A DREAM 
 
 OF 
 
 THE ADIRONDACKS 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 HELEN HINSDALE RICH 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK : 27 & 29 WEST 23D ST. 
 LONDON : 25 HENRIETTA ST. , COVENT GARDEN 
 
 l88 4 
 

 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM S SONS 
 
 1884 
 
 Press of 
 
 G. P. Putnam s Sons 
 New York. 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 THE GOOD 
 PETER COOPER 
 
 M191888 
 
INTRODUCING THE POET. 
 
 Helen Hinsdale Rich, the author of these verses, 
 was born in Antwerp, Jefferson County, New York, 
 in 1827, in a log-cabin on the farm cleared by her 
 father, Ira Hinsdale. He was one of the pioneers 
 of that region, and had moved there from Massa 
 chusetts but a few years before. It will readily be 
 understood that Helen Hinsdale had small advan 
 tage of schooling in her girlhood, and she was mar 
 ried at the age of twenty ; her culture, as it appears 
 in this volume, has been gained by the devotion of 
 hours seized from the engrossing domestic cares of 
 a busy and faithful wife and mother. With these 
 cares, moreover, she has joined for many years an 
 untiring service to her kind by writing and speaking 
 in the causes of temperance, woman s rights, and 
 whatever work appeared to her warm and earnest 
 heart as tending to the betterment of society. She 
 has thus been prominent in the work of the Uni- 
 versalist denomination, and earned a place in the 
 book of "The Working Women of Our Church," 
 published some years ago. Her husband, Mr. 
 
VI INTRODUCING THE POET. 
 
 Moses Rich, a manufacturer of Brasher Falls, died 
 recently, and her activities, so long well-known and 
 prized in Northern New York, have been transferred 
 to the West, her present residence being with her 
 married daughter in St. Joseph, Missouri. 
 
 As a lecturer, and as a contributor to newspapers 
 of high standing, and to magazines, of essays and 
 stories, but especially of poems, Mrs. Rich has 
 already won a considerable audience, and such 
 appreciative praise as justifies her in this approach 
 to a larger and more critical hearing. This modest 
 volume of verse is to be regarded first as the natural 
 and indeed needful expression of her ardent hu 
 manity ; it is that vital force that has moved her to 
 verse, just as it has to work. The book is a selec 
 tion, not a collection ; it cannot claim to contain 
 all the best verse of its author ; but it does fairly 
 represent a woman s life such as Mrs. Rich s has 
 been and continues to be. The knowledge of the 
 few facts I have mentioned, however, though it will 
 and should contribute to the interest felt by the 
 readers of her verse, is surely no way needed to 
 awaken and to hold that interest. 
 
 Mrs. Rich s work possesses a distinct literary 
 quality which entitles her to a place among the 
 
INTRODUCING THE POET. Vll 
 
 minor poets of the country. She does not traverse 
 a wide range ; dwells for the most part on home 
 feeling and country life ; but she imparts to her 
 chosen themes the poetical charm which every one 
 can recognize, but few can express. Her treatment 
 is simple, but never baldly simple ; without any 
 search after originality, she yet attains it by a 
 natural and happy choice of language and rhythm. 
 A fortunate instance of this is the poem "Die, 
 Sweet June," which is a strain of vivid melody, and 
 contains exquisite phrases, such as " The revelry 
 of golden throats," which brings immediate vision 
 of flashing orioles and echo of bobolinks. Mrs. 
 Rich s sense of the loveliness of earth, keen in all 
 phases, becomes almost passionate for flowers, as in 
 the poems " Death and Roses " and " Naming the 
 Flower." She gives value to the memory of friends 
 and of childhood, and to the emotions of mother 
 hood rare and even profound expression. What is 
 more true than this poignant thought ? 
 
 " I think the sting of death must be 
 Resigning love s sweet mastery ; 
 To bid our little ones Good-night, 
 To turn from home and its delight, 
 Even with all of heaven in sight." 
 
 Read, too, her sympathy with mother and wean- 
 
Vlll INTRODUCING THE POET. 
 
 ling in "Forbidden Fruit," and the touching appeal 
 of the unloved child in "Famished." Mrs. Rich 
 writes eloquently on the dignity of labor and the 
 honor of serving our fellows, as the lines to Peter 
 Cooper, to Theodore Parker and Wendell Phillips, 
 on " The Music of Labor," and the vigorous satire 
 of "Wanted, Men" testify. Her narrative poems 
 are on this motive, with the exception of the clever 
 mining-camp story of " Justice in Leadville " an 
 experiment that Mrs. Rich had as good right to 
 make as John Hay ; and that, as well as the others, 
 is admirably told, with a direct and rapid movement. 
 In a few poems the author exhibits a power of 
 tragic concentration which, oftener used, would 
 have deepened, and changed also, the impression 
 the volume makes. These poems are " North " 
 (whose subject is the suicide of a young poet), 
 "Lost," and "Two Little Graves." It is, perhaps, 
 as well that Mrs. Rich has not indulged in this vein, 
 for of tragedy there are many morbid hymnists, and 
 never too many sweet and natural singers of the 
 holiest affections and the healthiest dispositions of 
 our humanity. Love, labor, hope, and Christian 
 trust are the inspirations of this poet. 
 
 CHARLES G. WHITING. 
 SPRINGFIELD, Mass.,y#<?, 1884. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Dream of the Adirondacks ..... i 
 
 May Song 7 
 
 The Boy s Kiss 9 
 
 Die, Sweet June n 
 
 Little Wounds 13 
 
 Morning and Evening Glories . . . . . 15 
 
 In the Hammock ........ 16 
 
 My Lotus Flower . . 18 
 
 My Old Home 20 
 
 Pansies 26 
 
 One who Died 28 
 
 Old Letters 31 
 
 Home-Light ........ 34 
 
 Thanksgiving Phantoms ...... 36 
 
 Death and Roses 38 
 
 Christmas Tryst 40 
 
 Silent Mothers 44 
 
 Lost and Found ....... 46 
 
 My Guests 48 
 
 Forbidden Fruit 51 
 
 A Valentine 54 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Thanksgiving Eve ....... 57 
 
 Famished ......... 60 
 
 Christmas Eve 62 
 
 Estranged 65 
 
 The Lights of Lynn 66 
 
 Child and Soldier 69 
 
 The Angel in the Heart 72 
 
 The Eternal Plan 74 
 
 Music of Labor . 76 
 
 Wanted Men 80 
 
 Chicago 85 
 
 North 87 
 
 Invocation 89 
 
 If Only 92 
 
 Think Noble Things of God 94 
 
 The Engineer s Story 97 
 
 Justice in Leadville . . . . . . . 104 
 
 Company K . . . . . . . . 113 
 
 Guess Who? 116 
 
 Only a Woman 118 
 
 Compensation 124 
 
 Little Phil 126 
 
 Survival ......... 130 
 
 Could We But Know ! 131 
 
 Theodore Parker . . . . . . . 133 
 
 Emerson 134 
 
 Wendell Phillips 135 
 
 Peter Cooper 136 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Naming the Flower 
 
 Reluctance 
 
 With a Sea-Shell I46 
 
 Red Roses I48 
 
 Orient 
 
 Remember Me I5 
 
 Girl and Water-Lily I51 
 
 Lost 
 
 Two Little Graves I55 
 
 In Remembrance 
 
 The Brook l6 
 
 The Grave l64 
 
 Nocturne l6? 
 
A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACKS. 
 
 O mystic mountains ! sleeping in tne dim 
 
 Celestial blue of yonder throbbing haze, 
 Purpling horizon s cloud-caressing rim, 
 
 Fading to mist before my yearning gaze, 
 Speak to my spirit of your beauty wild ; 
 
 Waft me the sighs of piney monarchs old ; 
 Whisper your legends never yet defiled 
 
 By breath of fashion or debasing gold. 
 
 Tell me bold deeds of huntsmen, brave and grim ; 
 
 Stout Hiawathas, in the deadly strife 
 Of love with famine, till my eyelids swim, 
 
 And soul stands quivering mid the woes of life. 
 
2 A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACK^ 
 
 Sick of the shallow nothingness that fills 
 
 The idle sails of folly s airy bark, 
 Pleading for nature, and for truth that thrills 
 
 The brain with fire from its immortal spark. 
 
 Chant me, ye breezes, as those torrents hymn 
 
 Sublimest praises to the Father there, 
 While the rich blossoms fairy lakes shall limn, 
 
 Angels may stir with breath of holy prayer. 
 Waft me the incense hoarded in the cells 
 
 Of saintly lilies, as the Aves float 
 From glens responsive to the song that swells 
 
 From shining waters or some bird s soft throat. 
 
 Snow-lighted mountain, somewhere in the rift 
 Of splintered gorge, or on thy summit calm, 
 
 In elfin grotto, holdest thou the gift 
 
 Of perfect rest, of sorrow s precious balm ? 
 
 Within the silence of thy columned fane, 
 Deep in thy sylvan solitude, there lies 
 
A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACKS. 3 
 
 A charm to bring forgetfulness of pain, 
 And sleep serene to weary, waiting eyes ; 
 
 Where some fierce titan, smitten from his throne, 
 
 The sceptred king of all the mountain world, 
 Crushed in the conflict, maketh saddest moan 
 
 Beneath the wreck of granite masses hurled ; 
 Or, poised in heaven, above the eaglet s scream, 
 
 To trace the rivers, faint as silver bars ; 
 Of life beyond to ponder and to dream ; 
 
 At night to feel the heart-beat of the stars ; 
 
 To stand supreme upon the sovran rock 
 
 Where Alpine flowers bedeck the brow of storm ; 
 To smile exultingly above the shock 
 
 Of thunders terrible, in dusky form ; 
 To hold high converse with primeval things ; 
 
 Alone with awful mysteries, to press 
 The pulse of centuries ; to fold the wings 
 
 Of restless thought in heavenly blissfulness. 
 
4 A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACKS. 
 
 Never to thee, thou white and peerless thing, 
 
 Whose golden heart the crystal waters lave, 
 The hot, fierce breath of monster steam shall bring 
 
 Destroying whisper where thy banners wave. 
 O gorgeous linden ! golden to the tips 
 
 Of leaves that flutter in the azure tide, 
 No murky shadows on the breast that dips 
 
 The cloud with songful joyousness and pride. 
 
 Forever barred, ye flaunting, soulless forms, 
 
 Shaming our nature with the sickly growth 
 Of all that braves the bitter, biting storms 
 
 Of Fortune, victims of consuming sloth. 
 Never the drawling lisp, the brainless speech, 
 
 The laugh unmeaning, the envenomed shaft 
 Of slander to those fair abodes shall reach, 
 
 Nor shrewd diplomacy employ his craft. 
 
 Hoar Adirondacks ! sentinels to me, 
 
 Guarding the realm of poesy, where lies 
 
A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACKS. 
 
 The pure, the beautiful, the grandly free ! 
 
 The slumbering heart of Nature prophesies 
 Of Time s fulfilment of man s broader life, 
 
 The unstirred depths of being, love divine 
 O ermastering selfishness and deathful strife, 
 
 Mind s own enchanted and enchanting clime. 
 
 Thanks to His power, the weird and dusky fells, 
 
 Heights still unclimbed the tangled ivies drape, 
 Shield the great oracle that yet repels 
 
 All that the world s weak vanities would ape, 
 One sacred shelter from the rushing mart, 
 
 One august temple consecrate to Him 
 Before whose majesty the human heart 
 
 Trembles to see earth s pageantry wax dim. 
 
 Within these shades the poet yet to be, 
 
 Some bard, like Avon s swan, divinely fraught, 
 
 Probing thy secrets, rock and shell and tree, 
 All the sweet wisdom science vainly taught 
 
6 A DREAM OF THE ADIRONDACKS. 
 
 To his clear vision gloriously revealed ; 
 
 His harp repeats the melodies that stir 
 The myriad forms of loveliness that yield 
 
 Supreme delight to reverent worshiper. 
 
 In the far ages hence the peaceful days 
 
 Of men who reach the stature like to His, 
 And walk secure in God s illumined ways, 
 
 While all love prayed and sighed for surely is- 
 This our Arcadia, fresh and green as first 
 
 In the creation s glad, effulgent morn, 
 Its crowning peaks in lofty splendor burst, 
 
 And all of vast sublimity was born. 
 
MAY SONG. 
 
 Let me see ! It was May, for an oriole came, 
 
 With its crest of vermilion and jet, 
 Darting down like an arrow of radiant flame, 
 
 In a song I shall never forget ; 
 And flooding the air with a melody wild, 
 
 Half sorrow, half passion, and pain. 
 The years faded slowly ; I stood there a child, 
 
 With a child s holy rapture again. 
 
 Ah, yes, it was May ; for the violets blue 
 That I crushed in my palms in my glee, 
 
 With gentle reproach, shedding tear-drops of dew, 
 Found pity and refuge with thee ; 
 
8 MAY SONG. 
 
 It was May in the valley, on meadow and hill, 
 And you kissed me, you know, by the birch 
 
 That stands by the little, wild, frolicsome rill, 
 Where the robins come always to perch. 
 
 It was May in my heart, every folding and cell 
 
 In imperial purple (all sovereigns may wear) ; 
 May danced in my eyes that reflected so well 
 
 Thy face lighting up all the beautiful there ; 
 It was May ! It was May ! for you said with a sigh 
 
 " I love you ; remember it ages to come ; 
 It will never be May to me more, if you fly, 
 
 Then hasten to tell me you pine for your home. 1 
 
THE BOY S KISS. 
 
 Sitting by a princely child 
 Never yet by sin defiled, 
 Gazing in his fearless eyes, 
 Who shall picture my surprise ? 
 
 When I stroked his bonnie hair, 
 And his forehead smooth and fair, 
 Drawing to his lips my hand, 
 Like a knight of Holy Land, 
 
 As the touch of roses pressed 
 To a sleeping baby s breast, 
 On my soul I felt a kiss, 
 Match me lady s boon like this ! 
 9 
 
10 THE BOY S KISS. 
 
 Never ring shall take the place 
 Of this tender kiss of grace ; 
 Other lips may never dare 
 Find the secret nestled there. 
 
 Darling boy, the twilight dies 
 Softer for thy loving eyes ; 
 Not a path thy feet have trod 
 But shall wear a greener sod. 
 
 And thy laughter, glad and low, 
 Lingers where sweet roses grow ; 
 All the world has something yet 
 Of the kiss I ne er forget, 
 
 Like the subtle perfume shed 
 From the dust of lilies dead 
 Some dear hand in mute caress 
 Gave to love and silentness. 
 
DIE, SWEET JUNE. 
 
 Ring all thy lily bells, thy royal colors fly, 
 
 Sweet June, and die ! 
 The burden of her flowery state she bore, 
 
 Till heart could bear no more 
 The revelry of golden throats, perfumes 
 
 Of all the dear, dead Junes. 
 The phantom rose-leaves drifting faint and wan, 
 
 Slow fading in the sun, 
 Remembered kisses by the pansy bed, 
 
 Vows that were said, 
 Soft dreaming eyes of loved ones passed away 
 
 Haunt the still day. 
 The vanished sighs, the thrilling touch of hands, 
 
 In death s far lands. 
 
12 DIE, SWEET JUNE. 
 
 All the impassioned loveliness that smiled 
 
 On thee, fair child. 
 Oh ! rose-crowned daughter of a deathless sire, 
 
 Too fierce the fire 
 That poured its amber tide along thy veins; 
 
 Too strong the chains 
 That bound thy spirit to the unburied past : 
 
 Peace, June, at last ! 
 
LITTLE WOUNDS. 
 
 You hurt me, child ! Nay, it was not the point 
 Of the bright dagger with the gleaming hilt 
 Of pearls and turquoise looping up the mass 
 Of braided splendor, your dark chestnut hair ; 
 Nor yet the bunch of roses at your belt, 
 That well might hide a thorn. Alack ! 
 You pierced my bosom with your softest smile, 
 And turned the weapon in the aching wound 
 By just an accent of your dainty French 
 I toiled to give you, writing half the night. 
 Ah, well ! girls never feel the stabs they give, 
 Whilst they are girls. * * * 
 Grand lovers push us from our darling s heart ; 
 And when the little hands that plead for us 
 
14 LITTLE WOUNDS. 
 
 Are tugging at the old home memories, 
 
 And urging our lost claims with cooing sweet, 
 
 Until they stir Love s fountain to its depths, 
 
 Then crying : " Mother, mother, now I know ! " 
 
 Alas, the pity ! but we cannot hear, 
 
 For mother robins singing over us. 
 
MORNING AND EVENING GLORIES. 
 
 All my sweet trumpeters, the Morning Glories, 
 With pallid lips are lying chill and wan ; 
 
 The brilliant troop that clambered to the stories 
 Nearest the clouds, and heralded the sun. 
 
 I count my dear departed, with misgiving 
 
 That nevermore their splendors I shall know, 
 
 My frail glad beauties, fairest of all living, 
 With Tyrian dyes, or whiter than the snow ! 
 
 From dawn to eve I dwelt among the shadows, 
 But when red sunset streamed on pane and vase, 
 
 The Evening Glory, white as ermined meadows, 
 Burst forth in regal loveliness and grace. 
 
 O robes of samite ! breath of lilies lying 
 
 Faint with excess of sweetness, where the sun 
 Smiles first and longest ! Faith s pure signal flying, 
 
 That morning s loss the starry night has won ! 
 15 
 
IN THE HAMMOCK. 
 
 Swayed like a sleeping flower, young lone lies ; 
 
 The golden stream of ringlets overflows 
 
 The silken net of lavender and pearl ; 
 
 The palm of one enchanting passive hand, 
 
 Like rose upturned to meet entreating gaze 
 
 Of yon red star, rests at the hammock s edge ; 
 
 The dainty model of a perfect foot, 
 
 Like lily dropped amid the jasmine bloom, 
 
 Beats the soft measure of a dreaming dance ; 
 
 The cheek that blushes for its loveliness 
 
 Dimples the satin pillow wooingly ; 
 
 Smiles break like sunshine on a hill s fair side, 
 
 And should she weep, the bending skies would seem 
 
 To rain bright gems that purchase as they fall 
 
 The hearts of mortals. Ah ! her lovely eyes 
 16 
 
IN THE HAMMOCK. 17 
 
 Have drunk the sweetness of the twilight hour, 
 And droop like pansies, burthened with the dew ; 
 The perfumed breath just stirs the fleecy lace 
 Upon her bosom, as a white cloud drifts 
 Before the orbed blossom of the night ; 
 Adoring winds, on poised, expectant wing, 
 Between their kisses whisper : Love doth sleep. 
 
MY LOTUS FLOWER. 
 
 One sang within her ivied bower : 
 The summer dies, the summer dies ; 
 
 I held it to my happy breast, 
 
 I laid me in its arms of rest, 
 
 I drank the light of dreamy eyes ; 
 
 And see ! I clasp the lotus flower, 
 
 Star of the East, pale lotus flower. 
 
 strange, beguiling, mystic power 
 
 Of flowers that chained my being ; lo ! 
 Where dwells the spirit of the rose, 
 And the lost violets repose, 
 
 Where the pure souls of lilies go, 
 
 1 float with thee, my lotus flower, 
 
 Down Niles of sleep, my lotus flower. 
 
 18 
 
MY LOTUS FLOWER. 19 
 
 O saddest, sweetest, parting hour ! 
 
 Haste not, my summer, to the past ! 
 Thy airs blew all from angel lands, 
 Love kept them warm in rosy hands, 
 
 And kissed them first and last, 
 Then left me but this lotus flower, 
 This fair and potent lotus flower. 
 
 Dear summer, pass in pearly showers, 
 
 In rainbow mist of tears, 
 For nevermore will mignonette 
 Be fraught with such divine regret, 
 
 In all the coming years, 
 As dwells with thee, my lotus flower, 
 Sad Egypt s boon, the lotus flower. 
 
MY OLD HOME. 
 
 It stands upon a sunny slope, 
 
 And fronts the beechy hollow- 
 Where glossy vines have ample scope 
 
 The wanton brook to follow ; 
 Witch-hazels drop their magic wands 
 
 In search of golden treasure ; 
 And, lying in the silent ponds, 
 
 The trout find quiet pleasure. 
 
 The oxen turn their patient eyes 
 
 Upon me ; the bay filly 
 Neighs softly in her glad surprise ; 
 
 The tender lambs are chilly, 
 And nestle in my apron wide ; 
 
 The apple blooms are sifting 
 20 
 
MY OLD HOME. 21 
 
 In eddies on the laughing tide, 
 To yonder river drifting. 
 
 The snowy dogwood stars the copse, 
 
 Ferns nod in fronded beauty, 
 The violet has modest hopes 
 
 To pay her fragrant duty, 
 The arum darts a mottled tongue 
 
 To Indian-pipe, and vying 
 With every flower the muse has sung 
 
 Arbutus pale is sighing. 
 
 Where poplar flaunts, in changing vest, 
 
 Upon my leafy pillow, 
 I found the child s enchanted rest 
 
 Beneath a swaying willow. 
 What mailed knights and minstrels old 
 
 Defiled by ledge and fallows ! 
 Or loomed against the cloud of gold 
 
 That dyed the limpid shallows 
 
22 MY OLD HOME. 
 
 And lit, with fitful, lurid glow, 
 
 The windows quaint and narrow 
 Of visioned tower ; the stream below 
 
 Was broadened to the Yarrow ; 
 And castled crag with haunted spring, 
 
 The primrose downs of Surrey ; 
 White-plumed courtiers to the king 
 
 In smiling homage hurry. 
 
 What islands gemmed the dimpled seas ! 
 
 What mountains, lost in azure ! 
 Tall obelisks from stately trees 
 
 Took form and lofty measure ; 
 And cavaliers, with snowy steeds, 
 
 Rode forth on errands holy, 
 While saints, with crowns of gentle deeds, 
 
 Walked meekly by the lowly. 
 
 Beyond the purple, misty glen, 
 Among the ghostly birches, 
 
MY OLD HOME. 23 
 
 Were kneeling pallid martyr men, 
 Whose blood has fed the churches. 
 
 The wild rose and the celandine, 
 The iris, oak, and laurel, 
 
 Were each memento, type, and sign 
 Of legend, song, or quarrel. 
 
 My world was wide and passing fair, 
 
 The poet always teacher, 
 Kind Nature for me everywhere 
 
 Was oracle and preacher. 
 Yet in the farm-house, large and gray, 
 
 The real world of labor, 
 I trod the prosy, busy way, 
 
 And loved my boyish neighbor. 
 
 Oh ! home with plenty at the board, 
 
 With blazing hearth, and mother 
 To spread the luscious dainties stored 
 
 What child hath found another 
 
24 MY OLD HOME. 
 
 To knot a ribbon, smooth a curl, 
 
 Prepare a roast or truffle 
 To sing and dance like any girl, 
 
 Group flowers, or flute a ruffle ? 
 
 What loads of belles and beaux from town 
 
 With flute and horn and viol ! 
 What cake, with apples red and brown, 
 
 That never knew denial ! 
 And father, younger than the boys, 
 
 Our prince of song and story 
 Ah ! well, the dear old-fashioned joys 
 
 Were more to me than glory. 
 
 The household graves lie all along 
 The school-house path ; to-morrow 
 
 We lay, with chant and robins song, 
 The silvered locks of sorrow 
 
 Beside the pure and patient wife, 
 The mother loved and loving, 
 
MY OLD HOME. 25 
 
 Sweet death, that stilleth human strife, 
 Our Father s mercy proving. 
 
 My childhood s home ! in other lands, 
 
 In other worlds will linger 
 Upon my soul the clasp of hands 
 
 Death touched with icy finger. 
 The early loved the lovely dead ! 
 
 God grant me happy waking, 
 To hear again the words they said 
 
 When heart was nigh to breaking. 
 
PANSIES. 
 
 Oh, purple hearts that drank the wine 
 
 Of royal sunsets, where the sea 
 Laves golden sands the favored clime 
 
 Of flowers how tenderly 
 I press your velvet lips to mine ; 
 
 I hail the message that you brought ; 
 Breathe o er my soul the mystic sign 
 
 Of Love s unspoken thought ! 
 
 How many grand processions swept 
 Above you, down the western slope ? 
 
 How many dewy twilights kept 
 Watch o er his budding hope ? 
 
 And did the whispering breezes wait 
 
 To soft caress him as they sped, 
 26 
 
PANSIES. 27 
 
 Spice-laden, from the Golden Gate, 
 To haunt your fairy bed ? 
 
 Dear pansies, rich in royal dyes 
 
 And sweet from living near his lips, 
 Fair mirrors of his azure eyes, 
 
 What can your worth eclipse ? 
 When, darlings, this true heart shall be 
 
 Silent and cold, to him repeat 
 My life s unuttered mystery 
 
 That you have found so sweet. 
 
ONE WHO DIED. 
 
 She I have cherished men say is dead ; 
 
 T was long ago that they told me this, 
 Grasses grow high o er the lowly head, 
 
 Dust are the lips I delighted to kiss. 
 Brown was her hair as the fallow mould, 
 
 White her forehead as marble chill, 
 Though she left me young, and I fast grow old, 
 
 She I loved nay, I love her still. 
 
 She and I played on the frozen pond, 
 Casting two shadows small and coy ; 
 
 Seeking for nuts in the woods beyond, 
 Sharing their sweetness, sharing all joy. 
 
 Berries we found by the ground-bird s nest, 
 
 Lilies we gathered by brooklets wild ; 
 28 
 
ONE WHO DIED. 29 
 
 Ripe berries, red lips, ye are all at rest ! 
 I am growing old, was I once a child ? 
 
 She and I played on the old gray rock, 
 
 Knelt in the mosses to play at even, 
 Mended for either the soiled torn frock 
 
 I am here waiting, she is in heaven. 
 Well I know that she died not, when 
 
 They put on mourning, I dark woe ; 
 For when I sleep I in a child again, 
 
 And she and I through the old haunts go. 
 
 She and I talked when the sunset glow 
 
 Painted our faces with roses sweet ; 
 With clasping hands, and hearts, I know, 
 
 Pure as the snow from our flying feet. 
 Talked we of dying, and promised fair, 
 
 That she who lingered should not be lone ; 
 And now in slumber she meets me there, 
 
 Young as ever, my lost my own. 
 
ONE WHO DIED. 
 
 She and I slumber ; I awake, 
 
 To marvel that she will wake no more, 
 For she but now was alive, and spake, 
 
 Calling me dear one, and telling me o er 
 All the glad tales of our sinless youth ; 
 
 Telling me tales of the other side, 
 Where she has waited for me tis truth, 
 
 Watching and waiting is she who died. 
 
OLD LETTERS. 
 
 There, speak in whispers ; fold me to thy heart, 
 
 Dear love, for I have roamed a weary, weary way ; 
 Bid my vague terrors with thy kiss depart. 
 
 Oh ! I have been among the dead to-day ; 
 And like a pilgrim to some martyr s shrine, 
 
 Awed with the memories that crowd my brain, 
 Fearing my voice, I woo the charm of thine ; 
 
 Tell me thou livest, lovest yet again. 
 
 Not among graves, but letters, old and dim, 
 Yellow and precious, have I touched the past, 
 
 Reverent and prayerful as we chant a hymn 
 
 Among the aisles where saints their shadows cast , 
 
 Reading dear names on faded leaf that here 
 Was worn with foldings tremulous and fond, 
 
32 OLD LETTERS. 
 
 There drowned in plashing of a tender tear, 
 
 Or with death s tremble pointing " the beyond." 
 
 And, Love, there came a flutter of white wings 
 
 A stir of snowy robes from out the deep 
 Of utter silence, as I read the things 
 
 I smiled to trace before I learned to weep ; 
 And hands, whose clasp was magic long ago, 
 
 Came soft before me till I yearned to press 
 Mad kisses on their whiteness then the woe, 
 
 The sting of death, the chill of nothingness ! 
 
 One was afar, where golden sands made dim 
 
 The shining steps of the poor trickster, Time ; 
 And one was lost Ah ! bitter grief for him 
 
 Who wrecked his manhood in the depths of 
 
 crime ! 
 Another, beautiful as morning s beam 
 
 Flushing the orient, laid meekly down 
 Among the daisies, dreaming love s glad dream ; 
 
 And one sweet saint now wears a starry crown. 
 
OLD LETTERS. 33 
 
 And then there stole delicious odors still 
 
 From out those relics of the charmed past, 
 Sighs from the lips omnipotent to will 
 
 And win rich tribute to the very last ; 
 But death, or change, had been among my flowers, 
 
 And all their bloom had faded, so that I 
 Yield my sad thoughts to the compelling powers 
 
 Of the bright soul I worship till I die. 
 Nay, never doubt me, for, by love s divine 
 And tearful past, I know my future thine. 
 
HOME-LIGHT. 
 
 When I came with a sense of ecstatic delight, 
 Into my home from the world and the night, 
 Into its quiet, love s burthens to bear 
 The incense of worship pervading its air, 
 The sweet dews of welcome baptized my sad lips, 
 As a bird in the fountain the weary wing dips. 
 The soul like a monarch embracing its throne 
 Would bask in content on the bosom of home. 
 
 Little hands of caressing, eyes dusky and clear, 
 That mirrored the thoughts unacquainted with fear ; 
 Budding roses, red lips, lifted eagerly up, 
 How I drained the rich wine of that God-given cup ! 
 Tired fingers enclasped by the ringlets of gold, 
 That shone with the gems never miser has told. 
 Ah, shut out the world, with its hearts cold and sere ! 
 
 For the world of calm peace that awaited me here. 
 34 
 
HOME-LIGHT. 35 
 
 What balm to the spirit ! what respite from pain ! 
 Like the soft summer wind in the hush of the rain ; 
 Was silence e er charmed to such tender surprise 
 By the voice of enchantress the moonlight that lies 
 On my books by the window, the hammock, and 
 
 chair ? 
 
 Were the stars e er so near and the flowers so fair ? 
 What repast so delicious, so dainty ? its grace 
 Was born of her presence and seen in her face. 
 
 O mothers who kneel by your darlings to-night, 
 Fair angels of home in their raiment of white, 
 Have pitying thoughts for this mother bereft, 
 And pray for the home that an angel has left ! 
 Will she come when the roses have burgeoned to 
 
 flame? 
 Will she sing the old songs ? Will she smile just 
 
 the same ? 
 
 God help us poor women ! in palace or cot, 
 The light has gone out where the children are not. 
 
THANKSGIVING PHANTOMS. 
 
 Thanksgiving in the great house all too still, 
 With painful order, haunted, too, you know ; 
 
 Over the threshold and the window-sill 
 Are lovely phantoms flitting to and fro. 
 
 They touch the dear old instrument with art 
 That never fails to stir the fount of tears, 
 
 To open wide the chambers of the heart, 
 And summon back the sweet departed years. 
 
 Dead roses bloom, lost birds take up again 
 
 Their music life. I hear the hum of bees, 
 Gay childish laughter, talk of merry men, 
 
 The summer rain slow dropping from the trees. 
 36 
 
THANKSGIVING PHANTOMS. 37 
 
 Often they sing, this shadow girl and boy ! 
 
 Sing the old ballads, " Bonnie Banks of Ayr," 
 Or " Annie Laurie," with a simple joy 
 
 Of youth and love o ermastering despair. 
 
 Sing on and on, their beautiful soft eyes 
 Wear never meaning that is cold or strange. 
 
 Familiar faces give us no surprise ! 
 
 Always before me, wherefore any change ? 
 
 In the same world, dear Lord ! oh many a year 
 Our darlings live to just and noble aims ! 
 
 Their country ours, strangers to want or fear ! 
 Brave toilers, free from selfish evil stains ! 
 
 Thanksgiving ? Yes, that I can garner up 
 The precious harvest of glad motherhood. 
 
 So full of blessing, this our Father s cup 
 O erflows with tears for " it is very good." 
 
DEATH AND ROSES. 
 
 When I am dead, strew roses o er me, Sweet 
 Great bleeding hearts, roses from head to feet ; 
 Buds without stint, and leaves as bright and cool 
 As ferns that nod by lily-haunted pool ; 
 And let me hold them in these arms, my Own, 
 So shall I never be again alone. 
 
 How have I loved them ? All the happy days 
 I walked with life the old and pleasant ways ; 
 Loved them so well I gave the best to thee. 
 These, my true loves, broke never faith with me ; 
 Nay, in their folds I often found the tear 
 I shed by night, a morning dew-drop clear. 
 
 I want them all my roses of Lorraine, 
 
 The wild sweetbrier that blossomed in the lane, 
 
 38 
 
DEATH AND ROSES. 39 
 
 My Bengal beauties, moss-rose, pink and white 
 
 With all their glory it will not be night. 
 
 Let lily-bells alone for me be tolled, 
 
 And drape the sod with trailing Cloth of Gold. 
 
 O peerless darlings of the sun and rain ! 
 When did I seek your velvet lips in vain ? 
 Your thorns have left no scar upon my heart. 
 My first, last breath still yours, a very part 
 Of all my being ; go with me where blows 
 On Death s white bosom Life s immortal Rose ! 
 
CHRISTMAS TRYST. 
 
 Whenever the Christmas-tide comes in, 
 
 Come its phantom ships of the long ago, 
 With furled sails that are white and thin 
 
 As diamond dust of the wind-swept snow ; 
 And the solemn joy of the voyagers pale, 
 
 The silent ones with the folded hands, 
 Who one by one in the dark set sail 
 
 For the isles of the unknown Fatherlands. 
 
 If they come back from the golden strand 
 That sunset floods with the opal s glow, 
 
 Or drift from the Pleiads lovely band, 
 Or the Milky Way, shall we ever know ? 
 
 If floating up from the crystal caves 
 
 Where the spoils are strewn of every clime, 
 40 
 
CHRISTMAS TRYST. 41 
 
 Or gliding forth from the mossy graves 
 To walk once more in the light of time ? 
 
 I always hope that a signal sigh 
 
 May break the hush of my yearnings fond, 
 That the lost delight of a loving eye 
 
 May pierce the mist of the dim beyond ; 
 For who may tell if our prayers are heard ? 
 
 And who can feel that our love is vain ? 
 That the lost deny us a little word, 
 
 A tender touch for our wasting pain ? 
 
 And thus the lights of the home burn low ; 
 
 I move with quiet expectant tread 
 From hearth to window, as mourners go 
 
 To crown with blossoms the sacred dead ; 
 With here the ivy, and there a rose, 
 
 White chrysanthemum, holly too ; 
 What if the fingers sweet unclose ? 
 
 That is for mother and this for you. 
 
4 2 CHRISTMAS TRYST. 
 
 Hyacinths for the old and sad, 
 
 Violets for the young and gay, 
 Returning home they will all be glad 
 
 To find it just as they went away. 
 Surely, our love ever keeps ajar 
 
 The inner door of the heart for those 
 Who come from the unseen near or far, 
 
 And leave no trace on the Christmas snows. 
 
 Baby s chair where the dimpled feet 
 
 Pressed the folds of his grandma s dress, 
 In the happy place where the children meet 
 
 He and she do they love the less ? 
 Nay, for our human ways are best, 
 
 7 should grieve if I came too late 
 An unexpected, unwelcome guest 
 
 To my own, but " to stand without and wait." 
 
 All that my Father has given to me 
 Is mine in the might of unfailing trust 
 
CHRISTMAS TRYST. 43 
 
 To have and to hold in eternal fee ; 
 
 If I hold to the bond, it is only just 
 Giving love for love, and I keep the tryst 
 
 With the absent ones, at the Christmas-tide, 
 As / shall turn to the lips I kissed, 
 
 When I recross from the other side. 
 
SILENT MOTHERS. 
 
 I wonder, child, if when you cry 
 To me, in such sore agony 
 As I moaned " Mother ! " yesterday, 
 I shall not find some way, some way, 
 To comfort you, my little May . 
 
 If, when you kiss my silent lips 
 They will not pass from death s eclipse 
 To whisper of the peace, you know, 
 That waits where tired mothers go 
 Ay, kiss and bless you soft and low. 
 
 If my poor children s grief will fail 
 To stir the white and frosty veil 
 
 That hides my secret from their eyes, 
 44 
 
SILENT MOTHERS. 45 
 
 Shall I not turn from Paradise, 
 To still the tempest of their sighs ? 
 
 Oh, patient hands, that toil to keep 
 The wolf at bay while children sleep, 
 That smooth each flossy tangled tress, 
 And thrill with mother happiness ! 
 Have they not soon the power to bless ? 
 
 I think the sting of death must be 
 Resigning love s sweet mastery ; 
 To bid our little ones " Good-night," 
 To turn from home and its delight, 
 Even with all of heaven in sight. 
 
LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 O my lost bird, that sang to me all day ! 
 
 Wee bird, that found its voice within my breast, 
 Trying its pretty wings, has flown away, 
 
 Speeding to palace gardens of the West. 
 There, in a lovely cage, with dainty fare, 
 
 Her bright head flashing mid the glossy leaves, 
 With organ trembles, blended song and prayer, 
 
 The old enchantment evermore she weaves. 
 
 When morning sunshine dances on the nest 
 (White, downy nest, deserted), mute I glide 
 
 My yearning kisses on that shrine are prest, 
 And tears are welling in resistless tide. 
 
 O new-found nest ! O sunny head that lies 
 
 Surely beneath an angel s brooding wing ! 
 46 
 
LOST AND FOUND. 47 
 
 Sings she, in dreams, of weary-waiting eyes ? 
 And blind to half the glory of the spring ! 
 
 If God cares aught for motherhood, I know, 
 
 When Summer lies in Autumn s warm embrace, 
 Her dying roses with his lips aglow, 
 
 That I shall look upon my darling s face ; 
 Note the first flutter of the Song astir 
 
 In her white throat; and, thrilling in sweet pain, 
 Find recompense for every grief in her, 
 
 And life s lost music live for me again. 
 
 When the first timid leaf, with many sighs, grew pale, 
 
 And shuddering, sought the ivied arbor floor ; 
 When the blue haze, like misty bridal veil, 
 
 Draped the far hills and kissed the pebbly shore; 
 When all my flowers held carnival, and flung 
 
 Their perfumed banners to the August air, 
 My long-lost starling, neath the lattice, sung 
 
 Of spring-time glory sung to death grim care. 
 
MY GUESTS. 
 
 Gay trumpeters, my morning-glories, haste ! 
 
 Crowd the low lattice where my darling lies ! 
 The braided gold of tresses to her waist, 
 
 And peaceful slumber veiling her sweet eyes. 
 
 How glows the wedding ring upon her hand J 
 A tender dream her lovely lips disclose ! 
 
 And lo ! a message from the King s fair land, 
 Upon her breast she wears a sleeping rose. 
 
 Oh ! mystery and marvel ! Is it life 
 
 That stirs the folds of this transparent veil ? 
 Divinest clay ! Awake, thou glad young wife ! 
 
 Welcome and joy ! rny baby mother ! hail ! 
 
 48 
 
MY GUESTS. 49 
 
 What heavenly gift is this thou bearest me ? 
 
 A perfect being and so pure, I stand 
 Like Mary, bowed in soft expectancy 
 
 And trembling wait the angel s high command. 
 
 She moves, she wakes ! a new and holy light 
 
 Strikes through my heart from her shy, happy 
 gaze, 
 
 The mother-love that knows no change or blight, 
 And fadeth not through all the world s dark ways. 
 
 And then, with rev rent touch, as if she stirred 
 A dreaming cherub from its sacred place, 
 
 She lifted up the little drowsy bird 
 
 And pressed her fondly to my white wet face, 
 
 Between her kisses and great tears that said 
 
 More than all words : "Thy namesake, mother 
 mine," 
 
 And stroked her baby s pretty downy head 
 Like mother-bird with ev ry winsome sign. 
 
50 MY GUESTS. 
 
 Who said " a woman has outlived her best 
 When roses fade and silver threads appear " ? 
 
 Who sang her feet have journeyed to the West, 
 When second growth of blossoms cluster near? 
 
 Hush ! baby dialect ! the mother-tongue ! 
 
 Set to old music (sweeter for the breaks); 
 So young these two the dear old world is young, 
 
 And sorrow wears a garland for their sakes. 
 
 Now, like the flowers that open to the morn, 
 My life takes on renewed and royal lease ; 
 
 My sun stands still at summer s golden noon, 
 For God has sent his messenger of peace. 
 
FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 
 
 I 
 Like a rose-leaf encircled, lying lightly adrift in the 
 
 daisies, 
 The year-old pet lies famished, denied its delicious 
 
 white nectar. 
 The fountain is troubled ; alas ! the angel of health 
 
 has departed. 
 Poor little nursling ! She sleeps like a lamb by its 
 
 mother deserted ; 
 Tears bead the silk lashes, like dew on the fringe of 
 
 the gentian ; 
 Her breathing is fitful with sighs, yet she dreams of 
 
 the fountain forbidden, 
 The warm pearly stream that she drained in her 
 
 sleepy abandon ; 
 
52 FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 
 
 Her little pink toes half apart in her blissful con 
 tentment, 
 
 Like a rose in soft ermine, the tiny glad hand of the 
 
 cherub ; 
 And questioning, smiling, the eyes of the innocent 
 
 creature, 
 Clear wells that reflected the peace of the beautiful 
 
 mother. 
 Fair as a shell lay the dimpled twin palm, in the 
 
 gentle 
 Caressing white ringers that thrilled with ecstatic 
 
 possession 
 With yielding her life to the helpless young life of 
 
 another. 
 
 Oh ! mothers who sit in your vestments of lustrous 
 
 rich fabrics, 
 Proud in your art to enchant, with music and science 
 
 alluring, 
 
FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 53 
 
 Who know not the natural beneficent joy of your 
 
 sisters 
 See ! envy this mother, who cries in her anguish : 
 
 " Forgive me, 
 My birdie, thrust out of thy nest, the sweet bliss of 
 
 thy Eden. 
 God help us poor mothers ! how brief is the 
 
 season of gladness, 
 The fleeting delight of sustaining the weakling 
 
 dependent ; 
 How welcome were hunger s fierce torture, if only 
 
 my baby were nourished ! " 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER. 
 
 A valentine true will I send to my lady, 
 
 My lady so small and my lady so young ; 
 In her smiles and her dimples my poor heart is 
 
 giddy, 
 
 As the honey-bee reels where the sweetbrier 
 clung. 
 
 O baby, you came with the thrushes and linnets, 
 The roses and lilies and strawberries red ; 
 
 You shortened the days into hours and minutes, 
 With the measure of love just as high as your 
 
 head. 
 
 54 
 
A VALENTINE. 55 
 
 Your hair was the down of the thistle that drifted 
 Above the white daisies ; the blue of your eyes 
 
 Had stolen the tints of the violets lifted 
 
 Too pure for the earth, and too meek for the 
 skies. 
 
 I brought velvet rose leaves and dew-sprinkled 
 clover 
 
 To match the soft lips, the fair cheeks of this elf ; 
 I rifled the forest, searched garden and cover, 
 
 But never a blossom like baby herself. 
 
 How danced the sweet tassels of locust above her 
 How piped every singer in trellis and tree ! 
 
 Winds, waves, and the sunbeams ran riot to love 
 
 her 
 My bluebell that swung in the grapevine with me. 
 
 The ivy caressed and the clematis crowned her ; 
 Her little pink palms made the goldfishes dart 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 Like flashes of light, and the butterflies round 
 
 her 
 Seemed only of baby s bright beauty a part. 
 
 Not angel or fairy, enchantingly human ; 
 
 Fair graft that retains all the best of our race ! 
 If a rose were a bud, then were baby a woman, 
 
 And the peace of the angels illumines her face. 
 
 Through the mist of my tears shine her sweet, sunny 
 graces ; 
 
 Little mother, my valentine, sing to her low ; 
 God s smile will make glad all the beautiful places 
 
 Wherever the feet of my darling shall go. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 
 
 The wild winds sport with the snowflakes falling 
 Over my graves, and the first hoar frost, 
 
 Creeping like death on the panes, recalling 
 All that the year and my heart have lost. 
 
 Is it winter there that you come to-night, love ? 
 Press to my side from the starbeams cold 
 
 In the wide old hall, where the red warm light, 
 
 love, 
 Lies like a rose in the curtain s fold ? 
 
 Is there thanksgiving, with flowers and chanting 
 
 In our Father s house, where ye all have place ? 
 It is like you, dear, if but one stands wanting, 
 
 To give of your best with a lover s grace. 
 
 57 
 
58 THANKSGIVING EVE. 
 
 I marvel not that our world s sweet fashion 
 Of love and pity should draw you, dear ; 
 
 Could they see His face, had they lost compassion 
 For the souls that faint with their hunger here ? 
 
 Only a year ! and my life s calm gloaming 
 Darkens to murk. Is it morn with thee ? 
 
 From sun to star, art thou free in roaming 
 To bide with angels, or come to me ? 
 
 Have you found the key to the secrets olden, 
 That Time and Death in their miser greed 
 
 Denied to us in our love-time golden ? 
 Ah ! yours the blessing and mine the need. 
 
 The moon glides forth and the Pleiades paling, 
 
 Nigh is morning I feel the beat 
 Of the mystic oars he is softly sailing 
 
 The waves of silence to join the fleet. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 59 
 
 If their voyage is long, if they touch in passing 
 The rings of Saturn, or round the isles 
 
 Of the pearly sea, never world surpassing 
 
 The earth they left where the home-light smiles. 
 
 And my tears that channel the frosted casement 
 
 Are drops of balm, for at last I see, 
 Through loss and anguish or sad abasement.. 
 
 We cannot drift from our own and Thee. 
 
FAMISHED. 
 
 If only mothers knew, she said, 
 How hungry children are for love, 
 
 Above each little virgin bed 
 
 A mother s lips would surely prove 
 
 How sweet are kisses that are given 
 
 Between a rosy mouth and heaven. 
 
 If only my mamma would kneel, 
 As your dear mother, every night, 
 
 Beside her little girl, to feel 
 
 If all the wraps are folded tight, 
 
 And hold my hands, her elbow fair 
 
 Between my cheek and her soft hair, 
 60 
 
FAMISHED. 6 1 
 
 And looking in my dreaming eyes 
 As if she saw some loving thing, 
 
 And smiling in such fond surprise 
 On all my hopes of life, that spring 
 
 Like flowers beneath her tender gaze, 
 
 I could not stray in evil ways. 
 
 I would not wound the gentle breast 
 That held me warm within its fold ; 
 
 My mother s love would still be best, 
 However sad, or plain, or old : 
 
 And even though the world forsake, 
 
 I d love her for her love s dear sake. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 I have garnished the house for Christmas, 
 
 With its holly and mistletoe ; 
 The tables are piled with dainties, 
 
 And I sit by the hearth s red glow, 
 Watching my children s faces 
 
 From panel and vase and frame, 
 In babyhood, youth, and marriage, 
 
 With never a thought of blame. 
 
 Gone ! one in a far-off city 
 Will dream of his home to-night ; 
 
 And one in her bridal chamber 
 Caresses my roses white ; 
 
 And one in " the better country," 
 
 Fairest and first, I know 
 63 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 63 
 
 Is " about the Father s business," 
 Yet their dear forms come and go. 
 
 I have knelt by the love-worn cradle 
 
 Aye, wept by the empty nest 
 Of my birds flown high as heaven, 
 
 Or lost in the great, glad West. 
 And I string on a girl s bright ribbon 
 
 (Blue as my darling s eyes) 
 Some relics a mother treasures 
 
 Of her by-gone paradise. 
 
 Pink mite of a baby stocking, 
 
 The little feet, tired to death 
 At the end of a day s sweet journey, 
 
 (Finding the angel s path,) 
 Return nevermore to mamma, 
 
 They keep in the walks of light, 
 And I know it is well with the baby, 
 
 While I pray for the rest to-night. 
 
04 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Next, the glove of a college stripling ; 
 
 Then slipper as white and small 
 As the foot of the blushing fairy 
 
 I dressed for her birth-night ball. 
 She is standing there still in the moonlight. 
 
 Love s dawn in her smile s sweet stress, 
 And again in my heart the anguish 
 
 Of the loss I would not confess. 
 
 Will my boy come not with the morning, 
 
 His proud eyes soft with tears ? 
 And his " Mamma, you re my Christmas ! " 
 
 Will they never come back the years 
 Of innocent mirth and story 
 
 Those young hearts held in trust ? 
 O flowers of their May-time beauty, 
 
 Are ye nothing but golden dust ? 
 
ESTRANGED. 
 
 I marvel, as I trace the white and arid sands 
 Of our divided ways, if, in my eager quest, 
 Of truth and beauty, happiness the best 
 
 Has come to me. If lingering touch of hands 
 
 Loses the old-time thrill in foreign lands, 
 If the old pain has died from out thy breast, 
 Nor bars the door to every gracious guest 
 
 Who comes as bearer of the king s commands. 
 
 And oft I marvel, should they go to thee 
 
 Saying : " Thy sometime friend hath journeyed 
 
 far, 
 Found her ideals in some lovely star ! " 
 
 If then, e en then, the tender floods would rise, 
 
 And drown the fiery scorn, lost love ! for me, 
 
 The sad farewell of thy reproachful eyes. 
 65 
 
THE LIGHTS OF LYNN. 
 
 O gentle friend ! when late I sped 
 
 By Hudson s broad and classic breast 
 And in its calm, translucent bed 
 
 Beheld the burnished, ruby west, 
 Drank purest life from purpling hills, 
 
 And music from the piney shore ; 
 Sang with the crystal, foaming rills, 
 
 Again with thee I sat once more 
 Where Ocean, like a wearied king, 
 
 With sunset crown o er dusky land, 
 Slept in the night s gold blossoming 
 
 Upon the smooth and gleaming sand ; 
 
 And read the rocky wonders piled 
 
 Upon Nahant s historic coast, 
 66 
 
THE LIGHTS OF LYNN. 67 
 
 With murmured legends, strange and wild, 
 Of shipwreck and of lovers lost, 
 
 Until I seemed to drift away 
 
 O er Fancy s amber, dreamy sea 
 
 Beyond the light-house and the bay- 
 Where tears and partings may not be. 
 
 Recalled to earth by distant chime, 
 Again we seek the city s din, 
 
 Regretful of that scene sublime, 
 We hail the lovely lights of Lynn. 
 
 The lovely lights of sea-girt Lynn, 
 
 While floating to that unknown sea ! 
 Becalmed to rest, or pained by sin, 
 
 Or moved by heavenly harmony ; 
 Mid all of beauty, aye, of love ! 
 
 Proud visions of earth s royal souls ! 
 If pleadingly I look above, 
 
 Or where life s maddening torrent rolls 
 
68 THE LIGHTS OF LYNN. 
 
 Still, like a star that beams to win, 
 That haunting picture fair I see, 
 
 Where, guided by the lights of Lynn, 
 I drank the twilight hour with thee. 
 
THE CHILD AND THE SOLDIER. 
 
 It was a wounded soldier, and he sat 
 
 With his starved face averted from the eyes 
 
 Scanning his features in the crowded car, 
 
 As if his grimed and tattered garb, dear Heaven ! 
 
 Were out of keeping with the silken robes 
 
 Of the excursionists ; trying to smile 
 
 When happy children talked of fruit and song. 
 
 Hunger and pain had hollowed the pale cheek, 
 
 And from the midnight of his mournful eyes 
 
 A world of anguish strove with manly pride ; 
 
 Trembling, the fingers of his one poor arm 
 
 Clutched at the Enfield rifle at his side 
 
 As if that friend a history could tell 
 
 To prove his title to his country s love. 
 69 
 
70 THE CHILD AND THE SOLDIER. 
 
 Sudden there sprang a child before his face ; 
 A winsome baby girl, a very bird 
 Of song and plumage, gay as May-day flowers, 
 So beautiful ! The soldier silent gazed 
 Till the big tears shut out the vision bright. 
 She held three roses in her dimpled hand 
 Three deep red roses, fresh as dewy lips, 
 That trembled softly, while a great round tear 
 Coursed its sweet way adown her velvet cheek. 
 " Soldier : take Ella s roses, please to take ! 
 Ella loves soldiers. Mamma, give him wine 
 And fruit and bread ! Mamma ! " 
 
 Aery, 
 
 A low, quick cry, wrung from a brave man s heart, 
 And the sick soldier, sobbing, murmured " Mine ! 
 My child, my angel ! Oh, my country held 
 In grateful trust to crown my sad return ! 
 God bless the land that feeds her soldiers babes, 
 The while he suffers in a rebel cell ! 
 
THE CHILD AND THE SOLDIER. 71 
 
 A hundred arms were not too much to give 
 For one such hour of rapture ! " 
 
 Ah, in vain 
 
 The allied forces of earth s tyrannies 
 To crush a land where scenes like these light up 
 The awful night of sorrow-breathing war. 
 While the Republic takes her little ones 
 In the strong arms of fond maternal love, 
 Trains the quick mind in wisdom s blessed ways, 
 She 11 never want for heroes to make good 
 Her place among the nations. 
 
THE ANGEL IN THE HEART. 
 
 The hot sun shone on the yellow ledge, 
 Leaving of green grass scarce a trace, 
 
 Scorching in wrinkles the fern and sedge, 
 But the well at its foot hid its gleaming face. 
 
 Cold and pure and far down it lay ; 
 
 Thirsty lips o er its freshness faint 
 Turned in bitter reproach away, 
 
 Weary sinner and dying saint. 
 
 Hurled o er the ledge by a giant s strength, 
 
 A grim, gray boulder dropping down, 
 The waters spring to the brim at length, 
 
 And lo ! with beauty the leaflets crown. 
 72 
 
THE ANGEL IN THE HEART. 73 
 
 Heavy it lay in the silent well, 
 
 As sorrow lies in a grieving breast ; 
 
 But ever after, for cup and bell 
 Flowed the rivulet, cool and blest. 
 
 The sun and stars in a tender sheen 
 Gilded its beauty by day and night, 
 
 And round its margin in glowing green 
 Fringes of mosses with flowers unite. 
 
 Ah me ! The heart is a well-spring fair 
 Of purest waters, but buried still ; 
 
 God sendeth sorrow and loving care, 
 And the angel sings like a laughing rill. 
 
THE ETERNAL PLAN. 
 
 When the Eternal Goodness said 
 
 " Let man exist ! " the plan was ripe ; 
 He was the fair, the lordly type 
 
 Immortal living, dying, dead. 
 
 We cannot die ; we live in all 
 
 The ages past or yet to be ; 
 
 In lives beyond the utmost sea, 
 In leaves that have their time to fall. 
 
 We are of earth, we clasp the stars ; 
 Sing with the birds ; our pulses beat 
 In time with every rhythm sweet 
 
 Of hearts and waves, no discord jars. 
 74 
 
THE ETERNAL PLAN. 
 
 We live in flowers, in mighty thoughts ; 
 
 We have a part in every deed 
 
 
 Noble and true ; despite of creed 
 
 Of heavenly pattern we are wrought. 
 
 For God who loves and ever lives 
 Pervades all being ; we in Him 
 Exist for aye, if seraphim 
 
 Or mortal growth to us He gives. 
 
 Else could we feel our brother s wrong 
 In lands as far as ship can glide ? 
 Or thrill with rapture by the side 
 
 Of every nature pure and strong ? 
 
 O wondrous being ! heir to all 
 
 Our Father s measureless domain ! 
 God-centred ! if in bitter pain, 
 
 Or throned in glory s banquet-hall ! 
 
THE MUSIC OF LABOR. 
 
 Mid click of looms and groaning of wheels, 
 
 Buzz of spindles, turning of reels, 
 
 Cry of crank, moaning of shaft, 
 
 Carding and picking, and various craft, 
 
 Roar of water and rush of steam, 
 
 In our factory window I sit and dream. 
 
 Below me the river, in leap and dash, 
 Foams in the sunshine s golden flash, 
 Hurrying on from the gray old mill, 
 Clasping the island, kissing the hill, 
 Laughing in rapids rippling fair, 
 
 Taking soft pictures here and there. 
 76 
 
THE MUSIC OF LABOR. 77 
 
 Amber and crimson, dun and brown, 
 Ha ! how the bright leaves shimmer down ; 
 Clouds of silver, coming to sleep 
 On the breast of the river, calm and deep ; 
 O beautiful autumn ! symbol of life ! 
 After its summer of toil and strife 
 Cometh the glory of love and truth, 
 Ripened knowledge and second youth. 
 
 Even here, in the temple of toil, 
 Thought may garner her precious spoil ; 
 Brain of genius, by day and night, 
 Wrought in harness of steel as bright 
 As helmet and cuirass, nobler far, 
 Heroes of labor s bloodless war ! 
 Groove and pulley and shaft give out 
 Praise as lofty as martial shout ; 
 Science and labor, hand-in-hand, 
 Clothe the naked and bless the land. 
 
78 THE MUSIC OF LABOR. 
 
 Wondrous triumph of patient thought, 
 Honor the minds that have wisely wrought ! 
 Honor the maiden, honor the man, 
 True to our Father s righteous plan ! 
 Idler of fashion, slave of pride, 
 Poor in thy satins, this maid beside ! 
 With hair of sunbeams parted above 
 Brow of purity, eyes of love, 
 Hand to labor, and eyes to trace 
 Poet teachings of wit and grace, 
 Weaving, perchance, with her goodly tweed 
 Image of beauty and noble deed ; 
 Weaving mayhap, in her fresh young life, 
 Flowers to crown her, woman and wife ! 
 Music of labor, glory of toil ! 
 Beautiful world ! When the cold recoil 
 Of selfish passions and idle aims 
 Comes to the soul with angry claims, 
 Turn to nature for peace, and then 
 Honor thy God in thy fellow-men. 
 
WANTED, MEN. 
 
 The times are mad with a fever taint 
 
 In the very heart of the people ; 
 Not bereft of priest, or abridged of saint, 
 
 Or beggared of bell and steeple ; 
 Glutted the market with tract and hymn, 
 
 Tithes and missions and psalters ; 
 But God s white fire is low and dim, 
 
 In our souls and lives it falters. 
 
 We have anise and cummin, spice and myrrh ; 
 
 We have stole and font and chalice, 
 Cross and cushion for worshipper, 
 
 And unction for lips of malice ; 
 Nave and chancel, with organs grand ; 
 
 Messiahs (operatic and holy) ; 
 79 
 
8o WANTED, MEN. 
 
 And vestibules where " the lost " may stand, 
 With the shivering poor and lowly. 
 
 Gorgeous temples of brick and stone, 
 
 Gilded and carved and fretted ; 
 Flowers and vases adorn the " throne," 
 
 And " mourners " (for sins regretted) ; 
 " Talent " in pulpit at highest price 
 
 Breaks " the bread of life " serenely ; 
 Wealth and fashion, pride and vice, 
 
 Tread the velvet aisles how queenly ! 
 
 Brewers, importers, and jobbers make 
 
 Fine pillars for churches of power, 
 Mild and soft (for subscriptions sake !) 
 
 The lessons they give the hour. 
 O mouldy legends and iron creeds, 
 
 Vain words for the lives that perish, 
 We want the service of gentle deeds, 
 
 Heart-dew, and the arms that cherish ! 
 
WANTED, MEN. 8 1 
 
 We want a faith that shall ever keep 
 
 True step with the works of kindness ; 
 A priest so " high " that his glance will sweep 
 
 Through the mists of our social blindness ; 
 Not quaking slaves to a council stern, 
 
 But men of a wise endeavor, 
 Whose love of God and of man shall burn 
 
 In their thoughts and lives forever. 
 
 See, Mammon is v/elcome at every hearth, 
 
 While our Lord is a Sunday caller ! 
 Style and splendor, with lofty birth, 
 
 Make the rights of man look smaller ! 
 Sound and whining or frantic zeal 
 
 Drown the still small voice of duty, 
 And few are the Christian hearts to feel 
 
 A meek life s chastened beauty. 
 
 The age wants men who can front the stars 
 With their manhood s gaze undaunted, 
 
82 WANTED, MEN. 
 
 And keep white lives from the evil scars 
 The world s vile code has granted. 
 
 Bold men of brain, in whose veins the blood 
 Runs warm with a hero s yearning, 
 
 Like the martyred sires who unblenching stood, 
 All the tyrants thunder spurning. 
 
 Brave men to question, to think and know, 
 
 To walk with a victor s tread, 
 Unshamed in detraction s fiery glow, 
 
 If in honor s path they led. 
 To face a fact, or a blazing gun, 
 
 As calm as death, and true 
 To the heart their love has divinely won, 
 
 With a siren s host in view ; 
 
 Men hard as flint to the tempter s wiles, 
 
 Impregnable as Gibraltar, 
 Tender, subduing, in love s rare smiles, 
 
 With a faith that may not falter ; 
 
WANTED, MEN. 83 
 
 As Lincoln modest, as Paul a king 
 Of the mind s august dominion, 
 
 Poet, apostle, the truth to sing, 
 And lord of his own opinion. 
 
 O thou of Nazareth, pure and mild,- 
 
 Our brother, the type and Saviour ! 
 Who said : " Become as a little child " 
 
 In trust and in kind behavior ; 
 Come nearer, dwell in our secret lives, 
 
 To ennoble, to bless, and hallow ; 
 Sow deep, set free from our fashion gyves, 
 
 Thou knowest our hearts lie fallow ! 
 
 We have quenched the fires of the cruel stake, 
 We have shivered the axe and fetter ; 
 
 Now grant, O Lord ! for thy truth s own sake, 
 That we make thy world still better, 
 
 That we love thy little ones, near and far, 
 With the heart s supreme emotion, 
 
4 WANTED, MEN. 
 
 If in marble halls, or with bolt and bar, 
 Humane with a just devotion. 
 
 Oh, hear us, Lord, and help us, man, 
 
 To walk in the light of reason ; 
 To evolve a hope, to devise some plan, 
 
 To crush out our social treason ! 
 Must the beacon flame of the world go out 
 
 In the tempest of sin and sorrow ? 
 Let us put the legions of wrong to rout, 
 
 And conquer a grand to-morrow ! 
 
CHICAGO. 
 
 Imperial city, rising from the wave 
 As erst fair Venus, beautiful as morn ! 
 
 From thy most utter night, rejoicing, brave, 
 Loyal, resplendent as of ocean born ! 
 
 I greet thy towers, thy palaces of art, 
 
 Imposing domes and vast expanse, with tears, 
 
 Thou wondrous centre of the world s great mart, 
 Giant of strength and beauty ! Though the years 
 
 Have brought thee desolation, yet behold ! 
 
 From prairie, lake, and forest, writ in light, 
 In thunderous vapor, fold on mystic fold, 
 
 I read thy destiny of worth and might. 
 
 85 
 
86 CHICAGO. 
 
 Heart of a nation, unto man how dear ! 
 
 Young, ardent, ah ! thy every pulse doth beat 
 In time with progress ; not a doubt or fear 
 
 Shadows thy future, glorious, complete. 
 
 Here, Douglas of the lion heart, thy hand 
 
 Scattered rich blessings ; here, sweet Pity shed 
 
 The balm of succor o er a bleeding land, 
 And our spent armies unto triumph led. 
 
 Religion, learning, high inventive art, 
 
 Far-spreading loveliness in flower and tree, 
 
 God s special favor surely hath had part 
 To work this marvel of an inland sea. 
 
 Soon shall the white sails of old Ocean spread 
 Their wings above thee, every nation send 
 
 Its banner d greeting to Chicago, head 
 
 Of commerce, and for aye the exile s friend. 
 
NORTH. 
 
 He resteth now, the lone and weary-hearted ! 
 
 Let gentle snow-flakes kiss his weary bed ; 
 Self-righteous world, the desolate departed 
 
 Is safely sheltered from your crushing tread. 
 Hurl your anathemas ! judge him who flung 
 
 Life from him like a curse, and unappalled ! 
 Sneer at the lyre, too soon, alas ! unstrung ! 
 
 Marvel he sought his Maker s face uncalled ! 
 
 Uncalled, say ye ? How know ye that his pillow 
 
 Gave not bright beings to his fancy s eye, 
 Who beckoned him to dare death s darksome bil 
 low, 
 
 And seek the peace of those who early die ? 
 
 87 
 
88 NORTH. 
 
 Perchance the seraph voice of one who blended 
 The woman with the angel o er the sea 
 
 Came whispering, when the day s cold strife was 
 
 ended : 
 " Beloved, Heaven is lonely without thee ! " 
 
INVOCATION. 
 
 O friend, amid the stately pines 
 
 That murmurous music yield to thee, 
 Recall st thou the enchanted climes, 
 
 St. Lawrence broad and clear and free ? 
 What time we sailed in summer calm, 
 
 With moonlight glinting wave and beach, 
 To meet the south wind s kiss of balm, 
 
 Surpassing melody of speech ? 
 
 At night when the Nevada gleams, 
 Like castle turrets, white and cold, 
 
 And all the azure archway streams 
 With oriflamme of gems and gold ; 
 
 Upon thy lonely snow-crowned beat, 
 Where foams and falls the mountain rill, 
 
90 INVOCATION. 
 
 Come visions of our voyages sweet, 
 By sheltered bay and wooded hill ? 
 
 And fairy isles that slept serene 
 
 Upon the river s peaceful breast, 
 While cloth of gold some naiad queen 
 
 Trailed regally along the west ; 
 With furrows left by gliding keel, 
 
 And lilies clasping to their hearts 
 The golden secrets stars reveal 
 
 When rosy Day at length departs ? 
 
 Still on and on, as spirits float, 
 
 Through waves of ether opal-rifted, 
 Too blest, enrapt, to ever note 
 
 If down to death we slowly drifted ; 
 Now sighing faint, with clover gales, 
 
 Then distant bell rang out delight, 
 Anon the dusky grotto vales, 
 
 A fitting scene for such a night. 
 
INVOCATION. 91 
 
 Ah ! from thy lips that keep for me 
 
 Poems no bard hath ever sung, 
 Still falls the entrancing melody 
 
 Of Grecian isles when time was young ? 
 Fair river, clasp unto thy breast 
 
 Our love, nay, tell it to the main ! 
 Old Ocean, bear it to the West, 
 
 And wake his smile for me again ! 
 
IF ONLY. 
 
 If only over the wastes of snow 
 
 The sweet south wind like a breath would blow, 
 
 Soft and fitful, as comes and goes 
 
 The breath of my one white folded Rose, 
 
 Sleeping to-night in the moonbeams fair, 
 
 That touch with blessing her bonnie hair, 
 
 Afar where the south-land smiling lies 
 
 Under the hyacinth brooding skies, 
 
 The dull, sad ache of my heart would cease 
 
 As the spring s warm kiss gives the buds release. 
 
 If only a May-bird, brave and free, 
 Could come on a mission of hope to me, 
 
 A winged echo of songs that float, 
 92 
 
IF ONLY. 93 
 
 Clear and glad from her dainty throat, 
 Bringing the charm of my darling s face, 
 Her clasping arms in a fond embrace, 
 The billows of snow on the dreary wold 
 Would change to meadows of green and gold, 
 Scent of clover and hum of bees 
 Drift through the lawn and its stately trees. 
 
 The brook that ripples in laughter light 
 Where the daisy flutters her signal white, 
 And mottled lilies, like knights of yore 
 Trailing their banners through gouts of gore, 
 With plumy ferns where the blue-bells chime 
 Low to the heart of its love-lit clime, 
 And all the pomp of the summer thrills 
 Like a breeze from the sun-kissed, purple hills, 
 Where the Arno sings to the waiting sea, 
 As my soul floats out in a psalm to thee. 
 
THINK NOBLE THINGS OF GOD. 
 
 If wrong and sorrow compass thee, 
 Keep step with nature s harmony, 
 Anon the evil shadows flee. 
 
 If, sowing full and precious grain, 
 The harvest yield thee bitter pain, 
 Say not that human love is vain. 
 
 If earnest eyes of tender trust 
 
 Grow cold (as blind with doubt they must), 
 
 See that thou fail not to be just. 
 
 There comes an hour to him, to thee, 
 When all thy true heart s fealty 
 
 Shall dower his soul with purity. 
 94 
 
THINK NOBLE THINGS OF GOD, 95 
 
 If finding some poor lamb astray 
 (Even thy foe s) while yet t is day 
 Bear it to fold by mercy s way. 
 
 If, when the twilight comes to weep, 
 
 Thy little summer daisy sleep, 
 
 Doubt not that God the germ will keep. 
 
 When in the brown and gracious mould 
 Thy flower lies, from heart of gold 
 An angel s wings of light unfold. 
 
 For " God is God " ; whate er betide, 
 
 His love and justice will abide, 
 
 And find thee through thy mail of pride. 
 
 Though creeds conflict, they do not jar 
 His purpose not a flower or star 
 But smiles from out the smoke of war. 
 
96 THINK NOBLE THINGS OF GOD. 
 
 Are we not parts of God ? and lo ! 
 Where er thou goest He must go, 
 Even beyond the hills of snow, 
 
 From harebell to anemone, 
 
 That waves in some fair southern sea, 
 
 To worlds that fill immensity, 
 
 His universe is not the loom 
 Where any thread will fail too soon ; 
 The fair design will bud and bloom. 
 
 " Think noble things of God," for then 
 
 It follows that thy fellow-men 
 
 From thee shall suffer wrong nor pain. 
 
THE ENGINEER S STORY. 
 
 We were buried in the snow-field, in the canons 
 east Pacific, 
 
 Short of sunshine, yet the storm-fiend in his bless 
 ings most prolific, 
 
 And, between the lack of coal and the scant supply 
 of rations, 
 
 The terminus seemed nearing without passing any 
 stations. 
 
 Now, to shoot across the chasms, and to reach the 
 
 grand Sierras, 
 Where the stars in smoke and vapor seem like 
 
 ruddy, hanging cherries, 
 97 
 
98 THE ENGINEER S STORY. 
 
 With the air like an elixir, is a rapture worthy 
 
 heroes, 
 But to starve in prisons, comrades, with the weather 
 
 in the zeroes ! 
 
 We had toiled like giants, listened for the " fast 
 
 express " with faces 
 Begrimed, yet white, and not with frost, nor bright 
 
 with Christian graces ; 
 The hunger and the cold, you see, on railroad men 
 
 are trying, 
 And the face of honest labor is a poor resort for 
 
 lying. 
 
 You can brave a danger coming with a shriek and 
 
 rush and tremble, 
 Like a roar of bursting bombs, not Death stooping 
 
 dissemble, 
 
THE ENGINEER S STORY. 99 
 
 And stealing on you softlj, like a great white bear, 
 
 to smother 
 Every manly throb, until you turn aghast from one 
 
 another. 
 
 God of mercy ! that last evening, by our dim fire, 
 
 hunger-driven, 
 Failing succor, only whiskey, failing hope, (and may 
 
 be Heaven,) 
 Can you marvel if we broke the pledge, even passing 
 
 it to Brodie ? 
 He struck the flask aside, and groaned : " Not if I 
 
 perish, Maudie ! 
 
 " Don t, boys ! see, here are rations ; I have saved 
 
 mine for your taking ; 
 Leave the poison ; I am glad to die, my heart has 
 
 long been breaking ; 
 
ioo THE ENGINEER S STORY. 
 
 Eat, while I pray to God, and her, my darling and 
 
 my angel ! " 
 Then we knew oar grim old hero was a martyr, an 
 
 evangel. 
 
 Were we blind ? But woe is selfish, and the 
 
 engineer was dying. 
 " Nay, my boys, to starve is nothing to remorse 
 
 that s ever sighing. 
 I used to run the lightning on the Central, and 
 
 the fellows 
 Always smiled to see me hasten when we came in 
 
 sight of Bellows. 
 
 " For my daughter, little Maudie, with her hair like 
 sunbeams braided, 
 
 And eyes of tender yearning by the white Nor 
 mandy shaded ; 
 
THE ENGINEERS STORY. IOI 
 
 Ribbons flying, ringlets dancing, lips aglow with 
 
 merry greeting ; 
 Dimpled arms held out to clasp me ; oh, the bliss 
 
 of such a meeting ! " 
 
 And the great sad eyes grew misty, like the gloam 
 ing by a river ; 
 
 And the brown hand sought his bosom in an eager 
 sort of shiver, 
 
 Found, and kissed a locket meekly with the blanch 
 ing lips of famine ; 
 
 Showed it us : " My crucifix ! please, boys, no 
 more of damning." 
 
 "Such a beauty! Is she living?" Poor Jack 
 
 Brodie, kneeling, crying : 
 * Living ? yes, with holy beings ! but I saw my 
 
 baby lying 
 
102 THE ENGINEER S STORY. 
 
 Stark and crushed beneath my engine, can I ever 
 
 hope to reach her ? 
 Is there expiation, mercy, for a lost, a wretched 
 
 creature ? 
 
 " I had drank that fatal morning, and a broken rail 
 
 was lying 
 Near the crossing ; she espied it, and with tiny 
 
 lantern flying, 
 Bravely swung the warning signal. But my hand, 
 
 alas, unsteady ! 
 And I staggered, sick with horror, to her little 
 
 mangled body." 
 
 He was silent, gasping, shaking, but a cry of anguish 
 
 ringing 
 Through the car with sobs of pity, and Jack Bro- 
 
 die, kneeling, clinging 
 
THE ENGINEER S STORY. 103 
 
 To her sweet face within failing sight, " Don t 
 drink, my boys," he said ; 
 
 " I have tried to do a little good, my angel ! "Jack 
 was dead. 
 
 How we knelt and kissed his forehead, kissed her 
 
 pictured face so fair ; 
 And we took the pledge forever, in the solemn hush 
 
 of prayer, 
 Resolved to die (if die we must) like men, not as 
 
 the beast, 
 And then we heard the " General Grant " come 
 
 screaming from the East. 
 
JUSTICE IN LEADVnLLE. 
 
 Yes, law is a great thing, mister, but justice comes 
 
 in ahead 
 
 When a lie makes a fiend not guilty, and the neigh 
 bor he shot is dead. 
 Leadville would follow the fashion, have regular 
 
 courts of law, 
 I take no stock in lawyers, don t gamble upon their 
 
 jaw; 
 But the judge he said Gueldo undoubtedly did for 
 
 Blake, 
 
 And we ought to give him a trial, just for appear 
 ance sake ; 
 
 That Texas chap can t clear him, the lead s too 
 rich to hide, 
 
 104 
 
JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 105 
 
 And the black neck of the Spaniard on the air-line s 
 
 bound to ride. 
 So I tried to believe in the woman with the bandage 
 
 upon her eyes, 
 Though one side s as likely as t other to drop from 
 
 the beam or rise 
 If a nugget should tip the balance or a false tongue 
 
 cry the weight ; 
 But I thought I d see if a trial was " the regular 
 
 thing " for Kate. 
 So I went to her pretty cottage ; the widow s a tidy 
 
 thing, 
 Great mournful eyes, and a head of hair as brown 
 
 as a heron s wing. 
 
 Her husband s murder was cruel ; Antonio, fierce 
 
 and sly, 
 Had sworn revenge for a trifle when some of the 
 
 boys were nigh. 
 
106 JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 
 
 She had tripped to her bed of pansies, for Blake was 
 
 going away ; 
 While he bent to embrace their baby she gathered a 
 
 love bokay. 
 She heard a voice, Gueldo s, a shot, and she 
 
 ran to Jim ; 
 But the baby s white dress was scarlet, and his 
 
 father s eyes were dim. 
 You ve heard the cry of a bittern ? it was just 
 
 that sort of a noise ; 
 It brought us there in a hurry, the women and 
 
 half the boys. 
 
 She tried to tell us the story, her white lips only 
 
 stirred ; 
 She seemed to slip quite out of life, and could n t 
 
 utter a word. 
 She told us at last in writing, only a name, and 
 
 then 
 
JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 107 
 
 Six derringers found his level, his guard was a 
 
 dozen men. 
 She did n t take on, seemed frozen, but Lord ! 
 
 what a ghastly face ! 
 With slow, sad steps, like the shade of joy, she crept 
 
 round the woful place, 
 And when we lifted the coffin she knelt with her 
 
 little child, 
 Just whispered to Jim and kissed him ; we said she 
 
 was going wild. 
 
 Ah ! deep things yield no token, and she wa n t 
 
 surface gold ; 
 T was a gloomy job prospecting round the claim 
 
 Jim could n t hold. 
 But I found her rocking the baby, her chin in the 
 
 dainty palm, 
 White as the shaver s pillow, tearless, and dreadful 
 
 calm. 
 
IOS JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 
 
 I told her about the trial ; she shuddered, her great 
 
 black eyes 
 Flashed out such a danger signal, or may be it 
 
 was.surprise. 
 " They never can clear Gueldo, he cannot escape, 
 
 for I 
 Can swear to his hissing Spanish, that I saw him 
 
 turn and fly ! " 
 " No, never," I said ; " his ticket is good for the 
 
 underground ; 
 He s due this time to-morrow where he won t find 
 
 Blake around." 
 
 The judge held court in his wood-house, and Bagget 
 
 had stripped his store 
 Of barrel and box ; I never set eyes on a crowd 
 
 before. 
 I dropped on a keg of ciscos, the judge on a box of 
 
 soap ; 
 Gueldo and his attorney found seats on a coil of rope. 
 
JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 109 
 
 Then Kate came, with her baby like a rosebud in 
 
 the snow, 
 Its pink cheek against the mother s pallid and 
 
 pinched with woe. 
 Jim s blue eyes, as I live, sir ! there were his very 
 
 curls ; 
 They set us miners to sobbing like a corral of silly 
 
 girls. 
 She looked so thankful on us, colored, and when 
 
 she met 
 The snake eyes of Gueldo, the braids on her brow 
 
 were wet ; 
 And if the hell of the preachers had yawned on our 
 
 gentle Kate, 
 She could n t have glared such horror or woman s 
 
 deadly hate. 
 
 Well, they went on with the trial ; an alibi, it was 
 
 claimed, 
 Would be urged for the wolf defendant ; the judge, 
 
 well, he looked ashamed, 
 
HO JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 
 
 When ten of the hardest rascals, the cruellest, mean 
 est lot, 
 Swore, black and blue, Gueldo was four miles from 
 
 the spot 
 With them, a-hunting the grizzly ; then the Texan 
 
 pled his case, 
 Till the judge turned pale as ashes, could n t look 
 
 in an honest face. 
 "Your verdict, my men of the jury, must be 
 
 grounded, I suppose, 
 On the weight of the testimony ; if you have any 
 
 faith in those 
 Re//able fellows from Gouger, the prisoner was not 
 
 thar." 
 And his honor growled upon him like a vexed and 
 
 and hungry b ar. 
 
 I ve noticed the newest convert prays loudest of all 
 the camp ; 
 
JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. Ill 
 
 And that mutton-headed jury declared for the 
 cussed scamp. 
 
 For nothing Kate s truthful story ; the evidence 
 went, you see, 
 
 To disprove the facts ; Gueldo by the law was ac 
 quitted, free. 
 
 " You can go," said the judge ; " but likely the 
 climate won t suit you here." 
 
 Antonio rose defiant. 
 
 Then Kate spoke, low and clear, 
 
 (Clasping her babe, and rising,) "Are you done 
 with the prisoner, sir ? " 
 
 As a marble statue might ask it. His honor bowed 
 to her, 
 
 "Heaven knows I m sorry I am, child." "Be 
 cause," she replied, " I am not." 
 
 A flash from her eyes and pistol, the Mexican 
 devil was shot. 
 
 The smoke made a little halo round the laughing 
 baby s head. 
 
112 JUSTICE IN LEADVILLE. 
 
 Then I knew the terrible promise she whispered 
 
 her husband dead. 
 Gueldo staggered, falling, his swart face scared and 
 
 grim, 
 " Dead, gentlemen of the jury ! Decision reversed 
 
 for him ! 
 And justice !" we heard her murmur, though she 
 
 was n t the talking kind, 
 And she had n t the least allusion to that female 
 
 pictured blind. 
 Trembling she turned upon us the eyes of a 
 
 wounded doe ; 
 " Amen ! " from the weeping neighbors ; " God 
 
 help you ! " the judge said ; " go ! " 
 
COMPANY K. 
 
 Inscribed to its Colonel, Hon. A. G. 
 
 Up in the garret, with quaint, dear things 
 Baby s crib, where he found his wings, 
 And floated away from me, fast and far, 
 I keep this blood-stained, battered star. 
 And all that its blue, cold lips can say, 
 A bullet s inscription, and " Company K." 
 
 Under the eaves in the sweet May sun 
 Swallows are piping, the love task done ; 
 Robins and lilacs, beauty and sound, 
 Life is pulsing in all around ; 
 But through the vista of tears, to-day, 
 
 I see them muster our Company K. 
 "3 
 
114 COMPANY K. 
 
 Just out there, on the village park, 
 
 In May-day sunshine they gather hark . 
 
 Mournful drum-beats and bugle s call, 
 
 Our boys in blue I behold them all ; 
 
 Stalwart, manly, heroic, gay, 
 
 Strange there s but one man of Company K. 
 
 One white forehead with locks of dun, 
 A fond mouth s sweetness (only one), 
 A long "farewell " in the tender eyes, 
 A red rose kissed in a rapt surprise, 
 A gallant salute as he rode away 
 To death and honor, my Company K. 
 
 Alas ! why tell of the awful strife, 
 
 His battles of death, and my battles of life 
 
 The tiny marvel of love and grace, 
 
 That never might look on his father s face, 
 
 The blighted bud on my heart that lay 
 
 One year from the marching of Company K. 
 
COMPANY K. 115 
 
 Ah, well ! his letters were " bread and wine " 
 To lips of famine : he said that mine 
 " Had baby fingers and eyes " to him, 
 So dear, all the stars on the flag grew dim 
 In memory s mist through the deadly fray 
 That covered with glory brave Company K. 
 
 Then came the last ! the despatch had said : 
 
 "At Gettysburg the reserve he led ; 
 
 (And had he lived,) from our Grant s own hand 
 
 A general s brevet of the Army Grand." 
 
 But this my darling had strength to say: 
 
 " My love, remember ! " and " Company K." 
 
 We found the dust of a red rose there, 
 
 Just beneath this star, and a tress of hair, 
 
 And the golden head of our baby lies 
 
 Close to his lips and his brooding eyes, 
 
 See ! the sod will break into flowers of May, 
 
 Keeping tryst with my star of old Company K. 
 
GUESS WHO ? 
 
 I know a little dark-eyed maid, 
 With hair of ebon-gloss and shade, 
 With lips of coral, and a grace 
 In speech, and form, and lovely face : 
 Ah, one a fairy prince might woo ! 
 Guess who ? 
 
 And oft with such a pensive charm 
 In those sweet eyes we take alarm, 
 Lest beings hid from us may stand 
 And beckon her to angel land ; 
 I know her name, and so do you ! 
 Guess who ? 
 
 She sings like birds that soaring die, 
 
 Such rapt repose in lip and eye ! 
 116 
 
GUESS WHO ? 117 
 
 I watch to see her drift from sight, 
 Leaving my world in utter night. 
 She loves me, but she loves not you ! 
 Guess who ? 
 
ONLY A WOMAN. 
 
 The heroine of " Long Point Isle," like a schooner s 
 
 mast she stands, 
 With mother-love in smile and voice, if brown her 
 
 shapely hands ; 
 Broad bosomed, large of limb ! blue eyes of clear 
 
 and level glance 
 Look out neath brow serene with thoughts of 
 
 childhood and of France ; 
 And when the wild waves rend the dunes, she 
 
 dreams of old Marseilles, 
 For Erie rages like the sea in fierce December 
 
 gales. 
 
 Hers all a woman s patient trust, a woman s cour 
 age fine , 
 
 118 
 
ONLY A WOMAN. 1 19 
 
 Her hair like ancient viking s gold, her lips as red 
 
 as wine. 
 The simple wonder of her gaze, its pathos deep 
 
 inclines 
 The mind to pictured saints, the dames of Spenser s 
 
 classic lines. 
 She moves with free, unstudied grace, Juno in 
 
 russet gray ! 
 
 A noble nature giveth ease, the royal right of way 
 To every heart, for never soul as white and brave 
 
 was sent 
 To yearn and strive for broader range, in sickly 
 
 tenement. 
 Where comes the wild sea-fowl to moult, the mink 
 
 to build her nest, 
 
 The antlered deer to drink, where flames the cloud- 
 empurpled west ; 
 Where cedared swamps with ghostly birch and 
 
 mournful sighing pines 
 
I2O ONLY A WOMAN. 
 
 Shadow the pools and sand-hills draped with noi 
 some tangled vines. 
 
 In trapper s hut, with precious brood, six fair-haired 
 sons and daughters, 
 
 She dignifies her low estate, this " Lady of the 
 Waters." 
 
 Did she ponder on the problems that perplex our 
 modern thought ? 
 
 Did she sigh for wealth and glory ? Nay ; the ser 
 vice that she brought 
 
 Was love s unwearied struggle for the timid lambs 
 afold, 
 
 Unselfish duties meekly done, with spirit strong 
 and bold. 
 
 The "Conductor," Captain Hackett, sailing west 
 ward for the straits, 
 
 Met the demons of the tempest in the seething, 
 blackened gates 
 
ONLY A WOMAN. 121 
 
 Where the Lake of Woods is narrowed by the island 
 
 and the land. 
 Frozen spray and shoal around him, terrors dire on 
 
 every hand, 
 And the gallant schooner foundered, like a hunted 
 
 stag at bay ; 
 Lashed to icy masts, poor tortured ones, they waited 
 
 for the day. 
 And when it broke in snow and wind, horror fell 
 
 upon the men ; 
 Vain the hope of human succor in the "Devil s 
 
 Cut"! But then- 
 Was it angel ? Was it woman ? Lo ! between the 
 
 surges high 
 And a mighty bonfire blazing, something mortal 
 
 draweth nigh ! 
 It is she, the hermit matron. She has left her little 
 
 flock, 
 
 Reaching arms of mad entreaty where the freezing 
 sailors rock 
 
122 ONLY A WOMAN. 
 
 In the creaking shrouds, yet shrinking from the 
 yawning grave below. 
 
 In vain her "signal service"; still they clung, in 
 fear and woe, 
 
 Until sunset slowly lifted its black lid in angry fire 
 
 On the shipwreck and the woman, on the broad 
 and flashing pyre. 
 
 Then she cried in anguish : " Father, keep my little 
 ones ! " and bore 
 
 Streaming torch above her, dashing through the surf 
 that rent the shore. 
 
 There with death the captain battled ; and with 
 sinews pity-strung 
 
 She snatched him from the undertow ; a giantess, 
 she sprung 
 
 Up dizzy bank, and laid her prize beside the glow 
 ing coals 
 
 Returned, and, one by one, she saved the six im 
 perilled souls. 
 
ONLY A WOMAN. 123 
 
 "One for every child," she murmured ; "life for 
 
 life ! bless God ! " and went 
 To her round of quiet duties, singing in her sweet 
 
 content. 
 
COMPENSATION. 
 
 We love the flowers for their own sweet sakes, 
 
 And music joy inherent only wakes 
 
 Time brings no more, O darling ! than he takes. 
 
 It matters little to the river deep 
 
 If skies do smile or frown, or even weep ; 
 
 And love alone can love, or win, or keep. 
 
 To him who has a well-spring of delight 
 
 Within his bosom comes no bitter blight ; 
 
 The King of Day shuns not the Queen of Night. 
 
 He is not rich who never suffered loss ; 
 Nor saddest life that meekly bears its cross ; 
 
 And truth is sweet, though barren of all gloss. 
 124 
 
COMPENSATION. 125 
 
 " The kingdom is within you," not without ; 
 
 To him who trusts there is not any doubt ; 
 
 And Love s calm front can put dark Hate to rout. 
 
LITTLE PHIL. 
 
 "Make me a head-board, mister, smooth and painted; 
 you see, 
 
 Our ma she died last winter, and sister and Jack 
 and me 
 
 Last Sunday could hardly find her, so many new 
 graves about, 
 
 And Bud cried out, We ve lost her, when Jack 
 gave a little shout. 
 
 We have worked and saved all winter been hun 
 gry sometimes, I own 
 
 But we hid this much from father under the old 
 door-stone. 
 
 He never goes there to see her ; he hated her ; 
 
 scolded Jack 
 
 126 
 
LITTLE PHIL. 127 
 
 When he heard us talking about her and wishing 
 
 that she d come back. 
 But up in the garret we whisper, and have a good 
 
 time to cry, 
 Our beautiful mother who kissed us, and was n t 
 
 afraid to die. 
 Put on it that she was forty, in November she went 
 
 away, 
 That she was the best of mothers, and we have n t 
 
 forgot to pray ; 
 And we mean to do as she taught us be loving 
 
 and true and square, 
 To work and read, to love her, till we go to her up 
 
 there. 
 Let the board be white, like mother" (the small 
 
 chin quivered here, 
 
 And the lad coughed something under, and con 
 quered a rebel tear.) 
 " Here is all we could keep from father, a dollar 
 
 and thirty cents, 
 
128 LITTLE PHIL. 
 
 The rest he has got for coal and flour, and partly 
 
 to pay the rents." 
 
 Blushing the white lie over, and dropping the hon 
 est eyes : 
 " What is the price of head-boards, with writing and 
 
 handsome size ? " 
 "Three dollars ! " a young roe wounded just falls 
 
 with a moan, and he, 
 With a face like the ghost of his mother, sank down 
 
 on his tattered knee : 
 " Three dollars ? and we shall lose her, next winter, 
 
 the graves and snow ! " 
 But the boss had his arms about him, and cuddled 
 
 the head of tow 
 Close up to the great heart s shelter, and womanly 
 
 tears fell fast : 
 " Dear boy, you never shall lose her. O cling to 
 
 your sacred past ! 
 Come to-morrow, and bring your sister and Jack, 
 
 and the board shall be 
 
LITTLE PHIL. I 29 
 
 The best that this shop can furnish, then come 
 here and live with me." 
 
 When the orphans loaded their treasure on the 
 
 rugged old cart next day, 
 The surprise of a foot-board varnish, with all that 
 
 their love could say : 
 And " Edith St. John, our Mother ! " baby Jack 
 
 gave his little shout ; 
 And Bud, like a mountain daisy, went dancing her 
 
 doll about ; 
 But Phil grew white and trembled, and close to the 
 
 boss he crept, 
 Kissing him like a woman, shivered and laughed 
 
 * and wept ; 
 " Do you think, my benefactor, in Heaven that 
 
 she 11 be glad ? " 
 " Not so glad as you are, Philip ; but finish this job, 
 
 my lad." 
 
SURVIVAL. 
 
 " Alas," one said, " your garden sweets will live 
 
 To lure the butterfly, gay bird, and bee, 
 
 When you, dear heart, have found the unknown sea, 
 
 Whence no returning ship can tidings give 
 
 Of blissful voyagers." " Nay, bless God t is so, 
 
 That this enchantment lingers when I go ! 
 
 Sing, golden birds, to every summer s rose, 
 
 And flutter, dappled streamers, in the sun ! 
 
 Sick hearts will hail the beauty and repose 
 
 Of all these hands have gladly, fondly done. 
 
 Come always from the city s noise and heat ; 
 
 Take of true life renewed and happy lease. 
 
 Not face to face, but soul to soul we meet ; 
 
 The past idealized, the future peace." 
 
 130 
 

 COULD WE BUT KNOW ! 
 
 Could we but know the substance from the shadow, 
 
 Behold the subtle process of the mind, 
 The lights, the glooms, like cloud-rifts o er a meadow, 
 
 If only Faith were not so weak and blind ! 
 If underneath the smile, the glamour weaving 
 
 That gold-shot fabric our own heart s desires 
 Could we but know the truth, nor self-deceiving, 
 
 Feed high the incense of Love s altar fires ; 
 If our own souls were but the magic mirrors 
 
 Reflecting all the beautiful, the pure ; 
 Detecting fraud, yet pitiful of errors, 
 
 Still Love and Faith, transcendent, might endure. 
 But life has worn tear-channels in the spirit, 
 
 And wrong and sorrow cruel doubts have nursed ; 
 131 
 
J 3 2 COULD WE BUT KNOW ! 
 
 The new-born king, alas ! he must inherit 
 The pain, if all the splendor of the first ! 
 
 Alas ! with eyes we see not, grope and falter, 
 And miss the sunshine in the way we go ; 
 
 Reject the gold, with dross and tinsel palter, 
 Yet Heaven is near us, if we could but know. 
 
THEODORE PARKER. 
 
 If we who never looked upon our friend, 
 Or heard the voice in holy counsel sweet 
 That set the world s great heart to love s soft beat, 
 With trembling eagerness our mite would send, 
 (Yet knowing that such life can never end,) 
 With what devotion will the hands he prest 
 Shower grateful tribute on their leader s rest ! 
 He man and truth unfaltering did defend, 
 Breathing warm life into a dying faith ; 
 Reversing the grim order of " the blood," 
 Cried : " Lo ! redemption in a perfect life ! 
 A Saviour only in unending good ! " 
 Gave smiling challenge unto gentle Death ; 
 His heaven hath in hush of human strife. 
 
 i33 
 
EMERSON. 
 
 Never alone again, since I have found 
 
 The treasure of the jewels of thy mind 
 
 Richer than Ormus, or the fairest bound 
 
 Of Persian beauty poets joy to find ! 
 
 Do I behold the starry realms above, 
 
 Or walk the fields, or in the forest lie, 
 
 Thy matchless thoughts all loveliness approve ; 
 
 The winds repeat them in each passing sigh, 
 
 Birds sing thy messages of truth and praise, 
 
 The ferns repeat thy wisdom to the flowers, 
 
 The river murmurs of thy soul s calm ways 
 
 Beyond the mists that cloud our feeble powers ! 
 
 And life, love, duty, by thy royal side, 
 
 All things, O sage through thee are glorified ! 
 
WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 
 AT SEVENTY YEARS. 
 
 Seventy ! thy winter has the air of June 
 When apple blossoms have displaced the snow ; 
 The heart of youth in thy blue eyes aglow, 
 And thy great spirit like the magic rune, 
 The key heroic that has set the tune 
 To man s enfranchisement from bonds and woe, 
 And woman s grand advancement. If to know 
 Time s mighty secrets ; to enrich and prune 
 The lusty growths of this auspicious age ; 
 To sound such thrilling notes as never Pan 
 Piped in Arcadia, lover true of man ! 
 Not to have heard thee, were fate s irony ; 
 And having seen thy soul s illumined page, 
 Who is not hence thy loyal votary ? 
 
TO PETER COOPER. 
 
 ON HIS NINETY-SECOND BIRTHDAY. 
 
 How manhood redeemeth his promise to pay 
 
 In the gold of the sunset illuming his day ! 
 
 No counterfeit here, not a grain of alloy ! 
 
 Past ninety, you say ? He is only a boy ! 
 
 Heart of oak, sound to core, with a garland of 
 
 snows, 
 
 Life s juices like wine, aye, as red as the rose 
 That runs up the signal of summer to-night, 
 From his heart to his cheek, putting winter to 
 
 flight. 
 
 The gods of the Greeks had their temples ; and he 
 
 Is shrined in the temple he reared to the free, 
 
 136 
 
TO PETER COOPER. 137 
 
 In the hearts he has blessed, in the lives he has set 
 To the psalm of true living they cannot forget ; 
 And his praises are sung in the click of the wire, 
 The ring of the chisel, the crucible s fire ; 
 The canvas reveals him, the press will acclaim 
 The type he has set for the annals of fame. 
 
 I stood by the altars to Labor he reared ; 
 The incense of love to the God he revered 
 Was the breath of young lips in the eager pursuit 
 Of the good and the great ah ! the coveted fruit 
 Never reached, but his wise and beneficent hand 
 Had lowered the bough ; gentle lord of the land, 
 Golden apples he gave, toiling millions to feed, 
 And we measure the man by the measureless deed. 
 
 Again I beheld, through the mist of my tears, 
 This soul in white raiment of beautiful years. 
 The man whose calm life was like rivers that flow 
 The deeper and purer that silent below 
 
138 TO PETER COOPER. 
 
 The broad channel holds its glad way to the sea 
 Of the infinite love ; happy toiler is he, 
 For we reap as we sow ; noble effort and aim 
 Have crowned him with honor and hallowed his 
 name. 
 
 When the even has come the good farmer looks 
 
 back 
 
 If his furrows are deep, in unvarying track ; 
 To his vision bright blades, silken banners in line 
 Are waving, of harvest rich promise and sign. 
 And our Peter the Great, in reviewing his past, 
 By the straight lines of duty finds blessing at last. 
 Nay, the flowers that spring from the footsteps of 
 
 care 
 More fragrant than lilies the idler may wear. 
 
 Long live ! noble builder to all that is best, 
 Oh late bloom the lily that shadows thy rest ! 
 
TO PETER COOPER. 139 
 
 Flag of truce Death shall fling from his shallop of 
 
 gold 
 As you drift to the land where love never grows 
 
 old. 
 
 For the ships that put out from the Beautiful Isles, 
 Are fanned by the angels and freighted with smiles. 
 Lo, the harbor is calm, and its Master divine : 
 His rates are all just upon thine and on mine. 
 
NAMING THE FLOWER. 
 
 TO F. L. 
 
 Nay, breathe not my name to your yacht or white 
 
 steed, 
 
 Your hunter or falcon, but grant me to read 
 My name in the glorious song that was born 
 On your lips, with the sea in your soul, yestermorn ; 
 That study in clouds that you sketched at Glen- 
 
 coe, 
 
 Those drifts in the moonlight are whiter than snow ; 
 Let me see my initials above your last gem, 
 I admire it, if all the cross critics condemn ; 
 Or if, of all loveliest things you would dower 
 With the name of your friend, may I live in a 
 
 flower ! 
 
 140 
 
NAMING THE FLOWER. 141 
 
 The song and the picture, the fair flowing line, 
 
 Are music, and beauty, and life. How divine 
 
 To dwell in the arts, to inhabit a rose 
 
 Like the sea-haunted shell ! what enchanting repose 
 
 To sleep in the pearl-crusted, odorous cell 
 
 Of the wind-shaken, cream-tinted, luminous bell, 
 
 Awake to the tale the bright humming-bird sings, 
 
 Entranced by his eyes, and beguiled by his wings, 
 
 That weave their swift spells over vision and brain, 
 
 Until sound is a rainbow, half bliss and half pain ! 
 
 Let me reign in the heart of the queen of the 
 
 fair, 
 
 In her robes of the samite the angels may wear, 
 And learn the sweet secrets the hermit thrush told 
 When the red moon had turned all her tear-drops 
 
 to gold, 
 
 And the fountain was silent with envy, and they 
 (The poor faded loves of the passionate day) 
 
142 NAMING THE FLOWER. 
 
 Were dying around her. O rose of the South ! 
 Let me dream, let me die on her tremulous mouth ! 
 For the soul of the rose is the life she has brought 
 From Eden to bloom in a poet s clear thought. 
 The blush, the rich lustre, the veinings we trace, 
 Of the earth are they earthy ? immortal the race ! 
 No rose that is perfect dies out of the world. 
 Will the star that you love from its orbit be hurled ? 
 
 Roses live in the heart, though the heart may forget 
 The face of a lover ; they sharpen regret, 
 They consecrate joy, they dissolve in soft rain ; 
 They breathe in the young mother s lullaby strain ; 
 They felt the pure touch of the Master and smiled, 
 " And of such is the kingdom," the rose and the 
 
 child. 
 
 They kindle the roseate tint of the cheek, 
 And laugh in the dimple confessions bespeak ; 
 They kiss the cold fingers when kissing is past 
 For our lips that must hunger in vain to the last. 
 
NAMING THE FLOWER. 143 
 
 Then wait until summer has burgeoned to flame, 
 And the rose of your sowing shall ask for her name. 
 With dew-drops the sunrise has reddened to wine, 
 Baptize this Canadian new namesake of mine ; 
 Speak low, lest the blight of my sorrow shall close 
 Like death round the heart of your beautiful rose. 
 
RELUCTANCE. 
 
 I marvel much that dying eyes should turn 
 Regretfully on the imperilled way, 
 
 The road once travelled ; e en its scattered 
 
 flowers 
 
 Or cool white stones marking some happy day ; 
 Why shrink from shadow of a simple urn ? 
 
 (Goal of the journey, this forced march of ours) 
 If crowned with roses or with wayside weeds, 
 Why weeping falter in the song that ends 
 
 In trembling pathos, howsoe er it ranged, 
 Without encore from any of the friends 
 Who praise or blame our good or evil deeds, 
 
 Whose constancy no errors have estranged ? 
 
 Their loving hands our falling curtains stay, 
 
 144 
 
RELUCTANCE. 145 
 
 And like as wayward children closer cling, 
 Unto the gentle bosom that they wound, 
 We seek the shelter of love s tender wing, 
 When fall the dews of life s departing day, 
 
 Nor fear to stray beyond sweet mercy s bound. 
 
WITH A SEA-SHELL. 
 
 " Our ship was like a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean." COLERIDGE. 
 
 God send thy good ships all to thee, 
 
 The white-winged messengers that swept 
 
 O er fancy s fair and shoreless sea, 
 
 The gallant ships where sunbeams slept. 
 
 Where never tempest dark and dread 
 Careered, or lightning s lurid glare 
 
 Menaced thy lovely drooping head, 
 Like flowers that bend in silent prayer. 
 
 Come ships full freighted with the stores 
 
 Of India s sandal-wood and gems, 
 146 
 
WITH A SEA-SHELL. 147 
 
 The shining fabrics of the shores 
 
 That hoard the Old World s diadems ; 
 
 The perfumes caught from roses pressed 
 
 In trembling joy by dying hands ; 
 Or pearls some Naiad love has blessed, 
 
 Has dreaming strewn on golden sands. 
 
 Oh, flying ships that kiss the waves, 
 Sail on around this changing world, 
 
 Bring hope and peace to all the graves 
 Where Faith her dewy pinions furled ! 
 
 Oh, bear to her a woman s thought, 
 
 Bring truth and love and length of days, 
 
 The sweet content by patience wrought, 
 The deeds that have no need of praise ! 
 
RED ROSES. 
 
 Let not the drifted snow of lilies white 
 
 Press my dead heart, but roses red as flame ; 
 It will be morning then ; the stormy night 
 
 Gone like the discords of some martial strain 
 Heard all too near in the dim distance sweet. 
 
 O rose of life ! that struggled to the light, 
 At last unfolding, beautiful, complete, 
 
 To bud and bloom forever in His sight ! 
 
 148 
 
ORIENT. 
 
 They tell the heart s hushed secret in a Rose, 
 And with an unclosed bud lovers reveal 
 
 The passion pure and ardent, that yet glows 
 The brighter with all efforts to conceal. 
 
 149 
 
REMEMBER ME. 
 
 Remember me, not for my eyes or voice, 
 Or the old charm you found in smile or air, 
 Or sunny tints you loved in my dark hair, 
 Or any word that bade you to rejoice, 
 Or aught, my darling, in which you have choice ; 
 But for the memories that still must be 
 The soul of life, for these remember me. 
 
 150 
 
TO A GIRL WITH A WATER-LILY. 
 
 But yesterday this peerless thing, 
 
 A swaying censer in the light 
 Of crystal wave and glancing wing, 
 
 Made the St. Lawrence white. 
 I marked it from the old canoe, 
 
 The fairest of the fleet, 
 " And only, Golden Hair, for you," 
 
 I said, " this prize is meet. 
 Pirate of that enchanted sea 
 I bring my spoils, sweetheart, to thee ! " 
 
 O bending skies of amethyst ! 
 
 O river grand ! I dare 
 To turn again, O Time, and list 
 
 The whispered vow and prayer ; 
 151 
 
152 TO A GIRL WITH A WATER-LILY. 
 
 To live again that royal hour 
 That drained life s golden wine, 
 
 That left me neither wish nor power 
 To win and wear the vine ; 
 
 A dreamer drifting with the tide, 
 
 With smiling front of maiden pride. 
 
 Could we have known, my love and I, 
 
 How many lovely moons would kiss 
 The lilies in this mimic sky, 
 
 How much the heart may miss, 
 Yet bravely o er the tide of tears 
 
 The circling waves of light uphold 
 A snowy banner changing years 
 
 Have starred with hearts of gold, 
 We had not murmured ! Dear one, see ! 
 Emblem of peace I give to thee. 
 
LOST. 
 
 The barren moor, the forest dark, 
 
 Gray frowning cliffs and blackened sky, 
 
 The still, deep lake a plunge and hark ! 
 Was that the bittern s mournful cry 
 From out the stately rushes nigh ? 
 
 How wails the wind ! and something white 
 A moment drifts the lilies by ; 
 
 Are angels upon guard to-night ? 
 Hark ! once again the bittern s cry 
 Among the rushes stark and high. 
 
 A maiden s footstep in the sand 
 A scarf, with dainty glove near by 
 
 Ah, well ! the white and perfect hand, 
 
 i53 
 
154 LOST. 
 
 With rival lilies it will lie ! 
 
 Was that the bittern s warning cry ? 
 
 O love ! how sweet (e en unto death) 
 At that weird hour the rushes sigh ! 
 
 The night wind softly holds its breath 
 To hear, perchance, the bittern s cry 
 Then murmurs : " Love, betrayed, must die ! " 
 
TWO LITTLE GRAVES. 
 
 Side by side two tiny hillocks, just as little lambs 
 
 may meet, 
 That have wandered from the fallows to the daisied 
 
 meadows sweet, 
 Sleeping in the blessed sunshine, hearing not the 
 
 mother s bleat. 
 
 One was borne to peaceful slumber when the sun 
 set s crimson dyes 
 
 On her catafalque of lilies fell in royal draperies, 
 And a train of stately mourners looked farewell with 
 tearless eyes. 
 
 And I seemed to hear the mother, who had crossed 
 
 the silent sea 
 
 i55 
 
1 56 TWO LITTLE GRAVES. 
 
 To await that angel-voyager in her snow-white 
 
 argosy, 
 Cry, Hosanna ! to the Saviour, once a babe in 
 
 Galilee. 
 
 But the other, in the dawning of a bitter April day, 
 When the frozen tears of heaven on the pale arbutus 
 
 lay, 
 Was borne out in pauper s coffin by the sexton, 
 
 stern and gray. 
 
 Never glow of bud or leaflet on that little sinless 
 
 breast ; 
 Never toll of bell, or chanting blessed words of holy 
 
 rest, 
 Only sobs of mortal anguish of a sinner unconfessed. 
 
 Not a meeting, but a parting ; mother still, though 
 never wed ; 
 
TWO LITTLE GRAVES. 157 
 
 And a haunting face beside her, looking down upon 
 
 their dead, 
 O beguiling face, and craven ! " Thou dost judge 
 
 him, God ! " she said. 
 
 " If I dare not look the way she went for keen re 
 morse, O Lord ! 
 
 What of him who lured me onward by distortion of 
 Thy word ? 
 
 Yet for him the world has honors, and for me the 
 flaming sword ! " 
 
 But He hears who heeds the sparrows, who hath 
 
 justice for us all ; 
 Both the lambs within His bosom, is he deaf to 
 
 spirit call ? 
 Nay ; His arm of sweet compassion it will break 
 
 the woman s fall. 
 
IN REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 M. E. T. 
 
 If sunbeams could be held and braided 
 
 Within the meshes of her hair, 
 If orient pearls by rosebuds shaded 
 
 Had made her cheeks so softly fair, 
 If violets could smile serenely 
 
 As did her shining eyes to me 
 The secret of her beauty queenly 
 
 No more a mystery would be. 
 
 If you have plucked the scented clover, 
 
 And drank the sweets of white and red, 
 Perhaps they breathed the story over 
 
 Of all her sweeter lips have said. 
 158 
 
IN REMEMBRANCE. 159 
 
 If you have heard the song of thrushes 
 From summer meadows borne along, 
 
 Perhaps those clear, melodious gushes, 
 Repeat the gladness of her song. 
 
 Thou source of beauty, joy, and blessing, 
 
 Who hast to thine own realms of love 
 Removed from our too fond caressing 
 
 This darling flower, to bloom above, 
 We thank Thee that in thousand phases 
 
 These hints and tokens Thou hast given, 
 That we may keep her earthly graces, 
 
 And dream of what she is in Heaven. 
 
THE BROOK. 
 
 Two streams divide the little town 
 Where I abide, and one 
 
 Is dusk beneath the hazel s brown, 
 And silver in the sun. 
 
 God never made a purer thing, 
 Or one more glad, I know, 
 
 And always in the happy spring, 
 When fires of sunset glow, 
 
 I seek the comfort of its face, 
 
 The music of its voice ; 
 And in my mossy hiding-place 
 
 With nature I rejoice. 
 1 60 
 
THE BROOK. l6l 
 
 The alders dip their tassels red 
 
 Where minnows love to sport, 
 And in the willows overhead 
 
 Loquacious martins court. 
 
 Afar the lowing of the herd, 
 
 The little ones at play, 
 The distant bell, or song of bird, 
 
 The hush of dying day ; 
 
 Low sighing of the solemn wind, 
 
 Soft ripple of the waves, 
 Remembered melodies that find 
 
 Their way among the graves. 
 
 Where tiny brave anemones 
 
 And nun-like violet, 
 Lost in such saintly reverie 
 
 Of love and vain regret, 
 
l62 THE BROOK. 
 
 That woven with sweet eglantine, 
 Our human tenderness 
 
 Dear vanished faces can define, 
 With not a smile the less. 
 
 And often when the blessed rain 
 Has overflowed the brook, 
 
 I hear my baby coo again 
 From out the ferny nook. 
 
 Then, if a fleecy cloud is borne 
 Along this mirror fair, 
 
 I say it is the raiment worn 
 By beings of the air. 
 
 Oft when the golden nets are cast 
 Adown the azure deep, 
 
 I see a white sail drifting past, 
 Stretch out my arms and weep. 
 
THE BROOK. 163 
 
 As starving castaway may cry 
 
 To homeward bark in vain : 
 I hail the life-boat drawing nigh 
 
 To rescue from all pain. 
 
 Thus nature keepeth sacrament, 
 
 And folds us in embrace ; 
 So tender and beneficent 
 
 We see our Father s face. 
 
 O mothers ! if ye only knew 
 
 How the white raiment of your prayers 
 Clings to the soul, when lost to view 
 
 The splendid robes the body wears, 
 The children might be clothed upon 
 With light like His, the Holy One ! 
 
THE GRAVE. 
 
 The grave is cruel ; for it bars the deed 
 Of latent mercy, presses down the scale 
 
 Of justice with a miser s hungry greed 
 
 Gainst frozen hearts what can our tears avail ? 
 
 The grave is silent ; answer it has none, 
 Although you cry repentant till you faint 
 
 Always beneath the cold, accusing stone 
 Lieth a shrined and consecrated saint. 
 
 The grave is mighty ; gainst it your appeal 
 
 Beats like the surges on the flinty rock ; 
 The pleading bosom pressing tempered steel 
 
 Hath only wounds and anguish for the shock. 
 164 
 
THE GRAVE. 165 
 
 The grave is rich ; your dearest treasures lie 
 Shut from your longing hair of beaten gold, 
 
 The ruby lips, the sapphire beaming eye, 
 Pearls fair and perfect as the sea-kings hold. 
 
 The grave is patient ; flowers come and go, 
 The robins wait expectant every spring 
 
 To herald any protest from below 
 
 Against the charges that the world may bring. 
 
 The grave is just ; for always, soon or late, 
 The exile cometh to his own again, 
 
 For time reverses false decrees of fate 
 The martyr liveth, loved of gods and men. 
 
 The grave s a haven for the sorrow-crost 
 How calm they sleep who enter into rest ! 
 
 What if they find the dreams they weeping lost, 
 The real life and wake divinely blest ! 
 
l66 THE GRAVE. 
 
 The grave is constant ; it will fail you not 
 
 Though friends forsake and fortune from you 
 flies 
 
 Honors elude one little sheltered spot 
 Hath soft, cool grasses for your tired eyes. 
 
 The grave I marvel we should fear to go 
 
 Where one by one the dear ones passed from 
 
 sight. 
 
 Our hands are in the Father s, and we know 
 His love is round us, be it day or night. 
 
A NOCTURNE. 
 
 To-night fair Venus to her breast 
 Such shield of woven amethyst 
 And flaming rubies, opals, prest, 
 That all the vast star-studded west 
 A sea of fire 
 
 Rolled in great waves of wondrous light, 
 Too radiant for mortal sight ; 
 The new-born moon, a-tremble, white, 
 As tender babes that shrink in fright 
 When lights expire ; 
 
 And Mars, red orb fair swinging free, 
 Revealing snowy poles and sea 
 
 Of azure ; all immensity 
 167 
 
l68 A NOCTURNE. 
 
 Pervaded with sweet harmony ; 
 Soul mounting higher, 
 
 I heard the vibrant chords of those 
 Great hearts that sang as sings the rose, 
 When first its passionless repose 
 Is broken by the song that glows 
 With pained desire, 
 
 Until, like cymbals clashing clear, 
 Each lovely flashing, singing sphere 
 The secrets of its changing year 
 Disclosing to the spirit s ear, 
 The mighty lyre 
 
 Of nature, smote by minstrels old, 
 The sons of God, as sages told, 
 With trailing robes of gems and gold, 
 From world to world grand peans rolled 
 Forever nigher ! 
 
A NOCTURNE. 
 
 All the great masters slowly beat 
 The measure of Love s nocturne sweet, 
 While severed hearts like lilies meet 
 On crystal tides, in murmurs greet 
 The starry pyre 
 
 That kindles with divinest flame, 
 Responsive to each sacred name 
 That holds the threefold blessed claim 
 Of music s chosen, in the fane 
 Of God, our Sire ! 
 
 But over all the notes that stirred 
 The deeps, that e en Nirvana heard, 
 There every lost and happy bird 
 Awoke to learn and voiced in word 
 Aspire ! aspire ! 
 
 Oh, sweeter than all waters wild, 
 Or winds that whisper low and mild 
 
170 A NOCTURNE. 
 
 Or prayers beside the undefiled, 
 His liquid notes the little child, 
 Too soon to tire 
 
 Of discords that this low estate 
 Yields jarringly to souls elate 
 With echoes of the blessed fate 
 Immortals chant, beyond the gate 
 Of Death how dire ! 
 
 Our angel sang, as sing shall these 
 Bright sisters, fairest Pleiades, 
 As seraphs sound the mysteries 
 Of our transcendent destinies 
 With lips of fire ! 
 
 And ever from the starry space 
 The beautiful young music face, 
 Her wooing, winning, flowery grace, 
 
A NOCTURNE. 171 
 
 Still drew me on to blest embrace, 
 O lost desire ! 
 
 This " song of songs " rang out, like bells 
 In dreams, from fragrant lily cells : 
 " Who seeketh Mercy s holy wells 
 Hath peace that earthly joy excels, 
 As harps of wire 
 
 11 Attuned to hallowed keys that keep 
 True time with Nature, pure and deep ; 
 O mothers ! smile ! but never weep 
 For those our Father s love shall keep 
 From sin s black mire ! " 
 
 THE END 
 
It 
 
 M191888 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY