**! etr LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA J @&c^ r PURELY ORIGINAL VERSE. COMPLETE WORKS, AND A NUMBER OF NEW PRODUCTIONS, IN ONE VOLUME. BY J. GORDON gOOGLER, COLUMBIA, S. C. REVISED, ILLUSTRATED AND PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. / * Price -$1.00. By Mail, post-paid, $1.10. 1897. Copyright, 1897, by the author. THE AUTHOR S EARLY HOME NEAR COLUMBIA. Farewell, sweet home of my childhood hours! Where joy and sorrow were blended; Within thy halls I have loved and lost, But now those scenes are ended. [Page 43.] 135 CONTENTS. PAGE. The path to Fame . . 35 Impossible Woman s Folly .... 86 Ah, Daisy 87 Some Day . Sing on gentle Muse ... 88 Mysterious Tear " Destroy it not , 89 Alas! Carolina! They laid her down in a lonely Grave . 40 A Crystalized Rose . . 41 In Remembrance . 42 When she is gone Farewell, sweet Home! . . 48 More care for the Neck than the Intellect Unsteady I stand . ,44 Other Days . . 45 Farewell, Sweet Summer . . " Farewell, Lilian . . 46 She fell like a flake of Snow . . 47 Keep silent, Hand . .48 So-called Friendship . . Pretty Miss Lou ... 49 I wish I was There . . .50 The Working Girl . . 51 A gloomy Picture To Laura .... 5:2 The Mind . Maud, the Mill and the Lily . . 5:5 How strangely Dark . 59 An Outcast Pearl . . . 59 You ll never See it . . . (51 Devotion .... Hope, sweet Hope . . . 62 The Midnight Hour . . (j;{ "Thro Storm on Earth to Peace in Heaven" 6i Hail, thou Queen, Atlanta . . 66 (Jan you blame Me? . . . 67 How Sweet . . . . Few would Return .... 68 1 dislike a Vain and Haughty Man . <y Live honest, be Kind ..." The Days of my Youth . . .7(1 On the death of Edgar W. Nye . . 71 CONTENTS PAGE Unforgiven Adieu! . .72 Christ on Calvary ... 75 When we were Young ... 76 To one who is all Loveliness . . 77 Farewell for a time . . . Farewell, Sweet College Girl . . 78 Marriage and Death ... Side by side, Some Day . . 79 She s ill .... 1 cannot think that I ll he lost Forever 80 To Amy . South Carolina ... 82 To the young Unjust Critic . . ;! Columbia, .... We part To-night . (That rose) 81 A Violet and a Jonquil . . y~> The Past .... To Miss Mattie Sue . . . 8<> The Deceiver ... I love thy Shades . .87 To a Vain Mortal . . . My Lassie and 1 ... 88 The Grave where a Woman lies . 8.) Beside Life s Ocean ... vo Tis better this hand was Silent A Tree of varied Fruits and Buds . !U Where Vanity puffs the Heart Conceited . . . .92 The first ray of Hope (ingratitude-) The Coming Bard (Autumn) . m The Past Turn the Page. (On to Eternity) v)4 From the Palace to the Woodland (The Dude (95 The Lover s return on a Bicycle . wtt How deep the Mystery . . lii;{ On the Banks of the Congaree . . im The cause of Anotliei s Woe 1 17 A lovely Woman s Glance Cold in Death . . . M8 To Helen . . . . LM Eula and Eunita, the two Orphans . A Different Tide (To Marian) . My own World . . . Thou old Hypocrite (Woman s Love) To my Mother . . m One who would Linger (Oh, Jealous Heart) " Perhaps . . . llti More Costly than a Diamond Ring 117 Solitude CONTENTS. PAGE. Memorial day in Columbia . . 118 Man s Life . . ,.." "** How strange are Dreams (Dissipation) 119 Carrier s Address (Little Ethel W.) 120 The Death of Charles A. Dana . 122 My Country (Woman) . " Byron (My lovely Venus) (My Country) 123 Close by her Bosom . . . 124 Two Loved ones in Heaven . . 125 A Broken Tie .... 126 Just simply grand . . 127 Footprints by the Mill . . - 128 Farewell to those Moments - - 131 Hills, Roads, a Valley and a Fountain . 132 The Autumn Leaves (Worldly Pleasure) 134 False, Ungrateful, Unkind . . 135 In the Wilds of my Soul . " Twilight on the Farm . . . 136 P D. and B E. ..." Reposing (A Mistake) . . 137 Poor Fellow, he s Dead . . , 138 Annie, the Mocking-Bird Tnere s Bliss for you (Alone) . 13.) In Memorial Childhood Scenes The Memory of thy Face . 140 There ll be my Tomb . . 1H Our Final Home. Farewell . 142 To my Mother. A Mustachless Bard 143 May all these be thine, Mayme . . 144 "f is Hard to be happy . 145 To the poor Young Man An Empty Vase . . . 146 Beware of your Character . . . 147 Circumstances Memory s Picture . . 148 A Monument of Love . . . Not Satisfied . . . lifl Remembered Smiles . . . 1~ Lydie s sweet dark Eyes , . " Tread Softly. Written for an ...Ibuui 1^ No Autumn in the Heart. A pretty Girl Some Day. Tis of Thee that i think That Red Hat. Young Manliood A Golden-haired Girl. But few Virtues A Gracious Friend. . Vocal Music- Alone at Midnight on the Congarce Don t wound Her Feelings Passing Away. I ll only think of Thee CONTENTS Thinking of Thee. Sleep, sweet Child 160 To Lydie. . . The cup of Sorrow 101 She s very Dear to Me. . . Tears 1(W To Eleanore. . Pull off those Suspenders 16tf Thy Mother s Love. . Departed Hope. 164 The Bible. . . Mattie . . 165 A Fallen Women. Death True friendship 166 To a Dear One on the Other Shore . 167 On the Death of Mr. J. H. W. ... 168 Yours not Mine " To a Friend. .... 170 This Lock of Hair in my Watch Her Heart is my Cottage . . 171 Once, and Only ... . The White Head s Farewell to Time . 17:2 You Critics . . . * Think of Me. . A Mother s L >ve 178 The Grave of the Past . 174 Xot till Then . . 175 Beside the Brook .... 176 The .Sweetest Rose . 179 Alice on Her Bike .... ]8 f > "Let me Lose" .... lnl Beyond the Garden \\>11 . . .182 That Group of Sweet Singers . . I8t Farewell, Sweet Rose . . 185 You Domestic Critics . That Little Brown-Eyed Lady . . 186 That Upper Western Room . . 187 A Green Isle of Rest . .188 Sleeping Neath the Violets . . 18v> Isn t this Bliss . A Reply to a Valentine .... 190 A Sweet Object. . Endurance . 191 A Snow-Covered Earth. .... To Fair Nina . . . . . 19 2 To Dora. . . A Wisli . 19)5 To Florence, Lily and Nonie . . 194 A Wish INTRODUCTION. Having been very successful in the past with my poetical works, it gives me pleasure to place in the hands of an ap preciative public this volume containing my entire works, (consisting of five volumes) revised, with many of my latest unpublished productions. T have been very much gratified at the appreciation shown my works in the past. The many lengthy and com plimentary magazine and newspaper editorial reviews ac corded my works throughout this entire country, have stimulated me to no little extent, and assured me of the success of this volume. I desire to tender to them my thanks and appreciation for their kind treatment of same. I have given each poem in this volume my profound at tention. Have consumed much midnight oil in trying to do justice to the subjects which lay nearest to my heart and inspired me to write. I have disposed of more than 2,800 copies of my five small volumes. They have been in demand not only in the South, but throughout the North. hi presenting this volume I shall repeat the words con tained in the introduction of my former ones: "My style and my sentiments are MY OWN, purely original." I shall not attempt to quote all of the many lengthy re views given my past works by the press at large or the numerous complimentary letters received from literary per- 6 sons throughout the country as they would more than fill this volume. I shall give only a few extracts from some of the leading periodicals, beginning with "MUNSEY S MAGA ZINE," October, 1896. Their review I shall give in full as follows : "J. GORDON COOGLER, POET LAUREATE. "It is with no little confidence that we submit to an appreciating pub- lie the name of J. Gordon Coogler, the Sweet Singer of South Carolina, as a candidate for the position of American poet laureate. That the United States have never yet been able to boast an officially recognized national bard has seemed to us a matter for regret. The time seems ripe for the conferring of such an honor, and we know of no one upon whom it can more justly be bestowed than upon Mr. Coogler. As yet but little: is known of this poet who i.-t wasting his sweetness upon the desert air, but it will be unnecessary to do more than direct attention to his work to secure for him the reputation which he deserves, His latest volume of poems is four inches wide by live and three quar- ter inches long and one quarter inch thick; it is bound in blue paper, and printed by the author; and we are informed by the introduction that it is the fourth of a series, completing more than four hundred com positions. We shall never cease to leproach ourselves for not having 1> eo:ne familiar with Mr. Coogler s work before. His poems are of the Ij rical order and display a marked ability in the matter of rhyme, tem pered with a pleasing pessimism. As he says in his preface, My style; and my sentiments are my own, purely original, I have borrowed no words intentionally from any author. One hasonly to read these verse* to In- convinced that this claim is absolutely accurate. The laureate thus addresses his critics; "Challenge me to light OH the open iield, And hurl at my head the fiery dart, Rather than belittle the gentle muse That ushers from this lonely heart. "It must indeed be a captious reviewer who cannot frankly admire the charming simplicity and pastoral beauty of Mr. Coogler s poetry. Witness what may be done in the way of rhyming if one has only the divine afflatus, and witness also the peculiar pathos of the thought : From early youth to the frost of age Man s days have been a mixture Of all that constitutes in life A dark and gloomy picture. "Good as this is. however, it is not in philosophical quatrains that the p->et reaches his highest level, but rather in lyrics that deal with the tender passion. In the poem entitled -To Miss Mattie Sue we have a use of the vei b do which commands immediate attention : As the summer sunbeams Peep o er the distant hills On some sweet and lonely brook, 80 my weary, longing eyes. Warm with the dew of love, To thee alone do look. "On thy rosebud cheeks Girlhood s sweetest smiles In brightest hope do beam. "And here is a combination of grammar, morality, and melody equally noticeable: "On thy fair finger, lovely maiden, Lt there no jewel ever be If character be p-it at stake For the diamond ring he gives thee. "Further extracts are perhaps unnecessary. We consider that those \ve have made are abundantly sufficient to support J. Gordon Coogler s candidacy for the title of American laureate. There have been native p >cts deserving of recognition. Longfellow, Whittier. Bryant. Holmes, Lovell all these did fair work, but they have passed from our midst. Where are we to look for one who shall celebrate American love, morals, and patriotism? There is but one answer to the question. J. Gordon C >ogler,of Columbia. South Carolina, is alone worthy of being crowned with wreaths of bay. What his future is to be is best expressed in his own words (never borrowed intentionally from any author ): "On every hill top. far and near. He ll sing that sinful hearts might hear His sweet refrain ; All men will bow before his face. Whose winning smiles and perfect grace, Will dispel all pain!" Extracts from a page of editorial review of my third volume, contained in "PucK," Nov. 7, 18!)4, entitled, "THE GENIUS OF GOOGLER. "\Ve have received a little volume entitled Poems by J, Gordon Coog- ler, Columbia, South Carolina. with a request from the author to "please notice/ Book reviews are not in our line, but a careful study of these p HMiis has convinced us that their gifted author is really in need of some fearless criticism, and he shall have it. Although we may be frank to the verge of severity, it must be understood that we have no wish to 1>elittle the undoubted genius of Mr. Coogler. Rather would we indicate seem lier angles and free it from what we feel sure is a taint of insincerity. * * * * \Ve repeat, that we do not wish to be needlessly harsh with Mr. Goog le -, naught but a stern sense of justice and the conviction that we maybe of use to him prompts us to score him Here, for instance, is the influence, of the improper Mr, Swinburne; * I could n t but love her snowy neck, In beauty grand without a speck Or trace at all ; And looking then at her pretty feet, I praised that lower gift complete And very small, Like the leaves of the summer rose Were her pink cheeks and pretty nost , Just simply grand. "And again : "Many a Sabbath hour I ve sfh>nt With Maud beside my knee, (lax ing o er the distant hills On the banks of the Congaree, "Many a balmy kiss I ve stolen From precious li()s too pure forme", While caressing lovely little Maud On the banks of the Oongaree, **\Ve will not say that the tone of these verses is immoral, fmt surely it is not elevating and ennobling. It is too suggestive, "Hen- are some detached bits that show unmistakably the baneful domination of Robert Browning: "1 feel like some lone deserted lad Standing on the shore of life s great otvait, Gastiiitf pebbles in its billows, As it to excite some past emotion. "There s nothing in life to live for, E.tcept it be sorrow and pain ; Hut there s more in death than dying To simply exist again. "It is in his p.>enn dealing with death that Mr. Coogler strikes his truest notr, Here Is a fragment from Two Lf>vedOnes in Heaven ; writ ten on the death of two 1 >vely girls who passed away a short time since in this city. : "Their days were too few to be ended so soon By death s cold hand ere the fullness of noon ; And e en tho fever was burning their cheek Of their heavenly home they did frequently speak. * * * * "Wretched tast:i we think is Shown in a >me -Lines to Byron. : Oh, thou immortal Byron. Tay grand, inspired genius Let no man dare to smother; May all that was good within thee Be attributed to heaven ; All that was evil to thy mother. "Byron s mother may not have been an admirable woman ; she may have had the gravest of faults, but she died many years ago, and we pro test that J. Uordon Coogler has no right to rake up any old scandal about her. especially in an ode to her talented son. Let the dead past, we say, bury its dead. L"t us not, Mr. Coogler, be cruel and vindictive toward One who, Whatever her failings, was once a woman. Remember your own Lines to Worn in. on p. o7: "Oh. that inexhaustible subject Filled with celestial lire On which no seraph s song can cease, No poet s pen expire. "Many of his verses hint at a past eventful with grave transgressions: There was a time when the fire of youth Burned deep within my wayward soul; I often stroll d o er pleasant hills Where timid mortals seldom stroll. "Here and there is indicated an almost offensive vein of frivolity; bufc this is more than atoned for by a spirit of manliness which is admirably Shown in the following: "A MISTAKE. "The poem containing three verses, published in my second book, and entitled That Christmas Card, are the only verses in my life which I 10 regret ever having written. The entire poem is a mistake, caused by being too hasty. I w.vald willingly forfeit my right to the Muse If I only this day could recall The verses I wrote in th rt heat of my pission, Which I c m.sider the meanest of all. A manly and c ,mragems amende, Mr. C >ogler ; you are the better for having nnde it. Asa frontispiece 1 to his little volume, Mr. Coogler prints a tasteful, half-tone engraving of himself. He is a fine, manly-looking young fel low of some twenty-nine or thirty, with a broad, high forehead, earnest deep-set eyes, prominent ears, and a small dark mustache. He is dressed in a neit, well-fitting suit of s >me dark shade. Of the quality of Mr. C >.)gler s verse, we p.vfer not to sp >ak. As he says his style and his sentiments are his own : and who are we that we should say them well or ill?" Extracts from nearly a page of editorial review of my fourth volume in the -LITERARY DIGEST/ (X. Y.,) Nov. 2, 1895 : SOME PURELY ORIGINAL YERSE. "Such are tin* p >em^ of .1. G rnlon C >;>gler, of Columbia, S. C.. whose new book, being his fourth voluni". has just reached us. In his Intro duction, Mr. C >ogler says : In issuing this volume I shall repeat the words contained in til 1 introduction in my last volume : My style and my sentiments are MY o\\*x. purely original. We doubt if any one will question the truth of Mr. C >;>gler s strongly emp iasi/.ed assertion. We admit that in the few choice extracts which we here present there is something which calls to mind, in a way, certain of the masters, but there is no sign of imitation. One cannot help thinking how Dr. Holmes or M r. I> >well would have revelled in these rich stanzas, without ever accusing the author of plagiari/ing their own or any other poet s lines. "Mr. C )ogler will doubtless have his adverse critics, as all poets have. Indeed, he has anticipated such in the following lines : TO TIIK YOfNO TN.irST CRITIC. Challenge me to light on the open field, And hurl at my head the fiery dart, Rather than belittle the gentle muse That ushers from this lonely heart. 11 Mr. Coogler cannot properly be called an optimist, for he has written the saddest kind of verse, yet he occasionally trills a merry lay, such as On the Cars to Shandon. And hy the way he has in this dainty madri gal entered quite a new field of song. It has been prophesied IJjftt the poetry of the future would treat on scientific themes; here we have it. * * * * The poet s deep earnestness of purpose is expressed in this quatrain : " Tis better this hand was silent, This mind obscure and weak. Than it should pen a single line These lips would dare not speak. "And the following shows to what lofty height of diction his muse is capable of soaring: "Oh. character! thou ever art An holy and an honor d thing; More valuable than life itself, More costly than a diamond ring." "THE BOOKMAN," of New York, in nearly a column of review of my fifth volume, says : "We were going to write quite a lengthy review of this inimitable little Volume ; but the author has made such a thing practically impossible by reprinting in the Introduction a collection of the comment and com mendations already bestowed upon his verse by the most eminent critics from Bill Nye to the literary editor of MVNSEY S. These comments so per fectly anticipate all we should ourselves have said as to make it need less for us to do more than subscribe to them as expressing our senti ments exactly "We trust that this fifth volume of his verse may have many success ors ; and we are pretty sure it will, for a little poem we cull from page L8, is fraught with golden promise for the future: "You may as well try to change the course Of yonder sun To north and south, As to try to subdue by criticism This heart of verse, Or close this mouth." 12 Extracts from three pages of editorial review in "TUB NICKEL MAGA/INE," Boston, Mass., May, 1897, entitled, -A GENIUS IN BLOOM. "It is much the fashion nowadays to be loftily impatient with Ameri can poets. Indeed one hears from those who should know hotter that America has no p oot worthy of the name. But how insipidly conven tional, how ignobly superficial is the dictum! For America has poets in abundance who sing potently In all the voices; hut too often they charm only a small circle, and are tricked by circumstance out of that larger audience to which their genius and acquirements entitle them. Steadfast in their ideals and constant in effort, they reck little of wide fame or material rewards; they sing their lyrics and declaim their epics, and the world may stop to listen if it will. If it will not and too often it does not then the world, not the poet, is the loser. Asa fine typ of these humbler bards, humble in pretension, not in achievement, we present the name of J. Gordon Coogler. of Columbia, S. C. His fifth and latest volume of p >ems has just come to us. and after reading it. we hasten to do our little toward dispelling the obscurity with which a per verse fate lias hitherto shrouded this genius of the Southland. Mr. C >ogler. it appears, is both a poet and a practical printer. Asa critic, whom he quotes in the introduction to the present volume, remarks: None other can conduct his muse all the way from the frowning heights of Olympus to the tender clasp of a half-medium job press. I niquo in this twinship. the poet is his own publisher, and that modesty which is one of his salient attributes, has prompted him to put out all five of his volumes in unassuming paper 1 hiding. The latest is entitled Purely Original Verse. In truth, originality would appear to be a hobby with him if so transcendent a genius may be supposed to possess a thing so common. My style and my sentiments are MY OWN. purely original. he insists further; and an examination of his work proves this tube no idle boast. To sense the full sweep of his power, it may be well to glance at some of his earlier work before considering his latest. One is much struck first by the spirit of intrepid, nay. alm< st aggressive defiance, \\ itli which he dares the horde of unappreciative critics: -Challenge me to fight on the open field. And hurl at my head the fiery dart, Rather than belittle the gentle muse That ushers from this lonely heart. 13 "Next we are permit ted to discover a not unplea sing pessimism joined to a facility of rhyme that is truly impressive: Prom early youth to the frost of age Man s days have been a mixture Of all that constitutes in life A dark and gloomy picture. In his adaptation of certain verbs Coogler is both masterly and origi nal. * But it is not alone in grammar that Coogler blazes new paths. In that species of analysis which is p.irt metaphysics and part sentiment. a, line which Rohert Browning essayed with fairly creditable results, Coogler is especially happy, as in the following quotation : "I feel like some lone, deserted lad Standing on th^ short* of life s great ocean, Casting pebbles in its billows. As if to excite some past emotion. * * * C:v>gler s later volume contrasts pleasantly with his earlier works. It is rip^r and more mature. While he consistently preserves those quaint Dramatical involutions and twists, he sees with clearer eyes, and pic tures with a firmer touch the great arcana of humanity. In The Path to Fame. the first poem of this volume, he again sounds his note of defi ance to the critics, yet it has a gentler resonance than his earlier chal lenge: "The clouds may l>e dark that linger around These feet as they move in that lone sphere, And the thorns be many to pierce my heart, Yet mid all these I ve nothing to fear. Let critics assail my innocent muse, And l>elittle the name which they ne er can mar, Yet both shall shine from ihe hills of fame Like the radiant light of some sweet star. "While a deep-lined pessimism may he thought to color this volume, it is still far from morbid. Thus, in They Laid Her Down in a Lonely <4rave, the sadness of the theme is mitigated by a perception of the laws of nature which is l*>th rational and reassuring: "They laid her down while the autumn leaves wen* falling, In a lonely grave beside the deep blue sea; Her angel spirit is now beyoijd recalling, Ami her fair form can ne er revisit you and me, 14 "To him has come in these ripor years a tolerant appreciation of the virtues and failings of the Eternal Feminine: "Some day, when the gloomy shades of life shall helve borne The golden sunbeams from round your gentle feet, Then you will think of the love which you have spurn d On my hearts pure shrine so gentle and So sweet. * * * * "In Woman s Folly he scathingly yet justly rebukes her for that she judges man too often by his raiment; "Alas ! poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire, Thy heart is often won by mankind s gay attire ; So weak thou art. so very weak at best. Thou canst not look beyond a satin-lined vest. I ve seen thee ofttimes cast a AVinning glance And be carried away as it were within a trance- By the g;i.y apparel of some dishonest youth, Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth. "How true it is that woman often neglects to use the X-ray of her (jrod- given intuition to pierce the sheen of n specious waistcoat and survey the holtownefls it hides; and may we not feel a generous sympathy for this poet who has, all too plttinly, seen true worth passed by for a gaudy exterior? But though he is often judicial to the verge of harshness, he does not lack a certain winning chivalry i "(io shatter the walls of some beautiful city That is noted for grandeur and fame, Rather than cast ti, suggestive remark To destroy ft woman s fair name. "And again : "She s a polished, noble lady. Highly learned, industrious, too, And her sunny hand is faithful In what e er it finds to do. "And not infrequently he shows tx>th chivalry and humility: "Maud for her gentle name was Maud Wore many smiles, and they were sd; A thousand virtues she retained, Many of which I never had. "But it is where his pen punctures social and political bubbles fmtf h -soars to his loftiest heights. Instance the: delicate scorn tinged with yearning pity of the following. Lines: 15 "Alas! Carolina! Carolina! fair land of my birth. Thy fame will lie wafted from the mountain to the sea As being the greatest educational centre on earth. At the cost of men s blood thro thy one X whiskey. "TAVO very large elephants thou hast lately installed. Where thy sons and thy daughters are invited to come, And learn to he mentally and physically strong, By the solemn proceeds of thy innocent rum. We have tried thus briefly to give some adequate notion of the genius >f J. Gordon Coogler. His own low-looking, money-grabbing genera tion may not ace >rd him his due; but we are confident that posterity will not fail in this respect "Verily, we may say of this master of his own peculiar style, in clos ing this all-toe .-inadequate review of his works: "Oh ! worthy, worthy Bard! Of loftiest melody the puissant bugler! We ve much to cheer us e en tho times be bad. While our literary pantheon contains a Coogler." "GoDEY s MAGAZINE," (that Edinburgh of the present time) delights in condemning the work of young authors, as belonging to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. For variety s sake, uot truth and justice, I am glad that it exists, and I can hear from it occasionally. Here are a few extracts from nearly a column of review it accorded my works : "Mr. Cimgler has just about become a national figure in contemporary literature "Mr. C >ogler, like Horace and others, is sublimely assured of his own immortality. * * * * "And yet in the midst of all this hopeless banality and ignorance he fame near writing something v< ry fine in this six-line stan/a an tmdecbnal couplet it is really: Ah. Daisy, so lovely in thy gentleness. Wio would not press thv snowy hand Until thy cheeks grew red; Who would not live in the balmy breeze That gentlv wafts the silken curls On thy angelic head/ The "CHAP BOOK," of Chicago, Til., in quite a lengthy re- vie\v of my fifth volume, says : " Impossible, is the titleof Mr. J. Gordon Coogler s apt poem, big with undiluted truth. * * * * But it is after all to some of Mr. Coogler s five volumes that the illr.- minati have been, . . accustomed to turn for diversion. He takes for his theme, Maud, the Mill, and the Lily, and the following Stanza re sults; There flows the same familiar stream, Wliose waters I oft have drink; And the old mill-pond, from whose dark edge I oft, so oft have shrank. Or says, -Farewell Sweet College Girl ! thus: "Farewell ! ye milk-white dove, farewell! If on earth we meet no more, May in that snow-white throng of love We meet on yonder Shore. -But it is not alone in the young woman of grace and culture that the poet sees a suitable theme : witness his lines to The Working Girl : "Sweet working girl tho Fate has destined thy fair hand To labor in place of a wayward brother. Yet Heaven will reward the* 1 for thy honest tcil In support of thy aged, widowed mother." Extracts from nearly a column of editorial review of my works in the "CLEVELAND (Ohio) WORLD": "SOUTH CAROLINA S POET. We beg leave to acknowledge a volume of poems by .L Gordon Coog- ler, the poet laureate of South Carolina. Mr. Coogler not only writer his own poems, but he sets them into type and sees that they are projA- erly printed in his own printing office. His home is at Columbia, South Carolina, and this is the fifth volume of his poetic efforts he has given to the public The econiums vet praise that have been heaped u;*>u Mr, Ctx>g,ler by 17 the pres\3 of the crwnti y have boon most flattering, to him, and highly enjoyable to everybody else. Mr. Uoogler s style is certainly simple, and not bound down by any iron clad rales of prosody or meter. The rapturous beauty of the senti ment which is purely original oozes forth from the almost inspired Words of tliis p >et of South C irolina. What can be more delicate in its Simplicity, deep in its m mil, or char ning in its whole conception than the following entitled "Woman s Folly. : Alas! poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire, Thy heart is often won by mankind s gay attire ; 80 weak thou art. so very weak at best, Thou canst Hot look beyond a satin-lined vest. I ve seen thee ofttimes cast a winning glance And be carried away as it were within a trance By the gay apparel of some dishonest youth, Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth. Alas! for thee I would that thou couldst learn That love does not in such quicksilver burn ; That he wh:> lurks beside thy virtuous pith. When thy good name is grme, will gaze on thee and laugh. For what care he. whom thy fair hand would take, If in after years thy gentle heart should break; No tears of remorse would damp his wayward eyes- Such tears can only come ere the conscience dies. It is our regret that it is not possible to give many examples of Mr. Googlei s poetry, but space does not permit. Yet one more sample might Well be included. It is made up of two ttanzas of a poem entitled, "The Path to Fame, and indicates that Mr. Coogler is adamant to the shafts of criticism if any should perchance be aimed in his direction : Let critics assail my innocent muse. And belittle the name which they ne er can mar, Yet both shall shine from the hills of fame Like the radiant light of some sweet star. "Tho 1 the course I have taken lie lonely and dark, Pitied, condemned, by one and by all ; Yet the star of ambition is glowing for rue, Tho I stumble alas! I ne er shall fall. 18 Is it any wonder that South Carolina s piet is able to sell 2.000 copies of his "purely original" verse at 50 cents a copy and then write more ?" Extracts from over a column of editorial review of my works in "THE PROVIDENCE (R. T.) JOURNAL": "Genius will out. Even the seclusion of Columbia, S. C., cannot hide it. Mr. .T. Gordon C:>ogler has issued four volumes of poetry, and has had the honor of long reviews from Puck and other serious organs of criticism, and yet we have waited for his fifth volume to make his ac quaintance. The loss is eurs and we hasten to repair it. assuring our readers with the utmost earnestness of which we are capable that a new fount of the purest literary delight awaits them in the pages of the mod est paper-covered book, which the author has sent us with the request, Please notice. Who could fail to notice a new note in the poetry of the time so penetrating as Coogler s? If he sang on some lone isle in the Pacific he would make himself heard. ***** "There is naturally much about the fair sex in this little volume; the, great poetic heart has ever a keen longing to love and to be loved. Lines to A Golden Haired Girl, to one whose gentle name was Maud, To Lilian. lines written on hearing a lady, speaking of her past hopes, say, I am now on the verge of womanhood ; only eighteen summers old ; but. oh, how unsteady I stand things like these cannot be found in ordinary volumes of verse. One of the p:>ems which has interested us most gives a charming picture of social life in the fair Southern city. From the beginning "Down beside a clump of roses, Just beyond the garden wall, Sat a little brown-eyed maiden, Waiting for her beau to call. "Through the passionate longing of the heroine for the hero s arrival "Oh. I hear his footsteps coming, See the light of his cigar. How it shines within the darkness Like some softly glowing star. ***** "But Mr. Coogler does not confine himself to the fair ones who move high in social circles. Sweet working girl, he cries: 19 "I love to view the happy smiles Upon t!iy fair and beaming i aye. And then he adds this word of encouragement : "Sweet working girl tho Fate has destined thy fair hand To labor in place of a wayward brother, Yet Heaven will reward the" for thy honest toil In support of thy aged, widow d mother. ***** "We must stop somewhere, fascinating as Mr. C oogler s volume is. And we slull stop without a word of comment. Why gild re lined gold or paint th^ lily ? Extracts from editorials in "THE (N\ Y.) SUN 1 : Our esteemed contemporary, the Carolina Spartan imparts the glad liews that J. Gordon Ooogler, the poet laureate of Columbia, has pub lished the fifth volume of his poems. J. Gordon Google r, as his admirer Well remarks is bold enough to attempt flights heretofore unes.sayed, and he writes verse as no other man has ever written. The country owes much to J Gordon C oogler No cotton Is softer or gentler than are his Arcadian songs. J. Gordon Ooogler has often been called the Sir Edward Arnold of Columbia." Again "THE SUN" says : J. Gordon C oogler of Columbia, the great bard of the Palmetto State, is described by our contemporary, the Galveston News/ as having a fine mouth, a set to either jaw that indicates great physical firmness, the eye of an eagle, the nose ( f a Roman. This is not meant to be un just, but It is not entirely exact. Mr. J. Gordon Coogler has the eye of a falcon rather than that of the eagle, the nose of a pelasgian. the mouth of a nightingale, the chin of a lark, and his jaw is melodious like a harp in flesh. His sentiments are as sound and his conjugations are as origi nal as his lineaments are imposing. Who except Coogler is capable of Kinging: "On thy fair finger, lovely maiden, Let there no jewel ever be If character be put at stake For the diamond ring he gives thee." And again "THE SUN" says : "Mr. J. Gordon Coogler, the sweet singer of the South Carolina cotton 20 iields, must look to his laurels. Another and a rival poet has appeared in Mr, Lewis M. Elshemus, whose native wood notes wild, sounded in two volumes entitled respectively, Lady Vere, and Mammon A Spirit Song (Eastman Lewis), have much of the artless and unfettered origi nality that have made the Southern singer famous. We miss, perhaps, the infinite variety and range of vision that distinguish the inimitable Coogler." "THE ATLANTA CONSTITUTION" says : "Editor Dana, of THE SUN is an ardent Cooglerite." "THE KANSAS CITY (Mo.) TIMES" says : "Some of Mr. Coogler s work has been highly praised by a number of critics, and in his last volume he amply proves his poetic temperament. A number of his verses show true poetic expression. The fault with many of his verses lies in a hasty composition. From the good verses, Mr. Coogler proves that he can write well, so there is little excuse for the bad ones." . U THE INDIANAPOLIS (Indiana) JOURNAL" says : "From the Sunny South comes the fifth volume of Mr. .1. Gordon Coogler s Purely Original Verse. It must indeed 1-e a captious reader who could not. frankly admire the charming simplicity and pastoral beauty of Mr. Coogler s poetry. From quite a lengthy review in "THE HARTFORD (Conn.) COUBANT": "The fifth volume of Purely Original Verse, by J. Gordon Coogler of Columbia, S. C., is one of those books which lend themselves so readily to quotation that it is very difficult to refrain from transcribing wholo p-\ges. Munsey s Magazine and Puck were unable to resist lengthy edi torial comment. * * * * * "But we cannot allow ourseives to be led from page to page gatherfng blossoms. Suffice it to say that the author has seen life, that he knows friendship to be 21 No Spirit from the heavens. Nor the regions of the dead; But a kind of unknown demon Manufactured in the head/ From "THE MILWAUKEE (Wis.) JOURNAL": "Mr. Cooler s verses remind one of the choice specimens of Mr. Gifted Hopkins muse which Dr. Holmes has given us in The Guardian Angel. 1 In his introduction to the little hook, which is the fifth volume of Mr. C >ogler s work, the p:>et gratefully acknowledges the many compli mentary notices which his previous volumes have received. Extracts are given from reviews which have appeared in Puck and other journals. Bill Nye is numbered among the admirers of Mr. Coogler who have written facetiously and appreciatively of his muse. Among the most touching of the p->ems we may mention: Ah, Daisy ; Other Days; Think of Me; -Willie is Gone; She s 111, and The Mysterious Tear. In spite of the allurements of fame, the p >et maintains a Incoming modesty of spirit, as the following lines show: "If I should rise to loftv heights, A humble heart shall be thereon ; And though you may be far below. Remember, you I shall not scorn." From over a column of review in "THE PITTSBURG (Pu.) TIMES": "Here is a p >etic outfit to begin with that has scarcely ever been sur passed, and it is not surprising, therefore, that the volume Mr. Coogler requests TiiK TIMES to notice is the fifth that has come from his in spired pen. * * * * The following stan/a which is put in as a filler at the bottom of one of the pages expresses the deep and permanent sadness of his great mind: "In the deepest recesses of my heart there s a gloom Which keeps me eternally sad; Yet the smiles of my face and the words of my mouth Are always cheerful and glad. "That he has a great mind for the play of human emotions is certified in the following fragment: The mind that cannot create worlds, Make hills and mountains great or small. And streams and lakes, and thus the like, Is to my mind no MIND at all. * * * "In spite of his constitutional sadness he sings much of love ; but it is unrequitted love. Notwithstanding his love for women lie if} severe upon their follies, and thus expresses his condemnation : Alas ! poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire. Thy heart is often won by mankind s gay attire ; So weak thou art, so very weak at best, Thou canst not look beyond a S .itin-lined vest. "But it would be futile within the limit of this review to attempt to point out all the beautiful notes of this dulcet-voiced singer of Dixie. We must leave something for the reader/ Extracts from a lengthy review in "THE NEWARK (N. J. ) ADVERTISER": "Love! To Avhat heights of rapture, and abysses of despair does the tenderest yet cruelest of passion not raise or plunge this honey-lipped singer of the Congaree ? : "Oh. that Inexhaustible subject . Filled with celestial fire On which no seraph song can cease, No poet s pen expire. * * * * "Mr. Coogler s opinions on subjects on which poete have written be fore, but never as he does are interesting. Here are some of the pearl w of thought he scatters broadcast with prodigal hand: "Oh, character! thou ever art An holy and an honor d thing; More valuable than life itself, More costly than a diamond ring 1 . * * * * * "All heaven has no water soft enough, Nor earth no cleansing soap, That can wasli the crimson from the heart That destroys a woman s hope. "Observe how deftly the plainest every-day thing, such as soap, i.-i Woven into the web of verse. Mr. Coogler s range of subjects is as illimi table as the infinite. Versatility is his forte. Sow, here, now there, he neems everywhere at once." 23 Extracts from a column of review in "THE LOUISVILLE (Ky.) COURIER JOURNAL": "The poets of these degenerate days are, as a rule, a meek, downtrod den lot. whom one may ridicule with impunity. One notable exception, however, is .1. Gordon (Joogler, of Columbia, S. C., the distincton be tween him and the general run of singers being so marked as to lead to grave doubts as to his being a genuine poet. Would a genuine modern po % t have had the temerity to address such a stanza as this to the critics ? : Challenge me to fight on the open field, And hurl at my head the fiery dart, Rather than belittle the gentle muse That ushers from this lonely heart. "Yet in this very boldness lies the secret of Mr. Coogler s success. * * * * It is but fair to state that here and there lines of beauty are to be found in the work His position is unique. His work has been widely read, and has been given more attention by some of the leading newspapers and periodicals than that of men of real genius. In so far as being known as a writer is concerned, he is famous." "TiiE MINNEAPOLIS (Minn.) JOURNAL" in a column of review says : "Purely Original Verse. by a Pouth Carolina poet. J.Gordon Coogler. It is really exhilarating to read such a title. What the reading public in this country lias long been looking for is a new American poet who will give them purely original verse. The information is also given that this is tlie fifth volume of Mr. Coogler s p:>etry. . . . He has disposed of over 2.000 copies, and adds: My style and my sentiments are my own. purely original. And this South C irolina genius does not forget to give us a full-p-ige portrait of himself, a young man with dark hair, carefully pointed mustache, sitting at a table, his eyes with tine frenzy rolling, writing one of his -purely original poem.-. Not only this, but Mr. Coog ler gives a picture of -the author s early home near Columbia. S. C.. the birth place of this c xtraordinary genius. ***** "L t critics assail my innocent muse. And belittle the name which they ne er can mar, Yet both shall shine from the hills of fame Like the radiant light of some sweet star. 24 "This is bumptiuous, if not heroic; but Mr. C >ogler is more p >sitivo alx>ut his fame when he says: "You may as well try to change the course Of yonder sun To north and south. As to try to subdue by criticism This heart of verse. Or close this mouth. * WeIl. it looks like it. since Mr. C >ogler has issued five volumes of hi-; verse. There will be little use to try to shut him up. Mr. Coogler has evidently been heels over head in love with the South Carolina maidens, for he addresses numerous allusions to them. For instance, in a p >em to Lilian, he says: "Yet the love which you have taught me Ne er shall fade within my breast. But shall beam along my journey Like a sunbeam from the west. * * * it * "Mr. Coogler cannot like Keats, be tortued or slain by adverse com ment." From a lengthy editorial in "THE ATLANTA (Ga.) CON STITUTION": "Our readers have no doubt heard of J. Gordon Coogler, tie able young poet, whose pleasing fancies have won for him a fame that i unique in this age of cold commercial transactions. There must be something in the writings of a man who can attract attention and win applause when corn is thirty cents a bushel and potato bugs have be come a burden. ***** "It will be the chief distinction of those who gird at J. Gordon Coog ler that they are unable to see what posterity will see so plainly. Mean while, the work of (Jooglerising the country is rapidly growing and spreading. Enthusiastic Google rites are springing up everywhere, and Cooglerisms are heard on every side. These things show the drift of popular sentiment and taste." Again "THE CONSTITUTION" says, in a column of review of my works : "By his works ye shall know an author, and it would require a calm perusal of the five volumes issued by J. Gordon Coogler in order to get 25 in touch with the delicate fibers of his thoughts and feel the real force of his undoubted genius. It was dirlyle who said of Burns : He had a soul like an Aeolian harp changing the vulgar wind into melody. Would that Garlyle could have known J. Gordon Coogler. "In Maud, the Mill, and the Lily" a few of the most passionate thoughts of Mr. Coogler find utterance. It has about it the soleful sym phony of Tennyson s "Maud as shown by the following verse : "Maud for her gentle name was Maud Wore many smiles, and they were sad. A thousand virtues she retained, Many of which I never had. "After a fall description of Maud he gives the following graphic pic ture : "Maud did not heed the roaring sound Of distant thunder in the west. Nor did she fear the lightning s flash Glistening on her snowy breast. In individualizing Mr. Coogler gives highest respect to woman, but for woman in the abstract he sometimes Shows peculiar antipathy. * * * * "On this Same subject of woman Mr. C >ogler has a poem called She Fell Like a Flake of Snow. In this stanza the pathos is most keen : "She was beautiful once ; but she fell. And some said: Let her go, For she can never shine again Like a beautiful flake of snow." "These few selections give but a faint idea of the genius of the South Carolina laureate." COLUMBIA (S. C.) STATE" in a lengthy editorial re view says : Coogler s fifth volume of Purely Original Verse is already recog- n ixed by entomological criticism throughout this broad land as a new and distinct species of surpassing interest. "There is but one Coogler, the founder of the Cooglerian school pf poesy, and while he sings the great American people will listen to no other of his kind. Later, perhaps, when Coogler shall have hung up his lyre, and reclined upon his couch of bays, his pupils will begin to pipe but not now, not yet. He has founded his school, established his cult." THE CHICAGO (111.) POST" in a column of editorial re view, says : "J. Gordon Coogler of South Carolina, the sweet singer of the Saluda, who reasonably aspires to the mantle worn by Paul Hayne. Linier and Father Ryan, has favored us with a c:>py of his purelj- original verse. ***** "We have pursued his flights of fancy with more than ordinary interest, and with an effort to lie calmly logical, though just and appre ciative. We opened the hook at Woman s Folly, and as we are always concerned over the follies of woma i we attach great importance to Mr. Coogler s conclusions. * * * * * Our next experience with Mr. C.)ogler s verse was the passionate adieu, Farewell Lilian : "Farewell. Lilian, you are g >ing Far away to leave m" now; You Shall bo the sunlight. Lilian, That shall linger on my brow. * * * * * "But Mr. Coogler is not solely devoted to his Lilian. for we find him invoking Maud. Daisy and Laura, not to sp^ak of a golden-haired girl. a brown-eyed lady who occup es a lovely cottage. a sweet college girl/ otherwise known as a .nilk- white dove, and an inamorata who MS lying ill at her home. And Mr. Coogler is not bound down by any han - pering laws of caste, for he has an eye and a heart for the -p >or working girls, as this lyric betrays: "Sweet working j.irl. I love to view the happy smiles Tpon thy fair and beaming face; Thy perfect form, tho devoid of rich appnvl, Is lovelier far because of its simple grace. "There s gall intry for you ! Petrarch never wrote a prettier thing to his L-iura. nor Swift to his St< lla, nor Dante to his Beatrice, nor Artie to his Min. But we must pvss swif.ly and regretfully away from these ten der outpourings to the contemplation of Mr.C >og!er s philosophy as p.r- t rayed in Marriage and Death : "Marri;>ge and death these great events in life, Alas! with each other are blended; A festive scene and a funeral march. And mai. s biief journey is ended. 27 A marriage puff and a funeral notice Is the end of his transient tale, And lie vanishes from human sight Beyond life s dark and gloomy veil. We had not intended at this time to speak so exhaustively of Mr. C,>ogler s achievements, but we have been carried away by sincere ap probation of his poetic impulse. It remains for us to say only that Mr. C;>ogler s book is adorned with a very attractive picture of the poet him self, sitting at his table, pen in hand, thinking some thoughts of Maud and Daisy and Lilian, or, perchance throwing a fiery challenge at his envious contemporaries." Editor Hale of "THE NASHVILLE (Tenn.) AMERICAN" concludes a column of review of my works as follows: (Speaking of the poem entitled "The Path to Fame," he says,) "The courage displayed is sublime. Here is at least one more poet who would be willing, I opine, to die for Greece. But the public is so (lueer in its tastes! "Seriously, if Mr. Coogler will study, acquaint himself with his tech nique, and then write something, he may. on the notice he is now receiv- ing. be enabled to win a kinder public s ear than most young versifiers have won it. I at least wish him the fulfillment of his aspirations, as expressed in his lines to Hope : "For me them hast upon thy gilded beam, The sunlight of a happier dream Ere my days shall cease." "THE RUTLAND (Vt. ) HERALD" in over a column of strong 1 editorial, entitled, "Two Kinds of Diplomacy," in which it deals with what the English papers say about the " annoying ignorance of diplomatic methods shown by Secretary of State Sherman in the Behring sea correspond ence with Lord Salisbury," referring to myself, says : "We are inclined to say with that able but not as yet very famous manufacturer of verse, J. Gordon Coogler, that "The man who thinks God is too kind To punish actions vile, Is bad at heart, of unsound mind. Or very juvenile/ 28 From a column of editorial in the "ALBANY (N. Y.) ARGOSY": "Mr. J. Gordon Coogler s fifth volume of Purely Original Verse is a dainty volume of 82 pages, and contains more variety to the square inch tha i any other hook of poems with which we have acquaintance. Verses of Mr. Coogler are certainly versatile. * * * * * "Mr. Coogler is conscious of his failings, and in his poem of Maud, the Mill and the Lily, he pays this tribute to Maud at his own expense: Maud for her gentle name was Maud Wore many smiles, and they were sad; A thousind virtues she retained, Many of which I never had. ***** "We might continue indefinitely, but we close with the stan/a entitled Impossible. 1 .... "THE KNOXVILLE (Tenn.) TRIBUNE" in nearly a column of editorial says : "Coogler is no weakling; not a poet to be bluffed Vy criticism, or driven into silence by c ) i tumuli >us remirk^. H^ is as defiant a- he is original. He is game; we admire his spirit, as we admire his verse." "TiiE CHARLESTON (8. C.) NEWS AND COURIEK" in a re view of my works, says : "There are many gems of thought and of melody scattered thoughout the pages of Mr. Coogler s volume, but we shrink from the task of select ing the few that our limit would permit, while leaving unmentioned so many others equally worthy of fame. We cannot, however, resist the temptation of giving our readers the benefit of one stanxa, which seems to us to combine patriotism, poetry and satire in a quite remarka ble degree. It is the first verse of the author s innovation to his native State : "Alas! Carolina! Carolina! Fair land of my birth. . Thy fame will be wafted from the mountain to the sen. As being the greatest educational centre on earth. At the cost of men s blood thro thy one X whiskey/ 20 From a page of review in "THE COLUMBIA (S. C.) REGIS TER": All truly great minds have a way of striking the keynote of a sub ject in a single utterance, and without circumlocution of any kind; and the present reviewer was not, therefore, in the least surprised to find the very first poem in Mr. Coogler s fifth volume indicative of the pure and hallowed ambition that incites him to woo the muse. Its title is, The Path to Fame, and the initial verse lets every intelligent reader into Mr. Coogler s secret: "The path is old and well-beaten I know That leads away o er the hills to fame; I ve started therein and I cannot turn hack. I ve naught to regret, and no one to blame." "THE TRENTON (N. J.) TIMES" concluding an editorial on my works, says : "It is difficult to assign J. Gordon Coogler to a place among the greater poets. His style seems to be a mixture of the Byronic and Tennysonian, though we do not wish to even intimate that Coogler is not original in his treatment of subjects." Editor Chas. Petty of "THE CAROLINA SPARTAN" con cludes an editorial, as follows: "J. Gordon Coogler, with the greatest facility, born of inspiration, fills up the little space at the bottom of the pages of his volumes with dainty couplets like this : "Alas! for the South, her books have grown fewer She never was much given to literature. "Bravely does he stand up and plead that woman s fair fame shall never lie stained by word or insinuation. He says: "All heaven has no water soft enough, Nor earth no cleansing soap. That can wash the crimson from the heart That destroys a woman s hope. "Now if that is not poetry, we would like for some one to tell us what it is." 30 A literary critic in the "ALKAHEST," Atlanta, Ga., writes : "I will confess I had been reading Coogler for several months in secret before I discovered that he was to be appreciated, to be applauded, to l.e perpetuated. The first thought of all this burned in upon me while I was reading for the eleventh time the poem entitled: I Dislike a Vain and Haughty Man, 1 It was after reading the fourth verse which is as follows, that I became purely enthused: If I should rise to lofty heights. And humble heart shall be thereon, And though you may be far below. Remember, YOU I shall not scorn." "THE SPARTANBUKG (S. C.) HEKAI.D" clo?e- a lengthy editorial as follows: "A prophet is not without honor save in his own country, and it is much the same with p-iets. While South Carolina and Boston are pour ing over the satin-lined volumes of Browning, the great heart of the great West has responded to the modest little fifth volume of purely original verses. and we begin to see grey streaks of ihe dawn of rt Google rian age." Quite a number of other journals and magazines have noticed my works, some of them very extensively; but space will not permit further extracts. Among them are: "The Boston Journal," the "Colorado Springs Gazette," the "Denver Colorado Times," the "Evening Telegram," Portland, Oregon, the "Detroit Free Press," the "Omaha Kee," the Jacksonville (Fla.) Citizen," the "Norfolk (Va.) Landmark," the "Atlanta Journal," the "Savannah Morn ing News," the "Greenville (S. C.) News," and the "Ohio Slate Journal." Among the magazines : "Peterson s Magazine," N. Y. r "The Outlook," N. Y., "Book News," Philadelphia." 31 LETTERS FROM LITERARY PERSONS. "1823 ALDINE AVENUE, CHICAGO, ILL., MARCH 25th, 1897. Mr. J. Gordon Coogler, Columbia, S. C. : DEAR SIR: I have been asked to write to you to express the deep in terest taken in your work by one of Chicago s most celebrated literary clubs. We spent one whole evening of extreme enjoyment in reading and commenting upon your fifth volmne of Purely Original Verse and are now most anxious to know something more of one who has so aptly been called the American laureate. Other evenings of this season we have given over to the discussion of Heinrich Heine, Frederick Amiel and other writers of poetry and philosophy, but none has been so in tensely enjoyable as that spent in the reading of your filth volume of verse. We hope to spend next Thursday evening, April 1st, in another Coogler evening and would like to have you send some of the earlier of your published works, as well as an extra two or three copies of volume five. Any information you care to add about how you came to discover your gift and what laurels, other than those you refer to in your introduction, have come to you from the public, we should be very, very grateful for. We regard you, if I may say so, as an extraordinary inter esting man and would eagerly welcome any smallest detail of autobio graphical information which might help us to a solution of the problem of your remarkable mentality. Please forward the volumes, with bill for same, and any other contri bution you may care to make toward our study of your muse, to Miss Elizabeth Abbott, 182:5 Aldine Avenue, Chicago, 111. Yours very sincerely, with profound gratitude, ELIZABETH ABBOTT." The following letter was received from Mr. Henry W. Grady, Atlanta, Ga., president of the first literary club or ganized in my name in the South, on receiving a life-size portrait of myself and a copy of my complete works : "ATLANTA, GA., JUNE 14th, 18.47. Mr. J. Gordon Coogler, Columbia, S. C.: MY DEAR SIR: The morning s express brought to the Coogler club the elegant present you have so generously made the organization. To say that the members of the club are delighted with the picture and grateful for your interest in the organization but mildly expresses their feelings. Eich and every member wanted to take the picture from the packing case with his own hands, but I. as president of the club, ap pointed myself a committee of one to perform that pleasant duty. The elegant little volume containing these p >etie gems that we all love so dearly will be kept in the club room at all times where the members may learn something each day of their favorite poet. I trust that you will p irdoii a few words about myself, but I want you to know what a pleasure your poems have been to me personally. I read them con stantly and at every perusal of your sweet verse I find something new to admire and sentiments that appeal to me. May your muse long con tinue to guide your fearless pen and give to the world, in spite of your envious critics, more of those charming verses that are making you Immortal. But in my enthusiasm I have digressed from my intention of thanking you for the picture and the poems. I desire not only to thank you in behalf of the club, but to personally let you know how I, as president of the Coogler club, appreciate your interest in our little band. If the club can do anything, however small, in the way of mak ing the world appreciate real genius, I can confidently say that every member will feel that he has done something to help the condition of his fellow man. The world will soon learn that the South has at least cme literary genius who, though lie may pass out of his mortal form, will ( v >r live in the memory of his people as one worthy to represent to the world of letters a people proud to point to him as their one great poet. We have every day requests from people to become members of the club, but we are careful about admitting new brothers, as we have now an organization to 1 e proud of and desire to have in it only the most appreciative literary spirits. As you know, nearly all of the mem bers of the club are newspaper men who are working, as you are, to be come famous with the pen, and who are ever ready to do what they call to aid their more fortunate brothers on up the road of fame. With the best wishes of the club and its humble president, I have the honor to be youv admirer and friend, HENRY W. GRADY." 33 The following is an extract from a letter received by the author from a highly intelligent literary lady of Boston, Mass. Owing to the letter being of a private nature, her name is omitted : "Through your kindness I can now enjoy the whole of the beautiful lyric beginning, "As the summer sunbeams Peep o er the distant hills On some sweet and lonely brook, So my weary, longing eyes, Warm with the dew of love, To thee alone do look. "But Why so short ? You always stop when one wants you to go on the most. I Wish I Was There is as beautiful as it is sad. Even the dear little Violet and Jonquil has the tone-color of sadness." (FIFTH VOLUME.) This volume, (the fifth in order of a series of sma] ing seventy pages, I respectfully dedicate to THE J. GORDON COOGLER CLUB, STANZA 1. OF ATLANTA, GA., as a token of gratitude for their appreciation of my works. J. GORDON COOGLER. COLUMBIA, S. C. (The dedication of each of the other small volumes in this rolume complete will he as follows: Fourth volume; to the Sons and Daughters of Carolina third volume; to my patrons throughout the North, East and West second volume; to Dr. W. J. Murray first volume; to W. H. Gibhes, Jr., and J. Wilson Gihhes.) THE PATH TO FAME. The path is old and well-beaten I know That leads away o er the hills to fame; I ve started therein and I cannot turn back, I ve naught to regret, and no one to blame. The clouds may be dark that linger around These feet as they move in that lone sphere, And the thorns be many to pierce my heart, Yet mid all these I ve nothing to fear. Let critics assail my innocent muse, And belittle the name which they ne er can mar, Yet both shall shine from the hills of fame Like the radiant light of some sweet star. Tho the course I have taken be lonely and dark, Pitied, condemn d by one and by all; Yet the star of ambition is glowing for me, Tho I stumble, alas ! I ne er shall fall. IMPOSSIBLE. You may as well try to change the course Of yonder sun To north and south, As to try to subdue by criticism This heart of verse, Or close this mouth. 36 POEMS. WOMAN S FOLLY. Alas! poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire. Thy heart is often won by mankind s gay attire ; So weak thou art, so very weak at best, Thou canst not look beyond a satin-lined vest. I ve seen thee ofttimes cast a winning glance And be carried away as it were within a trance By the gay apparel of some dishonest youth, Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth. Alas! for thee I would that thou couldst learn That love does not in such quicksilver burn; That he who lurks beside thy virtuous path, When thy good name is gone, will gaze on thee and laugh. For what care he, whom thy fair hand would take, If in after years thy gentle heart should break ; No tears of remorse would damp his wayward eyes Such tears can only come ere the conscience dies. AH, DAISY. Ah, Daisy, so lovely in thy gentleness, Who would not press thy snowy hand Until thy cheeks grew red ; Who would not live in the balmy breeze That gently wafts the silken curls On thy angelic head. Alas! for the South, her books have grown fewer She never was much given to literature. POEMS. 37 SOME DAY. Some day, when the light of your sweet azure eyes Shall grow dim as dying sunheams on the sea, Then as you raise those weary eyes and gaze Afar off may you sometimes think of me. Some day, when memory brings the happy thought Of other years when our hearts beat firm and slow, Then you may bear for me that perfect love I have borne for you, since I met you long ago. Some day, when life s dark shadows shall have borne The golden sunbeams from round your gentle feet, Then you will think of the love which you have spuru d On my heart s pure shrine, so gentle and so sweet. May you, when the dint of sorrow marks your brow, And hope grows dim within your troubl d heart, Think of me, alone in this changing world, Mourning o er love s ties, that now He far apart. Think, then, of the happy hours we ve spent together On the summit of yonder gentle hill, Where in tears you told me you d be true to me, Those words burn deep within my mem ry still. Some day if not within this vale of tears Where ties are broken, and love is tempest driven You ll love me as fondly as I have e er loved you, In the unchanging light of an eternal heaven. * 4 Fare\vell" that word we all must speak, How it wearies the heart and fades the cheek. 38 POEMS. SING ON, GENTLE MUSE. Sing- on, gentle muse, you shall be heard again! Your soft notes shall float upon the breeze To comfort the outcast and the poor: From the lone meadows to the hill-tops drear Your gentle notes shall charm the savage ear That never cared for song before. Like a light-winged bird you shall ascend Far above the many jealous tongues That seek to wound your lonely heart; You shall be heard, and while you sing of love, And soar afar like some lone turtle dove, You must receive the critics dart. They are many, and very rash indeed, And often fling their poison d arrows deep Down in the heart s tender s! core; But the wound they inflict will not be as hard to bear As that inflicted by the friends you once held dear Round your own fond native door. MYSTERIOUS TEAK! From what warm region comest thou, Oh, thou strange and erring drop, So crystal clear ? E en on the smooth white cheek of youth Thou dost leave thy lasting stain Mysterious TEAR ! POEMS. DESTROY IT NOT. Go shatter the walls of some beautiful city That is noted for grandeur and fame, Rather than cast a suggestive remark To destroy a woman s fair name. The walls of a city can be erected again, Their beauty be grander than ever; But a woman s good name once destroyed Can ne er be reclairn d, no never. All Heaven has no water soft enough, Nor earth no cleansing soap, That can wash the crimson from the heart [ hat destroys a woman s hope. ALAS! CAROLINA! Alas! Carolina! Carolina! Fair land of my birth, Thy fame will be wafted from the mountain to the sea As being the greatest educational centre on earth, At the cost of men s blood thro thy "one N" whiskey. Two very large elephants - thou hast lately installed, Where thy sons and thy daughters are invited to come, And learn to be physically and mentally strong, By the solemn proceeds of thy " innocent rum. Winthrop and Clemson colleges. 40 POEMS. THEY LAID HER DOWN IN A LONELY GRAVE. They laid her down while the autumn leaves were falling, In a lonely grave beside the deep blue sea; Her angel spirit is now beyond recalling, And her fair form can ne er revisit you and me. They laid her low while the autumn winds were sighing Thro the half-clad trees on yonder lonely hill; The breeze that passed o er the grave where she was lying Was as soft as the wind that ripples the gentle rill. She sleeps to-day in all her truth and loveliness, The purest and gentlest of her gentle kind ; We loved her, and loved her none the less For the little faults which she has left behind. Soon summer s morn will brighten her resting place, And scatter its dew above her azure eyes; The little birds will sing round her happy face, And the flowers bloom sweetly neath the sunny skies. The violet will bloom beside the lily there, Bound, as by love, in some sweet magic spell, And ev ry petal a brighter hue will wear For her who sleeps below a crushed immortelle. So let her sleep, in all her gentleness, Like some sweet form in love s enchanting dream ; She ll bloom again in all her perfectness, The lily of holy love beside a crystal stream. The sweetest beam of love and grace Is that which glows on an honest face. POEMS. 41 A CRYSTALIZED ROSE. In my garden I stroll d on a cold winter morn, As the beautiful snow lay under my feet; The hills and the dales, and all I beheld, Was laden and shining with glist ning sleet. All round me there glitter d, above and below, Icicles in groups and icicles in rows; I saw at my feet in a mantle of sleet The half-blown bud of a beautiful rone. I gather d the rose in its glittering robe, And tenderly bore it to the warmth of my room, Where I gazed on its leaves till the ice dripp d away, Then naught I beheld but the sweet-scented bloom. On my mantle I placed it in a brown-color d vase Where no roses, save summer s, had cluster d before, It petals soon open d and my chamber was sweet With its delicate odor for a fortnight or more. As I thought of this lonely and innocent bud, Too modestly blooming for man to behold, I remember d the form of a beautiful girl Cast out in the world to die in the cold. As I gazed on its leaves so tender and sweet, More perfect than the rose in the morning of May, I pictured the face of that beautiful being Away from the sunlight of life s sweet day. I thought of her life with its winter and frost, And how truly unhappy her moments had been I wished I had borne her, like the sweet rose, To my chamber of love and admitted her in. 42 POEMS. She budded and bloomed in the garden of sorrow, Passed down to her grave in the moiild ring clay; Her beautiful spirit s now blooming in heaven The snow and the ice have all melted away. IN REMEMBRANCE. (Written on the flyleaf of a volume of poems which the author pre sented to a young lady friend in Nashville, Tenn. Over the verses a red rose was pressed.) Tis only a rose which I tenderly plucked, And lovingly bore from the garden s dew; It may not be fair, but it tells of the care The poet has displayed in remembrance of you. Here let it remain tho wither d and crushed, It tells of a friendship unfading and true ; Tho on this fair page it leaves but a stain, That stain shall be sweet, if in remembrance of you. WHEN SHE IS GONE. No truer deed in token of love will I employ, Than to scatter o er her lonely resting place Fresh immortelles In fond mem ry of the life and love Of that dear old mother who always loved her boy. Tho Time s cold hand may steal from me life s dearest joy, And I be left alone in a wide, wide world, Sadly forsaken Yet naught can take from me the life, the love, Of that dear old mother who always loved her boy. POEMS. 43 FAREWELL, SWEET HOME! Farewell, sweet home of my childhood hours! Where joy and sorrow were blended ; Within thy halls I have loved and lost, But now those scenes are ended. In other days when hope was dawning new In the hearts that gathered round thy hearth, A loving band had just been gather d there, When one by one they faded to earth. Farewell, sweet home of my childhood hours! Strange hours of joy and pain; The smiles, the tears, thus mingled there, Can ne er the like be felt again. MORK CARE FOR THE NECK THAN FOR THE INTELLECT. Fair lady, on that snowy neck and half-clad bosom Which you so publicly reveal to man, There s not a single outward stain or speck; Would that you had given but half the care To the training of your intellect and heart As you have given to that spotless neck. For Time, alas ! must touch with cold, unerring hand, That fair bosom s soft, untarnish d hue, Staining that lily-leaf of your sweet sex ; Then in ignorance you will journey here below, Hiding that once fair bosom neath a veil, With a standing collar round your wrinkled neck. 44 POEMS. "UNSTEADY I STAND." (On hearing a lady, speaking of her past life and hopes, say: - lam now on the verge of womanhood; eighteen summers old ; hut oh, how unsteady I stand!") "Unsteady I stand" on the very verge Of womanhood, and cast aside ; I cannot retrace life s journey now, On its gloomy waters I would not glide. No hark doth drift on that lone stream Whose angry waters helow me roll My youthful dream of life is o er, I stand alone with troubled soul. Could I but mount the wind that wings Its rapid flight across my way, Fain would I go as in a dream And sail thro lands of endless day. Could I but float in that lone sound, That echo from a world of woe I d close these eyes in endless sleep- Careless of where my soul would go. Could I but climb to yonder skies On this golden sunbeam at my feet, There I would find my home, my heaven, Youth s dream fulfilTd and friendship sweet. Alas! strange man! so prone to win some maiden s heart. And cause it to swell with grief and pain ; [hi id Like some school boy seeking to cage and wound the swett Whose life he can never make cheerful again. POEMS. OTHER DAYS. Who does not love when youth is past To wander back to scenes he loved In days gone by, To sit in some familiar spot Where the evening sunbeams gather, from A cloudless sky. Who does not love to hear the notes, The wild notes of the soaring lark, High o er the trees; To see it soar around his head, Then softly light in the meadow grass, In June s sweet breeze. Who does not love to linger round The sunny spot where he once roved A careless boy ; To pluck sweet violets from the bed On which he plucked them long ago, With heart of joy. FAREWELL, SWEET SUMMER! Farewell, sweet Summer! my own fair guest, You have given this heart no pain ; May brighter joys attend your peaceful visit When you come to my bosom again. You have kissed my cheeks with your rose-tint lips As I sat at sweet eve in the lane; I shall sigh for the touch of those passionate lips Till you come to my bosom again. POEMS, FAREWELL, LILIAN! Farewell Lilian I you are going Far away to leave me now; You shall be the sunlight, Lilian, That shall linger on my brow. Fate hath whisper d, you must leave me, And you cannot well delay; We must part, perhaps forever. On this balmy autumn day, Would that I had never met yon. Never held your gentle hand, Then my heart had ne er been broken, To sorrow in its native land. Would that I had never loved you, Never press d your lips to mine: Then I would to-day be happier, Bowing at some nobler shrine. Vet the love which you have taught me Ne er shall fade within my breast. But shall beam along my journey Like a sunbeam from the west. If when you are lonely, Lilian, You should bear a smile for me; Let that smile be as the sunlight On a dark and tronbl d sea For my life is like its billows, Dark and gloomy as the night ; Save when you are shedding on me Your sweet ray of morning light. POEMS. 47 Farewell, Lilian! if forever We should thus be borne apart, Think of me, and love me as kindly As I have loved your gentle heart. SHE FELL LIKE A FLAKE OF SNOW. She was beautiful once ; but she fell To the clay-stained earth below ; Her tender form came down to die, As softly as a flake of snow. She was beautiful once ; but she fell To the lowest depth of woe ; She can never be sp >tless again, And as pure as a flake of snow. She was beautiful once ; but she fell, And some said, "let her go," For she can never shine again Like a beautiful flake of snow. 8he was beautiful once ; but she fell Just three sad years ago ; She fell in the grave of sorrow, And lay like a flake of snow. Slw? was beautiful once; but she fell, Ne er to rise again, ah, no; She fell in all her loveliness, And vanish d like a flake of snow. 48 P O H M S . KEEP SILENT, HAND! Weak hand of mine, keep silent ever. If this bosom beats apart From all that is good and true; Pen not a line that would lead to vice, For what is written on this scroll Eternity can not undo. Keep silent, hand ! for the gift to tell The thoughts that linger in this heart Was not by mankind given: And I must suffer in the end For ev ry word I hereon trace That would keep a soul from heaven. SO-CALLED FRIENDSHIP. W T e call it "Friendship," yet how strange It moves in this cold world of ours; It may he just, it may be true, But it doesn t live in nature s bowers. >Tis but a kind of unknown being, Roaming in the highest spheres If you grasp it, twill deceive you By the holy garb it often wears. It is no spirit from the heavens, Nor the regions of the dead ; But a kind of unknown demon Manufactured in the head. POEMS. 4!) PRETTY MISS LOU. You may speak of the lily in all its splendor, And the dear little violet with its leaves of blue ; These may be lovely, but they cannot be coinpar d To the sweet, gentle face of my charming Miss Lou. You may dream of your visit to the garden of love Where your heart mid its rapture beat never untrue; This may be the brightest fair dream of your life, But mine is far brighter when I think of Miss Lou. You may smile at the mem ry of those rose-tint cheeks That once press d your bosom with a pressure too true ; That mem ry may be sweet, but to me there is none So dear as the mem ry of my pretty Miss Lou. You may dote on that love that too often is shaken, And may treasure the ties which Time may undo ; But the love that is constant, and the ties that are firm, I could find, if she d let me, in my gentle Miss Lou. As I roam in life s garden of sweet-scented flowers, For no tenderer bud from its gems will I sue Than this sweet little jonquil that s blooming alone, And it is none other than my charming Miss Lou. If you mean for me not to love you,-sweet May, You must turn those dark blue eyes away, And let me not see them, or else I will sue For no love save yours, while looking on you. 50 POEMS. I WTSH I WAS THERE. I wish I was by that rippling stream Where oft I roamed in boyhood days When my heart was young and gay, And my footsteps light and swift As the wild deer s for some quiet brook By a green hill far away. I wish I was nigh that m nsy cliff From whose summit I ve watched the sun At the close of day depart, As a single ray from its golden beam Would kiss my cheek, then fade away, As love-light fades from the heart. I wish I was where I once have been, When the bloom of youth was on my cheek, And hope was in this breast; When the tide of life was warm with truth, And gentle love was utmost there, And all was peace and rest. I wish I was young and had no CAKE To draw this breast adown to earth, And till these eyes with tears; And the lily-hand of love and peace Had the same sweet touch as in other days. How few would be my fears. I wish I was nigh that angel face That shone in early days so fair My bright and morning star Whose downy cheeks that so oft have press d This bosom have left an impress there Eternity can never mar. POEMS. 51 THE WORKING GIRL. S\veet working- girl as thou dost pass along 1 the street, Pursuing thy humble, honest toil, Cursed be he who would dare to cast a slur On thee thy virtuous name to spoil. Swctt working girl I love to view the happy smiles On thy fair and ever-beaming face Thy perfect form, tho devoid of rich apparel, Is lovelier far because of its simple grace. Sweet working girl; tho thy earthly lot seem hard. And faint be the hope within thy breast, Ytt thou ait blest, for thro thy faithfulness Thou wilt gain Heaven s eternal rest. Sweet working girl tho false stars shine around thee While thy cheeks with CARE grow pale, Take courage then, for there s a morning star that glows For thee behind life s gloomy veil. Sweet working girl tho Fate has destined thy fair hand To labor in place of a wayward brother, Yet Heaven will reward thee for thy honest toil In suppoit of thy aged, widow d mother. A GLOOMY PICTURE. From early youth to the frost of age Man s days have been a mixture Of all that constitutes in life A dark and gloomy picture. 52 POEMS. TO LAURA. Ah, Laura, when you roam in dreams of solitude, And your smiles grow sad as dying sunbeams on the sea, Will you not, mid those hours of loneliness, Gaze oft on these true lines and sometimes think of me. Will you not, at night when those bright eyes are closed In dreams, and you recall sweet moments past and gone, Think of me and from some pleasant thought may you Learn to love me on the beautiful rising morn. Sweet Laura, I love the sunlight on your crimson cheeks, And the gleam of hope that lingers round your placid brow; 1 love them, and in my life s most dreary hours They shall remain to me as dear as they are now. Fond Laura, if e er your loving breast shall feel Lonely and forsaken by the friends you once held dear, Think of me, as one who loves you truly well, Though I in your fond heart may have no share. THE MIND. The mind that cannot create worlds, Make hills and mountains great and small, And streams and lakes, and thus the like. Is to my mind no MIND at all. And people, too, it should create, Of ev ry class, the rich and poor Woman should be made queen of all Beautiful then nothing more. P O E M 5 53 MAUD, THE MILL, AXD THE LILY. I hate the winding path that leads Adowu the shadowy glen; I can view the scenes I never loved More vividly now than then. There is the same familiar stream, Whose waters I oft have drank, And the old mill pond, from whose dark edge I oft, so oft have shrank. The old mill house is standing still Where the neighbors ground their corn ; The night-owl sleeps beneath its roof When the nightly shades are gone. Fast to the door-post and the roof The melancholy ivy cleaves, While high above the gentle winds Sigh thro the lonely forest leaves. Thro the cracks of the old flood-gate The blackish waters flow, Dashing, foaming, mingling with The angry stream below. I hate the roaring, chilly sound, That so oft did greet my ear, Of the solemn waters, flowing still Below the mill house drear. Beside those waters once there sat A being clothed in white, With slender form and lily-hand, And countenance pure and bright. POEMS. Maud for her gentle name was Maud Wore many smiles, and they were sad; A thousand virtues she retained, Many of which I never had. Her raven locks were silken soft, Dark and bright her sparkling- eyes; Her face was like the summer sun Glowing in the eastern skies. While the old mill wheel shriek r d and roar d Maud would often watch and wait And list to the foaming waters pass Below the old flood-gate. ; Twas in sweet May, as the sinking sun Was shedding o er the hills a gleam, Maud, who loved the woodland flowers, Wandered down beside the stream. The eveningshades soon gather d round, And darkness hover d o er her path; No sound did greet her lonely ear Save the night-owFs tickle laugh. Dark clouds arose and slowly passed, Hiding the stars ahove her head She wander d by the lonely stream Like some sweet spirit round the dead. Maud did not heed the roaring sound Of distant thunder in the west, Nor did she fear the lightning s flash Glist ning on her snowy breast. Beside those waters once there sat A being clothed in white, With slender form and lily-hand, And countenance pure and bright. P O E M S . 57 The wind arose, the thunder roar d, The forest trees fell with a crash ; No living thing could there be seen Save little Maud in the lightning s .flash. What a lovely view for angels eyes To have looked upon that gentle form Clad in white, and slowly moving In the dark, terrific storm. Close by the stream on a grassy mound A tender lily waved in sight The silvery lightning from the clouds Had revealed to Maud its petals white. She stroll d toward the lily fair, As one would stroll within a dream To find the angel-form they loved And lost beyond life s sullen stream. Maud s gentle feet had stray d too near The darkish streamlet s mossy bank She stooped and plucked the lily fair, But both beneath the waters sank. Oh, Maud ! how oft have I, too, stroll d Beside those waters at your side; How often have I, too, revealed To you the love I could not hide. How often have I gazed into Your dark and ever-beaming eyes; While gazing there have I not felt My bosom freed from mortal sighs? 58 POEMS. Have I not pressed your lily-hand, And blushing cheek unto this breast; In the stillness of that happy hour Have I not felt the sweetest rest ? Have I not with the gentlest touch Unbraided your locks of silken hair, And turning your dove-like face to mine. Have I not call d you my angel fair ? I hate the lily, hate the stream, That solemn flow of angry waters, But, oh, how sweet to think of Maud, The fairest of the miller s daughters. I hate the path that leads adown Beside the lone and dreary mill The shadows of that blackish pond Are painful to my memory still. HOW STRANGELY DARK. Her dark eyes I would that they were not like mine, So strangely dark ; I would that they had less of human passion s Deep burning spark. T dare not e en when bidding her form adieu, Hold her warm hand; For there would come a flame from her bright eyes I could n t withstand. POEMS. f>9 AN OUTCAST PEARL. D >wn in the heart of that newly open d bud, Tried by the wind of m vny a troubled gale, Lies the destiny of a being young and fair; The peace and joy that might have reigned within That tender heart that never dreamed of sin, Are gone, alas! forever buried there. So kind and gentle she grew into her teens (Close beside the dingy rose of baffled love) Too purely beautiful for earthly care Her heart was young too innocent and young To dream of the shame a fallen mother brings On the child she once held tenderly and dear. In girlhood days she d seen the deeds of vice That blight the home where happiness would reign, And cloud the sunlight on its grassy lawn She d lived, she d loved and yet she had not lived Since life s fond hopes had faded in her breast To live without hope one had better ne er been born. Twas faultless love which heaven bade her bear For her upon whose bosom she d slept in infancy, Unconscious of her lone, mysterious birth The stain of that mother s sin which she in after years Must e er endure, had made her nothing else Than an outcast pearl in the miry slums of earth. An outcast pearl ! but what else could that angel be In this condemning world of sin and strife, Tho her heart be as pure as the highest flakes of snow? She was tempted and tried, but never did she sin, Tho borne on the hard and ever-cruel breast Of one whose highest aim was all that was mean and low. Along tlm/life she d watched the downward course Of her whose guilty sins she too must bear, Unable, alas! to change or rectify that course She d prayed from early youth till girlhood days For deeds that might not stain her life in after years, But, alas! she could not close that fountain s hellish source. Why should she be horn within a world like this, Where a pure girl is forever cast aside If she cannot boast of her parents 7 virtuous name, While the sin-stained heart is honor d and beloved Because of the garb of righteousness it Wears To shield from human eyes its misery and shame. Ofttimes she sat on her lonely porch at eve As the golden sunbeams kissed her gentle feet, On the solemn verge of each departing day ; She watch d those beam-! till they withdrew their gold, And thought how sweet if she could only go With those soft beams, and forever fade away. The shadows that gather d round her humble home Were darken d, alas! by the breath of human scorn, Yet heaven s sunbeams delighted to kiss her feet, And leave their pew, 3 upon her lonely brow, And their fond hope within her weary heart, These latter gifts t, her were most divinely sweet. To-day she stands in all her tenderness, Alone, forsaken by m mkind and her sex, A pearl too pure t. gra -e an angel s breast She must live, then die, and I hen be laid away In some lone spot jerh ips a desert tit Id And then her pure, angelic spirit will be at rest. POEMS. 61 No human form will stand beside that lonely grave When she is gone, and shed a sympathizing tear For her who sleeps in true forgetfulness ; Kind Nature will waft o er her its gentle breeze And plant sweet violets round her sinless head For Nature loved her more humankind the less. YOU LL NEVER SEE IT. (On being asked by a young lady, just after a renowned Northern journal had given my works a page of complimentary review, if my hat was not "too small for my head.") You ll never see this head too large for my hat, You may watch it and feel it as oft as you choose; But you ll learn, as millions of people have learned, Of my character and name thro my innocent muse. You ll never see this form clad in gaudy apparel, Nor these feet playing the "dude" in patent-leather shoes; But your childrens children will some day read Some pleasant quotations from my innocent muse. DEVOTION. I know a white hand that will place A bunch of violets o er this face When I am gone Sweet violets from beneath the bowers Where I have spent my happiest hours In life s sweet morn. P O E M 8 . HOPE, SWEET HOPE ! Ob, Hope, sweet Hope! resplendent ray I Thou hast promised this heart a brighter day A day of joy and peace ; For me thou hast upon thy gilded beam The sunlight of a happier dream Ere my days shall cease. Oh, Hope, sweet Hope ! why longer wait ? Soon youth is past, and tis too late For the boon for which I sigh ; The glow of dark eyes will be dim, Encircled by ill-health s darken d rim, And smiles grow co)d and die. Oh, Hope y sweet Hope! this weary breast Fain would call on thee for rest From ev ry inmost care; Earth s joy and peace can ne er be mine While that resplendent ray of thine Brings no fond object near. Oh, Hope, sweet Hope! to thee I bow r I ve waited long, am waiting ROW To realize thy bliss; $oon in the grave this form shall lie, Mouldering neath yon star-lit sky Dead to thy raptur d kiss-. f have promised her ne er to mention her sweet name again ; But, oh, how the fulfillment of that promise gives me pain. P O EMS. 3 THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. Tis midnight that most solemn hour in life, When stern Nature, growing weary with stillness, Lays her head upon the lap of Almighty God; And there without a troubled dream she lies, Breathing as an infant on its mother s breast, While poor mankind must sleep the sleep of death. The sleep of death ! For what is that dread hour To the human soul but an hour of conscious pain Borne by the vision of a mysterious realm ? A realm beyond the grave where al! must tend To gather with the countless millions that have pass d Along that journey in happiness or \vo3. Tis the hour when ev ry human heart must learn What it hath gained in life, and what it costs. to die With an account unbalanced for eternity When the last fond ray of hope must fade away As a golden sunbeam behind the western clouds, Leaving the human soul in shadows dark to roam. Tis midnight when we awake if awake we must, In tears to think of those we ve early loved And lost, and whose fond memory brings The dawn of other sunny days around us When spring-tide s roses bloom d beside our path, Only to fade in the hour of midnight gloom. Tis the hour when life s star flickers low On the verge of death s descending cloud, Behind whose summit there may be peace And a silvery lining for us, poor mankind, Whose life, ambition, all, are center d in the hope Of some eternal star beyond this vale of tears. 64 POEMS. "THROUGH STORM ON EARTH TO PEACE IN HEAVEN." The following lines were suggested on seeing a very aad and beautiful picture in a magazine not long since, entitled: "Through Storm on Earth to Peace in Heaven." On a tumultuous sea, dasfoed by the waves is a frail little hark, rowed by an aged Prophet. Lying on two beams across the boat is a bier on which lies the lifeless form of a beautiful young girl, with hands crossed on her bosom, and face turned slightly to one side. Bending o er this fair figure, as if in the act of imparting a farewell kiss, is the weeping mother. On the bosom of the departed one lies a wreath of fresh immortelles. White roses lie upon her feel. Beneath the dark and gloomy clouds The little bark is tempest driven, See it ride upon the billows "Thro storm on earth to peace in heaven." Bee the brave old Prophet standing With shining- oar in faithful hand, Battling gainst the rag-ing tempest Thro earthly storm to a sunny land. See the mother bending lowly O er the cold and lifeless form Of her fair and sinless child, Passing thro life s beating storm. See the foaming billows dashing; Almost o er the slender bark As it floats within the tempest On the waters lone and dark. POEMS. 05 But the Prophet steers it onward, Tho its beam be almost riven. To that fair, eternal shore, Beyond life s storm to peace in heaven. Hear him speak to the weeping mother, In whose heart is grief and pain Have faith, and you shall s >on be where Your precious child will live again." "Many a spotless soul I ve rowed O er these waters lone and dark; But a PURER form I ne er have borne Than she who sleeps in this lone bark." Hear the mother faintly whisper, As darker grows the chilly night, "Oh, Prophet, Saviour, tell me when I shall see just a ray of light?" "Have faith," the Prophet firmly spoke, "And soon you ll reach the eternal shore, Where your loved-one will be happy, And at sweet rest forever-more." Thro the darkness peers the mother, As the Prophet rows them on "Oh," she says, "I see the sunlight Of a fair and glorious morn !" Soon they reach ttaat shining harbor Where mortal sins are all forgiven She passed, as I and you must pass, "Thro storm on earth to peace in Heaven." P O E M S , HAIL, THOU QUEEN! ATLANTA! (Written during the Exposition.) Queen of the South! arrayed in white, All eyes are now upon thee O er this great nation, far and wide, And across the dark blue sea. Men and maidens flock to thee, Like birds unto a sunny clime, To feel thy warmth and view thy grace, And hear thy gay bells sweetly chime. Upon thy breast a wreath of lilies Adorn thy being, rich and fair; The rose of many a sunny land Clusters in thy golden hair. Hail thou Queen ! whose gentle hand Bears no trace of gloomy fetters ; Upon thy faithful heart is graven, "Welcome," in golden letters. Thy feet are firm, and shall endure To reach ambition s lofty height; Thine arm is love, and must prevail To lead from darkness into light. Hail, thou Queen of Southern beauty! Decked with jewels rich and rare; Wisdom, honor, love, ambition, Dwell beneath thy golden hair. P O E M S . 87 CAN YOU BLAME ME? We have looked on each other too oft in this life Your smiles from my eyes were not hid Can you blame me for loving your matchless face As fondly and dearly as I did ? The memory of your dark blue, passionate eyes, Oh, say, can I ever get rid Of that heavenly dream, and the sunlight of love, That so tenderly shown from each lid. From that streamlet of love in your beautiful heart How sweet if my soul could but drink, And bathe mid the lilies in its crystal waters, And rest on its moss-cover d brink. HOW SWEET. How sweet when our lonely soul grows weary, And our tired feet need rest, To recline neath the shade of the willow tree, Pillow d on a maiden s breast. To feel a passion pure within us, And not the one that seeks to rob That beautiful virtue underlying Her peaceful bosom s honest throb. To know you can withstand temptation, And cause no pang of pain and grief To wound that breast resigned to you, As spotless as the lily s leaf. 68 POEMS FEW WOULD RETURN. Few are they that have journey d here below Who have not seen their brightest hopes decay That would retrace their steps from youth to age. And see again those fond hopes pass away. Few are they that would return in life, No matter how bright their journey may have been, And travel the same old familiar path, And view and love again what they could never win. Few are they that would consent to go Back to the shrine where they knelt in other days, And loved and lost, and spent their after years In the mem ry of some harp-string s plaintive lays. Few are they that would tread the rugged path That leads adown the valley of grief and care, And see again what their own eyes have seen, And shed, alas! the same embitter d tear. Few are they that would retrace life s path, No matter how bright its sun or sweet its dew The hand of love would be a wither d hand, And the bosom of truth would beat, alas! untrue. I D RATHER OWN HER LOVE. I d rather own the love of that modest little maiden Who lives in a lonely cottage between two gentle rills, Than to win the greatest fame all this world can give, Or own the fatted cattle on a thousand grassy hills. POEMS. I DISLIKE A VAIN AND HAUGHTY MAN. If I must rise by haughty steps To the golden heights that lead to fame, Then I prefer to remain below, Behind an humble, Christian name, I dislike a vain and haughty man, However bright his future may be; He must lie down within the dust, And lay aside his vanity, I m sorry for that mortal man Who treads up;ni God s holy clay, Too vain to lend a helping hand To one that has fallen by the way, If I should rise to lofty heights, An humble heart shall be thereon; And tho you may be far below, Remember, YOU I shall not scorn. For what tho I obtain the praise Of human lips both far and wide, A worm of dust I still must t>e, Drifting on life s gloomy tide. LIVE HONEST; BE KIND. Much thought and the pen will accomplish all things, You must think and be wise in the thought you pursue- Live honest, be kind, and you ll surely succeed, And the world be made brighter by having known you. 70 P O E M S . THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH. (On re-visiting the home of my boyhood.) Would that the friends I loved in youth Were close beside me here to-day, On this loved spot where we once played When our hearts were young and gay. How sweet would be each moment now, If I but only once again Could form the self-same group beside These violets in the lane. Round this hallow d spot there float Sweet memories of the past, Of dear associations gone They were too fond to last. Twas neath this drooping willow tree T sat alone without a name* At school with nature s God to learn The hidden path that leads to fame. Twas here I linger d in the twilight With no teacher at my knee Save kind Nature with her flowers, And a bosom full and free. Full and free with radiant hope Like a ray of glorious light, Pointing this young and tender heart To the path of Truth and Right, * The author never was named in childhood by his parent,*, kut was left the pleasure of selecting his given-name at the age of fourteen. POEM 8. 71 Twas here I learned that solemn truth That the life to pleasure given Will never reach its shining goal On this bright side of heaven. Each violet as it bloomed beside My humble feet in morning dew, Taught me that the purest, noblest life, Must be begun when hope is new. ON THE DEATH OF EDGAR W. NYE. How strange is Nature! and the workings Of the great invisible God Whose doings are just and right; Who preserves the spark that ne er can glow The dullest of humankind Yet quenches the brightest light. How strange, indeed, and wondrous wise Must be that gracious Hand Whose works we can ne er undo, That it should spare the dull, illiterate mind Rather than the flame of genius Is alas! too sadly true. Can it be Death ? Shall we not hear again In eternity some where The voice of him who once spake To cheer the gloomy lives of humankind? Bringing joy and gladness To hearts that fain would break. 72 P O E M 8 . UN FORGIVEN ADIEU ! Good-.by! another sun is sinking, Shedding its golden beams about Our youthful feet I stand neath the canopy of heaven Close by your side, but unforgiven By your lips sweet. Tis true I may have caused you pain, And your sweet eyes sometimes a tear To dim their hue; But you, in youth s sweet bloom I trust Will not esteem me e er unjust My heart untrue. For I, as sure as yonder sun Scatters its crimson on your cheeks, Have loved your heart ; Have shielded you amid life s fears, Helped you to dry your bitterest tears Yet we must part! Can you, as mem ry calls you back To the happy moments we ve spent upon Yon dewy hill, Now deem this heart too false and low To be looked upon, save as a foe You d gladly ki)l? Twas there, amid the dew of heaven, I held your gentle hand too oft To deem you false; I ve always found you pure and chaste ; Man s arms have ne er entwined your waist You did not "waltz." UNFORGIVEX ADIEU ! But still you unforgiving stand, Turning from me those gentle eyes, So sweet and true. POEMS. T5 But still you unforgiving stand, Turning from me those gentle eyes, So sweet and true ; You have suggested that we should part, Then here s my hand you have my heart Good-by ! adieu ! CHRIST ON CALVARY. See him as he hangs beside the guilty thieves, Reviled, coridernn d, and forever cast aside; See him as he views his well-beloved friends, Thirsting for the blood of his own precious side. See his hands thro which the nails were driven, The accursed nails by an unrelenting Jew; Hear his voice, as he views the cruel throng: "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do." See the sharp spear as it glistens in the light Of the self-same sun that shines on you and me; See it pierce his pure and spotless side, Hear the warm blood as it trickles down the tree. Hear him as he groans in agony and pain As he views his friends in the condemning throng; Those who cast green palms beneath his feet As down to Jerusalem he passed along. See him as he hangs, a pure and sinless soul, Rejected, accursed for many an oath was hurl d On him who died on Calvary s tree To redeem forever a sin cursed world. 76 POEMS. WHEN WE WERE YOUNG. Oh, lovely form, begirt in life s resplendent morn With flowers boo pure to bloom around my wayward feet, I look on thee, only to repeat those fitting vows I oft have vowed that we no more should meet. Upon yon hill if thou ll consent to there retrace Our footsteps made in the sands of other years I ll carry thee back, away across yon sparkling rill To the lonely heights where we shed our first sad tears. The dew is there upon the grass leaves hang the drops, And the flowers have drank thereof till they are sweet Twill but remind us of those moments long since gone, When the same sweet drops once copied our burning feet. When we were young, and the first sweet beam of hope Glowed warm and true within each peaceful breast, And love supreme was an ever-present guest, Save in that still hour when passion broke our rest. Oh, why was that burning spirit lingering there, Melting our hearts into one imperfect heart ? And bearing that bliss which sin too often bears To hearts that are as ONK, and cannot beat apart. IN ATLANTA Let me rest mid the atmosphere I love, And my last repose will be sweet, serene; I love that beautiful love that lives For one whom the eyes have never seen. POEMS. 77 TO ONE WHO IS ALL LOVELINESS. From thy eyes, as from the sunlight beaming O er the distant hills tinged with autumn s hue, I catch the gleam of love so long enticing My very soul into a haven sweet and new. Sweet and new a home of tenderness, Round whose shrine no shadows ever rest; But love supreme in all its gentleness Fills the sweet chamber of thy snowy breast. I love the sunlight round thy placid brow, And the smiles that linger on each dimpled cheek; They draw me up, as sunbeams draw the flower, And m-ike me strong when I am truly weak. I love thy hand, so firm in truthfulness, So kind and gentle in its every sphere To know thy b )som is all constancy, While mine s so fickle is more than I can bear. Had thy fair face been veiled before mine eyes, And only thy faint voice my ears did greet; Then I had learned w T hat now I truly know, That thou art all LOVE, and gentleness complete. FAREWELL! FOR A TIME. Farewell, sweet Muse! my dearest companion, Thou hast given this heart no feeling of pain ; Some day, ere the setting of life s purple sun, When my pathway is brighter, I ll recall thee again. 7* P O K M S . FAREWELL, SWEET COLLEGE GIRL! Farewell, ye milk-white dove, farewell! This parting gives me pain ; To think, perhaps, I ne er shall see Thy gentle form again. Farewell ! but thy sweet blooming face, Fresh as the dewy morn, Will leave its impress on this heart Long after thou art gone. Farewell ! and if e er thine azure eyes Shall feel the dint of care, Look up to Him whose loving hand Will dry each bitter tear. Farewell, ye milk-white dove, farewell ! If on earth we meet no more, May in that snow-white throng of love We meet on yonder shore. MARRIAGE AND DEATH. Marriage and death these great events in life, Alas ! with each other are blended; A festive scene and a funeral march, And man s brief journey is ended. A marriage puff, and a funeral notice Is the end of his transient tale, And he vanishes from human sight Beyond life s dark and gloomy veil. POEMS, 78 SIDE BY SIDE, SOME DAY, You may laugh at affliction, And shun the poor wretch As he drags along life s rugged way; But remember, your feet Now nimble and strong, May be wither d and weary some day. You may spurn the poor wretch Whose garments are torn, But whose heart may be honest and true; Yet think of this well, As sure as you live Some affliction will fall upon you. Should he come to your chamber On a cold winter night You would surely turn him away; Little thinking that you Must sleep by his side Some day in the mouldering clay. SHE S ILL. This Christmas, with all its mirth and joy, Will not be enjoyed by me, For the one whom I love is ill at her home On the banks of the Congaree. How could I join in the circle of pleasure, Tho ever-so enticing it be, While my dear little lady lies ill at her home On the banks of the Cougaree, SO P () E M S . I CANNOT THINK THAT I LL BE LOST FOREVER. I cannot think that I ll be lost forever For the little sins that swell this human breast While in this transitory life Where I have never had a day of peace and rest. I cannot think that in this cloudy world Where I exist mid its many, many cares, That after death I ll be borne away By an unforgiving hand that wipes away no tears. I cannot think that in this world of sin Where I was forced without my own consent, That I ll be dcom d to hell at last, Without a second chance to e er repent. TO AMY. I will drink to your health, sweet Amy, For there s nothing in this cup, I fear, That would be suggestive of sorrow For my own sweet Amy, dear. May your heart be pure and noble, And your arm be firm and strong, And your hope be like the rainbow, Beautiful, bright and long. May your life, like the rose of summer, Be fresh, and remain in its bud, As I never was partial to whiskey, Amy, 111 toast you in Congaree mud. (FOURTH VOLUME.) DEDICATED TO THE SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF SOUTH CAROLINA. THE AUTHOR. 82 P O E M S , SOUTH CAROL I N A. Thou fond home of our early childhood days, On thy loved soil we ve spent our happiest hours; We ve basked in the beams of thy noon-tide sun, And have sat in the shade of thy sweet bowers. Upon thy hills, in youth and manhood years, We ve bathed in the dew of thy resplendent morn; The flowers that bloom d beside our youthful feet To niem ry have grown sweeter none are gone. Beside thy streams we ve caught the pleasant sound Of rippling waters, flowing onward to the sea The most familiar, on which we fain would dwell, Is thy fair stream, the beautiful Congaree. In thy green fields, from early morn till eve, We ve seen the ploughman till thy fertile soil When the autumn leaves round his path were strewn We ve seen him gather the fruit of his honest toil. In thy cool meadows we ve heard the happy notes Of sweet birds mingled with the pleasant sound Of the distant bells of the approaching herd. Whose nimble footsteps were heard upon the ground. On thy sweet lawns we ve viewed the perfect form Of the angel who sat beneath thy shady trees, Fairer than the blushing rose of early spring, Made lovelier by thy pure and balmy breeze. Round thy hearth, beside thy happy shrine, We ve bowed, but have shed no guilty tear The life we ve spent upon thy peaceful soil Has been too calm to e en suspicion fear. POEMS. 88 TO THE YOUNG UNJUST CRITIC. Challenge me to fight on the open field, And hurl at my head the fiery dart, Rather than belittle the gentle muse That issues from this lonely heart. Young man you who never aspired To soar no higher than where you are As no ambition burns within you, Try not to extinguish another s star. In you there may much genius be A gift that often leads to fame If used aright but you are dead To that true sense which makes a name. If you in your self-wisdom feel Constrained to criticise my muse, Let it be JUST, and then you may Just criticise it when you choose. COLUMBIA. Beautiful city, with thy cool, shady groves, And picturesque hills, and sweet-scented bowers, Where the sweet dews of heaven in the stillness of morn Refresh the pure lips of thy innocent flowers. Round thy houses and lawns there s a sunbeam of love, And a gleam of sweet peace encircles thy walls; True Friendship and Love is the motto that hangs O er the broad-open d door to thy peace-laden halls. 84 POEMS. WE PART TO-NIGHT. We part to-night perhaps it may he well To sever the tie that bore that magic spell Ere my heart grew wild ; We ve naught to regret, for we ve loved each other As fondly and dearly as a devoted mother For her absent child. We part in peace never to meet again As oft we ve met down In the grassy lane Neath fragrant bowers, Where the dew of heaven, fresh and sweet As that of love, fell round our feet In the morning hours. We shed no tears for tears can never rise From a still fount to lonely beaming eyes When fond love is gone; We loved once, and can never love again, That love has cost us many an aching pain Since sweet hope has flown. We ll meet no more not in this vale of tears Where we have spent so many changing years Of sunshine and frost ; So let it be for soon we two shall hide In the cold tomb no longer to abide Where ve ve loved and lost. THAT ROSE. So charmingly beautiful, Seemingly kind; Bo sweet was that rose I wished it was mine. P O E M R . -85 A VIOLET AND A JONQUIL, A poor little violet once blooni d iti the morn, But it fell from the jar, and is faded and gone, And to-day it lies trodden deep under men s feet. Its color unnatural, its odor uusweet. Close by the violet, as if under its care, Grew a little white jonquil, unconscious of fear; Its hue was perfect as the leaf of the rose, And its delicate odor was s weet to the nose. A twig struck the violet on 3 night in a storm, Parched and dry the night w.is so warm And th^ sw^et little j >nq_uil, s > p ird fr mi it* birth, Was jarred by the twig, and fell to the eirth. So the poor little violet, and the bud by its side, Fell deep in the slums together and died; And the old earthen jar sits empty to-day, The violet and jonquil are strewn by the way. THE PAST. As I turn and listen to the Past I hear the echo sweet and low Of some dear voice, floating still Iu the festive halls of long ago, I catch a glimpse of parting scenes, Familiar in the days gone by; The happy face, the winning smile, The mem ry of some pensive eye. POP: MS. TO MISS MATTIE SUE . As the s?immer sunbeams Peep o er the distant hills On some sweet ana lonely brook, So my weary, longing eyes, Warm with the dew of love, To thee alonf do look. On thy rose-bud cheeks Girlhood s sweetest smiles In brightest hope do beam, And thy lovely azure eyes Endear my only hope And fondest day-dream. Of thy plaintive voice I hear an echo sweet Sinking deep into my heart, And that peaceful echo Bears the enchanting bliss Which death alone can part. THE DECEIVER He who lays his body dow T n y Hopeless for eternity An unbeliever Will sooner find a place of rest Beyond this vale of tears, Than the DECEIVER. P O E MS. S7 1 LOVE THY SHADES. Sweet Solitude I love to spend each quiet hour In the lone shades of thy sweet bower Beside yon rill, And ga/ing, with a blessed regard On Nature, I commune with God, And learn His will. I love thy shades tis there alone I learn MYSELF the faintest sparks that in me burn Are kindled by thee; In life s dark cell where sunlight fades I gather hope from thy sweet shades My soul s set free. TO A VAIN MORTAL. Vain mortal of a common clay From many sins you may be free, But that which holds the greatest sway Within your life is vanity. Some little deed you may have done, Or perhaps some simple word or hint Has placed your common name upon Some written page, or in public print. 80, proud you stand with lifted cane, Like a wood-cock on a cypress log The deed that has made you vain could have Been performed by a shepherd dog. jig POEMS. MY LASSIE AND I. I love the winding path that lead* beside the old familiar wood, Where 1 used to roam with a country lass who wore an ancient hood ; Who UMd to take my little hand within her own with care, And lead me thro the meadow hay, sp( aking words of cheer. My youthful life had almost passed that sweet and happy stage \Ylureihe heart is free fr< m trouble and fcrgetful of old age fSweet viok ts bleeni d beside that path, but none was half so fair As in y little la?s with ro*y cheeks and downy auburn hair. At evening twilight oft we d sit and hold each other s hand, And s-juafc of love l.ut that stiange term I could not under stand. For I was young, as T have said, and she extremely fair Both acted like summer dovis a quite familiar pair. Oft while the mocr.1 cam s silvery jays played round our careless feet ] 7 d turn and kiss my lassie s lips so gentle and so sweet To kiss that lassie, I ll confess, twas then I did not loath, For I was young and she was fair, so please excuse us both. A thousand glances I have caught frc in that sweet lassie s eyes, And half as many times we ve kissed beneath the star-lit skies; But now her glances are not mine, for she is far away Kissing other lips than these, in some sweeter meadow s hay r . POKM.8. THE GRAVE WHERE A WOMAN LIES. I stood alone at the close of day As the sunbeam s s-ot t and goldtn rays Lit up the eastern skies, On a h IK ly hill by a grassy mound Long neglected and forgotten The grave where a woman lies. A woman once sought in early years For the charms of her matchless face, Daik hair and sparkling eyes; On whose fair cheeks was the n sy tint Of youth like the rainbow s placid hues Bright ning the eastern skies. The peaceful rays of the summer sun Shone softly round her lonely bed On each sad close of day They seem d to glow in grander beams Than those on the shining marble Where purer ashes lay. A lesson of love those sun beams taught, Of love impartial, just and true, From the Lamb of Calvary, Who, when called upon to act as judge Of a woman whom the world condemn d, Said, "Nay, I ll not condemn thee." Would that these lips that ne er had spoken To slander that once most perfect name, Could call her back again, And placing the hand of love in her a I d learn how freely Christ forgives And cleanses the deepest stain. 90 POEMS. BESIDE LIFE S OCEAN. As I stand beside life s ocean, While the moments pass away, I can feel my weary feet Sinking in the miry clay. As I gaze upon its billows, Dashing, foaming as they roll, I can almost feel them surging O er my very inmost soul. Lone and weary I am standing, Drenched by ev ry troubled wave, Waiting to be dashed forever In the cold and silent grave. Ev ry billow has its sorrow, And its flow of briny tears, Which were gather d from my cradle To my life s meridian years. Tho I stand alone, rejected, On its shore, and cast aside, Yet my hope shall find a haven Beyond its dark and gloomy tide. TIS BETTER IT WAS SILENT. Tis better this hand was silent, This mind obscure and weak, Than it should pen a single line These lips would dare not speak. P E MS. 91 A TREK OF VARIED FRUITS AND BUDS. (On meeting a very handsome lady whom the author once knew and loved in early years, but at this meeting she was accompanied by two beautiful black-eyed girls, about three and five summers, respectively her own buds.) This life s a tree; we sit beneath its branches, And view the tiowers and fruits we still would gather; Fruits of varied seasons, and of purest kind, Flowers that have bloomed sweetest in wintry weather, Upon each branch there are many opening buds Of every hue to please the human mind, The luscious fruit of a score or more of years We view beside those buds till we are blind. Alas! how strange that we should thus behold The fruit we ve loved in other sunny years Still fair and beautiful, and nursing many buds, Some for joy and some for bitter tears. But yesterday, twas mine to view two tender buds On this sad tree, on which I m loath to dwell; They were blooming beside a pure and early fruit Which I fain would have plucked I loved it so well. WHERE VANITY PUFFS THE HEART. True love will die in palace halls Where vanity puffs the heart, Twas only made for nature s walks Her paradise of art. P O E M S CONCEITED. Fair lady, your remarks have caused me to believe Your heart is all vanity, and beats to deceive; But for the sympathy I cherish for you, I ll merely inform you, those remarks are untrue. Far be it from me, fair one, to intrude, Or act toward you "to;) for war .1 an 1 ru ij" Tho your face has for me a beauty untold, Yet I m not anxious that face to behold. Fair one, your acquaintance has never been sought By me not in action, or even in thought, So if ever those slaii(i : rous words you repeat, Let it be at your home, and not on the street. THE FIRST RAY OF HOPE. How sweet is the first bright ray of hope When youth s sweet bloom is on the cheeks, And there s music in the breeze, And the violet blooms beside the wood. And the lily waves beneath the bay, And the budding heart s at ease. INGRATITUDE. INGRATITUDE, ah, I hate it, I m loath for a moment to dwell On a word whose only meaning Originated in hell. P O E M 8 . 93 THE COMING BAUD. When your life-song shall have ended, And with grief its echo s blended O er your lone head; Then will some plaintive notes res >und O er this cold, unhallow d ground, Your final bed. Home sweet bard shall then arise And float his muse unto the skies, While angels sing The anthem of a purer soul Than yours, whose sentiments unroll No sacred thing. On ev ry hill-top far and near He ll sing that sinful hearts might hear His sweet refrain ; All men will bow before his face, Whose winning smiles and perfect grace Dispel all pain. AUTUMN. The lilies and violets have faded and gone, The hills and the meadows are drear and lone, The leaves are falling, Filling our pathway sure and fast, Telling our souls, they ll soon be cast Beyond recalling. H4 P O E M S . THE PAST TURN THE PAGE! Turn the page! for grief and disappointment Oil its once smooth surface Now appears; On its margin are fingerprints Made dingy by the bitter drops Of many tears. TEAKS that dew on which I would not dwell, So strange their inward meaning So very deep ; T would not dwell upon them now, Yet o er this page I still must bend, And still must weep. Turn the page! for between each written line Remorse, in crimson doth appear In brilliant rays; Remorse for mid life s changing scenes My life was spent I dare not tell- In many ways-. ON TO ETERNITY. As I look around me I see moving Slowly and unconsciously Thousands of immortal souls- On to eternity; The youthful, the gay and beautiful Form an innumerable caravan, Keeping step by the drum-beat Of inexorable Time. POEMS. FROM TUP: PALACE TO THK WOODLAND. Tis plensant to descend from lofty heights And view this world as a little child; To leave the stately palace walls And roam within the woodland wild. To gather sweet violets here and there, And view the cows go sauntering down To quench their thirst at a sparkling stream Away from the busy, noisy town. To recline upon a grassy mound Beside some pure and quiet hr,>ok, And gather wisdom, comfort, peace, From the pages of some sacred book. To feel that you are only mortal, A little worm of common clay, Helpless waiting, hoping, trusting, For a home of brighter day. To lay aside all sinful passions That have made life s journey hard; To gaze into the open heavens And find communion with your God. THK DUDE. Young man, of your worth you never can boast, To society TRUE you are virtually dead, Because you have played the dude so long, With but little heart and an empty head. P O E M S . THE LOVER S RETURN ON A BICYCLE. ADMITTED, BUT NOT ACCEPTED. Away down neath the Southern pine Where the jessamine and the ivy twine, And violets bloom; Where no fierce winds, cold and bleak, Touch the maiden s blushing cheek, And there s no gloom. A dove-like form was seen to float Like the white sail of some tiny boat Adown the hill ; Nearer and nearer drew the form, Like a dove in a summer storm, Tossed at will. A maiden fair soon came in sight With cheeks aglow and countenance bright, And slender form ; Her white hands held the handle bars, Her eyes were like two lovely stars Cheeks bright and warm. Adown a steep incline she sped, The golden tresses on her head Fanning the breeze ; Heedless of the danger near, Her youthful heart knew no fear Beneath the trees. Her charming steel-horse could not mis A steep and dangerous precipice P O E M S . 97 By the river s bank; Along she flew a fearful sight Like a bird wounded in its flight She downward sank. Many an anxious eye drew near, And gazing with a sense of fear, Locked here and there; No wounded form could there be found, Nor trace of blood seen on the ground, Of the maiden fair. For safe below the rough incline She passed beneath the Southern pine Her charming wheel Never faltering, stood it all, Thus saving her from a fatal fall By its perfect steel. Away beyond she swiftly flew Thro 7 grasses wet with summer s dew, O er turf and stone, Toward a dreary cottage-door, Whose moss bespoke of inmates poor, And very lone. Soon she reached this home of gloom, Alighted near its western room Sat down to rest On an ancient settee, roughly made, Within the live-oak s gentle shade, And soothed her breast. 98 POEMS. There in the cool and balmy breeze That wafted sweetness from the trees On hills afar. She sat alone, like an angel fair, Thinking of him, her fondest care, And constant star. Toward the house she calmly stroll d, As if no one should her behold Seeking those walls ; While gently tapping on the door Footstep* were heard upon the floor Within its halls. Familiar were those footsteps too, Whose sound to her had" music true- Sweet and sublime ; Confusion seem d to swell each hall, As if no visitors called at all At any time. But soon the ancient cottage door With rusty hinges, scraped the floor, And opened wide ; Before her fair face bending low Stood a wreck of that most bitter flow Affection s tide. For on this strangely ebbing tide Many a hope sublime hath died In the human breast; A "moving tomb-stone," cold, defaced, Is all that shows where love was placed For e er to rest. P O E M S . Affection ! ah, that transient thing From which life s lasting troubles spring, By love is taught First to adore, and then to spurn, Causing the human heart to burn With bitter thought. Love is its mother tis her son, Whose warmth is like the rays of sun, Fading, dying ; A season of but fleeting bliss, A dream of one eternal kiss Hope belieing. While standing nigh his bended form She whisptr d words of friendship warm, But all in vain ; She press d his cold hand to her cheek So warm and pure he could not speak. So deep the pain. There s always pain in meeting one Who was once the lovely rising sun, Within your heart; In ev ry look and ev ry word There s a glance retain d, an echo heard You cannot part. While gazing on her lovely face, He admired her gentle, winning grace, So sweet and pure; And wonder d how her angel-hand Could e er have broken love s sacred band Once firm and sure. 100 P O E M S With cheeks aglow and glances warm, As sunbeams when the summer storm Had passed away, She looked on him, for she had learn d To love the heart she oft had spurn d Each fleeting day. While gazing on her face so sweet, He invited her to take a seat Within the hall ; Seating himself beside her there He thought it n uight but just and fair To tell her all : "I loved you once, oh, pretty one, You were to ms the rising sun Of perfect bliss ; My hope was built on nothing more Than YOUKS, whose beam I did adore, And loved its kiss." "That love was true, you knew full well, Truer than human lips could tell I loved your name; To your sweet life [ did impart My hope, rny all, my very heart, My life, my fainj." "While you were nigh my path was peace, My joy and bliss seem d ne er to cease- Sweet rest was mine ; My hope was like tha sunbeam s ray, My life like an unclouded day, Of purest sunshine." POEMS. 101 "Your smiles to me were softer far Than the silvery light of the purest star In heaven s skies; You were my ALL, my guiding light, Whose glances were my chief delight, From holy eyes." "But since that peace for which I sighed Has passed away with hope and died A death of pain ; Words now from you tend m:)re to break This heart you never can awake Never again." "My heart is on an unknown sea, Far from the love you bore for me My first and last; Love s gentle tide has ebb3d away, Life has no boon for me to-day, Its summer s past." Tis strange the human heart should learn To loath the love that would return And seek its breast; And stranger tis that love should seek Acceptance in that bos.mi weak It robbed of rest. As she thought of his youthful heart so lone, She womler d if it was like stone, 80 very cold ; . She laid her warm hand on his cheek, He gazed on her; but could not speak All had been told. 102 POEMS. She simply said, "Forgive me, dear? Let all your sorrows, ev ry care, By ME be borne ; Ne er again in this weak heart of mine Will my fond feelings for you decline On love s sweet throne. "I know that I ve been in the wrong, And treated you unkind too long, These many years ; Jn your past love I ll firmly trust, That love to me was ne er unjust, Or caused me tears." His weary hand she gently raised, And pressing it to her lips, she praised His love again ; She lingered with a painful smile, Hoping his heart would all the while Be free from pain. He thanked her, bowed his head and wept O er the love that had in her bosom slept Many a year. Those tears to her were strange she knew ; Naught else than love s eternal dew Embalm d in care. Away from this lore cottage door She tried to pass, but felt the more Like ling 7 1 ing there ; The thought that she fore er must part POEMS. 108 From him her life, her very heart, She could not bear. Fresh from the bosom of her grief Came bitter tears, but no relief From her sad night; She slowly passed from this lone door, Mounted her wheel to return no m >re- And took her flight. HOW DEEP THE MYSTERY! If I should ask this silver coin That lies within my hand to-day, "Tell me thy history?" And it should speak; alas! how strange, Would each sad word sound in my ear How deep the mystery ! ***** Would it not tell the sick ning truth Of some fair one in the bloom of youth Whom it had led astray ? How it partly paid for the shining band That bought sweet virtue fr>m the hand Now silent neath the clay. Though a stranger, I loved thee, Thou wert near to my heart I fain would have met thee, But I knew we must part. 104 POEMS. ON THE BANKS OF THE CONGAREE. Many a blissful hour I ve spent Mid the shade of the willow tree, Watching the smoothly flowing waters Of. the beautiful Congaree. Many a Sabbath hour I ve sat With little Maud beside my knee, Gazing o er the distant hills On the banks of the Congaree. Many a happy smile I ve seen On her sweet face, so pure and free, While sitting in the willow s shade On the banks of the Congaree. Many a balmy kiss I ve stolen . From precious lips, too pure for me, While qaressing lovely little Maud On the banks of the Congaree. Many a charming glance I ve seen I nevermore will see, While silting beside my gentle Maud On the banks of the Congaree, But now those blissful days are gone, The willow only stands to tell Of the pleasant hours I once enjoyM With little Maud I loved so well. For she in youth and beauty died, And I shall see her face no more; She sits by a lovelier river, neath Some shady palm on the other shore. ON THK BANKS OF THE CONGABEE. Hut now those blissful (lays are gone. The willow only stands to tell Of the pleasant hours I once enjoy d With little Maud I loved so well. POEMS. 107 THE CAUSE OF ANOTHER S WOE. I had rather live a pauper s life, My name be unrevered. And when T die hellward go, Than to bear the consciousness within me That I in this life had been The cause of another s woe. What a sick ning pang that heart must feel That knows itself a robber Of some pure and virtuous name; Earth s softest water ne er can cleanse Its stain nor Lethe s sparkling stream The inem rv of its shame. A LOVELY WOMAN S GLANCE. Long mayest thou gaze upon the stars That twinkle in yon azure skies, But linger not, oh, passionate man, Thy gaze in a lovely woman s eyes! An army often thousand foes Is easier subdued in their advance Than the dangerous feeling often borne By a lovely woman s melting glance. The heart that s quick to love when young Will soon grow cold when youth is past, For mid life s many sterner scenes And troubled dreams, love cannot last. 108 P E f k B COLD IN DEATH. (On the death of a bright young lady, a student of the Winthrop Nor mal College, who came to her death not long since in this city by being run over by an electric car.) Cross her hands upon her bosom, Smooth back her locks of silken hair; Gently fold the shroud around her, Tho cold in death she s no less fair. Lay your hand upon her forehead, Sweetly she is resting now ; Touch those eyelids, closed to sorrow, While sweet peace pervades her brow. Kiss the lips that bore no evil, As pure as lilies on the lawn ; Kiss the cliBeks that blossom d sweetly On each lovely zephyr morn. Kiss the hands that moved in friendship, Stain them with a tear of joy; Ask that yours hands less weak May some loving deeds employ. Kiss the hair that waved in beauty, Like hyacinths of sweet perfume; Place the white rose on her bos >m, Soon she ll lie in the silent toinli. Tis strange that you will always find In the poorest spot the brightest pearls, So a poverty -stricke n d land is good For naught but raising pretty girls. P O E M S . 10 TO HELP:N, (The following p >em pleased H^len very much, and it is with her con sent I publish it.) May you pass o er the sea of life like a bubble, And ne er reach the rn mth of the river of trouble, And from the dark clouds that eternally roll, May some sweet haven shelter your soul. If e er in the midst of a season of bliss Your dear lips burn for a passionate kiss, Think of me then, though I distantly roam, And reserve me the right till [ visit your home. May the joys of your young life b3 without measure, And not always kindled in the halls of pleasure Tho the mem ry of pleasure seems ever s) dear, After all tis but sorrow, and the source of a tear. When o er the gay floor of the ball-room you trip, And champagne and wine you carelessly sip, Remember, fair Helen, it is after the ball That you dream of the moments you would not recall, 80, now fond Helen, as I bid you adieu, I trust your sorrows of life will be few, And you ll return unto ni3, Iik3 some sweet dove, And nestle once m >re on this bosom of love. The fairest flower has its flaw, The greenest leaf its yellow vein, The brightest eye its faded beam, The purest heart a crimson stain. no POEMS. EULA AND EUNITA, THE TWO ORPHANS. They grew up side by side in a cottage by the sea, Where the ivy and the myrtle entwined the cypress tree ; Where the odor of sweet roses perfumed the stilly air, And the hyacinth and lily bloomed tenderly and fair. They played around the self-same hearth, and round the loving knee Of a fond and happy mother, now sleeping by the sea Enla was as handsome a girl as ever strolled beneath The stately cypress or (be elm round her native heath. Her cheeks wi re of that velvet hue that charms the passing pyd Her glances like the silvery light of heaven s star-lit sky; Her golden locks were chaiming like a r crown of purest gold Around her snowy neck they waved in an exquisite fold. Both were bless d with wealth in girlhood s early years, They d felt no disappointment, vicissitudes or cares ; They mingled with the throng of the high-toned and the gay, To their intellect and beauty men did homage pay. Kunita wore a darker shade of that exquisite hair r \ hat pleases ev ry eye that longs for the beautiful and fair; Her eyes were orbs of beauty, dark and crystal clear They never felt but once of pain and sorrow s bitter tear. Her fare was grandly formed, with cheeks of richest hue, Which bore a gentle smile that told of a disposition true; A pleasant and sweet nature in her could e er be found She loved the ties of friendship, they rapt d her bosom round. POEM 8. Ill In them were found that, noble heart that loved the rich and poor The latter always found a home within their open d door The flowers that bloomed beside those walls were never half so fair As the fragrant buds that bloom d within so tenderly and rare. Their father, ere the last sweet bud had e en begun to bloom, Was borne away to a grassy hill to moulder in the tomb ; Beside that mound an angel-form has since baen laid to rest Their mother oh, what grief must then have swell d each loving breast. Alone in this changing world, with not a single tie To bind them here, save the friends they held extremely nigh- No relatives to call their own, save a distant one Who lived away beyond their shore, neath the Western sun. Time! on whose relentless wings life s joys are often borne, Soon bore all their wealth away, leaving them here to mourn ; Here they lived awhile, but life became so lone and drear, They moved away, and rented out the home they loved so dear. Oft Eula s hand was sought in love, but that, alas! in vain; Tho many worshipped at her shrine, her hand they could not gain, For round her heart in other days a pleasant tie did form For one whose love was ever thus: constant and warm. By his honest heart she was beloved, this she knew full well, But in her hardly suited heart no love for him did dwell ; To her he was but a faithful friend on whom she could rely; If f marry him, 1 she often said, "I may love him by-and-by." POEMS. They were wedded on a balmy eve in the gentle month of May, And passed from a distant cottage door she beautiful and gay Now Eula and Eunita are as sad as girls can be, For they are Jiving all alone in that cottage by the sea. A DIFFERENT TIDE. (Written in a very handsome young lady s album the night before her marriage, at the hour of twelve.) Soon upon life s fitful ocean You shall meet a different tide, And your loving bark be drifting To perhaps a brighter side. Soon the past will be forgotten, Its hours absorbed in present bliss ; But can your loving heart forget The rapture of this parting kiss. Some day within your memory Some sweet thought of me may glide, Of pleasant hours spent together Ere you became another s bride. TO MARIAN. Thou art to me like the memory of a green hill Far away, where violets bloom here and there I love that hill, tis there I used to roam Kre I had felt or even dreamed of care. POEMH. MY OWN WORLD. My life s a world within my immortal soul There s a boundless realm No other being can control ; None can hear, think, or feel for me, Be what I have been and shall be. In that strange wr-rld I may have oft found rest, And at times enjoyed Seasons of joy and happiness; But if any, alas! they have been few, And transient as the dicpsof morning dew. And I have been the slave of those creations More difficult to subdue Than all earth s most hostile nations : Passion, pride, lust these Nature has secured In this weak bosom, and must ever be endured. I m on the throne of Time and Eternity, My strange courtiers are Sorrow, hope, ambition all unfit To minister unto the sovereign will of one Whose life-star is as unchangeable as the sun. Around that throne, in darkness and in light, I can always behold The being whom I once loved, still bright And sparkling in the zenith of her pride, Loving and being loved a gentle bride. 114 POEMS. Though in the tomb, neglected I shall lie, And even forgotten By those who once esteemed me high, Yet that world of influence naught can dissever, It must weary all ages and live on forever. THOU OLD HYPOCRITE. Oh, thou old gray-haired deceiver, Thou expounder of sacred Writ, Dost thou not know that God in Heaven Dispises the hypocrite ? Thou art dead to ev ry honest thought, And soon shall thy days expire; Hell will be thy portion, thy reward- So prepare to meet its fire. WOMAN S LOVE. How strangely warm is woman s love, Tis like summer to the wounded dove; In pain and sorrow tis just the same As on the dewy morn on which it came. Yes, woman s love, indeed, is sweet, Grows stronger when cast neath cruel feet; Twill live when other love is gone, And comfort on the saddest morn. P (> E M S. 115 TO MY MOTHER. Mother, H it not in thy sweet name I live, And gather within me the richest joys of life? Would not hope, love, ambition, all he nothing Without thee, and my days be hut days of strife? Have I not from the careless years of infancy Till now, honor d and adored thy precious name? Would not this weak and weary heart of mine Endure all things to shelter thee from blame V Have I not mid the changing scenes of life Bern always near thee to love thee more and more? Have in t these hands and feet grown truly strong In lab >r for thee thou one whom I adore? ONE WHO WOULD LINGER. Tis pleasant to he in a crowd of girls, And feel there s one you love the best; One who is fair and sweet and kind, More beautiful than all the rest. To know that her confidence and love Is center d in your wayward heart ; To feel that you have one who d linger Should all the other girls depart. Oh, jealous heart that seeks to belittle my gentle muse, And 1)1 ow your damnable bugle in my lonely ears; You ll lie some day in expressing your recognition Of this very song you disowned in other years. 116 P O E M 8 PERHAPS. The moon-lit night was drear and lone, I heard a noise on yonder hill; A human form came rushing by, Then all was cairn and deathly still. I recognized the slender form Passing from the cedar trees, Clad in white, with raven hair Floating in the zephyr breeze. Her white hands held the tissue folds, Thro whose lace the moonbeams play d Upon her bosom once so fair Where no wayward hands had stray d. Perhaps the pearly gate of love And character was thrown ajar To a sinful man whose deeds the like, His character doth seldom mar. The white rose decked her raven hair, But it had lost its beauty there; A smile adorned her face, but not Like that which made her once so fair. A glance revealed to her the fact That she was passing very nigh To one w T ho had esteemed her pure, For reasons I can ne er deny. May be she d spied some erring man Who was seeking straw to make his bud ; Or had heard the hoot of the midnight-owl In the lonely tree limbs o er her head. POEMS. 117 MORE COSTLY THAN A DIAMOND RING. Oh, character! thou ever ait An holy and an honor d thing-; More valuable than life itself, More costly than a diamond ring. On thy fair finger, lovely maid, Let there no jewel ever be If character be put at stake For the gem he lias given thee. Praised it may be by ev ry one Whose eyes may look upon its glow ; But if by happiness it be bought, Each spark will be a spark of woe. Many a glance may linger there, In admiration of the gift; But, ah, no heart will syrnpathiz3 Or from thy soul the burden lift. As oft as thou wouldst gaze upon it This painful lesson thou must learn : Earth s brightest jewel has its woe If PEACE be given in return. SOLITUDE. The sweetest, dearest spot on earth, Where Truth alone is found, And no wayward feet intrude, Is in that blessed shadow Where we learn what we have been, And shall be sweet Solitude. IKS POEMS. MEMORIAL DAY IN COLUMBIA. (On seeing a nunil,er of little girls clad in white inarch to the graves of the Confedeiate dead and strew flowers thereon.) Round this hallow d spot where lie The brave, the true, the honor d dead, Let youthful hands sweet garlands wreathe, And strew them o er each silent head. Oh, tender hearts, too young to feel The care which bore a soldier s sigh ; Gather the roses and strew them o er These graves where truth and honor lie. MAN S LIFE. Man s life is but a slender chain Whose cold and rusty links Contain the deepest mystery; Each particle may have its worth. But ne er will it be known to earth In the pages of history. All save the go< d he may have dene In those changing hours Since child hood passed away r Lie buried in the mould ring folds Of Oblivion s cold shroud A monument of clay. O that the lilies and rcses were mine Instead of the rak and ivy of life. POEMS. 119 HOW STRANGE ARE DREAMS! How strange are dreams ! I dream 3d the other night A dream that made me tremble, Not with fear, but it kind of strange reality ; My sapper, though late, consisted of no cheese, No salmonds, pies or wine had passed these lips. How strange are dreams! they carry us far away To scenes too long forgotten, Away back in our early childhood days, Picturing our lives in a pure and simple way, Not as they were spent, nor when ; but where. How strange are dreams! they have their boundless world, With trees, hills and lakes, And flowers of various kinds and hues Spirits of friends and loved ones long departed And perhaps too long forgotten they are there. How strange are dreams! If death be like a dream A pure and happy dream How blissful and sweet must be our final end, To emerge from a sinful world to find ourselves In dreams dreaming through all eternity. DISSIPATION. Of all the sickening feelings That swell the human breast, And worry the imagination, None are so painful to the heart As those at early morn After a night of dissipation. 120 POEMS. CARRIER S ADDRESS. (Written for THE STATE, Columbia, S. C., December 24th. 1898.) "A merry Christmas, one and all!" Heed the carrier s earnest call For a service long whet will you do? He simply asks a "gift" of you. By daylight damp, and e en before, He has thrown the news before your door, And rarely has he e er been late With that welcom d sheet, "The State. " "The State," that bears the honor d seal Of truth and justice, firm as steel; Whose sentiments of truth will staml Till justice permeates our land. And while to-day in joy and mirth, You gather round the family heartb f Give cheerfully, and let it be For a service rendered faithfully. LITTLE ETHEL W Sweet Ethel s years are only six She s just six summers old; But mine are twenty-six and one Long summers, damp and cold. I love the smiles on Ethel s face, Alas! they are not few To me her azure eyes are like Sweet violets filled with dew. (THIRD VOLUME.) DEDICATED TO MY PATRONS THROUGHOUT THE NORTH, EAST, AND WEST. THE AUTHOR. 122 POEMS. THE DEATH OF CHARLES A. DANA. In all the firmament of the journalistic heavens, Mid the many twinkling stars of less resplendent light That scatter their silvery baams adown its mystic line, The grandest literary orb that ever shed its rays O er the green-clad hills of this beloved land Has withdrawn its face from earth never again to shine, Never again t > shine in all its full-orbed glory, Bearing peace and justice alike to the rich and poor, Bright ning the darkest caverns of the human mini Yet that resplendent glow has left a radiant light That will gr >w and brighten as the years roll by, And leave a lasting impress on the hearts of mankind. MY COUNTRY. My Country! I love the stars upon thy glorious banner, Long may they shine o er this my native land, And tell to the millions yet unborn to earth Of thy glorious freedom won by valor s hand. WOMAN. Oh, that inexhaustible subject! Filled with celestial fire, On which no seraph s song can cease, No poet s pen expire. Oh, woman, delightful woman ! In vain we long to be Filled with that ennobling love, Found alone in thee. P O E M S . BYRON. Oh, thou immortal hard! Men may condemn the song That issued from thy heart sublime, Yet alas ! its music 1 sweet Has left an echo that will sound Thro the lone corridors of Time. Thou immortal Byron ! Thy inspired genius Let no man attempt to smother May all that was good within Hire Be attributed to Heaven, All that was evil to thy mother. MY LOVELY VENUS. Oh, thou, my lovely Venus ! If 1 were a s-tar in the heavens. And should on thy countenance shine^ I would hide my glowing face, And fall into nothingness At the foot of thy sacred shrine. MY COUNTRY. My Country ! I love thy dewy hills and dales, And the buttercups and violets in thy m< adows fair, I love the balmy bree/e from off thy pleasant wood, And the sweet notes of birds that swell thy peaceful air. 124 POEMS CLOSE BY HER BOSOM. Close by her bosom let me sleep After I ve lain this body down, Adown to die ; And in stillness sweet, forever Beside her pure, angelic form, There let me lie. Her raven hair may some day grow, And like the tender ivy, find Some open place Beneath the lid of her lone pall, And gath ring in my grave may cling Around my face. Plant o er my head the fragrant rose That oft adorned her silken hair, That it may wave And shed its sweet perfume above Her sacred face, beloved, adored, Within the grave. I ll not hear her gentle voice, Nor view her smiling face again. While sleeping there ; But at the first dawn of the morn When we arise, I ll kiss her face, And kiss her hair. His loving voice will bid us come And join the snow-white throng upon That golden strand ; POEMS. 12S We ll pass within the pearly yrates And thr T the New Jerusalem, With hand in hand. TWO LOVED ONES IX HE \VEN. (On the death of two lovely girls who passed away a short time sine; n this city.) How dark are the shadows that linger to-night R >und the h-nne that w is oncj so lovely an 1 brght Death s angel h is passed o er the family heart fi, And plucked from its circle thj fairest of earth. A broken-hearted mother sits weeping to-night O er two loved ones far away from her sight ; But she sees rr.id her d^rkiicsa the Le;*-.itifiil light Of that Saviour who guided their footsteps aright. Sweet Annie and Mary were the treasures of life, Whose hearts knew nothing of anger and strife So lovely they were in the morning of youth Their faces were beaming with beauty and truth. Their days were too few to be ended so soon By death s cold hand ere the fullness of noon, And e en tho fever was burning their cheek Of their heavenly home they did frequently speak. It was harder than all to whisper farewell To these dear ones we have always loved so well; To see them depart in their innocent bio >m In the morning of life, adown to the tomb. P E M S . lUit deep in our bosoms their memory ll be borne, And their faces be to us like the spring-tide morn- Tlieir names will be cherish d for thatsw^et love They revealed to man and their Saviour above. On s< me sweet day when this weary life is o er We ll greet their happy .smiles on the other shore- And from Annie and Mary who have gone before We ne er again can part no, never more. A BROKEN TIE Oh, Time! thru e hanger and ju&tifier of all things, Tell me, thou raven or white-wing d dove; Tell me, while on thy winged wings I soar, Shall I e er see again the object of my love? Have I not love d ONE beautiful and fair, Who in other days lay nearest to my breast ? Tell me, while on thy fleeting wings I sigh, Shall h( r head e er again en my bosom rest ? Oh, Time! have 1 not suft er d all for her? In memory have I not grief and pain withstood ?- Hope, love, ambition, have they not all been lost, Huried in her being the goddess of the good? Have I not seen in youth my fondest hope (row dim and steal away, I know not where? (iric f, pain, regret, have they not turned This heart, these eyes, te> one embitter el te>ar? POEMS. 127 Tell me! in thy strange, relentless flight, Canst thou not stop to numd a broken tie ? That tie is Love and fond Affection For HER, the baautiful, f >r wh >m I .sigh. JUST SIMPLY GRAND. In lovely attitude she stood, With beaming face, in a happy mood I wished her mine ; Like a crimson rose in the dewy morn Her face was fair to look upon So rich, divine. I could n t but love her snowy neck, In beauty grand, without a speck, Or trace at all ; And looking then at her pretty feet, I praised that lower gift complete And very small. Like the leaves of the summer rose Were her pink cheeks and pretty nose, Just simply grand ; And looking on her milk-white arms, I felt inspired by their charms, And press d her hand. Traveler, view yon lovely mansion Won at the cost of a widow s tears- Naught but a vacant lot you ll see When you come this way in other years. 12K POEMS. FOOTPRINTS BY THE MILL. Green is the moss that clusters around The door of this lonely old mill ; I ran see my gentle Mary s foot prints Deep traced in the green moss ctill. The old rail fence o er which she elimb d On many a balmy summer day, Like the dark mill house is cover d with moss, Broken down and mould ring away. Ne er would I speak of this gloomy old spot That contains not a scene that is fair, If my Mary s feet had not linger d round, And left their sweet imprints there. My Mary was a lovely, dark-eyed girl, With soft brown hair and smiling face, And slender form of that perfect mold That shows a world of truth and grace. Sad is the mem ry of this dreary old mill, And the green moss round its lonely door; For Mary whom I loved in other years Has passed away to return no more. She passed while the golden sun was sinking On a cloudless eve in the month of May; She gave up the life that might have been mine Had she not passed so early away. While these lone and dreary scenes I view, And I list to the sighing winds above, I can almost see my Mary s face, And hear her tender words of love. FOOTPRINTS BY THE MILL. Green is the moss that clusters around The door of this lonely old mill ; I can see my gentle Mary s footprints Deep traced in the green moss still. POEMS. 13 Her life was dear to me in early youth, And dearer still it grew in after years ; To-day in memory of that life of love, I ll bathe her footprints with my warmest tears. She was poor, but that she could not help, It was her lot and she was not to blame, Yet she retained mid all her poverty That grandest thing in life a spotless name. I loved her because she was poor and kind, And bore a heart that often beat too true ; She was constant, and when my love grew weak She ne er once dreamed of turning unto you. She was too fair a rose to bloom alone, Encircled by the dangerous thorns of earth She died, but will bloom again in Heaven The same sweet rose but of nobler birth. FAREWELL TO THOSE MOMENTS. We used to stroll ofttimes together In spring-tide s cool and balmy weather, O er many a hill and meadow green ; But now she strolls in a distant land, Her feet upon the sinking sand, Heart broken and less serene. I used to hold her pretty hand Long ere it wore another s band, And kiss it o er and o er again ; ]>ut now those moments loved so well Do but in my memory dwell To bear a joy mixed with pain. 132 P O E M 8 HTLLS, ROADS, A VALLEY AND A FOUNTAIN. (It was the author s pleasure not many years since, while in the "L-ind of Flowers, 1 to become thoroughly acquainted with the picturesque scenery as described in the following poem.) There was a time when the fire of youth BiirnM deep within my wayward soul, I often stroll d oVr pleasant hills, Where timid mortals seldom stroll. Those hills were never coVerM o er With nature s cold and chilly dew; But damp with heaven s melting drops. They were ever charming to my view. Mine eyes had never seen before SiK-h lovely hills as met their gaze; My soul was in a paradise Where it alone could sweetly gra/e. Round that lone spot no cypress tree E er waved with leaves of gold or green; But flowers as pure as the lily s leaf Lent beauty to the charming scene. A zephyr sweet from off those hills Was wafted from a fount below, Where tender sprigs of golden grass Glisten d in the moonbeam s glow. The vale between those dewy hills Was ne er so enticing to mine eyes As when the moonbeam s silvery rays Played on it from the midnight skies. POEMS. 133 Serene and quiet were those hills Where oft ruy fairtish d soul had fed; But more serene was the lovely vale Where at times I laid my weary head. Oft have I lain at twilight eve With buoyant heart and tired feet Beside the wild, romantic flowers, That cluster d round that fountain sweet. Two balmy roads led to the fount, Where never wayward feet had been Save mine for it was chiefly mine To roam and meditate therein. Oft have I ruffled the golden grass That waved in beauty day and night Beside that fount but in my haste On a summer eve I took my flight. Those hills to me are pleasant still, And will be till I m old and gray; That dewy vale with its loved incline Is where my h?ad is wont to lay. That fount is still a lovely spot, If the grass retains its golden hue The balmy roads are pleasant yet, If sprinkled with the fountain s dew. As the ivy twines the lily s leaf neath the forest tree, 80 mid the changing scenes of life I cling to thee. POK M 8, THE AUTUMN LEAVES. [ he;tr tlit 1 lonely autumn breeze S- ghing thro the half-clad maple trees Round yonder cot: The golden leaves how swiftly they fly While the dreary branches setm to sigfi 7 Is this OUR lot ? I see them falling unto the earth That gave their stately parents birth, Like flakes of gold ; I see them resting on the meadow grass, Lying round me in a golden mass In earth to mould. How strange that gentle spring should bear Its tender leaves for autumn s air To fade away, And fall in death! that cruel thing That has, alas! a venomed sting For mortal clay. WORLDLY PLEASURE. KYn tho by pursuit we honestly gain it, No satisfaction that knowledge would bring ; F< r soon we d grow tired and hate to btgin it, And cast it aside a detestable thing. The joy in pleasure is when we pursue it, The HOPE, not the object pursuit would attain ; For the object is transient hope is eternal; Pursuit has its joy to gain lias its pain. POEMS. 135 FALSE, UNGRATEFUL, UNKIND. Far from thy presence would to Grjcl I could flee, For I m weary of the pain I have gather d from thee: That pain too fresh and too deep in my heart For the soul of forgiveness ever to part. Thou art even as false as some frivolous youth Who has rejected all honor and discarded the truth ; Thy hand at this moment is colder than death, And the words from thy lips are but poisonous breath. Thou art fair to behold, but thy bosom is hard, And contains not a feeling I now can regard ; For thou hast been false, ungrateful, unkind The good that lay in thee I never could find. IN THE WILDS OF MY SOUL. I love to roam in the wilds of my soul Where birds sing sweetly and flowers are fair; Where there are streamlets, lakes and ponds, With naught to beset or tempt me there. I love to sit by that rippling stream Whose waters no eyes can e er behold Save these longing 1 eyes of mine, In that sweet world to mortals untold. I love to list to the birds in the trees As they warble their notes on the stilly air ; And T love to be with the beautiful flowers That bloom in the wilds of my soul so fair. POEMS, TWILIGHT ON THE FARM. Ti* pleasant to see the broom-sedge burning At evening twilight on the farm ; To see the weary cows returning, And hear the peacock s wild alarm. Tis pleasant to see the rabbit playing In the sand beside the lonely mill; To hear the watch-dog faintly baying? i?cme object o er the distant hill. Tis pleasant to see the dove returning To its long deserted, gloomy nest ; To hear the little sparrow yearning For its limb of quietude and rest. r Tis pleasant to hear the gentle maideia Singing mid the garden s bowers; To see her peaceful bosom laden With its fairest budding flowers. P 1) an( i B -E. If must Iiave been LOVE that could stoop to the plain Of shame and disgrace and endure such pain For one whose passion o erbalanced his honor, As shown by the suffering he imposed upon her. It must have been LOVE that could drink from the spring Of the gall of bitterness knowing twould bring Eternal disgrace the purity of life Forfeited for the hope of becoming a wife. POEM 8. l->7 REPOSING. (On l*>ing asked by a pretty brown-eyed girl, in the month of August, to write a poem for her while she reposed. The following lines were presented to her on her awakening.) As I stand beside thy lovely form. And see those gentle eyelids close, I feel I m standing by an angel Falling into sweet repose. As I view thy snowy neck and face, I wish that they were only mine ; My heart grows weary for repose Beside that tender heart of thine. I love those eyes e en when closed, And too I love that pretty nose Thy velvet cheeks they are to me Like the leaves of the summer rose. I love that sweet, half-open d mouth, With ivory teeth as white as pearl Ah, yes, to me tis untold bliss To stand beside this sleeping girl. A MISTAKE. (The poo in containing three verses, published in my second book and entitled "That Christmas Card." are the only verses in my life which I regret ever having written. The entire poem is a mistake caused by be ing too hasty.) I would willingly forfeit my right to the muse If I only this day could recall The vtrses I wrote in the heat of my passion, Which I consider the meanest of all. POEMS. POOR FELLOW, HE S DEAD. Kind friends, you like me while I m gay. Arid the jolly tide of youth flows on ; But you will never think of me After I m laid away and gone. You ll never think of him who loved And breathed for you a gracious breath ; Ah, no, you ll e er forget the hands You gently cross d in stilly death. You ll forget all the friendly smiles That I ever for you have shed, And if my name should e er be called, You d say, Poor fellow, he s dead!" ANNIE, THE MOCKING-BIRD. O would I were a mocking-bird Like the one that sings for me, I d keep my lovely throat in tune, And warble in ev ry tree. I d sing to lonely human hearts, And cheer them day by day; At night I d charm the poet s ear With my very sweetest lay. Long would I sit beside his door And warble his "Marguerite," And too I d sing "The Mocking-Bird" In accents gay and sweet. PC) R M S. THERE S BLISS FOR YOU. Mid life s many changing scenes, Clouds may gather o er your way; Yet behind their gloomy shadows There s for you a brighter day. Disappointment fast may come, As hope upon its wings. expires ; But faith and love will bring to pass Your fondest wishes and desires. IN MEMORIAL. (To a young lady who sought publicity by attempting to belittle in public print a poem by the author, entitled "Beautiful Snow" She has never been heard from through the press since.) She died after the beautiful snow had melted, And was buried beneath the "slush ;" The last sad words she breathed upon earth Were these simple ones, "Oh, poet, do hush!" CHILDHOOD SCENES. O raptured scenes of childhood hours ! In memory I behold Thy dewy paths and grassy hills Where oft my feet have stroll d. ALONE. I feel like some lone, deserted lad, Standing on the shore of life s great ocean Casting pebbles in its billows, as if to excite Some past emotion. ,140 PO E M R THE MEMORY OF THY FACE. My rnem ry calls me back when I first saw thy face. Those- moments in my life that are dearest of all To the hour when I met thee in heauty and grace, That hour of rapture f delight to recall. As I stand by thy shrine of beauty and truth I paint me a picture no artist cati paint A picture of thee in the bloom of thy youth, Fair as the lily and as pure as a saint. The love that exists in that bosom of thine Is as perfect as the bloom on thy beautiful face, Thus fain I would kneel at the foot of thy shrine And there be absorbed in thy beauty and grace. I speak not to flatter thee, remember this well, As the mem ry of thy face this day I recall For deep in my bosom thy spirit doth dwell, And thou to that bosom art dearer than all. Thy smiles are as soft as the sunbeam s ray When it kisses the hills in the distant west; They light up my soul from day unto day, And bring to my life eternal, sweet rest. Thou art a charm to my wandering eye, The flower of my hope a milk-white dove; And a star in the east in the cloudless sky, More beautiful to me than an angel of love. This life is but a fleeting scene of trials and sorrow, A faint ray of hope to-day, a dismal cloud to-morrow. POEMS. 141 THERE LL BE MY TOMB. T m in the world, a world of sighs, Of sorrow, pain and weeping eyes, And ofttirues gloom ; I love the few sweet suuny hours I ve spent amid the woodland flowers There ll be my tomb. My tomb! but ah, I m loath to die, And neath those lovely flowers lie Mould ring away; They ll bloom sweetly, but in that tomb I ll not scent their sweet perfume, Each silent day. Sweet summer with its peaceful calm Will bear a pure and holy balm Around that mound ; But alas ! no boon twill bring to me, For I ll not feel, or hear or see, Beneath the ground. Then what care I to leave a name Praised for genius, wealth or fame, When I am gone; Such praises as your lips would bear I d not care to hear up there, Beside God s throne. There s many an angel in the hovels of earth, Mid the lonely shades of the forest pine, Hidden from the view of the passer-by By the gloomy leaves of the ivy vine. ( f* ! O K M S . OUR FINAL HOME. Just above us not a score of miles away, We ll spend our vast eternity some day; A ble^td abode where all is pure and fair Spirits of many loved ones gone they are there. The .JUST alone these who have loved on earth, And much sorrow endured of lowly birth ; They shall wing their w r ay thro realms sublime, taught shall mar their flight not even Time. Fl< ating iransu us will be there, and walls of gold, And yt>t<s of jtarls, these j-hall our eyes behold ; And strtets whose surface purest gold shall grace, Will be our grand, eternal homein SPACE. Xaught but the gentle, the sinless and the fair, riiiiinhale the fragrance of that heavenly air, Wlu re flowers bloom in love, and the sunlight is clear, And no etelids are heavy with sorrow and care. Dentil is like a dream a pure and simple dream; A peaceful voyage upon a peaceful s-tieam ; A .-tream wjio.se waters unlike the troubled sea Will btar our frail bark ori to Eternity. ft FARE;\VELL!" This word to a y( uthful heart is solemn, And one on which I would not dwell; But to-night it must be spoken, 80 unto you I say "fart well !" POEMS. 14?, TO MY MOTHER, Lean on this bosom, tis for thee it doth swell, It shall bear thee, support thee, and comfort thee well; Not a thought, not a word in life I would speak That would bear for a momenta tear to thy cheek. Lean on this b jsom, tis for thee it doth swell, No other is so worthy in its chamber to dwell ; An angel of p3ace thou art unto ni3 I forget all my sorrows while thinking of thea. Lean on this bosom, for tis given to thee; A touch of thy being bears strength unto me; The smile on thy face, like the smile of the morn, Will live in my heart when all others are gone. A MUSTACHELESS BARD. His whiskers didn t come, his mustache is gone, And to-day he s standing ashore Enjoying the breeze with a cleaned shaved lip, Relieved of the burden it bore. He s feeling so lonely, dull and forsaken, The b >ys they know him no more ; The girls are surprised, and speaking of hi nj, Say, "He s uglier than ever before. 1 He can t understand why the beautiful girls Should thus b3 so cruel and rash, Unless they believe, that kisses are sweeter From lips that b^ar a mustache. 144 F O K M 8 . MAY A LI, THESE BE THINE, MAYME. May thy cheeks be as soft and sweet As the hyacinths round thy gentle feet. And may those lovely eyes of thine Like stars of beauty ever shine. May thy soft locks of raven hair Lend beauty to thy neck so fair, And may thy bosom, pure and white, Be ever filled with Truth and Right. May thy sweet life be naught but love. And gentle like the turtle dove; And may thy hand be free to do All that s noble, kind and true. There s something sweetly solemn In the moonbeam s silvery ray v Beat ing thoughts of other years. Their melancholy days. There s nothing in life to live for. Except it be sorrow and pain ; But There s more in death than dying To simply exist again. Tn in the light of Truth into the chamber of your soul. And there let it glow like a radiant star ; U will dispel all the sickening shadows therein, And show you, poor mortal, just what you are. P O E M 8 . 145 TIS HAKD TO BE HAPPY. I wish I was happy, but that cannot be While I m drifting on life s changeable sea; Ever toss d by the waves is my frail little bark, As on to Eternity it floats in the dark. I wish I was happy, but that cannot be While the grave with its terrors lies open for me. As I look into its bosom so lonely and cold My soul is absorbed in mystery untold. In mystery untold! for no mortal knows The gloom and the shadow of that chilly repose O ershadow d as I am, and if that shadow be true, Tis enough for this soul without punishment too. To that monster Death I m but a weak slave, Drawn down by his hand to the horrible grave, And I cannot escape, but must suffer my doom. To lay down forever in darkness and gloom. Tis hard to be happy since hope has been lost In the changes of life, with its sunshine and frost, While the grave s cold bosom lies open for me, As my frail bark floats on to Eternity. TO THE POOR YOUNG MAX. Tis better to part from the girl you love, The one whom you adore, If that dark eyed sister in your home Loves to slam the door. 140 . POP: MS. AN EMPTY VASE (On seeing an empty vase, covered with dust, in a room once bright with the smiles of a lovely Christian #irl ; Imt now deserted, and hearing the odor of faded flowers.) Tho it sits upon the mantle In a lone and dusty place, Yet it bears the pleasant iiiem ry Of a kind and happy face. The face of one departed From the shades of earthly gloom, Whose tender smiles still linger, Tho she sleeps in the silent tomb. That hand so kind and lovejy Moves no longer there To deck that vase and mantle With "flowers rich and fair. Who kuew her tender thoughts As she plucked the lilac bloom And bore it to this lonely vase, Still sitting in the room. But that vase is empty now, Those hahids are cold and gone ; The lilac buds therein no more Will bloom on summer s morii. I had rather hear air Earthquake As it roars neath hill and valley, Than to hear those angry urnler-tones From the pouting lips of Salley. POEM 8. 14T BEWARE OF YOUR CHARACTER. Beware of your .-haracter, my charming young girl, Keep it near to your heart as a priceless pearl ; Theie are thieves who would steal from your hand and arm, Ami then rob your bosom of its costliest charm. Beware of your character, my charming young girl, Deceit has a dagger which at you it would hurl, And men of the world would smile if the dart Was destroying the peace of your innocent heart. Beware of your character, my charming young girl, As a banner of purity m?y it ever unfurl, And the hearts of all men be led to admire That character aglow with a heavenly fire. CIRCUMSTANCES. In Circumstances chilly hand, O er a dangerous gulf we stand, Hungry and sore; No human hand can save us there, We must endure our own despair Forever more. Oh. Circumstances ! what e er thou art. Thy hands have sever d many a heart Naught else could sever; Tho Time should part thy cruel grasp, .,Yet ,the impress of its clasp, Will bleed forever. 148 POEMS MEMORY S PICTURE. In my memory there s a picture I love to behold Of a face whose meaning 1 has never been told ; Tis lovelier than the white-robed clouds in the west As they downward move to where the sunbeams rest. That picture is painted in colors not as bold As earth s flashy hues of purple and gold The artist that painted it came from above, With TRUTH his brush, and his colors were LOVE. As I look in those eyes that are dearest to me In those charming 1 blue orbs heaven I see; My thoughts are borne away to the skies As I gaze with rapture in those sweet eyes. As I picture that face so blissful, divine, There s a feeling of joy in this bosom of mine; But tis mingled with grief that I should behold That face whose meaning I cannot unfold. As I view with pleasure that dove-like form I see the embodiment of friendship warm ; And my soul with its love would nevermore siidi If that form not its picture was ling ring nigh. A MONUMENT OF LOVE. My love shall remain thro endless time A monument to thy love sublime I now adore ; No marble pillar shall mark the spot Let the violet and forget-me-not liloum evermoiv. POEMS. 149 NOT SATISFIED. Though we go in the fleld where the lilies are blooming In all their gentle pride, Yet we ll feel like a stranger, and a pilgrim forever, For after all We are not satisfied. Though we sit mid the shade of the far-reaching oak, And by the daisies abide, We ll still feel forsaken and alone in the world. For after all, We are not satisfied. Though we lay near the brook on the cool, green moss, And turn from side to side, We ll still feel neglected and sadly undone, For after all We are not satisfied. Though we watch the flow of the beautiful river, As its waters subside, We ll still feel unhappy and ever so weary, For after all We are not satisfied. Though we sit near the angel that shines by the hearth; She in our love confide, We ll still be in sorrow arid acquainted with grief, Longing for rest And never satisfied. Though we standby the fountain that s flowing with love And drink of its sweet tide, We ll still bear the feeling and doleful assurance: Love is bitter We are not satisfied. 150 POEMS. REMEMBER D SMILES. (On the death of 3Iiss E. AY,, a charming young lady, and a devoted Christian, who passed a-way some time since in this city,) Beautiful smiles, remembered smiles, They come like sunbeams from the cloudless west; They feme frcm the face and the peaceful heart Of a loved one now in her home of rest. They speak of a lovely, purified soul, Whose life was as pure as the air she breathed ; They tell of the beauty of the home she loved, Of the Christ she sought, and never deceived. They tell of the rapture, beautiful rapture, Of a life well spent in this vale of tears, They show as the dew drops show the flower, That Heaven has a balm for mortal cares. They tell of a low r ly, crucified One Whose smiles were to her like a sunbeam s kiss; They speak as she spoke in a world of sin : "Jesus, to love Thee is rapturous bliss." LYDIE S SWEET DARK EYES. Her dark eyes I love to gaze within them Whene er I pass that shady spot Round that loved door; Fain would I pause when she is there, And gazing on her face and hair, Would love her more. (SECOND VOLUME.) DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, DR. W. J. MURRAY, OF COLUMBIA, S. C. THE AUTHOR. 152 POEMS. TEE A I) SOFTLY. Tmid softly, oh, you mortal man As you journey here below, There :- many a pure and lovely rose Where er y< ur footsteps go. There s many a rose bud drooping low That once was fresh and sweet, Now perishing for want of care Beneath your wayward feet. Oft mid the dingy autumn leaves The rose sheds a brighter hue, But only thro the grace of God, And his sweet morning dew. There s many a sweet and lonely bud That s bending in the clay, While you go heedlessly along Life s bright and happy way. Tread softly, oh, you mortal man, Don t cease to watch and fear Lest you should pass some fallen one Who needs your love and care. WRITTEN FOR AN ALBUM. Time may stain this spotless page. And these simple lines erase ; But it cannot dim the mem ry Of thy well-beloved face. POEMS. 153 NO AUTUMN IN THE HEART. The >ellow leaves are falling, love, The summer will soon be o er, And we are no nearer to-day, love, Than we have been before. The tender bloom of youth, love, Is fas-tly growing adim, And soon twill fade away, love, As the leaves on yonder limb. Our hands will soon grow cold, love, Our footsteps be in grief; Our weary heads will droop, love, As droops the autumn leaf. No autumn in the heart, love, Shall come to you and me, Tho we ll be lone at night, love, As the leafless autumn tree. Deep grief will come to us, love, Which we can never part; Tho sore it cannot bring, love, Sad autumn in the heart. A PRETTY GIRL. On her beautiful face there are smiles of grace That linger in beauty serene, And there are no pimples encircling her dimples As ever, as yet, I have seen. 154 POEMS. SOME DAY. Some day it may be while the sun is sinking Slowly in the distant west, I will cross that unknown river, mother, To that sunny shore of rest. Some day, when the smile of loved ones gone Bids me come to yonder shore, I ll meet and kiss you, and be with you, And see your face forevermore. Some day, when life s dim star has flickered out, I ll bid adieu to earthly care I ll leave behind no false impression Of the life spent while with you here. TIS OF THEE THAT I THINK. Tis of thee that I think when the twilight is dawning, And the night shade of gloom is parted and gone, And Nature with joy awakes from her slumber To welcome with pride the beautiful morn. Tis of thee that I think when the sun is advancing Its life-giving beams on all nature around ; Its smiles like thine to my soul are enchanting, And remind me of thee, where pleasures abound. Tis of thee that I think when the twilight of evening Is gathering around this bosom of mine, Shedding a glimmer in the portals of hope Where my joy and peace lie buried in thine. POEMS. THAT RED HAT. I love that broad-brim d, stylish hat, All covered o er with crimson red ; J love it because tis often seen Upon my darling s precious head. I love the smiles beneath that brim On which my soul has often fed; I love them, for they sweetly glow In beauty neath a crimson red. I love those youthful, precious strands, Of silken, soft and downy bair ; I Jove them, for they cluster round My darling s neck so pure and fair. I love those cheeks of velvet hue; Like ftowtrs in a dewy bed ; I love that girl, and love that hat All cover d o er with crimson red. "YOUNG MANHOOD." In passion s wayward stream we float, A strange and irresistless tide; Reckless thoughts, suggestive words, Oft greet our ears on either side. "Young manhood" is not all in name, A dull, obscure, unmeaning term Nor is it like the lifeless tree That has forever lost its germ. 156 POEMS A GOLDEN HATRED GIRL. Fair lady I ll admit that I ve loved in the past, And at many a shrine have knelt ; But I knew not the depth of my hearts true love Till a glance from your eyes I had felt. But that smile is not mine on your rose-tinted cheeks, Nor that sunlight of hope in your eyes; Yet gladly I love them, for I know they are true, And as constant as the starj in the skies. Your hair is a treasure, so silken and soft, Oft gather d into one bright fold ; It bears the rich hue that I always admired A beautiful California gold. There s a harp in your bos nn that bears many notes The sweetest these lonely ears have heard ; Its strings are divine, for they tell me of love . In soft notes that outrival the bird. Adieu, fair lady! if no mare we should meet, And your sweet form be drifted apart, Yet the sacred mem ry of your matchless face I will ever keep fresh in my heart. BUT FEW VIRTUES. Many are the great men the world has produced Whose virtues, alas! have been few; For they have drank in sin with as much delight As the butterfly drinks the dew. POEMS. A GRACIOUS FREEXD. (Written by request on the fly-leaf of a young lady s Bible.) Earthly friends may prove untrue And coldly on thee look, But thou wilt have a lasting friend If trusting in this Book. Dark clouds may gather o er thy head, And hover round thee near; But this Book will be a beacon light To guide thy feet from fear. Cold hands may touch thy gentle hand Whom long thy love forsook ; But thou wilt hold a gracious hand If trusting in this Book. VOCAL MUSIC. That sweetly sad melody That conies from the golden strings Of that tender st of harps the heart. 80 strange, so sweetly strange It gives that to the human soul Which angels cannot impart. That fond harp of a thousand Ever-tuned, invisible strings, Swelled by the touch of sacred love ; Bo strange, so sweetly strange, It often bears, and it alone, The vilest heart to heaven above. 158 POEMS. ALONE AT MIDNIGHT ON THE ( ONGAKKE, f watched the moon at the midnight hour As it hlowly sunk to the distant west; It lookt d like an angel clothed in white, Softly stealing to its home of rest. I watched it pass hind the fleeting clouds, As it cast its shadows down upon me; Then again it would scatter its silvery rays On the lonely hills hy the Congaree. I watched it until the distant clouds Gather d in the west and passed away; Then I beheld in its matchless beauty That mystic circle the milkyway. I thought of the millions of human souls That have watched its light on land and sea, And of the thousands who in other days Have watched it by old Congaree. I .thought as it sunk in the far-off west, And withdrew from my view its last fond ray, How sweet if my life like that silvery orb Could peacefully and quietly steal away. DON T WOUND HER FEELINGS. Young man, don t wound her feelings With words that are cold and rough, For life with its vicissitudes Will wound them soon enough. POEMS. 150 PASSING AWAY. Every thing passes away in its turn, Teaching the sad lesson we all must learn: The breeze that cooled your cheek is gone, Never to cool it again in the morn. The flowers that sweetly bloom in the lane Will fade and never be seen there again ; The swamp s fair lily and green-clad fern, Will pass from their bed and never return. The birds that chirp about in the trees, Are passing away like the morning breeze All pass-to their destiny void of regard For their Maker, Sustainer, Adorable God. The dark river- water that flows in its course Can never again return to its source; And the crystal water that s deep in the well Is bidding its source a lasting farewell. And man! one immortal, with senses of right, With heaven in his soul and God in his sight, Must pass like the rest, each in his turn. On to the grave, never to return. I LL ONLY THINK OF THEE. Miss Annie, as oft in solitude As whene er tis mine to be, I ll silence ev ry wayward thought. And only think of thee. 160 POEM S. THINKING OF THEE. In the quiet hours of the night, As the ericket chirps upon the hearth, I m prone to be Sadly wandering, sadly lurking, Round some old familiar spot Alone with thee. As I list to the ticking of the clock, As it ticks away the midnight hour, Its solemn sound Sadly echoes, sadly deepens, As it bears my heart to thee Where peace is found. As I list to the earliest pipe Of the half-awafcen d mocking-bird In the elm tree, There s a whisper, gentle whisper, That tells my soul that some sweet day I ll be with thee. SLEEP, SWEET CHILD. (On a child s grave.) , swett child in thy little bed, Flowers are blooming o er thy head The daisies fair and violets sweet Shall ever cluster round thy feet. Sleep, sweet child, in thy little bed, No wind shall murmur o er thy head ; But the gentle breeze of love shall wave Each dewy flower o er thy grave. POEMS. 161 TO LYDIE. As the la^t rays of sunset are fading away, This eve I think of thee, And picture thy sweet face in all its beauty, 80 fondly dear to me. 1 think of thee \\hile gazing on the western clouds Tinged with purest gold ; And treasure thee as one far dearer to me Than all I now behold. I think of thee while sitting on the cool, sweet grass, And looking o er the park, And wonder if this heart will e er be lighted By thy ennobling spark. THE CUP OF SORROW. This weary life is filled with grief, With sorrow deep, and we ve no relief From that overflowing cup Which we must drink of, sup by sup. Tis sad that we live to droop and die, With no kind friend to linger nigh, And no sweet voice that gently speaks, Or hand to touch our burning cheeks. Tis sad that we hold life s bitter cup, Only to drink of it, sup by sup ; To know we cannot lay it by, But must drink, alas! and slowly die. 162 F O E M 8 . SHE S VERY DEAR TO ME. There s a little brown eyed lady Who is very dear to me, She occupies a lovely cottage Mid the oaks in Waverly. She s a pretty, smiling lady, But I seldom see her smiles, For our homes are far apart, Just about two dreary miles. I m very fond of this sweet lady, For she has such beaming eyes: But if I procrastinate Another heart may win the prize. She s a polished, noble lady, Highly learned, industrious too, And her sunny hand is faithful In whate er it finds to do. In my being there s no object That can fill its better part Save this little brown eyed lady She is nearest to my heart. TEARS. Tears! they always tell a tale No human knowledge can avail To solve, or find the meaning true Of those pure drops of sacred dew. POEMS. 163 TO ELEANORE. Fond as the remember d kisses of lips now in the grave Is that sweet face of thine ; Of kisst-s when the heart reposed in sweeter hope Thai) this vain hope of mine. ]>ear as the remember d smiles on youth s unsullied cheek In hoy hood s dewy morn, Are thy sweet and tender smiles to me so fondly dear, In beauty ever borne. Fond as the summer s morn when the maiden s sweet hand Gathers the lilac bloom, Are those endearing smiles upon thy lovely face, Dispelling my inmost gloom. Loved as the remember d notts of music on the air From a voice most divine, Are those enchanting notes that swell my lonely heart With that sweet love of thine. PULL OF THOSE SUSPENDERS. (It used to lie the stylo for ladies to wear suspenders, oratleasta #<<! imitation of samp which, however, called forth the following lines.) Sweet girl, I like to see you look The very best you can ; But please do not try so soon To imitate a man. You are not masculine or neuter, Neither of those genders; Therefore, I d advise you to Pull off those suspenders. 164 POEMS THY MOTHER S LOVE. Thy father will some time reject thee When thy path is sin and strife ; But thy mother will e er protect thee In the thorny paths of life. Thy sister will some time neglect thee When thy face is absent long ; But thy mother will ne er forget thee In her gentle words of song. Thy brother will some time detest thee When thy feet have gone astray; But thy true mother will e er bless thee Till she s laid beneath the clay. DEPARTED HOPE. We ve seen it fade in youth like the golden rays Of yonder setting sun, From the brightest spot of love in the gentle heart Where once it first begun. We ve seen it bid adieu and slowly pass away From what it could have blest: And have wept as it sunk within the shadowy giave In the far distant west. We ve felt its bliss depart from the gentle bosom Of peace and perfect love, Leaving a pain and void until our weary souls Are re-united abovr. POEMS. 165 THE BIBLE. Holy Bible, book sublime, Thy promises I believe; Of a surer balm for mortal wounds I can t on earth conceive. Gracious Word, sweet repose, In thy embrace is love ; No surer light can guide my soul To yonder s Heaven above. Opened Word, love eternal, No truth thou doth conceal; This bosom holds no secret thought But what thou canst reveal. Glorious Word, peace divine, A cure for every pain ; A searcher of departed lambs- Bringing them back again. Matchless Word, love untold, The surest hope of rest ; The smooth tide that bears my soul To God s infinite breast. MATTIE. Mattie, thou knowest I love thee, Yet in the weak channels of my mind No words sufficient can I find To express that unfathomable love. 166 POEMS. A FALLEN WOMAN. She has fallen ! Oh, God what a pitiful sight To see die so beautiful, tender and bright, Fall from the sweet paths of truth and right Into the lowest slums of sin and night. Once she was lovely, and pure in her thought ; Kindness and peace in her bosom was wrought; But now she is stained, even until death Shall take from her being its last fleeting breath. Once she was gentle, modest and sweet ; A friendly smile she delighted to greet; But now she has fallen, her bed is the street, Her name is too common for men to repeat. DEATH. Oh, Death ! I tremble at the thought Of that cold hand of thine, That it must blight with iron grasp This poor, weak heart of mine. I tremble that my weary life Tho r void of much true worth Must ever cease to live again In the pleasant paths of earth. TBUE FRIENDSHIP. True Friendship! how sweet it is> Inadequate are words to tell, We can but pause in secret thought, And ever on its bosom dwell. POEMS. TO A DEAR ONE ON THE OTHER SHORE. Sweet face of thine, departed dead, Canst thou riot linger by my bed On this low ground of sorrow, And bear me a comfort sweet Till I in heaven thou shall greet On a glorious to-morrow? I ll look for gentle smiles from thee, Tho far beyond life s fitful sea, In realms of endless bliss ; I ll long to view thy shining face In beauty thro eternal space, Like a sunbeam s sweet kiss. * I ll long to see that lovely face As it once shone in perfect grace, So gentle and divine; Twould bear a truer sense of heaven Than all f the gifts God has given To this cold heart of mine. Twould give me until life is o er A firmer hope of that sweet shore When Time has passed away ; "Twould take away my night on earth And give my soul a sinless birth A grand, transparent day. The winter is here with its dreary winds, And chilly nights of snow and frost; It seems to smile in cold revenge On what sweet summer made and lost. 168 POEMS. OX THE DEATH OF MR. J. H. W -. \TIie highly intelli gf nt gentleman, on Mv^iose death this poem is writ ten was a tery near and true friend of the author a native of this city,) A ncble, truf man, has passed from the sphere Of life and its trials, of life and its care, For the home he longed for, the rest he sought, He constantly cherished the happiest thought. He lived but to love, all nature was dear Unto him whose heart no malice could bear, And never words from his lips were of strife, But love in its fullness composed his life. Twas strange that one so noble should die In the blorm of youth, with a character high ; Should bid farewell in the noon-tide of life To two sweet children and a fond, loving wife. He faded like the rose on a lovely June morn, To a home and a heaven his spirit was borne; With a life so pure, so noble and brave, He has beautified death and honor d the grave. YOURS, NOT MINE. Years have come and passed away Like sunbeams on the sea, Leaving all their peace in gold For YOU and not for me. Years have come and passed away r Their mem ry brings no sigh, For rainbows on each zephyr morn Adorn d YOUR eastern sky. (FIRST VOLUM.) DEDICATED TO MY FRIENDS, W. H. GIBBER JR., AND J. WILSON GIBBES, OF COLUMBIA, S; C. THE AUTHOR. 170 POEMS. TO A FRIEND. A glance into that face of thine Shows friendship sweet ; A friendship that will never be cast Beneath my feet. I love the impulse of that heart Where- friendship lives ; Tis sweeter to me than the dewy morn The spring-tide gives. I ll praise that noble heart of thine Till I pass above ; Twill be to me throughout my life A source of love. THIS LOCK OF HAIR IN MY WATCH. After that face is cold and still, That face to me so fair, I ll treasure in a jewel d case This simple lock of hair. Tho shadows gather round my path, Deep sorrow fill the air, Yet in fond mem ry I will pri/e This simple lock of hair. While in that gloomy resting place, For which I shall prepare ; There ll lie within a jewelYl case This simple lock of hair. POEMS. 171 HER HEART IS MY COTTAGE. Her heart is my cottage away in the wood, And the ivy entwines its door; Its walls are of love, with entrance ajar To welcome the needy and poor. The lily and violet they cluster around The door and all over the lawn, And no weeds e er mar their innocent growth, For they ve long since faded and gone. I live in this cottage amid the sweet gleam Of sunshine and peace on its hearth ; Tis fairer than the home in which I was born Tis the happiest spot on earth. I ve rest in this cottage where love is aglow As bright as the radiant sun I ve much to esteem, and naught to regret, Since this peaceful life was begun. ONCE, AND ONLY. Let us do all the good we can While we journey to yonder shore, For the path we are treading to-day We can never tread in any more. We can never again recall The smile on the face that is gone; We can never make brighter that smile We ve neglected so long to own. 172 POEMS THE WHITE HEAD S FAREWELL TO TIME. "I ll bid thee farewell!" said the frosty head, "Farewell to that cold hand of thine ; Long Fve been forced to feel thy touch On this lone and feeble head of mine. "Till the noon-day of life my hair was black, Parted with care on the left-hand side; Praised for its brightness and neatness of cut, Charming the eyes of the lovers of pride." "Fair hands have caress d it many a time When life was as fresh as the budding bay; I lost a few strands as the years rolled by, But ne er once dreamed of its fading away." "I ve fought thee, oh, Time! oft and again, Since by the fair fountain of youth I ve lain ; I ve bathed in its waters, balmy and sweet, And never once felt a sorrow or pain." "But the dew of my life s fond summer is gone, Dried up forever by that hand of thine I must pass to "the grave by thy command, Oh, thou eternal, resistless Time!" YOU CRITICS. Oh, you critics! if an author errs in a single line, That line you ll surely quote, And will give it as a sample fair Of all he ever wrote. POEMS, 173 THINK OF ME. When memory fond shall call you back To hours you ve spent by the Congaree, And faces dear and smiles enchanting Throng your bosom think of me. Think of me on life s dark ocean, Toss d by many a troubled wave; Hound by fates eternal fetters, Floating o er a gloomy grave. Think where once your smiles were given To cheer me with their bliss untold; When they were as bright as heaven s, Ere your loving words grew cold. Think when hope was like the morning Unclouded, with its peaceful rays; Where fond anticipation slumber d On its brow in those sweet days. Think what binds this lonely bosom Are the pleasant ties I cannot part 1 Constancy in gold and steel I trust is graven on your heart. A MOTHER S LOVE. There is no love like a mother s love,, No heart that beats so warm, No form so delicate that could brave Life s battle and its storm. 174 POEMS. THE GRAVE OF THE PAST. As I stand by the weather-beaten grave Of the solemn past, And think of those I might have loved, My heart beats fast. As I think of moments unimproved, How strange I feel, And dt ep regret into my heart Is wont to steal. I think of the many warning words I might have spoken To comfort that forsaken heart, So sadJy broken. I think of the pearl that might have shone Lovely and bright, Now lost in the mould ring clay Of earth s cold night. While I stand by this neglected grave, I feel so lone, As my heart beats the solemn words, The past is gone! As I stand alone no pleasant sound Doth greet my ear, But the murmuring winds sadly tell That all is drear. No birds sing sweet round that lone spot, No flowers bloom ; But ling ring shadows forever prove Its deepest gloom. POEMS. 175 Oh, thou Grave! thou dost not hold A virtue true ; Would that I could breathe for thee A last adieu ! Would that I from thee forever Could turn away, And make a beautiful, sunny grave Of sweet to-day. NOT TILL THEN. When I hear thy voice grow harsh, 8ee thee scan me with contempt, And turn thy face away; Then, not even then, will I Esteem the love-light in thy heart For me a dying ray. When I feel the grasp of kindness Slowly turn to a distant touch Of thy sweet, gentle hand ; Then, and not till then, will I Look on thee as one too strange For me to understand. When I see thee shun my coming, Pass along some other way, Else we should simply meet ; Then, not even then, will f Condemn thy being whose sweet face I too gladly would greet. 17(J POEM 8. BESIDE THE BROOK. I take me down beside this babbling brook With heart made sad by the mem ry of a look From Jong-loved absent eyes; I sit me down and learn what I have been Mid all the vicissitudes of a life of sin In a world of grief and sighs. I catch a sound a gentle note of love From the lonely heart of some sweet mother-dove In the distant maple tree; If she could but speak how gladly she would tell Of the green hedge where oft she used to dwell When her heart was young and free. Beside this brook where no strange sound is heard Her young lay sleeping ncath their parent bird On the morn of each summer day; But some rash hand perhaps from her had borne Her tender young and left her here alone To mourn her sweet life away. As I list to Nature it seems from yonder sky I hear a gentler note of music drawing nigh Than this from an earthly dove Tis the voice of Annie, whose sweet, plaintive lays Endear d me to her in other sunny days As she sang to me of love. My fond Annie, nigh whom I used to dwell Ere I bade her lovely face farewell, And had seen her smiles depart BESIDE THE BROOK. I take me down beside this babbling brook With heart made sad by the niem ry of a look From long-loved absent eyes ; I sit me down and learn what I have been Mid all the vicissitudes of a life of sin In a world of grief and sighs. POEMS 179 She loved me in her early days, and too When her sweet life was ting d with sorrow s hue She loved me still with all her heart. But she has flown to yonder realms above, And left me to mourn o er the mem ry of that love Which she for me has left behind Sweet be her rest until we meet again In that bright world where there s no grief or pain, And love s fond ties forever bind. THE SWEETEST ROSE. She s too poor to own the costly garments like you possess, Or to mingle with your fashionable kind; Yet you may seek where er you will in all your giddy circle But no such noble heart as hers you ll find. Her sweet form will ne er glide like yours o er the ball room floor Two thirds clad in garments rich and fair Ah, no, but in the lone chamber where grief and sorrow reign You ll always find her ministering there. In your vain eyes she s no better than the servant you em- piy, For she was born and reared in obscurity, Yet mid the blended shades and light of this beclouded life, She still retained a sweet life of purity. Know you not that of all the roses that cluster in life s garden, No matter how large their petals or how small, You ll always find the tend rest and sweetest opening bud Mid the autumn leaves close by the garden wall. 180 POEMS ALICE ON HER BIKE. I turn me round to gaze on thee, 8weet Alice, with thy gentle eyes, And brownish hair, And looking on thy smiling face, And slender form of winning grace, I call thee fair And even true, for truth alone Dwells in a bosom fair like thine Of angel-mould. My admiration turns to love As thou, sweet Alice, turtle dove, My eyes behold. I love to view thy slender form Upon thy bike of shining steel Go flying by; Fain would I start me off and steal Round some lone corner where thy wheel Might pass me nigh. Few they are, e en among men of sac-ret Writ, That do not ofttimes play the hypocrite I have often played it, this I know full well, Hut of this my worst of sins I m not too weak to tell. Tread softly as you roam thro the garden of life, Yea, even on tip-toes, Or else you may stain with your wayward feet The leaves of some sweet rose. POEMS. \Sl "LET ME LOOSE." ^On the death of two promising boys who were drowned not long since in a river, while attending a Sunday-school pic-nie near this city.) 4 Let me loose and I will save you!" Cried out a voice young* and brave, As the current dashed them onward To a lone and watery grave. "Let me loose" but arms grew stronger That ere this would save from death "And I will save!" but the pleading Hushed upon each dying breath. "Let me loose!" and two fond beings Clasped to each other, face to face, Sunk beneath the gloomy waters, Folded in death s cold embrace. How strange that these two happy boys The objects of their mothers pride, Should thus be borne in life s sweet mor Away from each fond mother s side. How strange is life! we know not when The hand of death may sever The ties of love we fain would have Bind us on earth forever. As clasped they were in death s embrace While neath the waters driven, So may they to each others breast Be clasped again in Heaven, 182 POEM&. BEYOND THE GARDEN WALJ*. Down beside a clump of roses, Just beyond the garden wall r JBat a little brown-eyed maiden Waiting- for her beai to call. It was while the dew was falling Late within the evening hour, That she sat with careless fingers y Tearing petals from a flower. "Will he never crme, she whisper tf, "I have long been waiting here; To miss his kisses and caresses Is FAR MORE than 1 ean bear." "He must know that I adore him, And would linger here till day If I thought that he was coming r E en tho many miles away." "He is honest and is faithful, And I ve often told him so; Bat he ne er has said he loved me r Never answer d, yes, or no." "Oh, I hear his footsteps coming,. See the light of his cigar; How it shines within the darkness Like some sweetly glowing star !" "And I hear him softly humming 1 That lovely little plaintive air Which he taught me long ago Beside these roses sweet and fair," POEMS. 183 "Oh," she whisper d, "how I love him, Would his heart I could but gain!" And her gentle lips responded To his own in sweet refrain: "What care I for all the roses, And the violets on the hill, If the love of my beloved But lives in my bosom still." "What care I for all the sunbeams, And the starlight in the skies, If I can but see the sunlight Of his dear, impassion d eyes." "What care I tho other hearts Often cold, unfaithful be, Bo I but know that his true heart Is ever faithful unto me." "How patiently I wait to greet him, In the lonely evening hour, As I sit beside the roses Blooming in this lovely bower." Here she paused, and looking up, Beheld his fond, familiar face "Dear," she said, "come sit beside me In this lone, secluded place." And they sat beside the roses Hand in hand and cheek to cheek*, They never murmur d or complain d, The veil is drawn let them speak. 1&4 POEMS. THAT GROUP OF SWEET SINGERS. i On hearing the sweet notes of the singers of the recently organized choir of the First Presbyterian Church of this city, preparatory to tli* reception of a new organ.) I lore to gaze on the fair white forms Standing in yon organ loft ; I love to hear their youthful voices Gently swelling, sweet and soft. I love to view their glowing faces Fi)) d with youth s enchanting smile, And scent the sweet perfume of roses Wafted from their lips the while. A harp of a thousand golden strings Can bear no music half so sweet As these sad notes that tell my soul Of ONE in heaven whom I shall meet. It seems I hear her once fond voice That often whisper d in these ears The mem ry of her rose-hue d cheeks Brings to these eyes a fount of tears. Not tears for it young life idly spent In the feigned pretence to do the right ; But tears, alas! of grief and pain For a disunited heart to-night. Each note of the sad, sweet music brings The mem ry of other sunny days; The light of love from gentle azure eyes Glows brighter now celestial rays, PC EM 8. 181 I love the notes that, too, remind me Of a brighter home where I shall dwell When life s strange tide has outward pass d, And I have breathed to earth farewell. FAREWELL, SWEET ROSE. (On the death of Miss C , of this city.) Farewell, sweet budding rose of earth! From loved ones thou hast passed away, OVr death s dark river thou hast sailed To await our coming, some sweet day. Farewell ! but the sound of that sad word Soon shall hush on life s cold tide, We, too, shall pass o er one by one And gather with thee on the other side. YOU DOMESTIC CRITICS. Oh, you domestic critics who always quote, But cannot e en compose a readable letter; I defy you with all your self-blown wisdom, To write a decent line of verse or make mine better. Fair maid, tis a "little gay poem" you wish, But you cannot get it to-morrow ; But some sweet day I ll grant your request When my heart is free from sorrow. 186 POEMS. THAT LITTLE BROWN-EYED LADY. In a cool and shady cottage Beside the rippling Congaree There s a little brown-eyed lady Who is all the world to me. On her temples blooms the lily, From her lips the honey bee Sips the purest, sweetest nectar. Known within this world to me. On her head the roses cluster, On each cheek a crimson hue Is soften d by her tender smiles, Like rose-tints in morning dew. In her hand she holds a sceptre Like unto a cupid s dart, And I feel it daily piercing Like an arrow in rny heart. O er her bosom is an armor Stronger than the Knight s of old, Neath whose surface fits a garment Naught but angels can unfold. Neath that garment there s a world Which no wayward heart can win- It is by love and love alone That I shall ever go therein. Forgive him ere he turns away, You may need his love another day. POEMS 187 THAT UPPER, WESTERN ROOM. I hate that upper, western room In which a cruel lady sat; Ah, yes, I feel toward that room As the mouse t ward the hungry cat. F< r she whom I can ne er forgive As long as life exists in me, Oft sat 1 eside that window lone, Almost hidden by the elm tree. I hate that roof all cover d o er With spring s dead buds and autumn s leaves; I hate the lonely grave-yard moss That clusters round its dingy eaves. I hate that granite window piece On which sat a vase of flowers; I hate the mem ry of those buds, They lost their sweetness in her bowers. I hate that mirror on the wall In which she saw her smiling face ; I hate that powdtr-puff and paint That gave her all her transient grace. I hate the mtm ry of those hands That used to curl that raven hair ; Ah, yes, I hate it, for they moved As if no other hands were fair. I hate that face that never bore A single smile to brighten gloom Yes, I hate the bitter mem ry Of that upper, western room. 188 POEMS A GREEN ISLE OF REST. I look away across life s sea To an eden land prepared for me, Of bliss untold ; My soul longs for that green Isle As a mother that her absent child She might behold. I look to where I cannot flee A green Isle in a heavenly sea, A home of rest ; My soul is wont to launch and float Unto that Isle, that distant port, And leave this breast. I look to where there s peace in store And peace can ne er be parted more By Time s cold hand ; Where all is blessed and serene, With flowers fresh and grasses green- A heavenly land. I hear sweet music s distant strain, And it deadens ev ry sense of pain The past has given ; It almost bears my soul afloat Into that grand and blessed port My home, my heaven. The human heart like the sensitive plant Will close its leaf of love If touched by the hand of ingratitude. POEMS. 189 SLEEPING NEATH THE VIOLETS. Once on yon lone hill where stands the maple tree Half-clad with gold and red-tinged autumn leaves, My love stood weeping Weeping o er the fickleness of human love But now, pillow d there neath the canopy of heaven She s gently sleeping. Little did she think a^ she gither d the dewy violets That in the balmy spring of the approaching year She d be resting there; That mid the maple s shade she always loved so well The little violets would bloom unseen, unsought, And its shade be drear. She sleeps there alone as fair as the snow-white robe That tenderly wrapped her pure and spotless form Ere it touched the earth Tho her heart has ceased to beat and her sweet lips are still, Yet she has bequeathed to mankind all she could : A young life of true worth. "ISN T THIS BLISS." O er against the garden wall, thrice kissed by wayward lips She stood pondering and weeping O er that momentary bliss known to all fair m.iidens A stolen kiss. With ruby lips, bright eyes gazing upward in his face, She stood delighted, yet angry; Till strong arms embraced her, and forgetting all she sighed, "Isn t this bliss?" 190 POEMS. A KEPLY TO A VALENTINE. The author on receiving a valentine, very prettily gotten up, consist ing of a sheet of blue note paper, with ribbon of four colors, red, white, pink and blue, in neat bows fastened in the margin of same, opposite which were appropriate lines in verse, requesting the return of the bows he wished, sent the young lady the following: My little dear beside the sea, Quite often I do think of thee While o er this page I sigh and think A tear falls on this bow of "pink." My dearest one, then don t repine, I ll be your loving valentine As a token that my love is true, I ll just return the bow of "blue." Within thy lonely breast, fair one, Life s many cares may sorely weigh; But persevere with faith and love, And thou wilt gain thy perfect day. Oh, this transitory life With its many, many cares, Has no balm for mortal wounds And no sympathizing tears. All for a transient word of praise The poet s days are vainly spent, Soon his works are all forgotten, Yet ingratitude is never meant. POEMS. A SWEET OBJECT. It lay on the back of the bench In its magic beauty, A jewel rich and fair ; And as my thoughts enlarged How I fondly gazed On the sweet thing lying there. It lay on the back of the bench, A mysterious object I could not understand ; Yet I loved its angel-shape, As my passionate gaze Sunk to her matchless hand. ENDURANCE. Every sunbeam has its shadow, Every shadow has its sorrow, Sorrow that we all must bear; Thro that shadow and that sorrow Hope renew d will bear us onward To a home more bright and fair. A SNOW COVERED EARTH. Would I were a star in the heavens, Conscious and having being, That I might peep between the parting clouds On nature s grand attire A snow-cover d earth. 192 POEMS. TO FAIR NINA. Fair N ina, your fondest girlhood years Have been like youth s enchanting dream, Careless and sweet; Around your path each sunny hour Roses have budded and violets bloom d Beneath your feet. Many bright suns have shown within That dewy path which your fond feet Did then pursue ; Tvvas in those sweet and happy hours You gather d in your peaceful heart Character true. Many have sought and often loved Your snowy hand, but all in vain You dreamed of me, And I of you tho we ve never met Those dreams may have a meaning, tho r We re both at sea. The sweetest rose of life may it ever entwine The warm-btating heart in that bosom of thine, And the lilac that bloom d in my childhood s hour, May it ever make fragrant thy loneliest bower. Thou art fairer to me than all I perceive Frcm the dawn of the morn till the close of the eve, And when the clouds have veiled fair lunar s bright light, Still thou art to my heart a perfect delight. POEMS. 193 TO DORA. I wonder, as my memory calls Me back to other sunny days, I f she e er thinks of him who still Adores all her winning ways. Her dark brown eyes, so pure, sublime, With soft and peaceful glow; Fain would I live in that lone spark That s burning sweet and low. Not burning low as a dying spark Within a tear-stain d, dying eye, But a holy gleam of gentle love, As clear as the noon-day sky, I wonder, tho she is far away, If she ever thinks of me, And the glances we ve exchanged While beside the Congaree. Oh, sacred eyes, if e er you gaze On these lone words of mine, Look up, and think of him whose love Is traced in every line. A WISH. Round thy path may roses cluster, And o er thy head the myrtle twine, And ne er a ray of hope grow dim Within that gentle heart of thine. 194 POEMS. TO FLORENCE, LILY AND NONIE. My fond sisters, and can I close this feeble work Which tho , perhaps, unknown to fame may be, Without here inscribing from my inmost heart That ardent love I ve always borne for thee. When other forms that feigned to stand beside me Left me to drift alone on life s cold tide ; Thy dear forms with outstretch d arms received me, And passed adown life s journey by my side. Tho earth s dark clouds may gather round my heart, And the star of hope grow dim upon its shrine, Yet mid the shadows that then would sink within me, I d find sweet rest in that true love of thine. A WISH. On the sunny side of life I trust To see your gentle footsteps wend, And in those loving words "well done" May your peaceful journey end. i4 i *DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. tu 4i&3- U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES