*F^ 
 
 .^ 
 
 M 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 

 


 
 POEMS 
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 E . I). R A X I) 
 
 !'i m.iMiF.u BY LISBON I.IBKAKY ASSOCIATION." 
 1885.
 
 COHOS STEAM PRESS, 
 
 BITTINGER BROS. PROPRIETORS, 
 
 HAVERHILL, N. H.
 
 '- 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The following Poems and Selections from the stray 
 literary papers of a busy lawyer, are published as a 
 Memorial of their Author, in obedience to a very 
 general desire of those who knew him most intimately. 
 Some of them are only fragments, without titles even., 
 and without careful and critical revision, the product 
 of a few leisure hours which were snatched from an 
 exacting and laborious profession, and are given as 
 they were left in their incomplete form. 
 
 They are published solely in the interest of the 
 
 "LISBON LlBltAKY ASSOCIATION.'' 
 
 759443
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 'I'm: Two VOICES 9 
 
 THRENODY 12 
 
 BEHIND THK VAIL, 13 
 
 Tin TH, 14 
 
 SONNET, 17 
 
 IN MKMOHIAM, 18 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE, 20 
 
 . . . 22 
 
 OH! WHY ARE THE HOSES so PALE? .... 23 
 
 24 
 
 A FRAGMENT 25 
 
 2(5 
 
 A VALENTINE, 27 
 
 To Ax OLD FRIEND, 2s 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 1870, 30 
 
 01 
 
 > I 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A STRANGER'S Ai.m M. . . .32 
 
 33 
 
 LINES TO - 35 
 
 (iRowiXG OLD, 38 
 
 POEM, before the Bar Association, 41 
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 l)i r.\( IIEI> THOTGHTS, 51
 
 POEMS.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 In all this unresponsive universe, 
 
 What canst thou see, O dreamer of fond dreams, 
 
 That fills thy heart with hope? Thy little life, 
 
 Alas ! is but a fiery spark, that drops 
 
 Into a shoreless sea a brief sweet dream, 
 
 That fades into a dreamless sleep. The earth 
 
 Itself, on which thou standest, vast to thee. 
 
 And full of hopeless mystery, the grave 
 
 Of unremembered millions of thy race, 
 
 Is but a grain of sand, 
 
 In yonder starry wilderness of worlds. 
 
 And what indeed art thou, that Nature should 
 Remember aught of thee? Will her rough breast
 
 ) Poems. 
 
 Grow soft in pity for thy bruised limbs, 
 
 Or her great heart beat quick with pain, because 
 
 Thine eyes are filled with tears ? 
 
 On tireless wings 
 
 The days and months will pass as swiftly as 
 A " weaver's shuttle," and the joyless sleep 
 Which nevermore in all the noiseless years 
 Can be disturbed, will come, as surely as 
 Old age must follow youth. Thy body will 
 Become a clod, and thy frail spirit but 
 A wasted breath. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Lift up thy saddened eyes in hope, thou child 
 Of God. Can thought be born of that, which hath 
 No power of thought? Whence comes thy won 
 drous soul, 
 
 Unless there somewhere be a grander Soul 
 That touches thine through laws that never change? 
 The universe is vast indeed ; but He
 
 The Two Voices. 1 1 
 
 Who planned and made it, fills it through and 
 
 through 
 
 The smallest atom and the largest star, 
 There is no point in space where Chaos reigns. 
 Lean then securely on the Eternal Law, 
 That rests upon the Everlasting Thought, 
 And underlies all life and death. Take thou 
 The " Morning's wings," and upward pass beyond 
 The Pleiades and this shall follow thee, 
 And be around thce and within. And down 
 Beneath the sea, the tiniest things that move 
 In strange and sunless caves, are fashioned with 
 Minutest care, and live and die in strict 
 Obedience to a still resistless Power. 
 Each hair upon thy head, once broken from 
 Thy life, shall tenderly be handed back 
 Into the universal life, without 
 Haste and without waste. Fearest thou that that 
 Which is thy very self thy soul with its 
 Prophetic and far-reaching thought, can be 
 Forgotten? Fear it not, but strong in hope,
 
 1 '2 Poems. 
 
 Exultant in thy faith, go forth to meet 
 The certain Life in Death, as if to meet 
 A steadfast friend, who waits to welcome thee. 
 For great, benignant Nature, who in her 
 Appointed way and time remembers all 
 Things, must remember thee, and all the seed 
 Her hand hath scattered, and the harvest of 
 Immortal fruit. 
 
 THRENODY. 
 
 Through all the lingering years in vain for thy embrace 
 An aching heart will yearn and wait ! By day or night 
 I never nevermore shall look upon thy face, 
 Or watch thy cheerful coming with a new delight. 
 A thousand things will say to me it is the end 
 Of life, now in the fullness of good deeds complete. 
 But what hast thou to fear, my restful, vanished friend. 
 Since sleep, dreamful or dreamless, either way, is 
 sweet ?
 
 BEHIND THE VEIL. 
 
 Lo ! the marvellous contrast of shadow and light, 
 Of shadows that darken and lights that adorn ; 
 And after the day comes the shadowy night, 
 And after the night come the splendors' of morn. 
 
 And raptures and sorrows through all the brief years 
 Keep crossing, to weave in the web of our life, 
 Till another, the greatest of shadows appears, 
 To hush into stillness the tumult and strife. 
 
 And thou, Shadow of shadows, the darkest of all, 
 Concealing what has been and what is to be, 
 That liest on life and its joys like a pall, 
 Oh ! what is the splendor that lies behind thee ?
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 There is hope in the clash of creeds, 
 
 In the war of the old and new. 
 
 And in all the valiant deeds 
 
 Of soldiers good and true. 
 
 But many eyes must weep, 
 
 For human faith is weak, 
 
 And Truth is buried deep, 
 
 And science slow to speak, 
 
 And error well inwrought 
 
 With all the forms of thought. 
 
 But why indeed should those 
 
 (Now toiling in repose) 
 
 Who worship only Truth, 
 
 Be troubled by the throes 
 
 Of an angry world, forsooth? 
 
 This only they demand : 
 
 To labor at its task,
 
 Truth. 15 
 
 And wave its sceptre of command 
 
 Over continents of land 
 
 And islands of the sea ; 
 
 That truth be not concealed, 
 
 And falsehood drop her mask. 
 
 Then let the lines be drawn, 
 
 The banners be unfurled, 
 
 The rival trumpets blown, 
 
 And let the war rage on 
 
 Until God's will be done 
 
 Through all the stormy world. 
 
 There is glory in the strife, 
 
 For truth can never die, 
 
 And only a dying life 
 
 Be given to a lie. 
 
 The little that we know 
 
 Can never pass away, 
 
 And more may be revealed. 
 
 The solid earth will stay, 
 
 The eternal rivers flow 
 
 To the eternal sea :
 
 16 Poems. 
 
 Nor will the Heavens decay; 
 Venus and fiery Mars, 
 And Jupiter the grand, 
 And all the shining band 
 Of sweet, familiar stars, 
 Which now our eyes can see, 
 In their accustomed places, 
 In the far, aerial spaces, 
 Will show their smiling faces ; 
 And beyond all these, no less, 
 In the blue immensity, 
 Will glow a wilderness 
 Of stars we cannot see.
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Another joy has gone out of a life, 
 
 As though a moon should drop from its path. 
 Fall away from a cluster 
 Of stars, bereaving the sky of its lustre, 
 
 The earth of its glory. Who is there who fears 
 Not a still, ignominious strife, 
 
 The torture of desolate tears, 
 
 The fires of a smouldering wrath, 
 
 That will burn through the lingering years. 
 And be quenched in the lethe of death ? 
 
 A gloom that can never depart, 
 Since the light of each pitiless morrow 
 
 Must bring to an o'erburdened heart 
 A voiceless and measureless sorrow.
 
 IX MEMORIAM. 
 
 JAMES A . G A R F I E L 1) . 
 
 The spirit hath taken its flight, 
 
 Where the land and the waters meet, 
 
 And never a nobler fight 
 
 AVas crowned with immortal defeat. 
 
 O ! weak as the opening air, 
 
 To the pressure of death-dealing darts, 
 Is the burden of innermost prayer, 
 
 From millions of agonized hearts. 
 
 And vain is the vigilant skill 
 That watches mysterious laws, 
 
 And vainer the dominant will, 
 That clings to a perishing cause. 
 
 Dead ! by the murmuring shore 
 Of the cold and passionless sea ;
 
 In Memoriam. It) 
 
 O ! brave, noble heart, nevermore, 
 Can its voices be music to thee. 
 
 Released from the wearisome strife, 
 The torture of laboring breath, 
 
 Up into the glory of life, 
 
 That gleams through the shadow of death.
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 On the horizon's edge reclining 
 Ghost-like sits the moon in shrouds. 
 Here and there the stars are shining 
 Dimly through the scattered clouds. 
 
 Cannon's roar and musket's rattle 
 Rend no more the startled air ; 
 Hushed are all the sounds of battle, 
 Beasts of prey are drawing near. 
 
 Friends and foes no longer heeding 
 Hatred in each other's eyes, 
 Side by side lie torn and bleeding, 
 Careless of the victor's prize. 
 
 Heroes, wounded, worn and wasted. 
 Sink upon the ground to-night, 
 Joys they dreamed of all untasted 
 Swim before their glazing; sight.
 
 After The Battle. 21 
 
 Friends at home who loved them fondly, 
 Proud of all their former scars, 
 Who shall tell those friends how soundly 
 Now they sleep beneath the stars? 
 
 Lay them in their beds of glory, 
 Fast by ocean's sounding waves ; 
 None there are to tell their story, 
 Yet they sleep in holy graves. 
 
 Earth, thou fond and gentle mother, 
 Fold them on thy loving breast ; 
 Guard them safely till another 
 Morn shall break their solemn rest.
 
 We pray not for ourselves, the strife 
 And pain and doubt will come no more 
 To us, and Death is but the door 
 That opens to a larger life. 
 
 We pray for all the souls that grope 
 In darkness bear the heavy load 
 Of doubt upon their weary road, 
 And never feel the joy of hope.
 
 OH! WHY ARE THE ROSES SO PALE? 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE. 
 
 Oh ! why are the roses so pale, 
 My love ; O ! whither has vanished their bloom ? 
 And why, 'mid the grasses that grow in the vale, 
 Have the violets lost their perfume? 
 
 And why have the stars grown so dim, 
 My love ; and the charm of their mystical light 
 Passed out of the desolate sky, like a dream, 
 That changes its face in the night? 
 
 And why have the music of words, 
 My love, and the splendors of canvas and pen 
 Passed away, like the song and flutter of birds, 
 When the forests have ceased to be green ? 
 
 Dim to me the sweet light of the skies, 
 My love, and the glories of nature and art, 
 When, longing, I see not the light of your eyes, 
 And feel not the beat of your heart.
 
 Thou whom we cannot see, 
 Mid all our toil and strife ; 
 Oh ! Thou who still must be 
 A presence in our life ; 
 
 Shall we, when near the land 
 Touched by the mystic river, 
 Then feel Thy loving hand 
 To guide and to deliver? 
 
 Alas ! we can but guess, 
 And dimly dream the night 
 Of death, so dark to us, 
 May usher in new light, 
 
 And yet we fear the night 
 Too full of clouds may be, 
 To bring those stars to light, 
 Which now we cannot see.
 
 POVIII*. 
 
 Our eyes are filled with tears ; 
 For they have searched in vain 
 These many, weary years 
 Of doubt and toil and pain. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 The frost is on the hills, and Summer's work is done. 
 I fain would think that gentle Nature grieves 
 O'er all the lessening splendors of the setting su'n. 
 The fragile glory of the dropping leaves.
 
 Far over the wide-reaching meadow 
 I see the red sun on the bay ; 
 
 And slowly night's envious shadow 
 Will darken the light of the day. 
 
 But gladly the sun I surrender, 
 For yonder is red-hearted Mars ; 
 
 And I see that the ravishing splendor 
 Was hiding the liijht of the stars. 
 
 stem
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 The waters kiss the earth so green ! 
 The loving earth and sky embrace, 
 And yon bright worlds above, I ween, 
 Keep kissing in the realms of space. 
 
 And Night, the goddess eldest born, 
 The pink of modesty and grace, 
 Pants for the earliest kiss of morn, 
 And blushing, hides her starry face. 
 
 80 now, be thou a gentle giver 
 Of one sweet gift ; for tell me why, 
 Since all things else are kissing ever, 
 O, wherefore should not you and I?
 
 TO AX OLD FRIEND. 
 
 Seeking labor or pleasure, wherever them art, 
 Somewhere on the land or the sea ; 
 In faith of a promise once made, 
 
 Dear friend of my youth and my heart, 
 This greeting I send unto thee. 
 
 Away from the shock of alarms, 
 On the edge of the shadowy mere, 
 We have gazed into star-lighted skies, 
 
 While the hushed woods lay still in the arms 
 Of the fragrant and motionless air. 
 
 Our life is two-fold ; we may tread 
 
 Its hot sands, while we dream of the green 
 Cool oases now vanished and gone ; 
 
 The dead past may uncover its dead 
 Pale shadows of things that have been. 
 
 Ah ! me, must we fail in our quest, 
 
 Never reach the bright ;oal that we seek?
 
 To An Old Friend. 29 
 
 Remorseless the years glide away. 
 Tired limbs are longing for rest, 
 
 And our voices though tender, are weak. 
 
 Sweet rest from the sorrow and pain ! 
 
 Sweet rest from the trouble and care ! 
 
 But love is unwilling to yield ; 
 And the spirit hath pinions that fain 
 
 Would beat in a limitless air. 
 
 AY hen the day-spring shall pass into night 
 And we gaze on the green earth no more, 
 May God let me look in thine eyes. 
 
 As they smile in the fathomless light, 
 That shines on an evergreen shore.
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY, 1870. 
 
 Mamma says that the papa must make a few rhymes, 
 Rhymes, too, that are sensible, pleasant and witty ; 
 Something to chime with the Christmas chimes, 
 And carol our love to our dear little Kitty. 
 
 And papa has tried and his labor is done. 
 But he knows, very well, that it is a great pity 
 These poor little rhymes limp so as they run, 
 But they '11 carry our love to our dear little Kitty. 
 
 The casket is poor, but the jewel is rare. 
 The casket, you know, is this queer little ditty ; 
 And the jewel within it is something to wear 
 Very close to the heart of our dear little .Kitty.
 
 The 1 Winter is past. The Summer now comes, 
 And glad are the faces that smile in our homes. 
 We wrangle no more over alien rights, 
 But quaff the bright nectar of friendly delights. 
 
 Sharp are the rocks and the brambles we meet ; 
 And lonesome the pathway under our feet. 
 Brief are the flowers and tender their bloom, 
 And swift are the storm -winds that steal their 
 perfume. 
 
 Come out of the shadow and into the light ! 
 Brief is the day and weary the night. 
 Now touch the sweet lips of child and of wife, 
 And banish the cares and the sorrows of life. 
 
 For each man alike, whether poet or dunce, 
 The foam on the wine-cup sparkles but .once. 
 Then lift the bright goblet and drink while you 
 
 may 
 To-morrow we know not, we live in to-day.
 
 LINES WRITTEN IX A STRANGER'S 
 ALBUM. 
 
 I knew a casket rich and rare, 
 Where Love its sparkling diamonds placed ; 
 And Friendship with a tender care, 
 Arranged her pearls in faultless taste. 
 
 A stranger, poor in yems, one day, 
 Hoping a pleasant smile to win, 
 Came where the shining casket lay, 
 And softly dropped a pebble in.
 
 Our faith in things unseen, 
 So like an unbelief, 
 Through all our lives has been 
 Poor solace in our grief. 
 
 Oh ! we are worn and weary, 
 Down-trodden in the fight ; 
 Our nights are dark and dreary, 
 Our days resemble night. 
 
 And blindly we must grope 
 Beneath the barren skies ; 
 We cannot speak of hope, 
 We will not babble lies. 
 
 Thou, whom we cannot find, 
 Thou, God ! concealed from sight, 
 How shall the weak and blind 
 E'er stumble into lio-ht?
 
 Poems. 
 
 We shall not know Thee here, 
 We cannot hear Thy voice ; 
 There is no form of prayer 
 To make our souls rejoice. 
 
 Oh ! grant that in that hour 
 When earthly things shall pass, 
 Behind the clouds that lower, 
 We may behold Thy face.
 
 LINES TO 
 
 Fair lady, we have met but once and rapidly 
 The thoughts and words, that now do crowd 
 Upon my mind, did fade from out thy memory, 
 As fades from heaven the passing cloud. 
 
 But I could not so soon forget must ever be 
 Recalling things too bright to last ; 
 Must linger over fond remembrances of thee, 
 Still shining, shining through the past. 
 
 O ! would that I could look once more into your 
 
 eyes, 
 
 And dream and hope they smiled on me, 
 Like stars that lovingly look out from Summer 
 
 skies, 
 To smile upon the trembling sea. 
 
 And I would hear once more the music of your 
 
 voice, 
 That types the music of the heart ;
 
 ) Poems. 
 
 And feel my heart leap up with long-remembered 
 
 joys 
 Vague joys that dreams and hopes impart. 
 
 But ah ! we ne'er may meet again until the May 
 Of life shall all have passed and gone ; 
 Until the blossoms of our youth have passed away, 
 And wintry age comes stealing on. 
 
 But the sweet image of thy face, so briefly known, 
 
 And long remembered, still shall dwell 
 
 Enshrined within my "heart of hearts" and all 
 
 alone 
 Be worshipped more than tongue can tell. 
 
 How strange is Love ! What golden promises he 
 
 brings, 
 
 To thrill us with a wild delight : 
 And then we only hear the rustling of his wings, 
 As he unfurls them for his flight.
 
 Lines To 37 
 
 And now, farewell ! I know these feeble lines are 
 
 naught 
 To thee. But still it must belong 
 
 C* 
 
 To Love, " thus silvered over with the cast of 
 thought," 
 
 To breathe its passion forth in song.
 
 GROWING OLD. 
 
 From success in its pride and defeat in its shame, 
 From the later repose, and the earlier strife, 
 The half that we learn is but knowledge in name, 
 And dark is the myst'ry that broods over life. 
 
 I smile at the hopes and the dreams of my youth 
 Brief splendors of morning with clouds overcast ! 
 Yet something of worth, which I cling to, in sooth, 
 Have I wrung from the vanishing years as they 
 passed. 
 
 I have painfully tested the Old and the New, 
 Learned what to distrust and what to believe ; 
 Gained a knowledge of things that are steadfast 
 
 and true, 
 And a knowledge of things that will cheat and 
 
 deceive ; 
 
 Of the uncertain fame of the pen and the sword ;
 
 Growing Old. 3<> 
 
 Of the pride that arises from ill-gotten gain ; 
 Of the glory of labor that seeks no reward, 
 But silently carries its burden of pain ; 
 
 Of the courage that faces and tramples on death ; 
 Of the garrulous grief, which time will assuage ; 
 Of the bubbles that sparkle and break with a breath ; 
 Of the love that grows warmer and sweeter with 
 age; 
 
 Of the valor that turns from a glittering cause, 
 In the day and the hour of its noisy success, 
 To worship the strength and the stillness of laws, 
 That endure through the ages and aeons that pass. 
 
 But alas ! for the knowledge that comes with the 
 
 flight 
 
 Of the hours ; for a sorrowful thing 'tis to know 
 Of the increasing shadow and lessening light, 
 As the days and the months and the years come 
 
 and sro.
 
 40 Poems. 
 
 The friends of my boyhood and youth, one by one, 
 And the friends that my manhood held dear, like 
 
 the gleams 
 
 Of a warm, sweet summer remembered, have gone 
 Quite out of my life, and into my dreams. 
 
 And the glow, and the wealth of the morning have 
 
 passed. 
 
 And the fullness of noon grown empty and cold ; 
 And I feel all the sadness that must come at last, 
 Of thoughts that are barren, and limbs that are old. 
 
 Yet I welcome the sadness, and weakness of limb, 
 For I know that the lights from the City of Rest, 
 Shine clearer to him w^hose eyes have grown dim 
 In watching the shadows that grow in the West. 

 
 POEM. 
 
 HEAD BEFORE THE GRAFTON AND COOS COUNTIES 
 BAR ASSOCIATION AT LANCASTER, 1884. 
 
 Before reading my exercise, I am inclined to make a few 
 preliminary remarks. I have nothing to say about the quality 
 of the composition which I hold in my hand, at least in prose. 
 I have said what I wished to say on that subject in rhyme. I 
 am perfectly willing that anybody should regard my effort as 
 a great and original poem. I shall make no quarrel with the 
 generous critic upon that point ; but I desire to apologize for 
 the brevity of the article. It is a novel theme for apology, 
 certainly, but I think a good one. I met Brother Batchellor 
 at the late term of court in Concord, and he informed me that 
 I had been appointed Bard of the Association. I was somewhat 
 f lightened. In the first place, I hadn't any very distinct idea 
 what a Bard was ; and then I could n't understand what the 
 Association wanted of a Bard. But I found excuses were not 
 in order. Brother Batchellor told me that nobody was per 
 mitted to decline an honor thrust upon him .by the Association. 
 And so I agreed to try. I have done what I could ; but I have 
 been cramped for time, and I have had on my hands other 
 duties, which could not be put aside. Moreover, my Pegasus is 
 getting old, and his wind is short, and he never was much of a 
 traveller. He is accustomed to make short journeys at long 
 intervals. Indeed he reminds me very much of a certain horse 
 my father used to own. The horse was named Sullen, and he 
 was a very peculiar animal. He would travel when he chose 
 to travel, and no amount of persuasion, however violent, could
 
 42 Poems. 
 
 induce him to travel when he did not chose. When the humor 
 struck him, he would stop in the middle of a wide, smooth, 
 level, unobstructed road, and you might whip him. kick him, 
 knock him down or build a lire under him, without any per 
 ceptible effect upon his locomotion. My father always used to 
 provide himself with a book or newspaper whenever he went 
 out to drive the creature, and when the horse stopped, the 
 driver would begin to read, and would continue to read, some 
 times for hours, until at last the idea would get into the head 
 of the horse, that possibly, all things considered, some mode 
 rate degree of progress might be preferable to the monotony 
 of a long-continued state of rest. 
 
 To-day, they tell me, I must speak in rhyme, 
 And, hoping for the coming of the time, 
 When rhymed conduct, deeds in harmony 
 With generous impulse, in nobility 
 Of thought conceived, beyond our present reach, 
 May take the place of music in our speech, 
 I yield to other's wishes, and rehearse 
 A mass of barren platitudes in verse. 
 
 Therefore, my lyre, thy mute and tuneless strings 
 Must tremble at the touch of one who sings, 
 When he should only talk, and strives to bring 
 Back to dead leaves the greenness of the spring.
 
 Poem. \:\ 
 
 Like the- hug;* hint that shakes its useless wings, 
 Then runs, and backward worthless rubbish flings, 
 My thoughts prosaic, p:>or and common things, 
 I scatter, strung upon poetic strings. 
 
 But let me speak a word of honest praise, 
 
 Regardless of the mocking, bitter lays 
 
 Of many a rhymster in the by-gone days. 
 
 For we who know our noble calling best, 
 
 Can well afford to let the vulgar jest 
 
 Pass pointless by us, like the idle wind, 
 
 Since they who shut their eyes must needs be 
 
 blind. 
 
 lint who, I ask, are those, who never pause 
 In faithful service, ne'er betray a cause, 
 Whose plighted word, with great affairs at stake, 
 No cautious lawyer e'er declined to take, 
 But looks upon a verbal promise given, 
 As something sacred as his hope of heaven? 
 Who do no falsehood, nor consent that lies 
 Be hidden from the calm and patient eyes
 
 44 Poems. 
 
 Of Justice?, never wittingly promote, 
 Or sue, or help, a false, unlawful suit, 
 Nor e'er, by hint, or look, or deed, or word, 
 Consent that any such false cause be heard ? 
 For lucre or for malice will delav 
 No man, but justly give to each his day 
 In Court, with due fidelity to all, 
 The slaves of Justice, though the heavens should 
 fall? 
 
 My brothers, ye, who seek the holy grail 
 By swearing this, in words that must not fail, 
 Behold the shining goal at which we aim ; 
 And if, o'er th' rough uneven soil with lame 
 And halting steps, we stumble now and then, 
 We lose not hope, but stumble like brave men, 
 Who struggle o'er an upward sloping land, 
 And falling, take another firmer stand, 
 And nobly strive their former place to gain, 
 Or e'en an out-look from a loftier plane, 
 Xor shed unmanly tears o'er hopeless pain.
 
 Poem. 45 
 
 The time is brief, hut " hear me for my cause." 
 
 I speak in reverence of the holy laws, 
 
 Not always easy to be seen and read, 
 
 But stern in their demands to be obeyed, 
 
 Not always to be found in printed books, 
 
 (Sermons in stones, and in the running brooks,) 
 
 Transcribed upon the tablets of the heart, 
 
 And legible to those who have the art 
 
 Of spelling out their rich, mysterious lore. 
 
 My brothers ! Ye whose aims may sink or soar, 
 
 Who cannot pass your lives in dreamful ease, 
 
 Whose paths can never be the paths of peace, 
 
 Who fight for all the prizes that ye win ; 
 
 Above the rushing tumult and the din 
 
 Of battle, hear the poet of our time, 
 
 Singing low, " we can make our lives sublime." 
 
 I turn from this exalted theme, 
 Strong in the hope that it may never seem 
 To us or others but a dazzling dream, 
 To glance a moment at the present good,
 
 4<> Poems. 
 
 Of binding fast the bonds of "brotherhood, 
 
 Helping each other in and out of Court, 
 
 In all things comely and of good report. 
 
 Beyond this public pledge we must not go ; 
 
 Our rightful homage first is due unto 
 
 The cause we serve, he who commands our aid, 
 
 Must keep the narrow road we hope to tread. 
 
 I pass not by the good of goodly cheer ; 
 
 For we are those, who have no lurking fear, 
 
 That all the flowery paths of life must tend 
 
 Sheer downward to a melancholy end, 
 
 And land the luckless traveller where 
 
 His soul must be beyond the reach of prayer. 
 
 Who walk in duty's path, what'er betides, 
 
 May pluck the flowers that blossom on its sides. 
 
 We justly boast that our fraternity 
 
 Is true and genuine democracy. 
 
 And so we stand upon the level earth, 
 
 And judge men by their measured worth, 
 
 And all the glory and the pride of birth,
 
 Poem. 47 
 
 
 
 The insolence of office, show of wealth, 
 
 Are naught to us compared with rugged health 
 
 Of body and of soul ; we look the race 
 
 ( )f men and women squarely in the face ; 
 
 We never scorn a man of low estate, 
 
 Nor bow the knee in worship of the great. 
 
 \\\> reach the hand of fellowship to all, 
 
 \\hose hearts are sound, whose heads are not too 
 
 small. 
 
 For us, ascetic virtues have no charm, 
 Our vision is too dull to see the harm 
 That lurks in harmless things, and being free, 
 We grant and take a generous liberty. 
 I sing, if not the over-flowing bowl, 
 The feast of reason and the flow of soul, 
 The quips and quirks, and genial repartees, 
 Bubbles that float upon a mind at ease, 
 And wit, that comes unbidden and unsought, 
 And shimmers o'er a grave and noble thought, 
 Like the green sward upon a rocky lea, 
 Or sunlight on the bosom of the sea.
 
 48 Poems. 
 
 And sometimes in the smooth and burnished gold 
 Of bright and funny narratives well told, 
 Which like good wine improve by growing old, 
 We'll see our own queer faces when we're sold. 
 And thus we'll while away an hour at ease, 
 Forgetting all the wretched similes, 
 About the ants and little busy bees, 
 Forgetting all our weary toil and strife, 
 With open hands to grasp the sweets of life, 
 With open hearts to take in all the good 
 There is in frank and honest brotherhood, 
 And grateful hearts to that mysterious power, 
 That lives in Nature now and evermore, 
 Must meet us when our little lives shall cease, 
 And where " beyond these voices there is peace."
 
 SELECTIONS.
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 Can any man tell me, why we should suppress a 
 hearty laugh in this world, because we are blessed with 
 a hope that in some better world we may possibly 
 find some better employment? 
 
 There are two classes of believers in this world ; 
 and I acknowledge a kindly feeling towards both of 
 them. Those who open their eyes and look for them 
 selves into the mysterious workings of the Higher 
 Law, into what has been called the "open secret," 
 and see or think that they see, and those who do not 
 themselves see, but believe in those who say that they 
 can see.
 
 52 Detached Thoughts. 
 
 I submit to you that there is a show of reason in 
 what a man says, when he says this : "It all looks 
 dark to me, but how is it that Shakespeare, and 
 Goethe, and Dante, and Milton, and Swedenborg were 
 believers? Did not their deeper vision detect a 
 harmony, where there is discord to me?" 
 
 I quarrel with no man's creed. Demanding consid 
 erable freedom myself in order to be made comfortable, 
 I am disposed to be tolerant to others. The more a 
 man believes, the better, perhaps, if his belief will only 
 help him in his desperate and sometimes disastrous 
 conflict with the Powers of Evil. Still I think it is 
 better to believe a little intensely than a great deal 
 doubtfully. 
 
 Permit me to say one word in favor of a large- 
 minded, liberal tolerance of opinion a tolerance, 
 worthy not only of a conscientious, but an enlightened 
 community. Trust me, one man has just as good a
 
 Detached Thoughts. 53 
 
 right as another, to hold on to an innocent belief, 
 moral, religious, political or scientific, provided he 
 behaves himself. 
 
 We never need be alarmed at the perilous situation 
 of truth. Of all the things in this world, that is the 
 one thing which is best capable of taking care of itself. 
 
 It is indeed true that our religion has, to a certain 
 extent, ceased to be a " worship of the Beautiful, 
 practice of the Good, pursuit of the True, " and 
 become to a certain other extent, a cunningly devised 
 piece of machinery, by means of which, without the 
 harsh necessity of a well spent life, we may shun the 
 horrors of one place, and embrace the delights of 
 another. 
 
 And then our charity which is the best part of our 
 religion, and which ought to be as unrestricted as the 
 sunlight, how it withdraws the light of its countenance, 
 even from them, who, with different badges, bow at
 
 54 Detached Thoughts. 
 
 the same shrine, commit the same sins, and plead for 
 the same redemption. 
 
 It has always appeared to me that Nature, although 
 patient and long-suffering enough, is in the end, 
 extremely sure-footed in the administration of her 
 penalties. She never scatters them with a careless 
 hand. They never come, unless in the wake of a 
 violated law. 
 
 The poetical element in human life is something like 
 that strange plant that flowers of its own accord, once 
 in a hundred years. It has been w r ell said, that your 
 poet must be a man of richer, purer, nobler nature 
 than other men. Providence sees fit, at rare intervals, 
 to send such a man among us, and when sent, he 
 makes poetry, even as the sun shines, or the trees 
 grow, or the birds sing, or the buds blossom just 
 because it is his nature to do it. Poesv has ever sung 
 
 / o 
 
 and will ever sing its own wild, sweet song, its own
 
 Detached Thought*. .">."> 
 
 wild way, and in its own good time ; and you cannot 
 place fetters upon it, or force it into -an unnatural 
 activity by any mechanical process known to the 
 money changers or the committee men. 
 
 In the name of all that is the most precious in life, in 
 the name of all that deserves to be immortal, let us 
 try to render sacred by concealment the little good we 
 do. The benefits that flow from our little lives are 
 hardly worth talking about, and if remembered at all, 
 are better preserved in the memory of others than 
 of ourselves. 
 
 Possibly it is not altogether a figure of speech to 
 represent music as an angel a messenger, sent to us 
 from some other world, and bringing with her some 
 thing of the glory of her real home. And I, for one, 
 will welcome her all the more warmly, that she comes 
 to us, not as the representative of a partial creed, but 
 rather as the representative of an universal belief that
 
 5<> Detached Thoughts. 
 
 she speaks to us not in the dialect of a sect, but in the 
 language of our common humanity. Coming from 
 afar, she stoops to play with us, to smile with us, to 
 laugh with us, to weep with us, and yet her main 
 office is to speak with us in her sweet, mystic language 
 of the mysteries that lie beyond us. 
 
 Liberty is always the child of discipline. They 
 alone are free who are most hopelessly bound, but 
 whose chains and fetters do not chafe them. Freedom 
 from salutary and necessary restraint the privilege 
 of shaking off solemn obligations which have been 
 voluntarily assumed the right to walk in anv other 
 than the narrow path of duty, can these constitute 
 Liberty ? 
 
 The world has progressed somewhat. The night 
 mare of superstition has been shaken off, and heresy 
 is no longer a crime. By a long course of bloody 
 instructions, we have been slowly taught that we can-
 
 Detached Thought*. 57 
 
 not impair a man's faith or convince his reason by 
 torturing his body, that even a pestilential heresy 
 will be nourished by the blood of its martyrs. 
 
 I know of nothing that interferes with the growth 
 of a healthy morality so much as a long list of arti 
 ficial sins. 
 
 In the hurry and rush and tumult of business, we 
 sometimes lose sight of those eternal laws which 
 underlie all private and public well-being. In the 
 broad glare of day, you know, the stars seem to go 
 out ; but they are there in the heavens all the same, 
 and it is no evidence that they are extinguished, that 
 the light of a nearer sun floods our dull eyes, so that 
 we cannot see those far-off, still-shining stars. 
 
 In that dark hour, which follows us all with a 
 stealthy and ever-increasing pace ; in that dark hour,
 
 58 Detached Thoughts. 
 
 when the shadows of some other world will come 
 falling thick around us, all our loud and empty protes 
 tations of superior virtue, all the miserable quackery 
 of our whole lives, will be forgotten, or painfully 
 remembered ; and our simple deeds of kindness, our 
 unseen acts of charity will come forth from the twi 
 light of memory, radient even as the stars come forth, 
 when day is passing into the solemn night.
 
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