us follow up the prayer. 
 
 For behold ! Are we not kinsmen ? And if one shall periled 
 
 be 
 
 By midnight conflagration or by death upon the sea, 
 And no hand be stretched for saving will it not be held a 
 
 blame ? 
 If 'twere any other peril, were it any less a shame ? 
 
FANCIES. 243 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 T. 
 
 WHEN the harvest hath been gathered, and the forest 
 trees are bare, 
 And the meadows lose their freshness, and the frost is in the 
 
 air; 
 When the chickens have been slaughtered, and the strutting 
 
 turkey cock 
 
 Leadeth off, with empty gobble, his procession to the block; 
 And the smell is in the kitchen of the apple and the quince, 
 And the chopping knife is busy with the sausage and the 
 
 mince 
 
 Not by any sort of sequence, but because it so hath been 
 All the years that I have wandered in this wilderness of men 
 Then I know that for the favored ones of fortune, at the least 
 Will be coming Merry Christmas with a merry, merry feast. 
 
 II. 
 
 W T hen to secret hiding places do the little maidens trip, 
 
 With precautionary signals on the finger and the lip; 
 
 At some threatened interruption, putting something quick 
 
 away, 
 
 With a look as if had nothing, there, been doing all the day; 
 When the sphynxes take possession, even of the elder tongue, 
 So that only by the favored is the secret to be wrung; 
 When the children lie and listen, underneath the winter roof, 
 For the dancing of the reindeer and the patter of its hoof; 
 Then I know that Merry Christmas will be coming with its 
 
 chime, 
 And the fragrance of the cedar and the glory of the pine. 
 
 III. 
 
 What a rushing to the city ! What a pattering of feet ! 
 What a Babel of the voices, from the crowd upon the street ! 
 How the shopmen are delighted ! How they nod, and how 
 they wink 
 
244 FANCIES. 
 
 To the question, ' Will it please her?" " Will it suit him, do 
 
 you think ?" 
 Hear the little wife communing all about the Christmas 
 
 tree 
 
 a I wonder what my darling has been purchasing for me. 
 Something nice, I'm very certain quite the richest of them 
 
 all 
 And my own poor little trifles, they will look so very small !" 
 
 Nay, not so, dear little woman; when thy story he hath learned,. 
 How by littles and by littles was the purchase money earned, 
 If he hath a heart within him, he will tell you, many fold 
 More of value are your "trifles" than if only they were gold; 
 For it is a truth forever and forever, on the earth, 
 That the only coinage current that hath any real worth, 
 Is the one that bears the image of the blessed one above, 
 Whose sign and superscription is the signature of Love. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Merry Christmas ! Blessed Christmas ! Let the glad hosan- 
 
 mis ring 
 
 On the morrow from the belfries at the coming of the king: 
 Let the banners be exalted, and around the altar shrine 
 Let the emblems of " Forever" in their living beauty twine; 
 As the Christ came to the shepherds in the holy days of yore, 
 So He cometh to our dwellings if we open but the door; 
 Aye, he cometh, e'en the dayspring ! and the gloria from on 
 
 high, 
 With the song-burst of hosanna ! shall re-echo to the sky. 
 
 But we must not be forgetful that we have forevermore, 
 With outstretching hands among us the humble and the; poor 
 Shivering forms and pallid faces at the cottage window pane, 
 Starting back in helpless terror at the beating of the rain; 
 Nor forget that, of all others, 'tis the time for men to try 
 The strength of that religion that they claim to travel by; 
 To solve the weighty question ere the pleader shall depart, 
 If the heart is in the pocket or, the pocket in the heart. 
 
FANCIES. 245 
 
 AMONG THE MEMORIES. 
 
 WHERE proud Rock Rimmon's lofty prow 
 Uplifts above the vale below, 
 I stood, one day, with outward look 
 Tow'rd river bank and winding brook, 
 Where oft of yore my feet had trod 
 With gamey hook and fishing-rod. 
 \Vith flanking hills that interlock 
 Far to the south rose Castle Rock, 
 With lonely pine no longer crowned 
 To greet the trav'ler homeward bound. 
 Far to the east lay Scokorat 
 With stony fields and pastures that, 
 As one might think if as of yore 
 Might poorer make who owned the more. 
 
 Westward, with finger tow'rd the sky, 
 St. Peter's lifted up on high, 
 Where good old Deacon Kinney ran 
 His gospel train on ancient plan; 
 Who if not banning quite the rest- 
 Still held his road for safety best; 
 E'en claiming apostolic line 
 To prove preemptive right divine; 
 Across the realm where mortal dwell, 
 To run without a "parallel." 
 Can be forgot that proudest hour 
 When I, within St. Peter's door- 
 Promoted from the " common herd "- 
 Became a teacher of the word, 
 With Susie B. dear little lass 
 A member of my Sabbath-class ? 
 Ah, me! but I can see her now 
 As when did she, with arching brow, 
 
246 FANCIES. 
 
 Her teacher teach the cunning elf 
 To "love thy neighbor as thyself." 
 What then I taught of churchly lore 
 Within that old St. Peter's door 
 I cannot tell you, since, indeed, 
 I cannot e'en recall the creed; 
 Harsh things then learned of Providence 
 I've been unlearning ever since. 
 
 Beneath the shadow of the Rock 
 Where Curtis led his wand 'ring flock, 
 Against a pine background of green 
 Truth's democratic church was seen 
 Despising all despotic form; 
 Self-poised and in its self- hood firm, 
 Its friendly arms extending wide 
 In name of Him the Crucified. 
 A living protest hath it been 
 Against the great encroaching sin 
 Which shuts and barricades the door 
 That leadeth to the evermore: 
 That makes the truth to form the creed, 
 Not creeds the truth; e'en, to the needs 
 Of growing light however strange 
 To ancient eyes that dares a change; 
 Nor bishop, synod, or conclave 
 E'er asketh what it must believe; 
 A free church in the freest land 
 That lies beneath creative hand. 
 
 Eastward, as turning in my search, 
 I miss a quaint old-fashioned church 
 Whose paintless, high-back seats were made 
 The sport of every boyish blade; 
 With service end, whose gallery floor, 
 Was strewed with birch and apple core! 
 Methinks I hear its lusty prayers 
 Re-echo yet along the years, 
 
FANCIES. 247 
 
 Beginning in a whisper low 
 Upmounting by degrees and slow 
 Till at the last, with thunder tone 
 They take by storm th' eternal throne. 
 
 Blunt spoken Gilyard's frequent voice, 
 Proclaiming of life's better choice; 
 Good Uncle Jerrod's solemn strain, 
 Repeating o'er and o'er again: 
 Scenes such as these my thoughts did fill, 
 As looking tow'rd old Chusetown hill, 
 I wondered (if those sainted ones 
 Still keep an eye upon their sons). 
 How doth accord to spirit gaze 
 The temples of our modern praise ? 
 The costly pane the lofty spire 
 The preacher raking down his "fire! " 
 E'en sweeping from perdition's door, 
 That hideous word "forevermore! " 
 Or, at least, when human sight 
 Fails to discern God's purpose, quite, 
 That rules the creeds and dogmas out 
 And to the sinner gives the doubt ? 
 Brave sons of faith, that through the night 
 Faced ever to some morning light- 
 Not seen but hoped for to the end- 
 Before thy memoried shrines I bend 
 To pay with heart and tongue and pen, 
 That homage due to honest men. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet other scenes and visions came 
 As from a pit of bitterest shame 
 That made me doubt, as there I stood 
 In blank amaze, if God was God! 
 I turned my glass. Along the vale 
 A host of spectred children pale, 
 With anguished faces thin and weird 
 
248 FANCIES. 
 
 Flashed on the eye and disappeared! 
 Behind a bacchanalian crowd 
 With tottering gait and grizzly browed 
 Came straggling through the palsying land 
 From low saloon and tavern stand 
 Men turned to brutes. And then I saw, 
 Beneath the blighting hand of law, 
 Farms, that from sire to son had come, 
 Mortaged and lost in dens of shame; 
 Then peeping in at the barroom door 
 Where loitering fools ran up their score, 
 I saw the curse of Humphreysville 
 Bend o'er the old stone tavern till 
 
 The shadows fled. The vale beneath, 
 The landlord slept the sleep of death; 
 111 winds, that by the maxim should, 
 While blighting some, waft others good, 
 On all they touched brought down the curse, 
 Nor could be told who fared the worse; 
 For death is death, what cometh then 
 Lies not within our mortal ken. 
 
 As sped away each shadowy ghost, 
 Came up the vale a bannered host 
 Regalia clad red, blue and white; 
 And "as the water drops unite 
 And blend in one," I heard them say 
 " So may we blend, till washed away 
 From land to land, from main to main, 
 Shall be for aye, rum's hideous stain." 
 E'en as I looked, in nook and glen, 
 Where'er were found abodes of men, 
 The sobered hand, unthrifty late, 
 Put up the fence and hanged the gate. 
 The cot took on a fresh attire; 
 Unwonted fuel fed the fire; 
 Into the attic's refuse bags 
 
FANCIES. 249 
 
 The children shed their filthy rags; 
 And as they donned their prouder clothes, 
 Glad mothers quite forgot their woes; 
 While on the tongue of thankfulness 
 As saviours rose the names of Bliss 
 And Swift and Losee passed away 
 With others, yet, that here to-day, 
 Against the fiend and all his hordes, 
 Still live to hurl indignant words. 
 
 III. 
 
 Change rules the hour. What was, is not; 
 What is, the morrow hath forgot. 
 
 Though true it be, that cottage door 
 Still opens where it did of yore, 
 Yet not as to our youthful eyes, 
 Our ancient home we recognize. 
 In weather brown of chestnut wood, 
 A story and a half it stood 
 Plain, unpretentious like the men 
 And women that it sheltered then; 
 Its floors were bare, its chimneys wide 
 With generous cuttings well supplied 
 By after school-hours evening chore 
 From oak or walnut at the door. 
 Beneath the wide moss-hanging eaves 
 Half hidden 'mong the maple leaves 
 The swallow raised her twittering brood, 
 Its nests the color of the wood, 
 While chipmonk ran along the fence 
 Safe in his worthless innocence 
 Unless, perchance, by wanton stone, 
 Of thoughtless urchin overthrown. 
 
 Two story now, the cottage stands, 
 While from its either side expands 
 Bav windows whose indwelling flowers 
 
250 FANCIES. 
 
 Vie with the splendors of the floors. 
 
 No longer is the clang of loom 
 
 Heard in the upper attic room; 
 
 No more the prancing, pattering hoof 
 
 Of watery steeds upon the roof 
 
 Lulls us into half dreamy swoon 
 
 On some dull Sunday afternoon 
 
 Afar from churchly worshippers 
 
 Among the mint and hazel burs. 
 
 The stone wall where the chipmonk race 
 
 Built year by year its dwelling place, 
 
 Along the garden line of yore, 
 
 Hath felt the impulse of the hour, 
 
 And in its stead, the paling high 
 
 In various pattern, meets the eye 
 
 As if to show that 'twere designed 
 
 That use and beauty should be joined. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The train sweeps on. We're growing old; 
 E'en as we speak some wing doth fold: 
 Some moment bright hath passed away 
 And th' morrow is the great to-day. 
 
 So, lovely vale, with yearning eyes 
 
 And heart of tenderest sympathies, 
 
 Along thy pictured hills I range, 
 
 To find but faces new and strange. 
 
 My boyhood's friends, where have they fled ? 
 
 I listen, but their welcome tread 
 
 Comes not upon my later path; 
 
 Save here and there, some one that hath 
 
 By dint perchance of hardier stock 
 
 Survived the spoiler's roughest shock. 
 
 V. 
 
 Somehow it came, I know not how, 
 While looking on that vale below 
 
FANCIES. 251 
 
 That many a pleasant scene came back 
 Across the long half-buried track 
 Of strolling bands for serenade, 
 Where shrieking flute and viol played 
 Beneath the great eyed summer moon, 
 Such antics both with time and tune! 
 
 Ah, William H. and Charlie D., 
 And Edward F. and Thomas G., 
 How is it friends ? Once more in line, 
 Let's twang the string for Auld Lang Syne! 
 Oh, yes, I know, from years that rolled, 
 The flute is hoarse the string is old; 
 Perchance it will not bear the strain 
 Of concert pitch; and yet, again 
 Though forced to take a lower key 
 Let's try our old time ministrelsy. 
 
 The girls ? Dear me I cannot tell 
 
 Just now where may the creatures dwell; 
 
 Afar from earth and earthly things, 
 
 Some well I know have taken wings, 
 
 Yet, after all, may gather near, 
 
 If once our ancient tone they hear; 
 
 Come, twang the strings; Tom draw your flute; 
 
 There! give us now the starting note! 
 
 ******* 
 
 Hurrah! by jove we played it fine, 
 
 For Auld Lang Syne for Auld Lang Syne. 
 
252 FANCIES. 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 LONG years ago to-night they're five and twenty, 
 A maiden stood with me upon the strand, 
 Where flattering hope, with promises in plenty, 
 Wrote out our future .in the golden sand. 
 
 Each surging wave, as it came dashing leeward, 
 
 Had some sweet story of its own to tell, 
 Of love's fair islands that were lying seaward, 
 
 On which young fancy loveth aye to dwell. 
 
 Casting our eyes across the leaping waters, 
 
 In the far distance flashed a tiny sail; 
 Now 'gainst the sky, now hidden by the breakers, 
 
 Onward it came, low bending to the gale. 
 
 Wond'ring, we gazed upon the airy vision, 
 
 Which scarcely seemed to touch the azure sea; 
 
 And much we questioned what might be its mission, 
 And who the fearless mariner might be. 
 
 Onward and landward, nearer and yet nearer, 
 Marking its white track o'er the watery wild, 
 
 Steady it came, till vision getting clearer, 
 Firm at the helm we saw a little child. 
 
 " Now hail," said the maiden, so, cheerily, I shouted, 
 
 Mariner thy name ? and to what port dost thou sail ? 
 "Captain Cupid, and to Wedlock," came reply so sweet I 
 
 doubted 
 If 'twas not but the echo of some spirit of the gale. 
 
 "To Wedlock?" I repeated, that is strange, good Captain 
 
 Cupid, 
 
 Come, tell me, if thou can'st, where port like that may be ? 
 Then up spoke the blushing maiden, " Why, don't you know, 
 
 you stupid, 
 'Tis out among those islands Love's Islands of the sea." 
 
FANCIES. 253 
 
 I took the hint (as you would), she'd planned an expedition, 
 
 And I must try to join it, that was plain to see; 
 The love tide seldom waiteth, so at once I got permission 
 To go with her a-searching for Love's Islands of the sea. 
 
 " All aboard," now said the captain, so we walked the plank 
 
 together, 
 
 And we took up life's great journey without parley or delay; 
 And our bark has never foundered, tho' we've had some heavy 
 
 weather, 
 And the years, though five and twenty, find us still upon the 
 
 way. 
 
 INDIAN WELL. 
 
 TTH ! here it is, the very crag 
 
 JL That jutteth out above the pool 
 
 Of limpid waters, sweet and cool, 
 From which outbends the birchen snag, 
 Whereon we sat that autumn day, 
 And talked and dreamed the hours away. 
 
 Twas years ago I dare not think 
 How many quite; indeed, to-day, 
 With wrinkled brow and head of gray, 
 
 As here I stand upon the brink 
 Above the pool, I only know 
 'Twas many, many years ago. 
 
 She was a maiden, brave and true, 
 Fair as a fawn, and sweet as fair; 
 E'en ocean's pearls are not more rare 
 
 Than such as she, whom angels knew 
 And guarded well, so aught of shame 
 Ne'er soiled the whiteness of her name. 
 
254 FANCIES. 
 
 And I, but wherefore should I name 
 Myself, except the tale to tell ? 
 Too old to heed the magic spell 
 
 That set's the youthful heart aflame, 
 I yet confess what seemed to me 
 An angel walked that day with me. 
 
 E'en now, indeed, when disenthralled 
 From worldly cark and care, there seems 
 To flit sometimes across my dreams, 
 
 As 'twere unbidden, and uncalled, 
 Some angel form it may be hers; 
 Such do return as messengers 
 
 Of better things that should be known 
 To touch the cheek with soft caress- 
 To whisper words of tenderness 
 
 To lift each burthen of our own 
 
 And by their min'string presence lead 
 The pathways that our feet must tread. 
 
 II. 
 
 Upon a rock where we reclined 
 
 With patient toil some words were hewn: 
 I wonder if the faithful stone 
 
 Hath kept the record still in mind ? 
 Aye ! as I live ! The very spot ! 
 And here the words, " Forget me not !" 
 
 And just below, one little word 
 From out the mosses I recall: 
 Six letters " JENNIE" that is all. 
 
 Mine own hath vanished with the herd 
 Of common names, nor left a trace 
 Of aught but cold unlettered space. 
 
 F^or rocks and men come to decay, 
 
 High though the mountain turret climb, 
 Beneath the blast of Father Time. 
 
FANCIES. 255 
 
 Sand after sand must drop away, 
 For 'tis the fate of rocks and men 
 To find at last the level plain. 
 
 Oh mossy crag, and echoing cave ! . 
 
 That hedge about yon shadowy pool; 
 
 Tell me if somewhere 'neath the cool 
 And dimpled surface of the wave 
 
 Are not the faces that I know 
 
 Were mirrored there, so long ago ? 
 
 For as the waters wheel and curl 
 
 Within and out the shadowy cave, 
 
 Sometimes upon the limpid wave 
 Amid the foaming, mazy whirl, 
 
 A flash reveals I know not what, 
 
 Yet which enchains me to the spot. 
 
 Aye, as I gaze, the snowy spray 
 
 Takes human shape, and girlish form; 
 
 That points me with a fairy arm 
 Toward the rock, whereon that day 
 
 She wrote the words my chisel cut, 
 
 " Forget me not," "forget me not." 
 
 Ye sloping banks and boulders gray 
 
 That skirt this sweetly memoried stream, 
 
 Oh, tell me, is it all a dream ? 
 Or comes the maiden here to-day ? 
 
 Hark ! there's a footstep: it must be ! 
 
 Oh, darling, wilt thou speak to me ? 
 
256 FANCIES. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL LBAVES. 
 
 @UT in the fields, one autumn day, 
 Dreaming the beautiful hours away, 
 Two there were that with me strayed, 
 Through the meadow and through the glade: 
 One a matron, the other a maid- 
 Gathering leaves. 
 
 Beautiful leaves of many a hue, 
 Fair as ever a mortal knew: 
 Golden yellow and russet brown, 
 Bits of flame from the maple crown, 
 Softy, silently shimmering down- 
 Beautiful leaves. 
 
 Round and round, with many a turn, 
 Under the fringe of feather fern; 
 In and out of their cool retreat, 
 Whirled the waters, clear and sweet, 
 Bearing their burthens to our feet 
 Of beautiful leaves. 
 
 Time was when, in the April days, 
 Under the soft and nurturing rays ? 
 Ere the buttercups did appear, 
 First were they to give us cheer, 
 Clothing the nakedness of the year 
 With beautiful leaves: 
 
 Leaves that never deserted the bough 
 Till their juices ceased to flow; 
 Till they had gathered the color and glow 
 Of ripened age; then, duty done, 
 Under the mild October sun, 
 
 Fell the beautiful leaves. 
 
 So we gathered and bore them away, 
 Children of light, for another day; 
 
FANCIES. 257 
 
 And, as cheerily home we strayed, 
 
 Through the meadow and through the glade, 
 
 I, with the matron and the maid 
 
 With our beautiful leaves. 
 
 I thought of the autumn days to come, 
 When all must travel the journey home; 
 And silently in my heart I prayed, 
 That ever, this matron and this maid, 
 Might be, in the glory of life arrayed, 
 Like the beautiful leaves. 
 
 Travelling down the realms of shade, 
 Not as those that are sore afraid, 
 But like one with never a trace 
 Of naught but cheerfulness on the face, 
 Hastening home at the end of the race, 
 With beautiful leaves. 
 
 Written all over with dutiful deeds 
 For humanity's suffering needs, 
 Bearing the record of useful lives, 
 Faithful daughters and loving wives, 
 Summing the grain of their harvested sheaves, 
 On the beautiful leaves. 
 
 OLD AND NEW YEAR. 
 
 TTTHE old year out, the new year in; 
 L The sweeping hours go by; 
 I tremble at the ticking clock 
 
 I cannot tell you why; 
 
 Tick, tick, tick, tick, 
 
 I cannot tell you why; 
 For though with every pulse and swing, 
 
 My castle wall may rock, 
 
258 [ AXC1ES. 
 
 Yet what with me hath that to do 
 
 Oh tireless, busy clock ? 
 * True every step is one the less 
 
 Adown the steep incline; 
 But what to me, oh busy clock ? 
 Eternity is mine. 
 
 I sit within my castle wall; 
 
 The midnight train is due: 
 Hark! clear the track! the whistle shrieks,. 
 
 Behold, I bring the new: 
 And hill and dale re-echo back, 
 
 Behold I bring the new! 
 The old year out, the good it brought 
 
 Is ours forevermore! 
 The new year in, thrice happy he 
 
 Who addeth to the store. 
 And though the grim, remorseless clock 
 
 Marks off th' expiring hours 
 Till e'en shall come three score and ten, 
 Eternity is ours. 
 
 The old year out, the new year in; 
 
 Within my castle wall, 
 I patient wait, or soon or late, 
 
 The hour that comes to all. 
 I will not fear if but each year 
 
 Good seed hath fairly sown, 
 With silver hairs, that choking tares 
 
 Will rob me of mine own; 
 That soon or late 
 
 I shall not reap mine own. 
 
FANCIES. 259 
 
 THE TOWN ON THE HILL. 
 
 TITHERE'S a town on the hill where the streets are o'er- 
 A grown 
 With weeds that neglect and the breezes have sown: 
 
 Where the houses are thatched with the grass and the flowers, 
 And the minutes, within are as long as the hours : 
 
 Where the hearthstone hath never a spark or a flame, 
 And night unto night is forever the same. 
 
 Of the people that dwell in this town on the hill, 
 It is little I know and but little can tell: 
 
 This only, in fact, from the region about, 
 
 They are seen to go in, but they never come out. 
 
 Yet a faith that is more than a faith, Iv'e thought, 
 Sweet faces, oft times, to my vision hath brought 
 
 Of the dear ones that seem to be loving us still, 
 Though they went from our sight at the town on the hill. 
 
 The gates of this city so white and so tall, 
 Are open for any are open for all: 
 
 For pride hath no place with the people who dwell 
 In the echoless halls of this town on the hill; 
 
 Where the soldier that enters, must lay down his sword, 
 And the miser no longer his treasure can hoard: 
 
 For the sword and the treasure goes ever to rust, 
 In this empire of peace, in this realm of the dust. 
 
 "Threescore and ten ?" Oh, yes, but they pass 
 The swift mounted years like a flame in the grass, 
 
 That rides at the front on the whirl of the wind, 
 To leave but the wreck of some glory behind ! 
 
260 FANCIES. 
 
 There is ever a house in this town on the hill, 
 For the people below in the village to fill: 
 
 A tick of the clock, and the sound of their feet, 
 Is lost in the depths of its silent retreat. 
 
 Is it strange that I ask if this city of death 
 
 Hath a tomb for the thought, as it hath for the breath ? 
 
 If this living and loving and hoping must be, 
 As a ship that is lost in the depths of the sea ? 
 
 But the answer I get in these moments of gloom, 
 Is the " dust unto dust " at the mouth of the tomb ! 
 
 And I shout in my anguish defiant of God, 
 " As I live let me die as becometh a clod !" 
 
 One day, I stood close to the portal, alas ! 
 As it opened, a while, for my darling to pass; 
 
 I thought to go in but the warder said " Nay," 
 The time is not yet; but I caught, far away, 
 
 As I peered through the shadows a glimmer of light 
 As it were at the end of some cave of the night; 
 
 And I heard a sweet strain, as of triumph and song, 
 That rippled the depths of that cavern along ! 
 
 Which I took for a sign that despite of my fears, 
 E'en thus it would prove at the end of the years: 
 
 That a star beam of hope yet would come through the gloom,. 
 To lead and to guide through the night of the tomb. 
 
 With courage renewed, then, I took up my staff, 
 And the ages of darkness I met with a laugh ! 
 
 ' And I said to misfortune, ha ! ha ! but the ill 
 Of thy shafts cannot reach to the town on the hill. 
 
FANCIES. 261 
 
 BEAVER BROOK. 
 
 T. 
 
 U7H ROUGH a valley of peace, in our latter day, 
 A With laugh and with song, as in merry play, 
 A beautiful streamlet pursued its way 
 
 From nook to nook, 
 Where the fisher delighted to cast his hook, 
 
 For many a year 
 
 Known far and near 
 In the country about as Beaver brook. 
 
 II. 
 
 The winter was past and the spring had corne 
 With the greening grass to the cottage home, 
 While down the valley, its galloping team, 
 On its peaceful way, drove the tiny stream, 
 Now stopping a while by the way, at length, 
 To turn some mill with a gathered strength 
 
 Some mystic wheel, 
 For the transmutation of mind to meal. 
 
 To this, our land, 
 If heaven had sent, with a lavish hand 
 
 Of hope and cheer, 
 One might have hoped to have found it here. 
 
 III. 
 
 A rural nit that had felt, no doubt, 
 The stinging shot of some gunning lout 
 
 Of a burgher stout, 
 
 With a joyful look 
 
 At the swollen brook, 
 
 On that Wednesday morn from his door looked out, 
 And thus to himself he spake: said he, 
 Aha! aha! but these folks below 
 So strong in their strength, I will quickly show 
 How a simple rat, though but weak and small, 
 With a deluge of waters can sweep them all 
 
 Into the sea. 
 
262 FANCIES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To the lake above, then, he sallied forth, 
 
 And he sapped and mined through the bank of earth 
 
 That barred the waters, till round the wall 
 
 They whirled and whirled to its final fall; 
 
 And the great mad stream, as in mighty wrath, 
 
 Through that smiling vale left a desert path. 
 
 With the thunder peal and the lightning flash, 
 
 On the startled ear came the roar and crash 
 
 Of rushing waters to men below, 
 
 That told in a moment, a tale of woe 
 
 That bore away as its ghastly spoil, 
 
 The fruitful gain of their years of toil. 
 
 Onward and downward the waters hurl, 
 
 Dashing and crashing, they wheel and whirl, 
 
 While floating rocks and uprooted trees 
 
 Are tossed, like feathers, before the breeze, 
 
 And amid the roar 
 Are scattered in fragments along the shore. 
 
 V. 
 
 For greening lawns, upon every hand 
 The waters leave but of mud and sand. 
 Fortunes are wrecked, and the homes of pride 
 Are scarred and marred by the angry tide. 
 But amid it all, with a binding force, 
 Comes the thankful thought that it was no worse, 
 
 To the cottage door 
 That the flood came not at the midnight hour. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Through a valley of peace to a later day, 
 Still laughing along as in merry play, 
 That beautiful streamlet pursues its way, 
 
 From nook to nook, 
 Where the fisher may sport with his morning hook; 
 
 Yet for many a year 
 
 Shall the people hear 
 Of the terrible pranks of Beaver brook. 
 
FANCIES. 2 
 
 THE PICTURE UPON THE WALL. 
 
 TITHE RE are two little lambkins infolded 
 A I need not, I'm sure, tell you where; 
 
 Enough that the lambkins are folded 
 And guarded with tenderest care. 
 
 From a picture the wall hath in keeping, 
 A mother looks pleadingly down, 
 
 With her great loving eyes, that, unsleeping, 
 Keepeth watch, as it were, o'er her own. 
 
 And I see her again as I knew her, 
 A bright little maiden and fair, 
 
 Ere the breath of the night wind that slew her, 
 Had dampened the braids of her hair. 
 
 There's a triumph of love, and a bridal; 
 
 A cottage, with love on the throne; 
 A proud little mother the idol 
 
 Of him that had made her his own. 
 
 There are years that flow on, like a river, 
 
 Unruffled by tempest or breeze; 
 There are hands that upbuild to receive her 
 
 The halls of ambition to please. 
 # # * * 
 
 And then comes the night of our sadness; 
 
 There's a new step that's heard in the hall; 
 A chime, and' a wedding of gladness; 
 
 The great eyes look down from the wall. 
 
 While a low voice goes upward, and pleading 
 With Mercy, before the great throne, 
 
 That whom shall the lambkins be leading, 
 Will help her to watch o'er her own; 
 
 So that as their feet shall move onward, 
 Kind motherhood's face to recall 
 
 As the lambkins grow upward and sunward, 
 Two pictures shall hang on the wall. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND, thou soul of the nation! its conscience, 
 its keeper, the seal 
 
 On the scroll of its honor, forever, in our hearts at thy 
 presence we kneel! 
 
 With thy Longfellow, Whittier and Lowell the godhead 
 
 triune of thy song! 
 With thy Garrison, Phillips and Sumner the chain-breaking 
 
 foe of the wrong! 
 
 With thy Webster, and Choate, and Parker, thy Thoreau and 
 
 Emerson, e'en 
 Thy thoughts as the flow of a river make the hills of humanity 
 
 green. 
 
 Thy sons have been ever the sages; tall souls that, outrising 
 
 the night, 
 Have caught at the earliest dawning the law from some orient 
 
 height, 
 
 And have hasted them down from the mountain, like Moses of 
 
 old with a sword, 
 And the tablets of granite engraven, and a " hear ye, for thus 
 
 saith the Lord!" 
 
 And, yet, there is something to hope for a glory not yet quite 
 
 attained; 
 In the rock by the wayside, New England, is an angel of 
 
 beauty enchained. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 265 
 
 E'en the angel of Christ in the human: the perfection of right 
 
 that is might! 
 And may God haste the chisel of progress that bringeth that 
 
 glory to light. 
 
 HON. JOSEPHUS BROWN. 
 
 "The Hon. Josephus Brown, from Beanville, is stopping at the City 
 Hotel." City Item. 
 
 WELL, yes, I'll have to own it, square: I sent that item in, 
 Not that I thought of my affairs that you would care a 
 
 pin; 
 
 But, now a days, folks get in print that mean to make a show, 
 As gin'ral this, or kurnel that, or hon'rable so and so. 
 And though it was a weakness, square, as I must freely own, 
 I thought I'd like to see that way, my name, Josephus Brown. 
 
 I'm growin' old and, mebbe, square, that you will think a fool; 
 But Jane is scollardly enough she kept the village school. 
 "Jane?" That's my wife. You knew her, square she that 
 
 was Janie Towne; 
 
 Of course you haint forgot the day she married 'Cephas Brown ? 
 (Yes, I am he. How are you, Joe ? ) But that is all gone 
 
 by; 
 
 One had to be the loser, Joe: 'twas either you or I. 
 But, Jane, poor girl ! sometimes I think she did not do her 
 
 best; 
 Though when I've said as much to her, she's answered that 
 
 she " guessed 
 She knew her business;" bless her heart ! I ne'er could make 
 
 her own 
 That ever she did rue the day she married 'Cephas Brown. 
 
 We've talked it o'er a thousand times, I always felt afraid 
 That I had made too hard a bed for that dear little maid, 
 Who had but to have spoke the word and gold was at com- 
 mand 
 
266 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And high estate, and rank, perhaps, the proudest in the land. 
 And if while drudging out the days of our hard country life, 
 Has sometimes come a yearning thought about some city wife,. 
 That never spun an ounce of wool, or e'en that ever knew, 
 But that upon some tree or shrub fresh eggs and butter grew; 
 If she has thought what might have been when hardships 
 
 bore her down 
 Till weakness came, she ne'er were blamed by me, Josephus 
 
 Brown. 
 
 But no; to her philosophy for man or womanhood: 
 According to the strength to bear, some hardship is for good; 
 "Gold is not wealth;" sometimes I think she says it for my 
 
 sake 
 
 " Who loses most may win the most of all that is at stake 
 Of any real good in life: than discord's ax, superb, 
 Far better, in some rural cot, contentment's humble herb !" 
 So saith my brave, good wife that is she that was Janie 
 
 Towne 
 Who left so much that might have been, for me, Josephus 
 
 Brown. 
 
 But, square, I've wandered off a bit from saying what I meant, 
 Which was that when to put in print my name to you I sent, 
 We'd talked and talked the matter o'er that's me, you know, 
 
 and Jane, 
 
 And both agreed, though some might think us not a little vain, 
 That since I once the honor had to " represent " our town, 
 Some right had I, with H-o-n. to write Josephus Brown. 
 I thought, myself, that E-s-q. was all the case would bear; 
 But Jane, she said that was a plume that any fool could wear; 
 The other were'nt so common like, though sometimes out of 
 
 place, 
 
 In helping some infamous chap to tide o'er some disgrace. 
 But now I come to think on't, square, 'twas foolish like, I own, 
 To add pretentious prefix, such, to plain Josephus Brown. 
 
 For honors are'nt so easy, square the gospel sort, I mean, 
 That one can buy enough to cleanse a soul that is'nt clean. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 267 ' 
 
 And though sometimes my wife may think that I'm the best 
 
 of men, 
 Yet, looking back through all the years of my three score and 
 
 ten, 
 
 There's much I find to make me e'en the " H-o-n." disown, 
 And be content to write my name, as plain Josephus Brown. 
 
 MARRY A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 O'AID a beautiful maid, one day to me, 
 
 " Marry a gentleman ! why of course! 
 What do you take me for, said she, 
 
 A goose ? or worse ? 
 
 " What were the good of a couple of maids 
 
 As running mates on the track of years ? 
 As well to rivet two nether blades 
 
 For a pair of shears! " 
 
 "Of course," said I, ''but you see, you see, 
 To put it as plainly as I can, 
 
 1 meant but this, that your love should be 
 
 A noble man! " 
 
 "But noble men are not plenty now," 
 
 With puzzled look, said the little maid; 
 " For such I would have too far to go, 
 I am much afraid." 
 
 Nay, not so far as may be supposed; 
 
 Nobility dwelleth in every land- 
 Though not in the outward garb disclosed, 
 Or the jeweled hand. 
 
 It bears no sceptre it wears no crown 
 
 Nor vaunts itself upon others' deeds, 
 With heart as humble as hands are brown, 
 Wherever leads 
 
268 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The surest path to the truest life, 
 
 Will now, as ever since time began, 
 Be found in search of a loving wife, 
 Some gentleman, 
 
 Who lives to love, and who loves to live, 
 
 That earth be better for him, indeed, 
 Who askef h no gift that he will not give 
 To another's need. 
 
 And so to the maiden I said, " you see, 
 
 To put it as plainly as I can, 
 I meant but this, that your love should be, 
 A gentleman." 
 
 THE BOYCOTT. 
 
 DOWN from the hills on a marketing day, 
 Came Farmer John with a load of hay, 
 At a stalwart price that he wished to sell. 
 So he skirmished the village about until 
 He came to the dwelling of Laborer Jim 
 A workman of his, and he said to him: 
 "A cow you have got, and a cow must eat, 
 And I have some hay that is good and sweet; 
 My wants they are many, my purse is low; 
 I'll sell you the food for your hungry cow 
 At forty dollars the single ton, 
 And not a cent cheaper," said Farmer John. 
 
 Says Laborer Jim, " But the price is too high; 
 It is true that my cow she must eat or die; 
 But you know that in market per ton, to-day, 
 For thirty good dollars there's plenty of hay. 
 My income is small, and upon my word, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 To give you ten dollars I cannot afford. 
 
 If you 11 not take the thirty, why then away, 
 
 You can 'git up and git' with your load of hay." 
 
 "But that will not do," said old Fanner John; 
 
 " You must give me the price that I ask per ton, 
 
 Or a trade's commission on you shall wait, 
 
 And the price you must pay we will arbitrate. 
 
 Demanding your books, we will scan the amount 
 
 That goes to your daily expense account; 
 
 We will peep in your pantry, and cellar, too, 
 
 And say what you can or you cannot do; 
 
 And mind! The expenses, at so much per day, 
 
 For the arbiters' time you will have to pay, 
 
 Or the fiat will issue that downs your house, 
 
 And giveth your cow but as nothing to browse. 
 
 We'll boycott the butcher that bringeth your meat 
 
 And the shoeman that covers your children's feet. 
 
 Nay, more; but unless you my price advance, 
 
 We'll boycott your cousins and all your aunts; 
 
 In short, and forever while any remains 
 
 To share in the stock of your beggarly veins, 
 
 We'll punch, and we'll pinch them, from day unto day, 
 
 If you give not the price for my beautiful hay." 
 
 Then uprose Toiler Jim, and said he, "As a man 
 I will stand by my manhood as long as I can; 
 My labor is worth, or in winter or spring, 
 As you say, Farmer John, only what it will bring'; 
 Then, as it is worth in the markets to-day, 
 For that, and that only, I'll purchase your hay; 
 But never a cent (though I starve, Farmer John) 
 Will I give the footpad with the boycotting gun." 
 
 'Tis a homely old adage quite often in use, 
 
 That "sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose." 
 
270 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 If the toiler for wages may use the "boycott" 
 
 For getting what otherwise cannot be got, 
 
 Then, to market their wares and their profits enchance, 
 
 Why should not the " bosses " be given a chance ? 
 
 Let's work out the problem. To cure up the ills 
 
 That menace the mansion as well as the mills, 
 
 On the back of whatever displeases why not ? 
 
 Let us lay on the lash, with the snapper "boycott." 
 
 But there's one thing methinks after all that we'll find, 
 And it is that the blindest of men are the blind 
 Who think they can see 'that in order to thrive 
 They've only to "fiat" two and two to be five. 
 
 LET HIM ALONE. 
 
 Y17HESE be brave words, and noble as brave. 
 A It is time for rebuking the pitiful knave 
 That saving himself would keep others at sea, 
 To perish in sight of the "flag of the free. ' 
 
 Poor Johnny Chinaman, let him alone ! 
 
 He comes to us asking not even a bone 
 
 That he pays not in full for; no pauper is he, 
 
 He asks but permission to " washee, wash-ee." 
 
 Shod with "canal boats," and under his hat 
 A "pigtail," you say? Well, sir, what of that? 
 Or Miss, if you please ? The pigtail of Chang 
 Is as " lovely " perhaps as your idiot "bang." 
 
 Irishman ! where is your deed for the air 
 That you take, while to others refusing a share? 
 Refuge is this for the poor and oppressed; 
 Have you not found it so, friend, in the past ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 271 
 
 Yankee ! and where isjvw title to hold 
 The land that you stole from the red man of old ? 
 Might maketh not Right ! " The Chinese must go !" 
 Is the cry of the demagogue decency's foe. 
 
 Hark ye, my neighbors ! The " Chinee" shall STAY ! 
 So long as our laws he shall chose to obey; 
 When this he does not 'twill be time then, you know, 
 With the ; ' sand lots " to echo, the " Chinese must go," 
 
 Poor Johnny Chinaman ! almond-eyed son 
 
 Of a nation that stands with its feet to our sun, 
 
 Do not denounce him, though your mothers at home, 
 
 Should not have enough "washee" to keep you in rum. 
 
 Let him alone ! he is harmless enough; 
 
 Let him alone, Mr. Bummer or Rough ! 
 
 If cleanliness next unto godliness be, 
 
 A mission to you hath this "heathen Chinee." 
 
 TO AN INVALID MOTHER. 
 
 WHY steals the silent tear, mother, 
 Adown thy snowy cheek ? 
 Alas! those deep-drawn sighs, mother, 
 
 A sorrowed heart bespeak. 
 Dark clouds of deep and gath'ring gloom 
 
 Come shadowing o'er thy brow, 
 And thy voice which once rang clear in song, 
 Is hushed in sadness now. 
 
 Sometimes from thy blue eye, mother, 
 
 A fleeting smile will gleam, 
 Yet most are they like tears, mother, 
 
 So faint, so sad their beam. 
 
272 MISCKLLAXKOUS. 
 
 Once 'twas not thus; the time was when 
 
 Thy all of life was gay, 
 Ere sorrow's clouds had veiled the sky 
 
 Of young life's summer day. 
 
 Thy voice in praise, I've heard, mother, 
 
 Ere th' lark proclaimed the dawn, 
 As hand in hand we roamed, mother, 
 
 The dew-bespangled lawn; 
 And oft at the morning hour 
 
 We breathed the perfumed air, 
 Thou did'st teach my infant knee to bend 
 
 In humble, grateful prayer. 
 
 But now there is a change, mother, 
 
 Disease thy limbs have claimed; 
 And months and years thou'st suffered, mother, 
 
 Yet hast thou not complained. 
 And when I mark the rising tear, 
 
 Unbidden, dim thine eye, 
 I know that sorrow, care and pain 
 
 Call forth each tear, each sigh. 
 
 I would that blooming health, mother, 
 
 Again might kiss thy cheek, 
 And many happy days, mother, 
 
 Would I for thee bespeak. 
 But if it is by heaven ordained 
 
 That thou must suffer still, 
 Mother! by Him be thou sustained, 
 
 "Who doeth all things well." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 273 
 
 U 
 
 A MAN is A MAN: 
 
 ITTOW hark ye, my friend! it's a blunder ye're makin'; 
 \\ Disgrace does not come from a nation or name: 
 'Tis the deed that must judge us, the truth I'm spakin', 
 And only the deed that can bring us to shame. 
 
 What matter, me boy, though our dust may be taken 
 From Erin's green isle, or this land of the west? 
 
 A man is a man, it's the truth I am spakin', 
 Who liveth and doeth the thing that is best. 
 
 Crisp though his hair, and sooty his face is; 
 
 Born to the spade or the purple so fine; 
 The King is his Father! and He by his graces, 
 
 To each giveth birthright as "prince of the line." 
 
 Ashamed of the land of your fathers? Forbid it! 
 
 Ye army of martyrs that live in its song; 
 It is hasty ye were, or ye could not have said it; 
 
 The heart it was right, but the head it was wrong. 
 
 Ashamed of the land of O'Connel and Emrnet ? 
 
 Of Meagher, and Mitchell, and Matthew, indeed ? 
 Then, aye, let the child of its mother disclaim it, 
 
 And blush for the milk that hath nurtured and fed! 
 
 Oh, Erin! brave Erin! bright gem of the ocean! 
 
 Though tuned is thy wild harp to sorrowing strains; 
 Yet ne'er may thy children so lack in devotion, 
 
 As to blush for the blood that is flooding their veins. 
 
 Then harkee, my friends, it's a blunder ye're makin'; 
 
 Disgrace cannot come from a nation or name; 
 ^Tis the deed that must judge us, the truth I am spakin', 
 
 And only our deeds that can bring us to shame. 
 
 So give us your hand, now, begorra, I mane it! 
 
 Let's build up a bridge o'er this "chasm," and then 
 
 With our oaks and our shamrocks, we'll strive to maintain it, 
 And work with each other like brothers and men! 
 
274 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 DR. AMBROSE HKA KDSI.KY. 
 
 IKE children at play on the ocean strand, 
 We build up our castles of shifting sand: 
 
 The tide comes in, and the tide goes out, 
 And where we have build ed is left in doubt; 
 
 We measure our lands and we count our gold, 
 And we clutch our possessions with frantic hold; 
 
 We bend to our tasks like the galley slave, 
 
 Till we stand on the brink of the yawning grave ! 
 
 And this is life ! Of its shifting sand 
 Must we build, forever, with childish hand? 
 
 Is there nothing to stand, as the solid rock, 
 Forever defying the tempest's shock ? 
 
 Must we grovel and grope among sordid things, 
 With the .rustle about us of soaring wings ? 
 
 Go stand with me at yon new made grave, 
 Where sleepeth the friend of the loyal brave, 
 
 And the friend of the lame and the halt and blind, 
 And the lowest and poorest of human kind, 
 
 Whose hand was full of restoring balm 
 
 And whose life was as sweet as a morning psalm ! 
 
 Go ask of him, as he hovereth o'er, 
 
 If the castles he built on this troubled shore, 
 
 Though they left him poor as to shining gold, 
 Were not in the skies as a wealth untold ? 
 
 Loyal and true from my early years 
 
 In the days of joy and the days of tears 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 275 
 
 I knew hitn well, even to the end, 
 
 As brother, adviser, physician and friend. 
 
 Where duty called it was his to go, 
 Through tempest whirl, or the biting snow; 
 
 Nor counselled he as'to duty's course 
 Of his own good ease, or his patient's purse. 
 
 It matters but little if low or tall 
 His graven shaft, or if none at all; 
 
 For granite must crumble and bronze will rust; 
 But a life that is true cannot end in dust. 
 
 Love must be immortal. Hope cannot die, 
 Or God is a myth, and his wisdom a lie 
 
 THE TROUBLE AT PODANK. 
 
 IT was regular meeting day of Podank's sewing circle: 
 Present the Scrimagers and Kranks, the Srnilers and the 
 
 Smirkles, 
 
 With several ancient maidens, that, as models of propriety, 
 Had passed as 'mong the very best of Podank's church 
 society. 
 
 As usual on occasions when the guild had come together, 
 The first upon the docket was the subject of the weather; 
 And next a little baby talk, with turning conversation 
 Upon the " Master's vineyard " and the general situation. 
 ******* 
 
 The work commenced, and for a time, the knitting and the 
 
 sewing 
 Went smoothly on, though plain it was that trouble there was 
 
 brewing: 
 
 Somewhat as if somewhere beneath by dynamiter loaded- 
 Some hidden mine by wicked hand did wait to be exploded. 
 
276 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Miss Skinney and Miss Overgood sat crooning in a corner, 
 As if it was a funeral hour and each was chiefest mourner; 
 Across the room, and vis-a-vis, a younger generation 
 Of Podank belles, of lovers, held a whispered conversation. 
 
 The matrons talked abstractedly, about the philanthropies: 
 
 Of linens for the arctics and of woolens for the tropics; 
 
 Or into contemplation tcok the Indians of Dacotah, 
 
 While knitting socks and pretty things for babies out in Utah. 
 
 For years, the only public place for Podank's younger people 
 To gather in a general way was underneath the steeple, 
 Where to enjoy, as best they could, old Deacon Buncombe's 
 
 prayin', 
 Or Parson Lengthy's talk about the danger of delayin.' 
 
 But, lately, 'twas suggested by some people more progressive, 
 That, for the youngsters, less restraint might sometimes be 
 
 permissive; 
 
 But just how far to give them rein, and hold them to propriety, 
 Was something that was on the mind of Podank's church 
 
 society. 
 
 One spoke of dancing as no harm if properly conducted 
 Another thought by "readin' rooms" to have the young 
 
 instructed; 
 While to employ them both, 'twere well, so thought good Peter 
 
 Saterlee, 
 Suggesting also smoking rooms and checker boards et cetera. 
 
 The subject had been wrestled with in prayerful meditation, 
 The faithful pulpit, too, had mourned the risky situation; 
 And yet, despite all warning words regarding church propriety, 
 The project daily converts made from Podank's best society. 
 ******* 
 
 The clock upon the stroke of three cut shart the skirmish 
 
 rattle, 
 When all, as if with one consent, fell into line of battle, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 277 
 
 For backing up the heresy, or for its full suppression 
 A subject that had been adjourned from last week's regular 
 session. 
 
 The first to broach the subject was the spinster secretary, 
 With the remark that life was short and sorry was she, very, 
 To find immortal bein's (at some oldish people glancing,) 
 In Christian lands to justify the sinfulness of dancing. 
 
 Though there was something said about our walk and conver- 
 sation, 
 
 To dance was there no one command in all God's revelation; 
 In fact to run the Christian race was only recommended, 
 By them of old who followed Him that to the earth descended. 
 
 u Just think," said she, "of sinners foul with Adam's great 
 
 transgression, 
 
 A waltzing up before the Lamb, in butterfly, procession, 
 To get a pass for Canaan's land, instead of humbly falling, 
 Like worms and sarpent's that they are, and to His presence 
 
 crawling ! " 
 
 Miss Skinner thought, while easy quite would be the bible 
 showing, 
 
 That to his thirst for knowledge was Old Adam's trouble 
 owing, 
 
 Yet she believed in books and sich, if prayerfully selected, 
 
 Though larnin' was too dearly bought with savin' grace neg- 
 lected. 
 
 The book of Martyrs, Baxter's " Rest," with Bunyan, for 
 
 example 
 
 The Bible and some other sich to her mind would be ample; 
 While as for games and worldly plays, what need was there to 
 
 add one ? 
 
 Or build smoke houses for our youth when every farmer had 
 one ? 
 
278 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 As for the dance some folks were now too frisky for their 
 
 calling, 
 E'en that, sometimes, she called no names came pretty near 
 
 to falling; 
 At which a matron quick upspoke, with something of glass 
 
 houses, 
 In which dwelt certain ancient dames who had'nt any spouses, 
 
 But ought to have if so and so, not sounding to their credit, 
 (Consarnin' what she would not name), was true as people 
 
 said it. 
 
 To which replied the ancient one with meekness of a martyr, 
 " If some folks knew the things I know about the deacon's 
 
 daughter, 
 
 "'Tis false," upspoke the deacon's wife. "What's false?" 
 
 inquired the other. 
 " I hain't said nothin'." " What is more, you darsen't," screamed 
 
 the mother. 
 
 So raged a wordy battle then, each assailant getting bolder, 
 In which were mingled maidens old and matrons that were 
 
 older, 
 
 With venomed arrows never one a neighbor's weakness sparing, 
 Until had Podank's scandal all received a thorough airing, 
 Until and plainly was it seen, as one good soul expressed it, 
 That "sinful natur will crop out where never had we guessed 
 it." 
 
 The circle was no longer whole; old friendships had been 
 broken, 
 
 And faith was lost in Christian grace, by hasty words out- 
 spoken. 
 
 Each, charged to each (as if ashamed that any had begun it,) 
 
 With bringing to their cause a shame, and went for cloak and 
 bonnet; 
 
 While I who tell the story wake, as from a curious dreaming, 
 To find the dancing sunbeams through my attic window 
 streaming. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 279 
 
 I heard the summer bird and bee their joyfulness rehearsing 
 
 The leaping- squirrels in their glee of autumn feasts discoursing. 
 
 The flocks and herds upon the hills were galloping their 
 
 gladness, 
 While man, poor fool, sat down to croon about some ancient 
 
 badness, 
 
 Somehow his own and to devise some pious sort of shamming, 
 By which to blind the judgment eye and so escape a damning. 
 
 In reason's name, what if should not our prayer be all sedate- 
 ness ? 
 
 Or if in it we fail to tell our father of His greatness ? 
 
 Will He forget our common needs, despite His love abounding ? 
 
 Will He withhold the morning sun, the seasons from their 
 rounding ? 
 
 Nay, is He not by far too great, against the seed of woman, 
 To take offence because, perchance, of errors that were human ? 
 'Than favoring souls that only in some outward forms adore 
 
 Him, 
 Will not who lives to manliness stand greater far before Him ? 
 
 It must be so. And if for us shall heaven be worth the 
 
 winning 
 That "heaven within," declared of old, why make not here 
 
 beginning? 
 
 By leading so the joyful path and upward so ascending, 
 That scarce we'll know when passing on, beginnings from the 
 
 ending. 
 
280 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 WHAT THE FIRST ROBIN SAID. 
 
 0NE beautiful morning in early spring, 
 When hope was out on its shining wing, 
 As I lay in my couch, the welkin rang 
 With a song like this, which the robin sang! 
 
 " Twir-r-r, twir-r-r, chit chit chee! 
 Chur-r-r, chur-r-r, twit twit twee! 
 Chuck chuck chuck! and he sang it long, 
 And this was the theme of the singer's song: 
 
 Here I am, here I am, friends, with you! 
 The frost is gone and the breezes blow 
 From softer climes, and I come, I come, 
 To seek me a place for my summer home. 
 
 Ha! but I'll show you some pretty tricks! 
 I'll get some clay and some tiny sticks, 
 And I'll get some moss and a tuft of hair 
 With a feather or two from here and there. 
 
 And, then, right here in this busy town 
 I'll build me a nest in the maple crown, 
 Where soon will be found some eggs of blue, 
 As pretty as ever a mortal knew. 
 
 And where in time shall a wonder be 
 As much a wonder to thee as me; 
 For I can't quite tell, no more can you, 
 How cometh the chick in the egg of blue. 
 
 The shell will break and a callow form 
 Shall open its mouth for the canker worm 
 That I will bring from the apple spray, 
 At the rate of a hundred or more a clay. 
 
 And there, in our nest my mate and I 
 We'll teach our little ones how to fly; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 281 
 
 And we'll send them out on their mission forth 
 To gladden with beauty and song the earth. 
 
 E'en more, we will charge them the whole year through, 
 That they stay, my friend, that they stay with you, 
 But I ask, in turn, that if winter-bound 
 Some chick of mine shall be hungry found, 
 
 And its " quick, quick, quick," at your door is heard, 
 I ask that you spread for the pleading bird 
 The feast of crumbs that you well can spare, 
 To keep it alive in the frosty air. 
 
 And more, I ask that the wretches' " fun," 
 That seeketh its life with the deadly gun, 
 Shall be held for aye, to the end of time, 
 The thing that it is, but a shameful crime. 
 
 With a " quirr-r quirr-r quirr-r! " and a chee chee chee! " 
 
 The bird sped off to a neighboring tree, 
 
 While I, indeed, ere I left my bed, 
 
 Had noted the words that the robin said. 
 
 And I made response for the faithful bird, 
 That ever I'd utter a friendly word; 
 E'en, to my best, that I would defend, 
 From harm, poor robin, our winter friend. 
 
 AN EARLY FROST. 
 
 MY name is Frost; they call me John 
 Perhaps you may remember 
 The call I made one night, upon 
 An evening in September 
 The tenth, I think it was, you said, 
 
 As in the morning, surly, 
 You pointed out the tulip bed 
 
 And said I "came too early." 
 
282 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Ho! what a lively time that night 
 
 Among the tender grasses! 
 I painted all the valley white, 
 
 And up the mountain passes, 
 With brush in hand, and pallet, too, 
 
 Of colors rich and mellow, 
 I set the forest all aglow 
 
 With crimson and with yellow. 
 
 As through the crispy meadow grass, 
 
 Her naked feet were falling, 
 How lightly tripped the dairy lass, 
 
 Her charges gaily calling! 
 And how as Bess and Brindle rose, 
 
 With full and creamy pouches 
 She stood to warm her ruddy toes 
 
 Among the vacant couches! 
 
 I touched the saucy chestnut burr 
 
 With nipping, icy wrenches, 
 And quick the squirrels laughing churr. 
 
 Was heard among the branches. 
 Upon the fringing border hedge, 
 
 I set my jewels flashing; 
 And all along the river edge 
 
 My tiny ships were dashing. 
 
 The frost grape sweetened on the vine, 
 
 As purple grew the bunches, 
 Whereon, at morn and eventime, 
 
 The whirring pheasant lunches. 
 The air I gave a healthy glow, 
 
 Which cleared the smoky hollow, 
 And sent the quicker blood to flow 
 
 Through sallow cheeks, and yellow. 
 
 And then unto the stricken land, 
 
 Where anxious hearts were waiting; 
 
 I hastened with my cooling hand 
 The fever fiend abating. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 283 
 
 And all along the southern coast, 
 
 I sped on wings of healing, 
 While thousands blessed the early frost, 
 
 That sent the demon reeling. 
 
 I brought the frightened exile back 
 
 Beside his altars glowing, 
 And set, again, the human tide, 
 
 In wonted channels flowing. 
 And none there were in all the land 
 
 With angry look, and surly 
 To point at me the fevered hand, 
 
 And say I "came too early." 
 
 THE LOCKOUT BELL. 
 
 WHO was she ? I cannot now quite tell you; 
 As a toiler with us at the mill 
 She came every day from the city, 
 
 As the sunbeams came over the hill. 
 
 Of her history naught could we gather, 
 
 Though, somehow. I think it was learned, 
 
 Of a sister, and younger, dependent 
 
 For bread on the wage that she earned. 
 
 She was called " Little Maggie, the spooler," 
 Though small, did she manage to fill 
 
 The hearts, and to love overflowing, 
 Of all that did work in the mill. 
 
 One morning, in clouds came the snowflakes, 
 The tempest wild raved and shocked, 
 
 As, the tongue of the last bell ceasing, 
 The doors of the mill were locked. 
 
284 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 "Absent" was marked on her record; 
 
 I knew that the lassie was ill, 
 Or had fallen somewhere in the snow drift, 
 
 That day on her way to the mill. 
 
 And so to the good John Downie, 
 
 A brawny stout lad, I said, 
 " Go thou quickly and seek for the maiden 
 
 By the wayside alive or dead." 
 
 And the laddie went forth to his searching, 
 Until from a rounding drift, 
 
 His eyes saw a part of her mantle, 
 
 That had caught on a bramble lift. 
 
 Then, quick, from its cold white shrouding, 
 
 He lifted her helpless form, 
 And clasping it close to his bosom, 
 
 Strode home through the blinding storm. 
 
 The heart had not quite ceased beating; 
 
 So, laying her on the bed, 
 The maiden reviving, in terror, 
 
 Exclaimed, as she lifted her head: 
 
 " The bell! Hark the last belt is sounding! 
 
 The drift groweth deeper,, and I 
 Oh God! am locked out and forever 
 
 In the cold, oh, so cold! and to die! " 
 
 Then laying her back on the pillow 
 
 There came, in despite of the storm, 
 
 As it seemed, through the roof of my cabin, 
 A sunbeam that lighted her form, 
 
 Above which a white mist gathered, 
 That, taking on human guise, 
 
 Did follow the sunbeams upward 
 And on to the over skies. 
 
MISCKLLANKOUS. 285 
 
 You think as it pleases you, neighbor, 
 
 Of my story as something absurd, 
 But unless did my senses deceive me, 
 
 From the spirit departing I heard 
 
 This song, as it were, of rejoicing: 
 
 " I am free, I am free from the mill, 
 From the pitiless task of the master, 
 
 From the clang of the merciless bell. 
 
 " I am, I little Maggie the spooler, 
 
 An immortal, to earth yet allied; 
 I am dead, yet alive! and about me, 
 
 Are the vanished that never have died. 
 
 u I have garments of richness and splendor, 
 
 I have jewels of beauty, and rare! 
 I can ride on the sunbeams, they tell me, 
 
 And visit from star unto star! 
 
 "To my need will be mansions uplifted; 
 
 To my wish will come answering boon; 
 I have life, and where life is eternal, 
 
 And the clock pointeth ever a noon. 
 
 " I have learned that for whom that is faithful 
 
 For whom that is loving and true, 
 For whom, that, as strength it is given, 
 
 Shall do what is given to do. 
 
 " Though the snows of the earth drift about them, 
 
 To hinder their way to the gate, 
 Shall no Mock out' be found to confront them, 
 
 Because of a coming too late." 
 
286 MISCKl.LANK'.H S. 
 
 AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. 
 
 THERE is a story, somewhere, that is told 
 About some Rabbis in the days of old, 
 That in the market place did gather round 
 The loathsome carcass of a wretched hound, 
 That, stoned by urchins, and with scourges plied, 
 Had done what every cur must do had died. 
 
 They talked the matter over, pro and con: 
 Who was his master, or if he had none; 
 A rope was round his neck was he a thief ? 
 Of sinning dogs, did he not look the chief? 
 
 Spurning the carcass with his sandalled foot, 
 Up-spake one Rabbi, " 'tis a sorry brute! 
 And justly, doubtless, was it that he died. 
 There's no good thing about him, e'en his hide 
 Is full of holes and would not bring a groat." 
 4 ' Faugh! " said another, as he turned about, 
 " To my good nostrils doth he give offence 
 Pray take him hence." 
 
 A gentle stranger of a kindly mien, 
 That, till the moment, had not there been seen, 
 Bent lowly down above the form beneath, 
 And said, "like pearls are that poor fellow's teeth, 
 And vanished. 
 
 I'pspake the Rabbis all, in underbreath, 
 "This must have been that man of Nazareth! 
 For surely none but him had ever found 
 A thing to praise in such a wretched hound." 
 
MISCELLANKOCS. 287 
 
 OUR MODERN GIRLS. 
 
 I. 
 
 'TTCX'OMPLISHKD? Yes, the girls are that, as goes the 
 I A world to-day, 
 
 They dance and sing and flutter in the most delightful way; 
 But how about the duties that, within the kitchen door, 
 So kept the matrons busy in the good old days of yore ? 
 
 'Tis childhood, now, or womanhood there is no stage be- 
 tween ; 
 
 The maid becomes "her ladyship " before she's seventeen, 
 To flirt and flutter on the stage of life's gay world about, 
 Or, on the sofa dream the dream of some last novel out. 
 
 I well remember, Tom, the day when, helpful to your side, 
 That sweet brown little maiden came to be your loving bride. 
 What if the only tune she played was on the spinning wheel, 
 Or, with the rat'ling dishes when was done the daily meal ? 
 
 Without her daily labor, Tom, in many a helpful way 
 
 To spin, and weave, and make and mend, where were your 
 
 lands to-day? 
 
 And still, surrounded by her court, well caring for her own, 
 Is that true hearted maiden found upon her kitchen throne, 
 
 While her sweet girls with dainty feet parade the parlor 
 
 room 
 With trailing flounce to sweep the floor though seldom with 
 
 the broom! 
 
 E'en granting all their boasted charms, without your helping- 
 purse 
 
 With which would any mortal chance the better, for the 
 worse ? 
 
 II. 
 
 I don't go much on people, squire, that are too swift to find 
 Some weakness or some steps askew in our poor humankind: 
 In corners that can sit and chirp about the days of old, 
 Stone blind to all the glories that these latter days unfold. 
 
288 MISCKI.I.AXl.orS. 
 
 You speak about the matrons, squire, that, in our earlier day, 
 
 Stood at the helpful labor wheel; I grant it as you say. 
 
 They were our helpmeets true, indeed, whose rounding day of 
 
 toil 
 Too often found its weary end beside the midnight oil. 
 
 But, that was ere from head to point had changed the needle's 
 
 eye 
 
 Ere rapid seam and gusset could the Singer wheel supply 
 Ere science, for assisting toil, had furnished us the means, 
 Or, ready baked, had Boston sent her brown bread and her 
 
 beans. 
 
 But here comes up the question as to what are life's demands; 
 If idleness be happiness, then, with enfolded hands, 
 To wait the benefactions of who reap of that they sow, 
 Or sit like beggars at the gate would be a heav'n below. 
 
 But since the fiat hath gone forth, by labor shalt thou eat 
 The bread of that existence that so makes the slumber sweet, 
 'Twere better that we teach them, squire, our boys and girls 
 
 the same, 
 That aimless indolence is but the beggary of shame: 
 
 That for their living in this world, upon the score of use 
 To others, as unto themselves, there should be some excuse. 
 To merely breathe is not to live; in slumber by the way 
 Whose breath hath run a hundred years may not have lived a 
 day. 
 
 The sire goes forth to daily toil though plenty fills his purse, 
 Because the current of his life he cannot now reverse; 
 Ths matron keeps her kitchen, though needless for to-day, 
 Content to find her happiness in her old-fashioned way. 
 
 Yet toil need not be drudgery a strife without surcease, 
 Since to the reason-guided plow earth gives a fair increase: 
 E'en as the lillies, glory clad, along the valleys grow, 
 Nor toiling yet, nor spinning, to brighten earth below; 
 So, in life's rugged labor fields, our modern maids may hold, 
 Though menials less, as helpful place as did the girls of old. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 289 
 
 THE GREENHORN INVASION. 
 
 TITHE greenhorn came down, like a wolf on the fold 
 A (If you've heard that before) say, an army untold 
 Of grasshoppers, nimble and hungry and bold; 
 Their boots were fourteens, and their locks were of gold. 
 
 They came on the boats and they came on the trains, 
 From the farm on the hillside, and up from the plains! 
 There were "bang"-headed maidens and shock-headed swains, 
 With dinner plate breast-pins, and " loud "-looking chains. 
 
 They swarmed on the pavement, they swarmed on the 
 
 " fence," 
 
 And they drew from their pockets, with a "darn the expense," 
 Their long hoarded shillings and slow gathered pence, 
 And went for the peanuts with gusto immense. 
 
 'Twas the Glorious Fourth! and the Britishers' rout 
 Was made the pretext for a regular "bout," 
 Which, the papers all said would, without any doubt, 
 For the City of Elms, be the biggest thing out. 
 
 (And it was.) 
 
 To turn a bright penny, and help out the fete, 
 Each honest old cit. on the line of the street, 
 From his window or balcony put out his " seat," 
 With " price fifty cents " the invader to beat, 
 
 (Which was cheap). 
 
 Though the same, the " invader" was slow for to see, 
 So he hung himself up on a neighboring tree, 
 Or stood on one leg, and awaited a chance 
 To put down the other, to make an advance 
 
 On the show in the street. 
 
 There were sogers and sogers! oh my! what a time! 
 
 Bakers' carts by the dozen, to eke out the line! 
 
 Gim cracks and odd notions, cough syrups and spoons ; 
 
2QO MISCKLLAXKOrS. 
 
 Old men and old wagons, antiques and buffoons; 
 
 " Fire injuns," and injuns without any fire, 
 
 (Save what they imbibed, and the day could inspire), 
 
 Marching straight on the war path, in leggin and sock, 
 
 Keeping time to the music of Grandfather's Clock; 
 
 Young girls and old maidens too old, sir, to mention, 
 
 And a thousand things else claimed the greenhorn's attention. 
 
 Bean town was all out. There was Flora McFrill, 
 And Clarence Fitz-pup, from the " manse " on the hill; 
 With the lawyer O'Grabb; e'en the parson was there, 
 With thin, gothic forehead, and long, flowing hair, 
 With his wife and his "nine," in the heat of the fray, 
 Like ancient John Rogers a martyr, that day; 
 There was Bridget and Dinah, and Sallie and Moll, 
 And daddy and mammy and granny et al, 
 Oh, a motley old crowd as ever were seen, 
 Were the greenhorns that gathered that day on the green. 
 
 And yet, as I stood 'neath the arching old trees, 
 
 Which for three generations have swung to the breeze, 
 
 I thought it was yeomanry like unto these 
 
 That furnish the fellows that take their degrees: 
 
 For what so of lore can be sandwiched between 
 
 The yacht, and the bat, and the "fence " on the green. 
 
 And I thought of their bliss, if they lacked but in knowledge, 
 
 Of what their bright cubs were about k> down to college." 
 
 For their toil were embittered, did they know that each penny 
 
 Sent down to their " darlings " was just one too many; 
 
 Serving only to keep them away from the plow 
 
 The only profession they were fitted to know 
 
 And to tether them out on the world for subsistence, 
 
 To preach out, or pray out, a useless existence. 
 
 But, also, I thought how the beautiful trees 
 Could tell, if they would, how from yeomen like these 
 Came thousands of youth to the pierian stream, 
 To find in its waters the goal of their dream 
 
.MISCELLANEOUS. 291 
 
 Of the thousands that came and the thousands that fled 
 From their classical shades to the shades of the dead, 
 Writing high, as they traveled from age unto age, 
 Their names, through their deeds, on humanity's page. 
 
 Aye, laugh if you will, at the Fresh on the "fence," 
 And joke his brogans, which you say are immense; 
 But you'll find them one day, and it may not be far, 
 Walking into the judgment seat, over the "bar," 
 Or into the forum, on mission divine, 
 To break down the idols of custom and time. 
 
 So, give us your hand, then, brave sons of the soil, 
 Though rude be your raiment, and hardy your toil; 
 Though the butterfly world may deride you, at length 
 To your fields it must come for its vigor and strength. 
 
 WHAT I WOULD HAVE SAID. 
 
 IF I had been advised, my friends, of that delightful greeting, 
 That sweet " surprise " that set my heart to such tumult- 
 uous beating 
 
 Not that I think, to such as thee, my humble thoughts essen- 
 tial, 
 Yet, this is what I would have said, between us, confidential: 
 
 Fill up the bumper high, my boys ! fill up to fullest measure: 
 And while to love we consecrate this hour of social pleasure, 
 Let's drop life's haunting thirst for gain, bar out the idle 
 
 schemer, 
 And crossing palm to boyish dreams, let's drink unto the 
 
 dreamer. 
 
 Time's annual rounds are fifty-nine, and as I now record them, 
 Emotions crowd so thickly that T know not how to word them. 
 Lo ! on my castled prison walls awak'ning from my slumber 
 Each birthday morn, with startled gaze, one window less I 
 
 number ! 
 
292 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Yet, as of yore, through what remain, the hills round up as 
 
 greenly 
 
 And all along the river's bank, the lillies bloom as queenly. 
 Old age, go to ! Within my heart love's tender songs are 
 
 trilling, 
 As sweetly as when, long ago, the old, old story telling. 
 
 I will not have it that I'm "old." True, time must stop his 
 
 timing, 
 Or soon, or late soon it may be yet up the mountain 
 
 climbing, 
 The train moves on. Breath is not life. Earth particles may 
 
 sever, 
 Yet lives the spirit that indwelt forever and forever. 
 
 Forever? Tis a simple word; an infant's lip may tell it; 
 Yet, save who ruleth, where is he in fullness to reveal it ? 
 The train moves on. "How know I this?" E'en as upon 
 
 the ocean, 
 One feels the thrill, though deaf and blind, of paddle wheels 
 
 in motion. 
 
 Ah, but you say, '' show but one track of whom hath crossed 
 
 the border, 
 
 And I will turn to holy things will set my house in order; 
 And gold shall be as simple dust; and man shall be my 
 
 brother; 
 And I'll prefer to selfish ends the glory of another. 
 
 E'en more, I'll give of what is mine, to whom but asked to 
 
 borrow; 
 
 Nor have a care for scrip or purse, to serve me on the morrow. 
 Men tell me what they think is known about some far off glory, 
 But who comes back from heav'nly shores to tell a traveled 
 
 story ? 
 
 I cannot answer as I would, lest ye should not believe me; 
 But this I say, unless the Word was written to deceive thee, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 293 
 
 Around are "clouds of witnesses," and who are they, I 
 
 wonder, 
 But friends to come at call to rend this veil of doubt asunder. 
 
 " And shall this be ?" Friend, keep thy heart; what hath been 
 
 is forever; 
 How know you but some spirit form hath crossed the shining 
 
 river; 
 Hath left its footprints in the sand perchance to greet our 
 
 vision, 
 May stand in wait, with map in hand, to show us the elysian. 
 
 What wretched lives these mortals live who prate of heaven 
 
 and glory, 
 
 And clutch at gold and paltry dust, until the head is hoary; 
 Who plant and sow and reap and mow, or in or out of season 
 Who breathe to live and live to breathe, and for no other 
 
 reason; 
 Save, tow'rd the end, with crooning song, to measure up their 
 
 losses, 
 Up-climb their little calvaries and murmur at their crosses. 
 
 I know not how it may have been with you, my friend and 
 
 brother; 
 
 But, as for me, no fault I find with earth, our loving mother ; 
 All that I have, all that I am, to her kind hand I owe it; 
 All that shall be, shall be because through her did heaven 
 
 bestow it. 
 
 In worldly things a fair success I do not beg or borrow; 
 
 In hope and faith a millionaire, I boldly face the morrow. 
 
 A faithful wife hath blessed my board; children but they 
 
 have left me; 
 I drop a tear and kiss the rod of fortune that bereft me. 
 
 So looking down the line of years with nothing to be vain of, 
 With here and there a shadow grim, yet little to complain of, 
 That calm philosophy of life hath brought its consolation, 
 That takes what is and makes the best of every situation. 
 
294 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 I walk the hills of God to find his footsteps there before me; 
 I turn my upward gaze to know His greatness spanneth o'er 
 
 me; 
 
 I bend me to the blades of grass and listen to their voices, 
 While in the glories of the rose my inmost soul rejoices. 
 
 So on my chosen path I tread, yet am I never lonely, 
 For, though I seem to walk alone, 'tis but in seeming only. 
 A peopled world surroundeth me, a thousand times more real 
 Than aught imagination paints in far off realms ideal. 
 
 "My home an Eden? Yes, my friend, by Love long since 
 
 pre-empted, 
 Where Eve, to taste forbidden fruit, hath never more been 
 
 tempted. 
 
 And if or not to others good, yet hath my humble rhyming 
 A ladder proved on which to give my footsteps higher climbing. 
 
 Forgive, good friends. I would not vaunt; yet something 
 
 here impels me * 
 
 To give, as best I can, the key to what of hope indwells me. 
 Your kindly words, like evening dew, that lifts the drooping 
 
 roses, 
 
 To one in doubt of strength or worth, to nobler toil disposes. 
 Long life to all; I give you speed ! Whate'er hath been of 
 
 sorrow, 
 Thank God our friendships yet remain, out-living every 
 
 morrow. 
 
 Thank God, indeed, that we have lived, did blighting winds 
 
 blow strongly, 
 For times and seasons hath the world with us gone sad and 
 
 wrongly; 
 
 Run up the ledger lines of bliss, by daily pen recorded 
 Wife, children, friends ! though earth be all, is life not well 
 
 rewarded ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 295 
 
 THE DYING SOLDIER. 
 
 NAY, do not deceive me, doctor: 
 My marching is nearly done: 
 I shall tent in the shadowy valley 
 
 Ere the dawn of to-morrow's sun. 
 
 You have ministered to the body, 
 But, within, was a troubled ill 
 
 A sickness of heart and of conscience, 
 That baffled your greatest skill. 
 
 Who kills may not be an " assassin," 
 And yet, as to manner of death, 
 
 It is death all the same to the loser, 
 
 Howe'er be the stoppage of breath. 
 
 As a soldier I fought in the war time, 
 A sharpshooter, my rifle was true; 
 
 If the killing of men was an honor, 
 Then honors were mine not a few. 
 
 I was never a weakling, doctor, 
 I've battled again and again, 
 
 Where the blood at my feet was flowing, 
 Like floods from the summer's rain, 
 
 With never a thought or quiver 
 That back of it had a fear, 
 
 Though oft, at some simple sorrow, 
 Have I dropped, it may be, a tear. 
 
 One morning, as after the battle, 
 I stood, and with bated breath, 
 
 Looked into the marble faces 
 
 Of men that were cold in death, 
 
 I thought of my day's sharps hoot ing, 
 
 And how I had seen them fall, 
 Ere the smoke from my rifle vanished, 
 To the "ping" of my minnie ball! 
 
296 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 There was one that I well remembered 
 'Gainst the duty I felt was mine, 
 
 Whose youthfulness pleaded me strongly, 
 A lad on the picket line. 
 
 One may stand at the front of the battle, 
 And, putting up life against life, 
 
 May find by some chivalric pleading, 
 Excuse for his murderous strife; 
 
 But I, from my vantage of safety, 
 Had drawn on that boy in grey; 
 
 There was nothing for "chance;" I could hit him, 
 And did. It was right, they say. 
 
 But I could not quite help thinking, 
 
 That morning, that, somewhere, afar, 
 
 A mother, perhaps, was awaiting 
 
 Her darling's return from the war. 
 
 And that moment, forgetting the soldier, 
 
 I wept at my deed as a man 
 That of killing a brother was guilty, 
 
 And was resting as under a ban. 
 
 And to deny, though it came as a duty, 
 The heart of that youth in its prime, 
 
 To have pierced from my tree top of safety, 
 Cometh back to my soul as a crime. 
 
 Since that morning, and after the battle, 
 That face or by day or by night 
 
 Reproachful comes back to me saying, 
 
 " But a coward from ambush would fight. 
 
 I suppose it is foolishness, doctor, 
 
 But of those that my bullets have missed, 
 
 I would often have bartered my freedom 
 That boy to have found on the list. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 297 
 
 THE MAKING OF THE WILL. 
 
 TTTHEY had gathered from the mountains, they had gath- 
 A ered from the glen 
 
 Stalwart sons and loving daughters, little maidens, little men, 
 Making all the echoes happy, all that bright November day, 
 Till the early coming twilight in the shadows crept away. 
 
 Thanksgiving day was ended: they were sitting by the fire, 
 She, the white-capped smiling matron he, the stout gray- 
 headed sire. 
 
 There was silence in the household, save the ticking of the 
 
 clock, 
 And the clicking of the needles as they lengthened out the 
 
 sock. 
 
 In the pantry, quite dismantled by the patriarchal hand, 
 Lo ! the carcass of the turkey, like a wreck upon the strand; 
 Earthern platters by the dozen, minus now the pumpkin pie 
 Empty pans and plates and china, piled upon the table high. 
 
 Like a tempest, left the urchin a troubled track behind: 
 
 Grandpa's knife reported broken, scissors grandma could'nt 
 find. 
 
 Ah ! but " children will be children," thought the good old- 
 fashioned pair, 
 
 As they sat and builded castles pretty castles in the air, 
 
 For* the laddies and the lassies of their cherished little flock, 
 To the clicking of the needles and the ticking of the clock: 
 Till the automatic fingers laid the knitting work away, 
 And the matron, thus outspoken, talked about a coming day: 
 
 We are getting old, my husband, and the time is near at hand, 
 When we start upon our journey to the undiscovered land; 
 It may be upon the morrow at the best no distant day, 
 And there's something to be thought of ere we go upon our 
 way. 
 
298 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 We have got two hundred acres, and a half a dozen boys, 
 With two bright and loving daughters, as the crowning of our 
 
 Tom and Joe, sharp as any, yet will pay all they owe; 
 James and John and Mark and Matthew, all are honest as we 
 know. 
 
 I am sure I could not mention one of all the blessed throng 
 That I think would take advantage, or would do the girls a 
 
 wrong, 
 But we cannot tell what may be; pure and white as driven 
 
 snow, 
 Greed for gain might sink an angel to the nether depths below. 
 
 Yes, I understand you, mother. I've been thinking of it; 
 
 still, 
 
 Had I not, as yet, felt ready for the making of my will. 
 But a word has set me thinking; I was in the barn to-day; 
 Just outside the boys were talking, and I heard the eldest 
 
 say, 
 
 As the first born, to these acres I was once the only heir, 
 Hence the homestead, by my birthright, ought to fall unto 
 
 my share. 
 How the thing came up I know not, for the boys spake very 
 
 low, 
 But I heard the youngest answer, why begin the wrangle now ? 
 
 And the elder one responded, well, you know they're getting 
 
 old: 
 
 Thus I saw how love is blunted at the very touch of gold; 
 And I thought upon the morrow that we'd call the lawyer 
 
 man, 
 And we'll fix it as we want it, or as nearly as we can. 
 
 For, you see, it is not easy, quite, to settle an estate; 
 In advance of circumstances and the happenings of fate, 
 So to deal out even justice in accordance with the needs 
 Of the candidates in waiting for our mortgages and deeds. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 299 
 
 And the first of all, beloved, I will deed the half to you, 
 And will say to the survivor that the whole of it shall go; 
 Then we'll sign a paper jointly, so that when our tale is told, 
 The boys shall have the acres and the girls shall have the 
 gold. 
 
 Nay, twas thus upspake the matron; gold may take a sudden 
 
 flight: 
 
 If we write them down as equals would it not be nearer right ? 
 Houses, lands, go on increasing in their value many fold, 
 While forever stands the dollar as a dollar but in gold. 
 
 You shall have it as you wish it. I could never do the wrong, 
 Of withholding from the weaker to bestow upon the strong. 
 We have deemed each newest comer as the fairest and the 
 
 best 
 Of the whole as with fledgling pinions it fluttered from the 
 
 nest; 
 
 E'en to-day when gathered round us, did I look the flock 
 
 about, 
 For the one if one must leave us and I could not pick it 
 
 out. 
 
 So I think upon the morrow we will call the lawyer man, 
 And we'll settle it as fairly and as squarely as we can. 
 
 There was silence in the household. She had finished off the 
 
 sock; 
 
 He had asked continued' blessing on the cherished little flock; 
 And the clock kept watch above them, as they slumbered on 
 
 until 
 Was ushered in the morning for the making of the will. 
 
JOO MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 MY STORY OF THE YEARS. 
 
 I. 
 
 0N Woodbridge hills, till lately, stood an old house by the 
 way, 
 
 Unpainted, save by Father Time, and noted in its day, 
 As where the trav'ler stopped to rest, and where the rustics 
 
 all 
 
 Where wont to bring, from far and near, their maidens to the 
 ball. 
 
 Here slept and waked my kinsmen, long; and just across the 
 
 way, 
 In ancient Woodbridge's burial ground they're "sleeping" yet 
 
 to-day; 
 
 So saith the headstone orthodox in waiting for . " the sound 
 Of Gabriel's trump " somehow, sometime, to wake them from 
 
 the ground. 
 
 In this great house, two stories high, a palace in its time, 
 One winter's day, first saw the light the subject of our 
 
 rhyme; 
 
 Twelve pounds of pulpy, pinky flesh, was all the stranger had, 
 With not a crust for hunger's need, or pillow for his head. 
 
 His language none could understand, though striving hard to 
 
 say, 
 As best he could, by sign and sound, that he had come to 
 
 stay: 
 
 E'en that, a little rusty from his lately traveled path, 
 He wanted to be shown his room and take his little bath. 
 
 Some said the doctor, some that God had borne him to the 
 
 spot; 
 
 Whiche'er it was, his baggage checks somebody had forgot! 
 Since not a rag the beggar had to cover him from shame, 
 Besides, to make the matter worse, nobody knew his name. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 301 
 
 Who was the first to welcome him is not exactly clear, 
 
 At least to me at sixty-one, though, doubtless, I was there; 
 
 So ne helpful hand there must have been, for, of all human 
 
 kind, 
 A tramp more destitute than he were hard, indeed, to find. 
 
 A have a dim remembrance of a pair of loving eyes, 
 
 As blue as if their color had been ravished from the skies, 
 
 Of loving arms that did enfold with that great wond'rous 
 
 love, 
 Not born of earth, but from the fount of motherhood above. 
 
 I hear a soft, sweet song that comes, like some ^Eolian 
 
 strain, 
 
 To soothe and calm to slumber, or to charm away some pain, 
 But then, ah me! that song was heard in days so long agone, 
 That only now its echo comes to me, at sixty-one. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sometimes a child again I think of that small hand of 
 
 mine. 
 
 And wonder if my mother thought its future to divine. 
 And, though perchance, how sin could stain, not easy to 
 
 foresee, 
 Did not her heart go trembling as she thought of what might 
 
 be? 
 
 Perhaps. But never more, I ween, than doth, to-day, mine 
 
 own 
 
 At perils that it hath escaped; at wrongs it might have done, 
 But for some overruling good, that did its fortunes bless, 
 And give for it, where others failed, fair measure of success. 
 
 And then that tablet of the soul the brain, unwrit upon, 
 
 How crowded with historic lines, to-day at sixty-one! 
 
 The hopes and fears that come to all; the struggle for a 
 
 name; 
 The greeting, and the parting kiss; the word of praise, or 
 
 blame; 
 
302 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And twice ten thousand minor things, along life's daily road, 
 Picked up. somehow, for good or ill, and in some corner 
 
 stowed. 
 What if the day shall come when all, before the good and 
 
 true, 
 For righteous judgment and award, shall pass in clear review? 
 
 As glancing at the record now, methinks I may be glad 
 To find it ranked, if not as "good," at least not wholly bad, 
 (Though, some will say that whatsoe'er was done, or left un- 
 done, 
 Such as I am, by heav'ns decree, am 1 at sixty-one). 
 
 And so began that living line that ends who knoweth where ? 
 Three score and one are mine to-night; pray shall I have the 
 
 ten ? 
 
 And if I die, what will be gained ? The nine will soon go by 
 On rapid wings. And will they leave me ready, then, to die? 
 
 At twenty-one, so softly doth the seaward breezes blow, 
 That scarce of wreck the sailor deems it possible to know; 
 At sixty-one, on weary wings, storm-beaten, worn and gray, 
 Against the wind, against the tide, his ship comes up the bay. 
 
 And though seaworthy, nevermore of past exploits to dream, 
 Succumbing slowly to the worm, he anchors in the stream; 
 Now heading up, or heading down with ebb or flow of tide, 
 Only too glad to keep afloat, and from the great untried. 
 
 III. 
 
 In looking o'er some papers in the old time duly filed 
 By clerkly hands, I came across the record of a child 
 That had so did the story go through mercy that was 
 
 great, 
 Been made, someway, a child of God that is, "regenerate." 
 
 That simple name, to others naught, how did it thrill to know 
 That it was writ for me, for me! some sixty years ago! 
 To think as one, that child and I ! how strangely did it seem 
 To find that golden hair, now gray and dropping in the 
 stream! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 303 
 
 And what a stream it was, and is! What windings in and 
 out! 
 
 The yearning search for living truth; the cavilings of doubt; 
 
 The frantic clutch at saving "planks" that none can com- 
 prehend; 
 
 The sometimes sinking to despair, the grave the bitter end! 
 
 " Regenerate!" With but one year for sinning on the earth, 
 Was life then such a failure as to need a "second birth?" 
 I did not understand it then: as little do I now, 
 Yet, from that day, hath stood, unseen, the cross upon my 
 brow; 
 
 To what effect heav'n only knows. Perhaps was only meant 
 That so, by its good influence, my footsteps should be bent 
 Toward the right. If so, perchance, however small the gain, 
 That holy sign upon my brow may not have been in vain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My mother! In that early day when hope such promise made, 
 How proudly on the altar was thy little firstling laid ! 
 For it of future usefulness beneath those morning skies, 
 What visions, as of glory, filled thy young and tender eyes ! 
 
 How fervent was thy promise to the priestly office given, 
 Those tiny feet to train and lead along the road to heaven ! 
 I know not what the end may be, but if it should be mine 
 To fail the goal, the fault, I know, will not be counted thine. 
 
 My Mother, through thine own three score of sweetly patient 
 
 years, 
 
 The same great trusting, patient soul, in gladness, or in tears. 
 To-night among these chosen friends, and 'mid these scenes 
 
 of joy, 
 My Mother, from thine own bright home, bend down and 
 
 bless thy boy. 
 
 Because the silver in his locks hath crowded out the gold, 
 And slower, weaker in his step, they say he groweth old; 
 
304 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 But only 'tis his castle that is falling to decay, 
 With mosses gathered from the years his roof that grovveth 
 gray. 
 
 As on the altar it was thine, of old, to lay him clown, 
 
 In infancy with pleading prayer, so now at sixty-one, 
 
 Still but a child, through all the path remaining to be trod, 
 
 My Mother, reach thy helping hand, and lead him up to God. 
 
 THE LITTLE GRUMBLERS. 
 
 44 TO THAT for should I be thankful, sis?' 
 
 JLA Said little Tommy Brown; 
 
 " There ain't a wusser knife nor that 
 
 In all this ugly town. 
 I'll bet it did not cost a dime." 
 
 "Be careful, Tom," they said; 
 
 " But just see there, my goodness, sis. 
 
 'Twon't cut no more nor lead. 
 
 " Now there's the knife of Billy Snow, 
 
 Do\vn yonder at the dyke; 
 Pearl-handled and six-bladed, too 
 
 Now that is something like. 
 And such an edge! my goodness, sis, 
 
 He took a single hair 
 And clipped it, right afore my eyes, 
 
 The day that I was there." 
 
 "And see," said little Wilhelmine, 
 
 " 'At 'ittle nassy doll! 
 Hands, dey are sticks; hair t'at is wool; 
 
 Eyes, dey don't wink at all! 
 And such a d'ess! my doodness, Tom! 
 
 All tied up wid a string! 
 I wonder what they sink I want 
 
 Of such a nassy sing ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 305 
 
 " I bet I'd div a better sing, 
 
 Or nossin' div at all; 
 You frow away your mean ole knife, 
 
 And I frow 'way my doll." 
 And so the little ones ran on 
 
 About their fortune bad, 
 Repining o'er what they had not, 
 
 Despising what they had. 
 
 Around the corner of the street, 
 
 And down an alley way, 
 Upon a sloping cellar door, 
 
 Some children were at play; 
 And up and down the steep incline, 
 
 Such merry fun they had, 
 When up spoke little Marguerite, 
 
 " I think it be too bad, 
 
 "That there be children on the street, 
 
 That are so very poor 
 That they, to have such fun as we, 
 
 Haint got no cellar door." 
 God bless the little Marguerite! 
 
 Barefooted thinly clad; 
 .That found beneath such humble guise 
 
 Good reason to be glad. 
 
 Gold is not wealth: a simple gown 
 
 May clothe the village queen 
 As richly as the city belle, 
 
 With all her fairy sheen. 
 Full oft the poorest poverty 
 
 In silk and satin bound; 
 While underneath contented rags 
 
 The truest wealth is found. 
 
 So, children, we of larger growth, 
 As down life's steep incline 
 
3 O 6 M I SC ' K U , A N E O U S. 
 
 We journey on, its proffered cup, 
 Or water filled, or wine, 
 
 We'll take with ever grateful hand, 
 While pitying yet the " poor " 
 
 Who live adown some alley way 
 And have no " cellar door." 
 
 TWO WAYS OF LIVING. 
 
 i. 
 
 0LD Griper Gripp, that once I knew, 
 Was what the world calls well to do: 
 That is, the daily "street" upon 
 -His name was counted number one. 
 At village bank, with balance good, 
 Among the best his credit stood: 
 E'en favored by his fellow men, 
 He wrote his name with H-o-n. 
 
 Though straining at the gnat of right, 
 The camel wrong, and easy quite, 
 He swallowed, keeping well in sight 
 The statute law. Though, in his deal, 
 He often closely trod the heel 
 Of whom that, as to "mine and thine," 
 Forgets to draw the moral line. 
 
 At church he hired a family pew, 
 And promptly paid the rentals due; 
 Though Deacon Good, who passed the hat 
 On mission days could tell us that, 
 Whate'er the cause, he never, quite, 
 Could hit old Griper's pocket right; 
 Though wishing well poor dying men, 
 He'd nothing smaller than a ten; 
 Or else, to his " regret," perchance, 
 His change was in his " tother pants." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 307 
 
 Each Sunday morn, with pious care, 
 He opened up the book of prayer, 
 And, kneeling down, imploring said, 
 "Lord give to us our daily bread/' 
 Although, when asked, himself to give 
 That starving men might eat and live, 
 He struck the pleading angel dumb, 
 With "charity begins at home." 
 
 The promise made (he read it "gold ") 
 Of "bread " returning many fold, 
 As written in the Holy Book, 
 To him had such a thrifty look 
 That oft he made the venture, yet, 
 Lest heav'n the bargain should forget, 
 Whene'er the seaward " bread " he cast, 
 To "business" line he made it fast, 
 So that, if came no luck alack! 
 With prudent hand to draw it back- 
 Some cheat on nature to devise 
 Still closer to economise! 
 This was the one great aim in life, 
 That ruled old Griper's stingy wife. 
 From dairy shelf and rifled nest, 
 To market went her daily best; 
 While on her own scant table spread 
 Was creamless milk, unbuttered bread. 
 
 Among her cold unpictured halls, 
 Half furnished rooms and naked walls, 
 Shut out from every hope that cheers, 
 Grown sordid, soulless with the years, 
 Trudged weary on this drudging slave, 
 Her narrowed pathway to the grave. 
 In short, their acres to extend; 
 The much to get, the little spend; 
 With slumber scant at plough and wheel, 
 
308 MISCELLANEOUS. ' 
 
 To fill the time tvvixt meal and meal; 
 Such was the weary rounding strife 
 That bound old Griper and his wife, 
 Who, as the yearly cycles rolled, 
 Clutched tighter still their precious gold, 
 Until their shriveled souls, aghast 
 At funeral bills, stole out at last, 
 Leaving their bodies, side by side, 
 To wonder why they lived and died. 
 
 II. 
 
 Upon the hill, not far away, 
 
 Lived at the time one Simon Gray, 
 
 Not over rich, yet was he known 
 
 To hold of honest "gear" his own, 
 
 Enough all current bills to pay, 
 
 With something for a rainy day; 
 
 Though fearing not sheol or hell, 
 
 He gladly heard the Sabbath bell, 
 
 And, to its oft inviting tongue, 
 
 Joined in the praises said or sung, 
 
 Heard of a God to be appeased, 
 
 Took what he could, thought what he pleased. 
 
 Though wasteful not, with liberal hand 
 
 He fully met each fair demand. 
 
 " Keep to the right, give half the road,"- 
 
 This was the farmer's moral code; 
 
 And strictly to its mark he trod, 
 
 In market place and house of God. 
 
 Within his household gates enthroned, 
 Sat peace and comfort, plenty crowned, 
 Where music came, with art, to please 
 And brighten all his hours of ease. 
 
 When to his friendly open door 
 Came seeking aid the worthy poor, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 309 
 
 Two loaves in hand, he kept but one, 
 While had his pleading brother none; 
 For in his plain, blunt way, he said, 
 'Tvvas not his own God made the bread. 
 
 Beloved of all, his gentle dame 
 Made welcome all that to them came; 
 By ceaseless care for others good 
 She gathered wealth least understood 
 By whom, forgetting " thee " and "thine," 
 Give only heed to "me " and "mine." 
 And this is why that, while the twain 
 Had aught of meat or aught of grain, 
 Not one sweet mercy made demand, 
 That did not find a helping hand. 
 
 When, at the last, with duty done, 
 Came to them both life's setting sun, 
 Like children twain, and hand in hand, 
 They journeyed to the promised land, 
 Crowned by the wreaths that glory weaves, 
 And laden with well ripened sheaves. 
 
 As side by side their bones recline. 
 By way of moral, brother mine, 
 I ask you which was richest, pray, 
 Or Farmer Grip or Farmer Gray ? 
 
 III. 
 
 There's something grand in living 
 
 So, my friend, 
 That shall come no sad misgiving 
 
 At the end: 
 
 In our dealings with each other, 
 Conscience nevermore to smother, 
 Loving God, and one another, 
 
 To the end. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THANKSGIVING IN YE OLDEN TYME. 
 
 IN the last days of November, when the air was getting cool^ 
 And the apples had been gathered, and the granaries were 
 
 full, 
 Came the wished-for proclamation, from the pulpits of the 
 
 land, 
 For a season of Thanksgiving, by the governor's command. 
 
 Quick, the kitchens all were busy, and the apple and the 
 
 quince 
 On the tables were uprounding, while the sausage and the 
 
 mince 
 Were chopped, and mixed and flavored, and the pumpkin pies 
 
 were browned, 
 And the proud old turkey, lifeless, was stretched upon the 
 
 ground, 
 
 For the children that were coming homeward coming from 
 
 their farms; 
 John and Jennie, Mark and Mary with their little ones in 
 
 arms, 
 And their great big-hearted laddies, and their plump and 
 
 hearty girls 
 Sun-browned and weather-toughened, with a multitude of 
 
 curls. 
 
 TI. 
 
 Hark ! along the country highways hear the clatter of the 
 
 heels ' 
 Get up, Dobbin! hey, there, Robbin ! Faster, faster go the 
 
 wheels ! 
 
 Distances are counted nothing; twenty miles, not far away, 
 To the children home returning for the great Thanksgiving 
 
 day. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 3 f i 
 
 What a welcome there awaiting ! Grandma, everywhere, is 
 
 seen, 
 
 With her doughnuts and her cookies, and her pinafore so clean! 
 Grandpa, catching up the babies, and dancing o'er the floor, 
 As if, with the happy moment, age had vanished from the 
 
 door. 
 
 And then the hour of feasting ! Was there ever such a spread ? 
 Eager, how they gather 'round it, with the grandsire at the 
 
 head; 
 
 Wait they but a prayerful moment, rev'rent bending every one; 
 Then, huzza ! the signal soundeth, and the battle is begun. 
 
 Ho ! the great brown smoking turkey, and the chickens every 
 
 one, 
 
 By the vote of all the party, seasoned well and fully done; 
 And the pumpkin pies and puddings, though melting fast 
 
 away, 
 Yet ample in their storage for the great Thanksgiving day ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The supper o'er, the pantries are inspected, and the cheese: 
 The apple sauce and butter, and the honey of the bees: 
 While the children raid the attic, hunting out the little shoes 
 Once, perchance, that were the fathers' all stubbed out at 
 
 the toes, 
 
 Or, with mouldiness half covered; the hat without a brim, 
 That the youngest one declareth a perfect fit for him. 
 
 In the sunshine on the south side of the cottage are the sons, 
 Recounting of their labors or the trophies of their guns ! 
 While, within, the matron listens to the hist'ries of the year; 
 With joy to give* rejoicing with sorrow drop the tear. 
 Nightfall brings at last the parting, and the blessing of the 
 
 sire, 
 
 The homeward ride returning, and the chat around the fire 
 About the day eventful: its triumphs and its cheer- 
 By its pleasure fully measured, the longest of the year. 
 
312 MISCKLLANKi >US. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I am but a little maiden, and the story 1 unfold 
 Is a story that was told me of the simple days of old, 
 When to make a maiden happy, such as I, in many ways 
 Wasn't nearly so expensive as in these our latter days. 
 
 Though the little frock, or jacket, queerly fashioned, that they 
 
 wore, 
 
 Were carded, spun and woven, all within the cottage door, 
 They were sported just as proudly and as grandly as to-day 
 W r e children sport our dresses, more costly and so gay ! 
 
 Yet, although a little maiden, I am old enough to know 
 Into humble, holy living, that my duty is to grow, 
 And to learn, as on I travel tow'rd the beautiful and true, 
 If the blessings are not many, to be happy with the few. 
 
 So on this our own Thanksgiving, as we gather at the feast, 
 Let us, one and all, remember to be thankful for the least 
 Of all the many blessings that may come unto our door; 
 Giving freely, as receiving, to the friendless and the poor. 
 
 LO! THE POOR INDIAN. 
 
 YTFHERE'S a land in the west where the mountains are grand, 
 JL The hill tops are green and the breezes are bland; 
 Where the red man remains, like a sentinel lone, 
 To watch o'er the empires forgotten and gone. 
 
 Untutored, uncultured, the plaything of fate- 
 Unskilled in the ways of a civilized state 
 He asks not for empire so he but remains 
 To hunt the wild buffalo over the plains. 
 
 He plants his rude lodge on the banks of the stream, 
 Where to sit at the close of the day and to dream, 
 While his fathers come back in their shadowy lines, 
 To picture the plains with their mystical signs ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 313 
 
 They mount the war mound, with its terraces high, 
 And again through the air do their swift arrows fly: 
 The stone from the sling and the arrows sharp thrust 
 Leave the foe, as of old, with his face in the dust. 
 
 The vision is past and he wakes from his dream, 
 
 To find on the banks of his beautiful stream, 
 
 That the mounds where the bones of his fathers were urned, 
 
 Th' invader hath levelled the plowshare hath turned. 
 
 He sees the proud cap of the white surging wave, 
 As it sweeps to the westward the ranks of the brave, 
 From the homes of their childhood forever away, 
 And the hunter of old is the hunted to-day. 
 
 O'er mountain and hilltop through meadow and plain, 
 He flees from the demon of plunder and gain; 
 Though famine confront him, he dare not go back, 
 For the red hand of slaughter is close on the track. 
 
 No right that's held sacred, no "treaty " so strong, 
 Though the " Great Father " sign, as to guard him from 
 
 wrong; 
 
 His household polluted, himself but a slave; 
 No spot on the earth for so much as a grave. 
 
 Then, standing erect in the strength of his pride, 
 Do you wonder he clutches the gun at his side ? 
 As he turneth, at length, on the foe in his path, 
 Do you wonder his knife is the tongue of his wrath ? 
 
 Pale face, or red, 'tis a pitiful knave, 
 That stands not his home and his fireside to save; 
 That cringes and creeps at a tyrant's behest 
 E'en the viper will strike who invaded his nest ! 
 
 " Treacherous ?" Yes, but the white man is that. 
 "Indolent?" Doubtless, and "savage," and yet 
 To hound or to starve, or to shoot him, at sight, 
 May " solve a great problem " but can never be right. 
 
314 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Once to his shores came a shivering crew, 
 Houseless and homeless, their numbers but few; 
 Were they sent, can we say, to some barren "reserve," 
 To be hedged in with arrows to shiver and starve ? 
 
 Nay, but the hand of the God-fearing Perm, 
 They took as a man that was dealing with men; 
 And scarce till debauched and depraved by the white, 
 Did the red ever swerve from the line of the right ! 
 
 Let us be just. In the name of our God, 
 
 If justice still lives where a pilgrim hath trod, 
 
 Let us call off our war dogs our ring thieves, and then 
 
 Let us see if poor " Lo " will not live like a man. 
 
 Ne'er be it said while a million of graves 
 Are green in the land for the men that were slaves, 
 That th' shackle was torn from the ebony wrist, 
 But to clasp the red hand of this child of the west ! 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 llfHE tempest gathers overhead, the clouds hang dark and 
 A low; 
 
 Already, through the chill grey air comes sifting down the 
 snow. 
 
 The flocks, instinctive, seek the fold; with hurrying homeward 
 
 pace, 
 The shivering kine safe shelter seek to chew the cud of peace. 
 
 Wild grows the storm, and careless blind and gate swing to 
 
 and fro; 
 
 God help who hath no roof to-night to shelter from the snow! 
 There was a time alas ! gone by a time of birds and 
 
 flowers 
 Of green clad hills and sunny skies of soft and shady 
 
 bowers. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 315 
 
 And back as retrospection flits, again beside the brook 
 Where once I trolled, I troll again the barbed and baited hook. 
 
 Above, the sky is soft and blue; below, the earth is green, 
 And sweet the sea of perfumed air that seems to flow between. 
 
 Once more I see the dew-drops strung like pearls along the 
 
 spray; 
 Again is heard from topmast bough blithe robin's roundelay. 
 
 The limpid waters dance and sing along the pebbly shore, 
 Or loiter 'neath the green clad boughs that shade the cottage 
 door. 
 
 The dream is past; the skies are cold; the grass is crisp and 
 
 sere; 
 With rustling leaves December strews the death-bed of the 
 
 year. 
 
 Yet high heap high the glowing grate, and make the circle 
 
 wide, 
 Forgetting not that winter's gloom hath yet a sunny side, 
 
 That, cheerless though December's snow, and sharp his icy 
 
 dart, 
 The worst of all that can befall is the winter of that heart 
 
 Which underneath the russet leaf hath buried every joy, 
 That hath, alas! no love or hope, without some crude alloy. 
 
 Let tempests howl! we'll heap the grate! up, up the Christmas 
 
 tree! 
 Kriss Kringle, bring your jolly pack and spread its treasures 
 
 free, 
 
 That Joe and Jake, and Bet and Bess, with all the precious 
 
 crew, 
 With glad surprise may feast their eyes, and fill their pockets, 
 
 too! 
 
316 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And if, perchance, less favored ones should stand without th e 
 
 door, 
 Remember that the Christmas King Himself was of the poor. 
 
 And as our evening light goes out with glad and cheering ray, 
 So may we help some darkened soul to find the better way. 
 
 For at the best they are so short our seasons here below 
 That summer's wheat must get a start beneath the winter's 
 snow; 
 
 And well for ,him who in the spring, finds that his growing 
 
 sheaves 
 Of love and hope gained hardy root beneath December leaves. 
 
 DISCOURAGEMENTS. 
 
 TITHE sun comes up and the sun goes down, 
 JL And the great world wakes or slumbers; 
 
 Love strikes its harp to a tender tone, 
 Or to wild and thrilling numbers. 
 
 Ambition sitteth her steed, alack! 
 
 Through the smiling valley whirling, 
 While over the skyward chimney stack 
 
 The prosperous smoke is curling. 
 
 I hear the clack of the press of time, 
 With voice, as it were, of thunder! 
 
 If aught can hinder its work sublime, 
 I stand by its side, and wonder. 
 
 Alas, for us! Just when we think 
 
 That our ends are so well shapen, 
 
 That, of some glory, we're on the brink, 
 There's something sure to happen! 
 
 The sun comes up and the sun goes down, 
 
 In a doubtful sort of vapor; 
 And the great world stands aghast, that Brown 
 
 Should have gone and stopped his paper! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 READ AT THE SILVER \VKI)DIN(; oi \V. \V. LEE AM) WIFE, MERIDEN, 
 
 jn.v 24th, 1876. 
 
 FOOL, said my muse to me once on a time, 
 Look in thy heart and find me a rhyme, 
 For whom I would honor, come get me a rhyme. 
 But wherefore a rhyme, said I, O thou my muse ? 
 If aught must be said, why not say it in prose ? 
 In the easier way let me say it in prose. 
 
 And thus said rny muse: 
 
 Though the rhyme have no sense, yet often it will 
 Sugar-coat to your taste a very bad pill. 
 In the years long ago something less than a hundred 
 Near the City of Elms, by the wayside there wandered 
 A hopeful young pilgrim, just started in life, 
 Who, like Coelebs, was roaming in search of a wife. 
 From the hills of Barkhamsted, whose beacon hath shed 
 Such lustre historic, his footsteps had led 
 Through the highways and byways of city and mart, 
 In search for well, something concerning the heart; 
 Though there's room for doubt, with regard to the latter, 
 If the youngster, himself, knew just what was the matter. 
 Yet, that something was wrong with that " muscle " he knew 
 By the way that the plaguey thing fluttered and flew, 
 Every time, at the church, that he sat himself down 
 By the side of a curl or a calico gown. 
 An ill-defined longing, that ended in tears: 
 A feeling that he was but half of the shears: 
 One leg of the compass, that, turn as it would, 
 Struck never a circle as never it could: 
 A yearning, at times, for a rope, or the river 
 With half uttered thoughts of a ''farewell forever" 
 To the cruel old world that was such a deceiver ! 
 In short, from his symptoms, 'twas plain to be seen, 
 That though he had lived through the usual routine, 
 
318 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Of teething, baptisement, the measles, and mumps, 
 He was likely to yield to the " true lovyer's " dumps. 
 Nay, deride not his weakness, my batchelor friend ! 
 You've been there yourself or you'll go in the end; 
 For when the bold Cupid, his strong bow shall bend, 
 You cannot, forever, your heart-skin defend. 
 Though this for your comfort as every one knows, 
 The older the bark the tougher it grows. 
 
 But, this by the way. Through the day and the night, 
 
 And the night and the day by the aid of that " light " 
 
 From the Barkhamsted hills, our hero pressed on, 
 
 With his back to the town and its butterfly throng, 
 
 Sipping beauty and honey from this flower and that, 
 
 By way of a balm for his sorrows; and yet, 
 
 Like one who athirst in the desert doth hear 
 
 The ripple of waters that ever are near, 
 
 Yet ever are far so he struggled amain, 
 
 Tow'rd the mirage that promised, but to fail him again, 
 
 But, to shorten the story, suffice it to say, 
 
 That he lived it all through and is living to-day, 
 
 Thrice blest by the " heart's ease " he found at the door 
 
 Of a little low cottage close down by the shore. 
 
 Thrice blest, did I say ? Ah, well do I know, 
 
 Brother Wallace, the worth of these flowrets that grew, 
 
 So sweetly, and gently, and loving, and true, 
 Side by side in that cottage, for me and for you. 
 You have fought a good fight! I have done what I could, 
 And the world, as I trust, has gained something in good. 
 You have drank the sweet drops from our mythical spring; 
 You have wore the proud vestments of Judea's king; 
 You have heard the loud plaudit that greeted your name, 
 When the stone, once rejected, the corner became: 
 And yet, oh my brother, and yet who shall say, 
 When our labor is done at the close of the day, 
 And we debit our losses, and credit our gains, 
 And God strikes the balance for all that remains 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 319 
 
 That is worthy of record, who shall say what is due 
 To the influence sweet of those flow'rets that grew, 
 Side by side in that cottage ; for me and for you ? 
 
 As through the rough valleys our footsteps have led, 
 
 These tent-mates of ours have been help-mates, indeed! 
 
 Or in weal, or in woe, with the flow of the years, 
 
 They have joyed with our joy, and have shared in our tears. 
 
 And if, while on guard, and our mentors they stood, 
 
 They have blamed when they must, they have praised when 
 
 they could. 
 
 And though as stern fortune decreed it they got 
 Little gold with their venture, accepting their lot, 
 They have wasted no tears over what it was not: 
 But heart beat to heart beat, their lives have been spent 
 In the kingdom of love and the lap of content. 
 
 Oh blessed contentment! thrice precious above 
 
 All price are thy " herbs " in the cottage of love! 
 
 Where wanting but little, that little is given, 
 
 And souls, all untrammelled, strike straight out for heaven. 
 
 Aye! whose heads, like a land rising upthrough the night. 
 
 Catch, already, the beams of the first morning light, 
 
 Which stream from the open gates, pearly and white! 
 
 Wealth may build up her palaces, wondrous and fair; 
 
 May fill them with fashion and ornament rare; 
 
 But the worm at the core is sure to be there. 
 
 Then, where peace rules the night and love rules the day, 
 
 Where hope talks of heaven, and faith points the way: 
 
 Where soulless ambition nor envy are sent, 
 
 Let me live, let me die in the lap of content. 
 
 There's a wealth that is better than gold! 
 
 There's a joy that can never forsake us! 
 
 There are deeds that will purchase a kingdom, beyond 
 
 Where the waters of death overtake us. 
 
32O MISC1 
 
 There are heights upon heights to be won! 
 White fields that with harvest are gleaming, 
 The heights of true manhood the harvest of love- 
 And there's never a moment for dreaming. 
 
 You may call it the "cant of a saint," 
 You may deem it the rant of a rhymer! 
 But to live for another, unmindful of self, 
 I know that there's nothing sublimer. 
 
 Then give me, my brother, your hand^ 
 
 Brown, yet bright with the glory of labor, 
 
 I invoke on it blessings! and long may you stand 
 
 As of old to do battle for truth in the land, 
 
 For your God, for your home and your neighbor. 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER BELL. 
 
 Hark to the bell, 
 The silver-tongued bell, 
 The iron and steel works bell; 
 
 With the gleaming of the light, 
 In the middle of the night, 
 How it startles us affright 
 With its knell! 
 
 Dong, ding, dong, 
 Is the little bell's song, 
 Till it wakes up the steel works gong- 
 And the belfry on the green; 
 And the leather hats are seen 
 With their hurrying machine, 
 Speeding along. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 To the fire, fire, fire! 
 
 The serpent-tongued fire! 
 The leaping and demoniacal fire! 
 That is robbed of its prey 
 By the little bell's play, 
 As it summons us away 
 
 To the fire! 
 
 So here's to the bell, 
 The volunteer bell, 
 The iron and steel works bell; 
 
 When its usefulness shall end 
 
 This, our gallant little friend, 
 May it nevermore descend 
 To the fire. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN. 
 
 WOULD that I were with thee now, 
 My mother dear, 
 In heaven before God's throne to bow 
 
 In reverent fear. 
 While thou wert here life seemed a stream 
 
 But all too calm; 
 
 How could I ever with thee dream 
 Of aught of harm. 
 
 Each ripple that around me broke 
 
 Was fraught with joy; 
 Each morn to bliss I but awoke 
 
 Without alloy. 
 And can I deem that thou' art gone 
 
 To Heaven above ? 
 That I must tread life's path alone 
 
 Without thy love ? 
 
322 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 That thou on me no more shall smile, 
 
 With gentle mien ? 
 Thy tender voice no more beguile 
 
 The weary e'en ? 
 No, no! I'll ne'er believe it so, 
 
 For thou art near; 
 Thy angel voice shall soothe my woe, 
 
 And dry the tear; 
 
 Thy spirit hover round my bed, 
 
 My visions fill; 
 Thy blessings fall upon my head, 
 
 Peaceful and still; 
 And when the night of death shall come, 
 
 In heaven I'll join 
 Thy spirit nevermore to roam, 
 
 From bliss divine. 
 
 ON SAMBRO LEDGE. 
 
 FOU-R miles south-west of Chebucto head 
 Lifts Sambro ledge from its ocean' bed, 
 Where a gallant ship that had gone astray 
 Went down to wreck in the ocean spray. 
 
 Along the streets of the Netherland 
 Was the legend seen upon every hand, 
 " Our ships are safest to cross the brine; 
 Ho! traveller, take the White Cross line!" 
 
 A hundred or more of peasants heard, 
 And, taking the promisers at their word, 
 O'er the great North Sea did their pathway lead 
 Tow'rd the sunken rocks at Chebucto head. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 323 
 
 From Antwerp out, twas the fourteenth day: 
 Nor moon nor star shed a cheering ray 
 On the midnight track. E'en Sambro's light 
 Was drowned in the mist of that April night. 
 
 Snug in their berths, the pilgrim band 
 Were dreaming of home and fatherland, 
 Or of realms at hand, by their faith as seen, 
 Where labor was king and love was queen. 
 
 Turning his back on the blinding storm, 
 And hieing below himself to warm, 
 The captain, yielding the wheel's command, 
 Gave up the ship into Harding's hand. 
 
 And I read the tale of that farther night, 
 That heeding not, or if wrong or right, 
 The captain slept while his ship, alack! 
 Went miles inland from the proper track. 
 
 And I farther read, that, of young and old, 
 From the hungry waters dark and cold, 
 Of lives as precious as yours or mine, 
 Of the hundred, alas! were saved but nine! 
 
 There's a drunken wretch a frensied blow, 
 And a brother is lying stark and low, 
 A pilot sleeps while the tempests rave 
 And a hundred have gone to a watery grave. 
 
 The one is a murderer, so you say, 
 And life for a life doth he repay. 
 Wii.h a hundred lives to be answered for, 
 Is the other, I pray you, less or more ? 
 
324 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TRUE GREATNESS. 
 
 COUNT no man great because at the nod 
 Of his jeweled and kingly crown, 
 In meek submission, to kiss the sod 
 
 Which he treadeth his slaves kneel down. 
 
 Nor yet, because at his tyrant will 
 The nations have reeked in blood, 
 
 For know, true greatness can only dwell 
 In the breast of the truly good. 
 
 j <-> 
 
 Count no man great because he can boast 
 
 Of millions of gold in store, 
 For though, through the might of his shining dust,. 
 
 He may trample the toiling poor. 
 
 Yet, greater by far and richer he, 
 
 In the wealth of the heaven above, 
 Is the man whose soul from guile is free, 
 
 And whose heart is full of love. 
 
 LOVE CANNOT DIE. 
 
 0NE pleasant morning the wedding chimes 
 Rang out from the tower of the gray St. James, 
 And the village maidens came betimes, 
 
 With hopeful lovers and bashful swains, 
 Till the pews o'ertlowed and the arches rang, . 
 
 To the greeting song which the maidens sang. 
 
 So, when at length from the church did move 
 The happy couple as one, "no doubt, 
 
 In the world, "1 said," that the fisher, Love, 
 Knew perfectly well what he was about, 
 
 When into the pool of that shadowy grove, 
 He cast his line for the mythic trout." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And then, methought if it should be mine 
 
 Again to fish in the stream of love, 
 The place of all others to drop a line, 
 
 Would be in the stream of that sylvan grove, 
 Afar from the world in its loving arms 
 
 To bask in the light of a thousand charms. 
 
 To-night I sit by the sea alone, 
 
 With outward look to the farther shore, 
 And a voice, as if from the dim unknown, 
 
 Comes back to me through the sunset door, 
 And, as I look at the fading sky, 
 
 The stars come out with a timid glow, 
 And a tear of sorrow bedims the eye, 
 
 For the loves that went with the long ago. 
 
 For so it is, if we climb the steep 
 
 To-day to fish in the silver stream, 
 To-morrow we go to our silent sleep, 
 
 And love hath ended its charming dream; 
 Unless but why should I raise the doubt ? 
 
 It must be true, or the whispers lie, 
 That never a lover hath loved for naught; 
 Never a love is born to die. 
 
 But why, my reader, this minor strain 
 
 O'er the empty sheaves of the early years r 
 Better, far better, the later grain 
 
 To winnow well for the ripened ears: 
 Better to take, like the frugal bee, 
 
 From hedge, or meadow, or thistle-top, 
 Ever, whatever of sweet may be, 
 
 Thankful e'en for a honey drop. 
 
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